Dead or Alive

by Grant Blackwood

  “Citra’s a female name,” Rick Bell said. “Husband and wife?”

  “Brother and sister. Nineteen and twenty years old, respectively. According to their ICE forms, they’re here on vacation. The third is none other than our mystery courier: Shasif Hadi. He’s traveling as Yaseen Qudus. Two days after we lost him on the way to Vegas, Hadi caught a United flight from San Francisco to São Paulo.”

  “Hell of a coincidence,” Sam Granger said.

  “Don’t believe in them,” Hendley replied. “Mr. Chavez, how do you feel about a trip down there?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “You okay with taking Dom?”

  Chavez thought about this. He’d seen plenty of men in Dominic’s condition: stunned, guilty, playing the “What could I have done differently?” game… Feeling guilty that the other guy’s dead, and guilty for being glad you’re still alive… It was a shitty place to be, but Chavez had looked into the former FBI man’s eyes: Dominic was wound up and looking for payback but still under control.

  “Sure,” Chavez said. “If he’s up for it, I am. One question, though: What do we do when we get down there? It’s a big country, and Hadi and whoever he’s with probably already went to ground.”

  “Or slipped out of the country,” Clark added.

  “Let’s assume they’re still there,” Hendley replied. “Jack, let’s get back to Rick’s question: Assuming you’re onto something with this online file-storage stuff. What do we do with it?”

  “We do an end run,” Jack replied. “Right now, Hadi’s the biggest URC player we’ve got a bead on, correct?”

  “Yep,” Chavez said.

  “And we know he went from Vegas to San Francisco before heading to São Paulo, probably to get his Qudus passport from Agong Nayoan, which means they were probably in direct contact-at the very least, so Nayoan could tell him to pick it up.”

  “Go on,” Hendley said.

  “Nayoan’s lazy. When we tossed his place, we found he never cleaned out his Web browser history.” Jack turned his laptop around so everyone could see it. The screen displayed a text file with hundreds of lines of website addresses. “While we’ve been talking, I’ve been sifting through these. Since the URC went radio-silent, Nayoan visited an online storage site every day, three times a day, and he rotated to a different site every second day.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Sam Granger. “That’s good work, Jack.”

  “Thanks. So far, Nayoan’s rotated through thirteen storage sites. Ten to one we’d find the same ones on Hadi’s computer.”

  “That only gets us part of the way there,” Bell said. “We’re going to need his user name and password.”

  “Statistics,” Jack replied. “Eighty-five percent of surfers either use their e-mail as a user name or some variation of their e-mail prefix-the stuff before the ‘at’ sign. Let’s have Biery throw together a script-we’ll check each site and try different permutations of Hadi’s e-mail. When we find the right one, we do a brute-force crack of his password. Once we’re in, we use the OTPs Dom found at Almasi’s house and we start pulling Hadi’s strings.”

  “One problem,” Hendley said. “The whole thing’s predicated on Hadi checking his online storage site.”

  “Then let’s give him a reason,” John Clark said.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “Spook him. We drop an anonymous tip with Record News. A vague description of Hadi and a few sketchy details. He sees it, panics, and checks in for new orders. We make sure something’s waiting for him.”

  “There’s a downside,” Rick Bell said. “If the Brazilian cops get their hands on him before we do, we’re shit outta luck.”

  Clark smiled. “No balls, no blue chips.”

  Hendley was silent for a few moments. “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it. Jack, you get Biery rolling on this.”

  Jack nodded. “How about the Norfolk Indonesians?”

  “You and John.”

  “Hate to jinx things, but I got a bad feeling about all this,” Chavez said.

  “Like?” This from Granger.

  “Like this refinery thing is just the first shoe.”

