by Glen Craney
“Pack up that cheat sheet of yours. We gotta get to Gare du Nord pronto.”
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
Cas grinned as he played with a Bunsen burner, turning the gas up and down. “To pay a visit to an old flame.”
THREE HOURS LATER, A STATUESQUE Swedish woman sat on a bench outside the INTERPOL headquarters in Brussels and opened her lunch sack. She took a whiff of the mussels and frites, savoring their aroma, and dug in for one of the deep-fried potatoes with mayonnaise. She closed her eyes, having waited all day for this orgasmic moment, and slowly brought the heavenly bite to her lips—
She chomped on air.
Behind her, she heard the sound of someone chewing. She opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder. Startled, she dropped her sack. The mussels and frites scattered across the ground at her feet.
Cas, grinning like a squirrel, had snuck up behind her and stolen one of her fries.
“You shitskevel!”
“I always did love the way curses sound in Swedish.” Cas kept chewing as he blasted her a huge smile. “I see you still have a weakness for haute cuisine. Y’know, Silla, I don’t see how you can eat fried crap like that and still be so freakin’ sexy.”
She leapt from the bench and tried to salvage what the pigeons hadn’t taken of her lunch, but it was too late. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
She threw the grease-pocked sack at him. “Lying bastard! I’m still paying off that bill you ran up on my credit card in Rome!”
“Matter of fact,” he said, “that’s why I was in the neighborhood, to tell you that I’ll finally be able to pay you back.”
The woman saw Marly standing several feet behind Cas, watching their encounter. “Who’s that? Another one of those high-priced whores I bought for you?”
Cas motioned Marly over. “Dr. Marly McKinney, meet Silla Agardh.”
Marly offered her hand to the woman as if testing a pit bull. “You have my deepest sympathy for the misfortune of knowing this jackass.”
Silla rolled her eyes. “When I knew this lout, the only doctor he ever consulted was the one who gave him his monthly sulfur injections.”
“Closure.” Cas reached for an embrace. “You need closure, Silla. And I’m here to help you find it.”
Silla shoved his arm from her shoulder. “What do you want?”
Cas looked around to make sure no gendarmes were in the park. “Are you still working for the INTERPOL’s Satellite Explosives Tracking Network?”
The beautiful Swede shot a glance of suspicion at Marly. She pulled Cas aside and hissed to his ear, “I told you never to mention my work.”
“Oops.” Cas snapped his finger. “That would be Swedish for, ‘My bad.’”
Silla shook her head at him in disgust, as if recoiling from a panhandler. “Nobody’s hiring here.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, with your background of screwups, I couldn’t find enough strings to pull even if I thought anyone around this place would give you a job.”
“I’m not interested in sitting in a cubicle going blind while watching circles disappear on a radar screen.” Cas paused for an elderly couple to walk past, then he jumped to the point. “Have your infrared capabilities reached the chemical level yet?”
Silla stiffened with alarm. “Where did you hear about that?”
“Come on. Remember what I used to do?”
Silla turned so that Marly wouldn’t be able to overhear them. “Since January, we’ve been tracking weapons transfers using multispectral thermal imaging.”
“By GPS satellite?”
Silla glared at him, as if not sure why he wanted to know. “No, we still use a telescope. Better resolution. We purchased the technology from Los Alamos last year. Images of Earth are collected round the clock on fifteen spectral bands. Visible to long-range infrared.”
“So, what is the resolution?” Cas asked.
“These lenses are the strongest in the world,” Silla said. “They’ll take it down to fifteen pixels.”
Cas whistled. “Impressive. Can you set the spectral bands to pick up specific chemical compositions?”
She dropped her voice even lower. “What in God’s name are you up to now?”
Cas’s eyes watered, he couldn’t help it. “My son is alive.”
Stunned, Silla drew closer. “I thought the Saudis had … you know.”
“So did I, until this week.” Cas sat on the park bench, momentarily ignoring Marly. The loss of his family in Saudi Arabia had been common knowledge in the intelligence community, so he wasn’t surprised that Silla had heard about it. “Listen, I know I left you in the lurch. I’m sorry for that. But I have one chance to get him back. I can’t do it without your help.”
Silla glanced over her shoulder at a door in the rear of the police headquarters. After a hesitation, she relented, “Meet me over there at midnight.”
INSIDE AN OFFICE IN THE INTERPOL building, Cas and Marly stared at a wall-length screen while Silla punched in the chemical components from their test analysis on the Black Stone shavings. The high-definition monitor showed the world splayed out on a two-dimensional grid. Blips of various colors blinked on and off, indicating the location of nuclear and thermal weapons.
Silla asked Cas, “You can’t tell me what continent your meteorite is on?”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know if the damned thing’s still on Earth. How long does it take for this satellite to make a complete pass around our the globe and send back the images?”
“Forty-eight hours,” Silla said. “And another week to crunch the numbers.”
Cas’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have that kind of time.”
Silla pondered his need for immediate results. “Look, I may be out of line here. But with all of these questions you’ve been asking about this Muslim stone and meteorites, I’m guessing radical Islamist radicals stole it.”
