NanoStrike

  “I understand,” she said, and Ghazi snatched the phone away.

  Chapter 23

  The morning after finding Lana, Quinn rose early. At the hotel’s front desk, he collected the package from Scott—a cell phone, a universal charger, and two thousand American dollars. Quinn left the hotel and headed toward the beach. Scott had programmed his cell number into the phone. Quinn hit speed-dial.

  “Scott, the phone and the cash arrived, thanks again.”

  “Has anyone caught up with you yet?”

  “Anyone who?”

  “Last night I had a visit from your superintendent and that prick, Frank Browning. They had two Americans with them—blue suits—and they want to speak to you in the worst possible way.”

  Quinn rounded the corner of the building. In the hotel parking lot, three black SUVs blocked his tiny Fiat. He reversed course and slipped back behind the building.

  “Looks like the blue suits are here,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. I need to reach my room before they do. Mom always told me to pack a clean pair of jockeys when I went on the lam!”

  The lobby was deserted. Quinn took the elevator, crammed his toilet bag and clothes into his grip, but used the stairs on the way down. At lobby level, he opened the stairwell door a crack and peered out. Two stiff-looking men in dark suits stood with four uniformed Israeli police at the front desk. The receptionist called the bellhop over and handed him a key card. The six cops followed him to the elevators. Quinn knew where they were headed.

  He slipped into the lobby and down a hallway where a few ground-floor rooms were reserved for smokers. The exit at the end brought him to the opposite side of the hotel, away from the parking lot. He walked briskly toward the beach, but not fast enough to attract attention. No one followed.

  He called Scott back. “I’m not sure why I’m running from these guys; after all, we’re supposed to be on the same team.”

  “They may not agree,” Scott said. “Think, Quinn: Abdul is the only person who has met Ghazi. Allah’s Revenge used Abdul’s e-mail to send their demands. Abdul gave you the slip in Jerusalem, and now you’ve gone missing instead of reporting in. What conclusion would you come to?”

  “Damn it all, Scott, I’d think we were both guilty as sin. I’m worried for Abdul. Eventually they’ll believe me, but I’m not so sure about him.”

  “According to the superintendent,” Scott said, “you and I are the only people in the universe not convinced that Abdul is an officer in Allah’s Revenge. Frankly, Quinn, they’ve assumed he is Ghazi, and they’ve been set up.”

  “Yeah, makes sense. Did they mention Nazar Eudon?”

  “No, why?”

  “Well, he’s involved somehow. Adiba’s sister, Lana, flipped out last night at the hospital when she saw him on TV. At least I’m the only one working that angle. Maybe Eudon can lead me to Adiba. And wherever she is, that’s where we’ll find Abdul.”

  “Quinn, I won’t call unless it’s an emergency, but keep me in the loop,” Scott said.

  “I have to. You’re all I’ve got.” Quinn looked at the phone’s screen. It showed full battery. He powered off. No telling when he’d be able to recharge his link with Scott Shearer, the only person on Earth he could trust.

  Scott stared out of his office window at the building across the street: vacant for years like most of Fleet Street’s old buildings, blinds shuttered and offices dark. In many ways, he was an old-fashioned dinosaur, stubbornly clinging to his journalistic heritage. Other newspapers had left central London for gray block buildings in cheaper, light-industrial locations. He closed his eyes, trying to put space between Abdul’s problems in Israel and the demands of the present in London. A dozen multicolored Post-its peppered the outside glass panel of his door. He’d told Amy not to disturb him; these were only the urgent messages.

  The attack at the G20 had every country on high alert. The US Congress, the British Parliament, the French National Assembly, the German Bundestag. Governments across the globe were convened in emergency session. The moment everyone had feared was here. The terrorists had acquired a weapon of mass destruction, used it, and been wildly successful.

  Every Western government had emergency plans ready to respond to a rogue nuclear device. But no one knew how to deal with this lethal technology. Although it beggared belief, the Koreans had spent one billion dollars on security for the G20 event. Allah’s Revenge had triggered the weapon inside the most secure room in the world.

