NanoStrike

  “Who owns the information?”

  “We have sole ownership, sir.” A hint of pride leaked into his voice.

  “Can you execute an extraction?”

  “We have the capability, sir.” His voice was strong, certain.

  “Well, Frances, sometimes it’s better to apologize than to ask permission.” The president stood and slapped the leader of his armed forces on the shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president, smile gone, looked down on the old soldier. “Make it fast. Make it clean. But secure that weapon.”

  “Understood, Mr. President.”

  They shook hands and the president left.

  The old soldier pressed a speed dial on his Blackberry and gave the order.

  Chapter 32

  Scott buzzed Rafiq up to his office, signaled for him to sit, and handed him a press release just received from the Israeli Government’s press office.

  “Today, The State of Israel will free a number of West Bank citizens who have been helping the Israeli authorities with their inquiries. This action is intended as a goodwill gesture, confirmation of Israel’s desire to forge a deep and lasting peace with its Palestinian neighbors.”

  Rafiq finished reading and stared, open-mouthed at his boss.

  “What do you think?” Scott asked.

  “The Israelis must be under severe American pressure.”

  “Quite likely: the Yanks lost their VP in Seoul.”

  Rafiq scanned the release again. “Did they announce the prisoners' names?”

  “No, but you can bet the farm they’re on the list Allah’s Revenge e-mailed to Abdul.” Scott stalked back and forth in front of his window. He had a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Rafiq, this is one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever faced.”

  Rafiq waited.

  “If we don’t call them on this, we’re not doing our job, but if we create a stink we might be putting Abdul at risk. Well, more at risk than he already is.”

  Rafiq stood and joined Scott at the window. He laid a hand on his boss’s shoulder. “You can’t take this personally. If we don’t cry foul, we’ll be the only news outlet that doesn’t. The shit is going to hit the fan no matter what. You won’t put Abdul in more danger by following through.”

  “I hope you’re right. This prisoner release represents a seismic shift in the world’s power structure. Don’t the Americans understand this will make things worse? The terrorists' next demand will be for more than the release of a bunch of thugs from prison. Why’d they give in?”

  “Buying time?” Rafiq said.

  Scott hadn’t considered that angle. Perhaps this wasn’t capitulation, but a ploy. “You may be right. In that case, they’re hoping to get Ghazi before the next attack.”

  “Perhaps the Israelis have planted a mole in the prisoner group,” Rafiq dropped his hand and stepped back a pace from his boss. “Any news from Quinn?”

  Scott shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Chapter 33

  Keisha waited at the bottom of the airplane’s steps for Mufeed to arrive. Even though Jaffa was a five-hour drive, Nazar had insisted she depart from Aqaba. He feared the Israelis would prevent her from taking off from Ben Gurion.

  She wore a loose-fitting jumpsuit. With Nazar still in Arizona, there was no need to dress up. Mufeed arrived, slid the car alongside the plane, and lifted the backpack from the trunk. When he handed it to her, he held on for a second too long, so she yanked the bag from him. He flashed tobacco-stained teeth as he released the strap.

  She unzipped the backpack and checked inside. The vacuum flask Nazar had told her to expect nestled in the bottom. Without speaking to the driver, she climbed the steps, feeling his eyes on her. The hairs on her arms prickled to attention; Mufeed gave her the creeps.

  With one stop for refueling, Keisha flew directly to Arizona. She carried the bag on the helicopter. This being her first visit to the plant, the pilot described the scale of the project and the benefits to the local economy; what an amazing concept, to make gas from garbage. Keisha hadn’t considered the technology before. Her focus was tightly centered on Nazar’s needs. But she agreed with Samuel. Her muse was indeed a brilliant and powerful man.

  When they reached the prototype building, Sam helped her from the chopper. He averted his eyes from the tiny skirt she had changed into for her meeting with Nazar, and she appreciated his manners.

  A woman wearing a white lab coat collected her in a golf cart. Inside the prototype building, they passed through a hallway to a laboratory. Nazar stood at the center of the room with three men.