  75

  SHORTLY BEFORE NINE A.M., Musa passed through Yakima, Washington, and drove another few miles to Toppenish, where he got off the highway and drove into town. He found a restaurant, something called Pioneer Kitchen, and pulled in. The parking lot was only a quarter full. Americans, Musa had long ago learned, preferred everything quick and easy, especially their food. Though he hadn’t seen one, he assumed Toppenish had its fair share of McDonald’s and Burger Kings and Arby’s. Always on the move, going about their important business, Americans did not sit down and eat unless it was on their couch in front of a television. A pill for every ailment, and disorders for every character flaw.

  He found a parking spot near the front door and walked in. The sign at the register counter told him to seat himself. He found a booth by the window so he could keep an eye on the Subaru, and sat down. A waitress in a mustard-yellow apron and white blouse walked up. “Morning; can I get you some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”

  “No. Toast, no butter, and a fruit cup of some kind.”

  “Sure, no problem. Be right back.” She returned with a cup and a coffee decanter and left.

  Behind him he heard a voice ask, “Hey, is that your car?”

  Musa turned. A uniformed police officer was standing there. He was in his mid-fifties, with a crew cut and paunch. He had sharp eyes, though. A cop’s eyes. Musa took a calming breath and said, “Pardon me?”

  “That car. Is it yours?”

  “Which one?”

  “The hatchback there.”

  “The Subaru? Yes.”

  “Your dome light’s on. Noticed it as I was walking in.”

  “Oh, thank you, I didn’t notice. I won’t be here long. I don’t think it will hurt the battery.”

  “Probably not. Just out of curiosity, what’s that thing in the back? Looks like a big bait box.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses.”

  The cop snorted. “Didn’t know there was such a thing. Where’re you headed?”

  “School of vet medicine at UNLV-Las Vegas.”

  “Long drive.”

  “Paperwork got messed up; the airline wouldn’t put it in the cargo hold. I decided a little road trip wouldn’t hurt me. Plus, I’m getting fifty cents a mile.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The cop walked away and took a stool at the counter. A few minutes later, the waitress returned with Musa’s toast and fruit cup. “Willie gettin’ in your business?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  She jerked her thumb at the cop. “Willie’s the chief of police. He does a good job, but he’s nosy as hell. Last year I broke up with my boyfriend, and Willie knew about it before my mother did.”

  Go away, woman. Musa shrugged. “Small towns.”

  “I guess. Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll come check on you in a few.” She left.

  Allah, give me patience, Musa thought. Truth be told, he usually found most Americans quite tolerable, if a tad garrulous. That probably wouldn’t be the case if his skin was a little darker or if he had an accent. Fate was a strange thing. Otherwise decent people blithely moving through life, worshipping a false god, trying to make sense of an existence that had no meaning outside of Islam. Americans loved their “comfort zones.” The vast majority of them had never and would never leave the confines of the United States, so sure the rest of the world had nothing to offer except for perhaps an intriguing vacation spot. Even the events of 9/11 had done little to open Americans’ eyes to the real world outside their bubble. Quite the contrary. Encouraged by their own government, many of them had withdrawn deeper into their shells, takin
g comfort in their labels and platitudes: Islamo-Fascist. Extremist. Evildoers who hate our freedom. Those that would see to destroy America.

  America could not be destroyed from without, of that Musa was certain. In that, the Emir had been prescient. Every fallen empire in history had rotted from within, and the same would be true for America. Fighting two intractable wars, an economy in shambles, banks and manufacturing giants going bankrupt… Those conditions might change over time, and perhaps even improve, but future historians would mark these events as the first signs of decay. The sad truth was America couldn’t be destroyed, per se, from within or from without, and certainly not by mortal effort. If it was to happen at all, it would come from Allah’s own hand, and at a time of His choosing. And unlike all the leaders that had come before him, the Emir knew the truth of this and had adjusted his strategy accordingly.

  Four more days, Musa thought, and the terrifying world America fought so hard to keep at bay would come crashing in.