Cas realized he’d been a little too careless around her with his whispered asides to Marly. He told Silla, “You would have made a great field agent.”
Silla beamed at the compliment. “The reason I’m asking, well … if they’ve already stolen the meteorite, they’re probably guarding it in one place, right?”
Cas looked at Marly, assessing her reaction to that possibility. “Maybe.”
Silla nodded knowingly, as if sensing his concern that she might blab about their mission to her superiors. “My bringing you into this facility without clearance could land me ten years in prison. Not to mention a conspiracy charge for whatever you’ve got in mind.”
“Right,” Cas said. “Mum’s obviously the word, then. All around.”
With that understanding established, Silla went on to explain the reason for her question. “We keep the images sent from the satellite on the mainframe for a week. I can filter results from those in two hours. If you could narrow any location down at all, then I could run the program even quicker.”
“Can you isolate cities?” Marly asked her.
“Sure. That would trim the analysis time a hundredfold. We’ve got thirty minutes before the late-night shift comes in.”
Marly turned to Cas. “Don’t these jihadis feel more comfortable hiding in highly populated areas where they can melt into the background?”
Cas considered her theory, but cautioned her, “Not always. Bin Laden preferred cave luxury in Bora Bora, remember?
“Yeah,” Marly said, “but then he moved to that compound in Abbottabad.”
Cas nodded, conceding she might have had a point. “If this radical Saudi tribe plans to negotiate a downfall of the regime in exchange for the Stone, they’re likely holed up someplace where they can’t be ambushed in the open when the exchange is arranged.” He sent Silla to the task with a wink of confidence. “Karachi, Cairo, Delhi—anywhere with too damn many people. Human shields. Crunch the filter down to cities of a hundred thousand and more.”
Silla turned to Marly f
or the additional data. “The more specific, the better.”
Checking her sheet again, Marly read off the rest of the test results that she had earlier thought were extraneous. “Two percent silicate. Iron density of four-point-seven-six grams per cubic centimeter. Nickel point-zero-six percent.”
“Anything else of significance?” Silla asked.
“Traces of phosphate and carbon.” Cas added, “And look for seven fragments.”
“Oh, sure,” Silla huffed. “And would you like to see the bevels of their edges?”
Cas watched over Silla’s shoulder as she entered the new data points. When she finished, the three of them turned toward the screen to see the blips matching the entries flash onto the screen.
“How many places so far?” he asked.
Silla ran a breakout of the list from the printer. “Twenty-two cities.”
His jaw dropped. “That many?”
Silla read them off. “Singapore. Antalya. Naples. Havana. Ulan Bator.”
“Gee, what a coincidence,” Cas quipped at Marly. “That sounds a lot like our honeymoon itinerary.”
Marly walked closer to the wall screen and pointed to one of the blinking dots. “Is that one in the United States?”
Cas looked up from the printout. “Dallas? Well, thanks for small blessings. At least we can cross one off the list.”
“I’m sorry I can’t get it more specific,” Silla said. “Several of these may be false positives. And that could be for any number of reasons. Museum samples. Smelting furnaces. Chemical factories. The satellite also may be seeing other meteorites out there with the same composition.”
Marly studied the screen. “That’s odd. Not one hit in the Middle East.”
Cas shrugged off her observation. “Jihadis know better than to keep it within reach of the Saudi security apparatus.”
Silla glanced over at another monitor that showed a closed-circuit camera angle on the hallway leading into the lab. On its screen, the guard was talking to his replacement. She signaled for Cas and Marly to lower their voices. “We don’t have much time left.”
Cas began packing up their gear and heading for the door with Silla, but Marly hung back, intrigued by the blinking dots on the wall screen.
Cas tapped on his watch. “Uh, you coming?”
Walking closer to the screen, Marly asked Silla, “Can your chemical sensors on the telescope zoom in on the relative ratios of phosphate and carbon in the targets?”
Silla stopped at the door. “Yes, but why?”
“Just a hunch,” Marly said. “Let’s try it at three parts deoxyribose and five parts carbon. See if any of these cities filter out.”
Silla hurried back to the computer and punched in the new data. Moments later, all of the blips on the screen went out—except for one.
Cas stared at Marly, wondering what ace she had pulled from her sleeve.
Silla zoomed in on the screen’s map until the overhead image sharpened into focus. The result looked like the rear parking lot of an industrial area. She called up the address from the coordinates and printed it out for Cas.
Cas took the sheet from her and read the address of the filtered location. He grinned at Marly, amazed at her brilliance. But his elation was quickly tempered by the realization that even if the stolen Stone fragments were sitting in some industrial park in Dallas, the clock would nearly run out before they could get there. In less than forty-eight hours, the Hajj pilgrimage would begin, and the Saudis would have no choice but to remove the big black tent that—for a terrifying, all-too-brief moment, at least—was keeping the world from exploding.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Northern Galilee, Israel
BRIDGET AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING feeling as if she’d been run over by an Israeli tank. The night before, after witnessing Cohanim loading the girl into the ambulance, she had walked the four miles back to the kibbutz alone, too frightened to hitch a ride. She had barely slept the few remaining hours until daylight, going over and over in her mind the possible reasons why her boss would be on the dangerous back streets of Al Ghajar, near one of the most volatile borders in the world.