  She handed Nazar the backpack, and he passed it to the tallest of the group, Professor Farjohn, whom she recognized from publicity pictures. The man looked gaunt. His hand trembled as he pulled the thermos from the bag. The flask hissed when opened, and vapor misted out of the top.

  One of the men extracted a thin glass tube from the flask and placed it into a receptacle in the center of a clear plastic box sitting on the table. He keyed into a computer. A pump came on, and red light filled the box.

  Nobody spoke as they stared at the monitor. Their bodies blocked her view, so she moved around the semicircle of white coats and found a gap to peer through.

  “Yes!” the professor said.

  Keisha read the screen:

  Target – C2H5OH (Ethanol)

  Inhibitor – C2H5OH*30% (Ethanol)

  Feedstock – Bio

  Catalyst – Photon

  ss:mm:hh:dd:mm

  Activate - 00:00:00:00:00

  Terminate – 59:59:23:14:08

  One of the scientists slapped the professor on the back. They were all grinning.

  “The nanobots are extended until midnight, August fourteenth. We bought two weeks,” Nazar said. “Well done, Keisha.” He stroked her hair and she leaned into him. “You must return to Aqaba immediately. I expect further transactions.”

  Keisha didn’t understand what had happened with the thermos, but she tingled with pride because she had pleased him.

  Nazar had hoped to receive unprogrammed virginbots, but two weeks bought him breathing space. Given time, he could negotiate a better deal. Worst-case scenario, a half-million dollars a week was manageable.

  Chapter 34

  The sound of a vehicle passing at speed woke Quinn. An unmarked white van skidded into the service entrance of the medical building. The rear doors sprang open and six men, all in black, jumped out and flattened against the wall.

  They wore night-vision goggles, and carried automatic weapons.

  Quinn checked his wristwatch, 4:00 a.m., not a courtesy call; he shook water from his bottle onto a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  One of the men went to the same door Abdul had gone through earlier. He seemed to try the handle, then ran back and took his place beside his team. A startling flash of light made Quinn turn away a fraction of a second before the explosion rattled his car window.

  The men charged through the blown door. Quinn heard gunfire. Pulling his Glock, he chambered a shell then patted his pocket, checking for the spare magazine. He could only watch and wait; he was no match for what had smashed into the building.

  Keep your head down, Abdul.

  Commotion downstairs woke Abdul with a start. An explosion shook his bed, and he sprang to his feet. Ghazi’s gruff voice barked orders. Abdul grabbed his clothes and rushed across the landing to Adiba’s room. Since his return from Jaffa, the doors were no longer locked, although they were still prisoners. Adiba sat up in bed, eyes stretched wide.

  “Get dressed,” he said as he pulled on his jeans. She jumped out of bed in her bra and panties and snatched up her clothes. Theirs were the only rooms on this floor. Nowhere to hide, and he didn’t dare go downstairs, so when they were dressed he sat on her cot and pulled her close. She shook so much her teeth chattered. “They’re not here for us. Just sit tight.” Abdul said. He hoped he was right.

  By 4:03 a.m., a raging gunfight v
ibrated through the building. Adiba covered her ears. The noise was terrifying. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Abdul checked the time again: 4:05 a.m. Two minutes, it seemed longer.

  When Adiba began to speak, Abdul put a hand over her mouth and signaled for silence with his finger to his lips. He crept to the door, and when he pressed his ear against the thin wood, he heard the stern voice of command.

  “Dawson. Two wounded for extraction. You three, come with me.”

  Abdul was shocked. He’d expected Hebrew not American.

  Then, in passable Arabic this time, the same man shouted, “Stand and show yourself!”

  Some of Ghazi’s people must be alive.

  The American screamed, “Drop your weapon, now!” A moment’s silence preceded another short burst of automatic weapons fire. Then silence again. Blood pounded in Abdul’s ears.

  A second American shouted, “Captain? Holy shit!”

  An unnatural quiet descended for five beats of Abdul’s racing heart before being pierced by a series of high-pitched shrieks that sounded hardly human. Adiba scurried across and pressed herself to his body. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants. He put his arm around her without lifting his ear from the door.