  Not since World War II had anyone seen this level of fear and uncertainty. Stock markets around the globe had plummeted. Central banks were printing money and pouring it into the banking system to prop up their currencies. As editor of one of the world’s most respected newspapers, he should be on top of the news, driving his editorial insight through the reporting, making value judgments about where to deploy his journalists.

  Instead, all he could think of was his Junior Middle East correspondent. Where was Abdul? What was he doing? Was he safe?

  After last night’s tense visit from Quinn’s boss, Scott felt certain if the authorities found Abdul, he would be shot on sight—the hawks were in the ascendancy. With a resigned sigh, he opened his door, pulled the notes off the glass, and called out. “I’m available, Amy!”

  Behind drawn blinds on the sixth floor of the empty building across the street, two men wearing oversized headphones and off-white overalls crouched over a folding picnic table, staring at an open laptop. A black cable snaked across the room, connecting the computer to the center of a silvered umbrella whose concave face pointed at Scott Shearer’s office.

  When he heard Scott call out for his secretary, one of the men straightened, removed his headset, and pressed a speed-dial on his phone.

  After a few seconds, he spoke. “Quinn made contact. Yes, sir. Agent Martin is sending the phone number as I speak. The call originated in Israel.” He listened to a question, then replied: “Yes sir, both used cell phones . . . thank you sir . . . yes, sir, we’re on it.” He ended the call and waved to his partner, who pulled the headset an inch from his ear.

  “Superintendent Porter commends us for a job well done.” The seated agent smiled and returned to his surveillance.

  Chapter 24

  Quinn pocketed the cell phone and took a cab to the hospital. The last time he’d seen Lana’s father, the man had been on his knees begging him to find his daughters.

  Well, at least he’d found one of them.

  When Quinn reached Lana’s ward, the short, stocky man sat with his back to the door, holding his daughter’s hand. When Lana’s eyes widened, her father turned. Quinn came toward them, and the man sprang to his feet and met him at the foot of the bed. Again tears welled in the father’s eyes. Quinn offered his hand, but the man pushed it aside and gripped him in a fierce bear hug. He was chattering away in Arabic, a much happier person than the last time Quinn had seen him.

  “My father says he is in your debt.” Lana’s English was heavily accented but clear—an unexpected benefit.

  “How do you feel, Lana?” Quinn asked. Her father held on and began thumping Quinn on the back.

  “I am still sore, but now my father is here—” she broke down; it took her a few seconds to regroup. “We are waiting for the doctor to discharge me.”

  Lana’s father finally released Quinn. He nodded along with Lana’s words, although the man clearly had no idea what she was saying. The other three patients, glad of the distraction, watched until the woman in the next bed turned to the door. Quinn followed her gaze and the nurse entered, accompanied by a dark-skinned man with a heavy beard, dressed in a white lab coat. A stethoscope dangled from his neck.

  Lana stiffened and gripped her father’s hand. He stroked her hair. The girl looked terrified. The doctor pulled the chart from the foot of the bed and spoke to Lana’s father for a few minutes. The father nodded his understanding, and the doctor left.

  The nurse began to pull the privacy curtains. “Mr. Quinnborne, Lana ne
eds to get dressed.”

  He waited outside in the corridor with her father. The nurse reappeared, pushing Lana in a wheelchair. Quinn guessed the staff had contributed the clothes, because her cut-off jeans and white cotton top were two or three sizes too large. Lana’s face, drawn and thin, accentuated big doe-eyes framed with long, black lashes. With her neck, face, and left arm still bandaged she looked frail and defenseless. Why would someone hurt this little girl? The thought made Quinn’s blood boil.

  He and Lana’s father followed the wheelchair. When they were in the elevator, Quinn spoke to the nurse. “I wonder, could you ask her father if I could get a ride to Jerusalem?”

  She looked puzzled. Probably trying to understand how a British policeman found himself in Eilat without transport. She spoke to Lana’s father, who turned and grabbed Quinn’s hand in both of his.