Was Cohanim some flamboyant American cowboy who really should be on a wanted poster for running guns to the Middle East? What had he done to that poor girl in the ambulance? And who was this big-shot client he was supposed to have been wining and dining? Occam’s Razor would demand a simple and innocent explanation for what she had seen. After all, she hadn’t felt normal since her arrival yesterday.
Suddenly she had an idea: she could use the excuse of the data binder he left behind to subtly ask him about his meeting.
Speaking of the binder, where had she left it?
The last thing she needed was another screw-up on her first day of work in the kibbutz laboratory. She looked around her room, trying to recall where she had thrown it when she stumbled back in this morning. Had she dropped it in her frantic rush into the dormitory? No, she clearly remembered tossing it on the floor with her clothes. She glanced at the window. The pane had been lifted an inch from the sill. She was sure she had locked it before leaving last night.
A chill crawled down her spine. Had somebody been in her room?
What time was it, anyway? She looked at her watch: 9:30 a.m. already. Damn… I’m a half-hour late. She threw on a blouse and blue jeans—sure, Cohanim would throw a fit about those, but this place was a farm, after all—and she slipped into her shoes. She ran a brush through her hair while rushing for the door.
A FedEx envelope had been shoved through the crack.
She stared at it. Did everybody around here communicate by written messages? She opened it and found a page of stationery with the Lightgiver Technologies LLC letterhead:
Dear Ms. Whelan,
Due to the unforeseeable downturn in the extremely competitive cattle-breeding business, the company has been forced to make significant cutbacks in its fourth-quarter budget. Regrettably, these vagaries in the global economy have given us no choice but to terminate your employment, effective immediately.
The confidentiality agreement you signed remains in effect.
We have facilitated this transition for you by exchanging your return ticket for a flight leaving for Dallas this evening from Tel Aviv. An attendant at the United Airlines terminal will have your reissued ticket on your arrival. We have also arranged for a hired car to transport you to the airport, courtesy of the company.
We thank you for your service to Lightgiver.
Sincerely,
Burton Smalley,
General Counsel, Lightgiver Technologies LLC
She felt sick to her stomach. Why had Cohanim dragged her all the way to this hellhole if he was just going to cut her loose after a day? The jerk wasn’t even giving her a severance check! If he thought she was going to take this like a meek little Texas belle, he had another think coming.
She yanked open the door and marched outside, shielding her eyes from the blast of sunlight. On the dusty dirt road below the barracks, a black sedan sat waiting with its engine running. A man in a dark suit who looked like he could play for the Cowboys stood waiting at the rear passenger door with his hands folded. She walked up to him and demanded, “Where’s Cohanim?”
The chauffeur didn’t twitch a muscle. “Mr. Cohanim is away on business.”
She was about to tell the guy about their boss’s nocturnal fetishes with the local Arab girls, but then she realized that might not be the best choice at the moment.
“We should be starting for Tel Aviv,” he said coldly.
“This change in plans caught me a little off guard. I haven’t even packed.”
“Make it quick,” the driver warned.
Shaken, she retreated to her room and closed the door. Her mind was racing. What was really going on here? She needed something to hold over these jerks when she returned to Texas, something that would force them to cough up some serious walking-away money.
The DNA data.
Where was that binder, anyway? Maybe Cohanim had ordered one of his goons to snatch it from her room. Of course! That’s exactly what happened. He didn’t want her taking a match to the binder, figuring she’d throw a hissy. She could think of only one place around here where they would take documents for safekeeping. She sidled up to the window and checked on the sedan thug. He looked as if he was getting a little antsy. How was she going to get around him?
She opened her wallet, checking to see if it was still there. Oh, yeah.
She tiptoed into the hallway and settled into the corner, near the communal pay phone. She dropped a couple of shekels into the slot and dialed the number that her young admirer on the scooter had given her last night. “Moshe? Hi, it’s Bridget. Yeah, I made it back. Thanks for the ride. … Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to do something together … like right now … Listen, I got a problem that I need your help with first. There’s an older guy with the company that I work for who’s got a little thing for me. … Yeah, he won’t leave me alone. In fact, he’s outside the building right now, all dressed up and wanting to take me for a ride. If he were to have, say, a couple flat tires or perhaps a missing alternator, I think we could ditch him.”
Smiling as she hung up, she snuck down the steps and positioned herself just outside the back door of the barracks, where she could watch Moshe deal with the sedan driver.
About a minute later, a couple of rifle shots rang out.
She jumped a foot, never dreaming that Scooter Boy would actually fire a weapon. Hiding behind the corner, she saw the driver duck behind the car and drew his pistol, scanning the hills for the source of the shots. Two of the sedan’s tires hissed and went flat. The driver looked at the ruined radials and cursed.
Moshe strolled out of the mess hall, whistling with his hands in his dungarees.
The sedan driver, about to blow a gasket, yelled at him, “Did you hear that?”
Moshe looked around. “Hear what?”