  Clark and Jack were booked on a six a.m. US Airways flight out of Dulles to Norfolk; Chavez and Dominic a Northwest redeye to Rio de Janeiro. They would be touching down at their respective destinations at roughly the same time.

  Ninety minutes after the Paulinia fire started and the skies over the coast began to blacken with smoke, São Paulo closed its airspace to all traffic. Hendley and Granger took this as a good omen: With luck, the perpetrators of the refinery attack hadn’t made it out before the airport closed. Almost certainly they would have a backup exfiltration plan, but how quickly it would get them out of the country was unknown.

  While the others sat in the conference room and watched the Paulinia news coverage, Jack found Dominic sitting in the break room, hands clasped on the table before him. He was staring into space. It wasn’t until Jack was standing beside him that Dominic looked up.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “Ding bring you up to speed? São Paulo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’re not up for the job, I’m sure-”

  “Why wouldn’t I be up to it?”

  This question surprised Jack. “I don’t think I would be, if I were in your shoes. Dom, he was my cousin and I loved him, but he was your brother.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, twentysome hours after Brian died, you’re going back out, and when I ask you about it, you give me some off-the-cuff answer. It’s just a little strange, is all.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not looking for an apology. I want you to talk to me.”

  “Brian’s dead, Jack. I know that, okay? I watched the spark go out of him.” Dominic snapped his fingers. “Just like that. You know the first thing I thought after that?”

  “What?”

  “That if not for that Bari asshole, Brian would probably still be alive.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Not really, but it took everything I had to not climb out of that car and put a bullet in the guy’s head. I actually had my hand on the door handle. I wanted to kill him, then go back to Almasi’s house and see if any of those motherfuckers were still alive so I could kill them, too.”

  “You were in shock. You still feel that way?”

  “I don’t feel much, Jack. That’s what scares me.”

  “It’s called shock. You might feel that way for a while. Everybody’s different. You’ll deal with it how you deal with it.”

  “Yeah, what makes you an expert on this shit?”

  “You heard about Sinaga?”

  “The forger guy? What about him?”

  “I was watching the back when John and Ding crashed his door. He jumped out the window, then all the sudden he’s coming at me with a knife. We wrestled; I had a hold of his neck and tripped or something. When I looked up he was lying there twitching. Staring at me. I don’t know how exactly, but I broke his neck.”

  Dominic took this, but his face remained impassive. “I guess it’s my turn to ask you how you’re doing.”

  “Okay, I guess. I don’t think I’ll ever get his face out of my head, but it was him or me. I feel bad about it, but I sure as hell don’t feel bad about still being alive.”

  “Then you’re one up on me, cuz. If I could trade places with Brian, I would.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I need to hide all the steak knives next time you come over to watch football.”

  “No, Jack. But I will tell you this: Before this is all over, I’m getting some payback for Brian, and I’m going to start in São Paulo.”

  Jack opened his mouth to respond but was halted by Dominic’s raised hand. “Mission first, Jack. I’m just saying, if I get a gomer in my sights, I’m putting him down and notching it up for Bri.”

  Aside from odd looks from his fellow travelers who stared at the GA-4 cask as they passed him on the highway, Frank Weaver’s first day on the road passed without incident. As this was a trial run, this particular cask was merely a shell containing none of the neutron and gamma shields the real thing would carry. Nor did the cask bear any decals or stencils. Nothing to give away its purpose. Just a giant brushed stainless-steel dumbbell riding on a flatbed truck. The little kids had been particularly funny, pressing their wide-eyed faces to the windows as they passed.

  Four hundred eighteen miles and seven hours from the Calloway plant, Weaver took exit 159 off Highway 70 and turned south onto Vine Street. The Super 8 Motel was a quarter-mile down the road. He followed a sign, TRUCKS ENTER HERE, into the parking lot and braked to a halt between the yellow lines of a truck slot. Three other trucks had taken nearby spots.

  Weaver hopped out of the cab and stretched.

  Day one down, Weaver thought. Three to go.