  “Yes, yes, okay, yes,” he said, clearly at the limit of his English language proficiency.

  Quinn and Lana waited in the lobby with the nurse while her father collected the car. Finally, a banged-up, white, two-door Datsun pulled up at the front door. The father leaned across, opened the passenger door, and flipped the seat forward. As Quinn squeezed in back, a sharp spring jutting from a tear in the seat fabric dug into his thigh and ripped his trousers. This heap of junk made a good getaway vehicle, but he dreaded the prospect of a four-hour drive with his knees folded into his belly.

  The nurse helped Lana into the passenger seat and stood in front of the hospital, waving, as they pulled away.

  Once they were out of Eilat, Quinn stopped checking the road, satisfied the blue suits didn’t know where he was. Lana’s hand trembled as she brushed a few stray hairs from her face. Quinn could hardly believe she was sixteen; twelve seemed closer to the mark.

  “Lana?” She turned in her seat. Hollow cheeks and dark rings under her huge brown eyes betrayed the stress she’d been under. She glanced at his face before her gaze shyly wandered to the side window.

  “Do you know a man called Ghazi?” he asked.

  She held his gaze for a moment and shook her head. The answer surprised him, but he sensed the girl was telling the truth.

  He came at the problem from a different direction. “Lana, where is Adiba?”

  “In Jerusalem. At home.” She turned to her father and asked him a question. He answered with a few gruff grunts.

  “Father says she is at home.”

  Quinn looked in the driving mirror, and Lana’s father gave a shake of his head. Quinn acknowledged with a small nod.

  Okay, he doesn’t want to upset her any more. Adiba disappeared after Lana, so, if the girl hadn’t seen her sister that ruled out his idea that Ghazi had used Lana as bait.

  Quinn tried another tack. “When did you meet Nazar Eudon?” he asked.

  “I don’t know Nazar Eudon.”

  She didn’t look at him, but he was sure she told the truth. Lana didn’t know who Nazar was, but she had recognized his face.

  “The man you saw on the TV, in the hospital. You became upset when you saw him, remember?”

  Her eyes stretched wide and tears welled so quickly that Quinn immediately regretted asking, but he needed to understand if Nazar was involved with Adiba’s abduction. Sisters abducted within a week of each other—even in the Middle East, surely that wasn’t normal.

  Lana spoke rapid-fire to her father. He barked back at her, the car swerved as his concentration wavered from the road. Quinn waited through their heated conversation, trying to gather what he could from tone of voice.

  Finally, Lana turned again. “My father says you may not ask these things. It is not civilized for a man to speak of such matters with a girl.”

  Lana’s father caught Quinn’s eye in the driving mirror.

  “No!” he barked.

  “Please tell your father I’m sorry for offending you and him.”

  She spoke to her father, who continued to glare at Quinn, his face fixed and angry.

  Quinn stewed for ten minutes, frustrated, but stymied. He couldn’t mention Nazar again, and he couldn’t figure out how Lana connected with Abdul and Ghazi. Maybe when they arrived in Jerusalem he’d have another chance. He got out his phone and powered it on, then pulled a piece of hotel notepaper from his wallet and punched in the number.

  “Mr. Eudon’s office.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Eudon, please.”

  “Hello, Mr. Quinnborne, this is Keisha. What may I do for you?”

  “Ah, you recognized my voice . . . do you have any news on Abdul or Adiba?”

  “No, nothing,” Keisha said.

  When Quinn spoke his daughter’s name, Lana’s father started to talk loudly, in Arabic. Quinn put a finger in his ear to block the noise.

  “I’ve moved from the Dan hotel. Please take a note of this number? It’s my cell.” He began to recite the number, but she cut him off.

  “I have the number, detective. Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  “No, just . . . call if you have any news about Abdul, and again I apologize for upsetting Mr. Eudon.” Quinn hated groveling, but friends were scarce. He turned the phone off to save battery and shifted in the seat. His left leg had already gone to sleep.