  Abdul checked the time, 4:10. He whispered, “We should wait. We don’t know who’s still downstairs.” Adiba nodded and squeezed his arm. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close. She tasted of salt. Silence enveloped the building. He checked his watch again. Time was standing still.

  “Five minutes, let’s give it five minutes,” he whispered.

  By 4:14, nothing had changed, and he began to breathe easier. Then he heard someone moving downstairs. Abdul’s heart sank. He had dared to hope the Americans had killed the terrorists, and he and Adiba would walk away from this terrible situation and go back to their lives.

  Her eyes went wide. She heard it too.

  Someone was downstairs.

  “Abdul! Abdul!”

  A man shouting; he thought he recognized the voice, but how?

  “Abdul. Adiba!”

  This time he was sure. “That’s Quinn,” he said.

  “Quinn. How?” Adiba whispered.

  “Dunno, but that’s him all right.”

  Abdul opened the door, poked his head out.

  “Quinn, is that you?” he shouted.

  “Thank God. I thought you were dead for sure.” Quinn charged up the stairs, three at a time.

  Abdul and Adiba stepped onto the landing.

  “You okay?” Quinn asked, and he spanned his long arms around the two of them and pulled them into a bear hug.

  When he released them, the big man said, “Hi, Adiba. I’m Quinn. Come on. We need to move. Someone’s bound to show after that racket.”

  They followed him downstairs. Abdul scanned the office: papers scattered everywhere, walls ripped apart where rapid-fire weapons had strafed them. Abdul couldn’t believe guns created such havoc and destruction.

  Abdul pointed to the large man spread-eagled over the side of his upturned metal desk, chest torn open and covered in blood; in his hand he held an aerosol can. “That’s Ghazi.”

  Stinky slumped against a filing cabinet with part of his face missing and chunks of his flesh splattered over the filing cabinets behind him. The card players lay across each other on the ground, blood pooled around them. Two men in black combat gear, nigh-vision goggles still strapped to their faces, blocked the door leading to the hallway. Another, dressed the same, sprawled near the aerosol in Ghazi’s outstretched hand.

  “Come on, let’s go.” Quinn stepped over the dead soldiers and stood in the hallway, waving impatiently.

  Abdul turned to follow, but he heard a noise. “Wait, what was that?”

  “Come on, Abdul. No time.”

  “Listen.” Abdul held up his hand for silence. The sound was familiar to him. Maybe that’s why he had noticed, because his mind recognized the patterns, unmistakable to any Muslim.

  Someone was saying morning prayers.

  Abdul moved toward the open door at the rear of the office. He had never been through this way. Stepping around the dead soldiers, he stopped at the threshold of a large laboratory, one hundred feet square with dozens of equipment-covered worktables and computer stations. Five feet inside the room, another man in black combat gear knelt with his back to them. Abdul wasn’t sure whether he was alive, but he didn’t see any blood. He prodded the soldier’s shoulder with his foot and shouted. “Oi!”

  The man toppled, slowly, like a vase tumbling from a shelf. His body remained rigid, locked in the kneeling position. When he hit the ground his neck twisted around. Abdul stared but couldn’t fathom what he saw. Where the soldier’s face should have been was a mass of black foam. Abdul checked a second soldier, a few feet farther into the room and flat on his back. A black block of charcoal, bigger than a basketball, protruded from his flak jacket in place of his head. Two more of the invading soldiers lay dead beyond him with heads and faces distorted and disfigured by the same black compound.

  A hand slammed onto Abdul’s shoulder, and he jumped a mile.

  “Come on. These soldiers will be missed. The Israelis have plenty more where they came from,” Quinn said.

  “I heard them talking, Quinn. They weren’t Israeli. They were American,” Abdul said.

  “What? Well, whoever. Let’s go.” Quinn stared past Abdul at the four bodies and the black charcoal and muttered, “I’ve seen this movie before.”