  He locked the truck, then did a walk-around, checking each of the padlocked ratchets, then testing each chain’s tension. All were solid. He headed across the parking lot toward the lobby.

  Fifty yards away, a dark blue Chrysler 300 pulled into its own spot. In the front seat, a man raised a pair of binoculars and watched Weaver step through the lobby doors.

  As he had been doing four times a day for the past two weeks, Kersen Kaseke powered up his laptop, opened his Web browser, and went to the online file-storage website. He was surprised to see a file sitting in his inbox. It was a JPEG image of some kind of bird-a blue jay, perhaps. He downloaded the file to his hard drive’s documents folder, then erased the picture from the site and closed his Web browser.

  He found the file, right-clicked on it, and selected “Open with… Image Magnifier.” Five seconds later a window popped up showing the blue-jay image, which flashed from color to black-and-white before going grainy. Slowly at first and then more rapidly, chunks of pixels began fading. After thirty seconds, all that remained were two lines of alphanumeric pairs-168 of them. Finally, Kaseke double-clicked on the day’s onetime pad to open it up. The decoding was tedious, taking almost ten minutes, but when he was done, he had two lines of text:

  Sunday. 8:50 a.m.

  Open Heart Congregational Church

  A Christian church, Kaseke thought. Much better than a library or even a school. He knew where the church was located and suspected that like almost every church in Waterloo, this one conducted several services throughout the morning. Eight-fifty would be about the time people were leaving the first service and arriving for the second. Give the members a few minutes to collect their things and head for the door… In his earlier reconnaissance, he’d studied the comings and goings of the church’s members. They loved to congregate outside between services and shake hands and laugh and talk about whatever they talked about. Such frivolity. What passed for worship here was a disgrace.

  8:50. Yes, it was perfect. There would be a hundred or more people standing on the steps and sidewalk. There would likely be children present, though, and Kaseke didn’t especially like the idea of that, but Allah would forgive him. To sacrifice a few for a larger good was acceptab
le.

  It was Friday night. He would use most of Saturday to scout the locations, then Saturday evening to make sure the device was in order. That wouldn’t take long, he knew. His job would be simple: Plant the device, set the timer, walk away, and find a vantage point to watch the results.

  76

  THE FIRE WAS MAGNIFICENT, Shasif Hadi thought. Even from three miles away, the sky over the treetops was almost as bright as the sun. And then had come the explosions, great mushrooms of flame and roiling black smoke rising silently into the dark sky, followed a few seconds later by a rumble so strong Hadi could feel it rise up through the road, through the tires of his car, and shake his seat. Through the four of us, Hadi thought, the hand of Allah has struck that refinery dead.

  After setting their charges, they had done as Ibrahim instructed and walked one by one back along the pipeline to the grove of trees in which they’d changed their coveralls. Offering no explanation, Ibrahim ordered, “Run!” then took off in a sprint. They were two hundred yards away from the cattle gate when the first charge went off.

  Staring out the car’s rear window, Hadi had watched the syncopated valve charges go off, followed by the larger main charge, then nothing for the next one minute and fifty seconds except for the refinery’s alarm Klaxon. Emergency response crews had probably just reached the shattered pipeline when the final charge ignited the ethanol spreading like a tidal wave into the complex. Those men had probably died almost instantly. A largely painless end, Hadi hoped. Brazil was a mostly Christian country, which made them enemies of Islam, but that didn’t mean they were undeserving of mercy. If they suffered, it was Allah’s will; if they’d perished quickly, Allah’s will also. Either way, he and the others had succeeded in their mission.

  Once at the gate, they drove the truck into the trees, then got back into the Volkswagen and pulled through, locking the gate behind them. Ninety seconds later, they were back at Hadi’s car. As per the plan, Hadi followed Ibrahim and the others to where Fa’ad had left his car on a dirt road a few miles away. When they pulled over, Ibrahim got out and waved for Hadi to walk up.