  Chapter 25

  When she finished speaking to Quinn, Keisha knocked on Nazar’s cabin door. They were en route from New York to Phoenix. Nazar intended to meet the professor and learn first-hand about the problem with the virginbots.

  “Come.” He lounged on his bed, scrolling through the news on a tablet computer. The world was in chaos. Even the launch of his ethanol plant, the solution to the world’s energy crisis, had been pushed off the front page by the G20 attack.

  “I received a call from Inspector Quinnborne.”

  Nazar wrinkled his nose.

  “He’s still looking for Abdul and Adiba.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He didn’t say, but he’s checked out of the Dan, so he may be leaving Eilat.”

  “Sit,” he said and patted the bed.

  She sat close and pressed a bare leg against Nazar’s.

  “Perhaps this brute can help in our dealings with the terrorists.” Nazar absently stroked her naked thigh with the back of his hand. Keisha recognized the distant look in his eyes: he was planning, running scenarios, weighing options. Nazar was a brilliant man. She waited, watching her leader, her muse.

  After two hours driving, cramped and hot, Lana delighted Quinn when she asked for a bathroom break. They pulled into a gas station, and Quinn extracted himself from the car like a cork from a bottle. Stiff-legged with dark saddlebags of sweat soaked through his shirt’s underarms, he limped to the restroom and cleaned grime from his face. With no A/C they’d been driving with windows open. He toweled off and switched on his phone. Keisha had left a message: “Mr. Quinnborne, I need to speak with you urgently.”

  He called back, and she picked up. “Mr. Quinnborne, thank you for returning my call. Please call me on a landline; your number may be compromised.”

  Quinn jerked the phone from his ear and held it at arm's length like a biting snake. He powered off and considered the trashcan. Never get rid of an asset unless you have to—advice learned from his father, good advice. He slipped the device into his pocket and headed for the blue payphone attached to the side of the gas station. At least they still had payphones in Israel. After three failed tries, he figured out what codes to enter and finally got connected.

  Keisha answered. “Abdul contacted us,” she said. “The terrorists intend to use him as a courier. They have stolen something of value to Mr. Eudon and wish to sell it back to him. Mr. Eudon wants you to act as our intermediary in the transaction. You would be compensated for your services. Perhaps you can help us and at the same time find Abdul.”

  “Where and when will the exchange happen?”

  “We do not have specifics yet, but you need to be in Tel Aviv by tomorrow, July 23rd.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Ex
cellent. Please call me on a landline when you arrive.”

  Back on the road, Quinn spoke, through Lana, to her father and explained that he needed to get to Tel Aviv. She translated her father’s reply.

  “Father has to return the car to his brother-in-law, Hassan, in Jaffa, which is near Tel Aviv. You will be welcome to stay the night in Hassan’s home, if you wish.”

  Quinn smiled. He couldn’t imagine turning up with a foreigner on his brother-in-law’s doorstep and expecting him to provide a bed for the stranger. “Thank your father for me.” This killed two birds because he couldn’t check into a hotel; they would want his passport, and the Israeli police would love to be the first to find the missing English detective.

  Hold on Abdul, I’m coming.

  Chapter 26

  Late afternoon, Mountain Standard Time, Nazar Eudon’s helicopter landed outside the prototype building in Arizona. Two days before, this had been the scene of great excitement as Nazar’s team had demonstrated their extraordinary energy breakthrough.

  This time, Mason Phillips, head of security, drove the golf cart. Mason escorted Nazar along a hallway and into a large open laboratory. The professor stood with three white-coated technicians in the center of the room. They stared at a plastic cube, murmuring in low nervous voices. The cube reminded Nazar of a popcorn machine.

  “Mr. Eudon, welcome.” The professor used the technique of speaking inside an exhalation of breath. It made the conversation strangely discontinuous, but Nazar preferred it to the damn stammering. The professor offered his hand, and Nazar glared at it as though it were a piece of dog shit. The three colleagues averted their eyes, and the academic turned bright red. He took a deep breath and spoke. “I decided to show you the problem rather than trying to explain.”

  “An excellent idea,” Nazar said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.