  “What about him?” Abdul pointed across the room. Past a line of flip-charts covered in math symbols and diagrams. Past a glove box. Past a row of tables crammed with computer equipment. On the far side of the lab, one hundred feet from the door, a solitary figure knelt on a prayer mat with his back to them, bobbing up and down in supplication and singing in a low, rhythmic voice.

  “It’s a kid,” Quinn said. He shouted. “Hey! Are you okay?” The child ignored him. “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”

  “We can’t leave him,” Abdul said.

  Quinn sighed and pushed past Abdul. “Come on then.” He jogged across the lab. Abdul followed.

  Adiba appeared in the doorway behind them. “What’s happening?”

  Abdul shouted over his shoulder. “There’s a child over here. We have to help him.”

  Adiba stayed where she was, staring at the fallen soldiers and their ravaged faces.

  Quinn reached him first. He banged the boy on the back and shouted. “Hey! Kid!”

  The kid jumped and turned to face them. But this was no child; he had a heavy beard and dark caterpillar eyebrows. Lost in his prayers, he’d apparently been unaware of their presence. Abdul spoke to the man in Arabic.

  “The Israeli police will be here soon. We are going to get out before they arrive. You should come.”

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” Abdul replied.

  “I am Dawud.”

  Quinn shouted. “Abdul. Now! Come on!” He shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the door.

  David stood and rolled up his prayer mat.

  “Tell your buddy to move his ass.” Quinn grabbed Abdul by the shirt and dragged him across the room.

  Abdul shouted to David. “We must hurry.”

  David slung a backpack over his shoulder and followed Quinn and Abdul. Adiba joined them at the door, and Quinn led them outside. The white van was parked with its engine running. Quinn checked inside—empty.

  The Yanks were going to have some explaining to do.

  They hurried to the Datsun.

  “Uncle Hassan’s car,” Adiba said.

  Abdul smiled. He had fond memories of the Datsun from their trip to Eilat.

  “A piece of shit is what it is,” Quinn said. “I hope the engine will pull four people. Come on. Climb in.”

  Abdul pushed Adiba into the backseat and squeezed in next to her. David rode shotgun. Quinn slammed the gas pedal to the floor and the car squealed in protest.

  “I hope one of you knows th
e way to Hassan’s from here.” Quinn pulled onto a main road. At the first intersection, Adiba read the signs and directed him. The morning commute had begun, and Quinn merged with the workaday traffic—hiding in plain sight.

  “Hey, you! Put your seat belt on.” When David didn’t respond, Quinn punched David’s arm. “Abdul, tell him. I don’t want any undue attention from the cops.”

  Abdul spoke in Arabic to David. When he didn’t react, Abdul leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Dawud, put on your seat belt, please.” David still didn’t move.

  “Nice job bringing that along,” Quinn said.

  “Quiet,” Abdul said. He knelt on the floor and squeezed between the front seats, so he could look at David’s face.

  “Now what?”

  “Please, Quinn, be quiet. I’ll fix the belt.” Abdul reached around and clipped the safety harness in place. He stayed on his knees, staring at David and listening.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Quinn asked.

  “It’s extraordinary. He’s reciting passages from the Koran, whole passages. I don’t think he can hear us. He’s in a trance,” Abdul said.

  “Great, now we’ve got a Jesus freak on board.”

  “Wrong prophet, Quinn.”

  “Huh? Whatever.”

  Remaining between the front seats, Abdul turned to Quinn and laid a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I ran out on you at the hotel. Thanks for rescuing us.”

  “Sure, anytime,” Quinn said. “I got you. Problem is I don’t know what the hell to do next.”

  “Why don’t we just go home?” Abdul said as he flopped back into the seat next to Adiba. She squeezed his arm and beamed at him.

  Quinn laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Shit, boy. They’d shoot you on sight. The world and its sister think you did the G20 attack,” Quinn said.

  “What?” Abdul asked.

  “Oh, brother. I guess that solves the problem of what to talk about for the next hour.” Quinn caught Abdul and Adiba up on the terrorist attack in Seoul.