“Where are they?” The man with the gun growled in a German or Austrian accent.
“In the helicopter, but I need to verify her first.”
“Do what you have to do, then bring them to me. The exchange happens here.”
German, for sure.
Smythe stepped in the van and got down on his knees to be at eye level with the woman.
“Are you Julia Price?”
No response.
He asked again a few times until he finally extracted a faint nod. A rush of air trapped in his lungs gushed out in tentative relief.
“I am an FBI agent here to take you home.”
She was frozen. No emotional response to what he had just revealed.
“I need to verify your identity by scanning your fingerprints—which means I need to hold both your hands. Is it okay if I touch you?” Julia managed to nod despite the arm locked around her neck.
Smythe pulled out the same device he had used earlier to scan Nabulsi and Madi. First he touched the tips of her fingers to ensure she wasn’t wearing prosthetics or stick-on skin to mask her identity. Then he scanned all ten of her fingers. Nishimura had sent him her prints earlier. The Senator’s daughter had been fingerprinted in the past as part of security clearance for a job she held briefly with an industrial design firm in Boston that contracted for the Pentagon.
Smythe held his breath as the scanner went to work. Green light means a positive match, and red means they’re in for a shit storm. He fixed his eyes on the masked man with a stranglehold on Julia. Who are you?
The scanner was taking longer than expected.
His pulse raced.
Then it beeped. For a split second Smythe couldn’t get himself to look at the result just in case it was red. He hadn’t factored that in and wasn’t prepared emotionally to deal with it.
He lowered his eyes. Green.
He could breathe again.
“Now I need to see her face.”
The man complied and removed the blindfold with the hand that had been restraining her, his other hand still firm on the gun.
It wasn’t particularly bright inside the van even with the door open, but Julia squinted in discomfort as her eyes adjusted. When she looked him in the eye, Smythe saw a chilling expanse of nothingness staring back. Whatever they had done to break her was effective. She had given up fighting and the light of hope had been extinguished. Even now as her chances have suddenly multiplied, her defense instincts were well in control, prepping her for the worst possible ending.
Although her hair was longer now, the comparison image on his phone was quickly discrediting any doubt in Smythe’s mind she really was Julia Price.
“You have an irregularly shaped mole under one of your arms, can you tell me which?”
Julia mumbled something in a spent, low voice that didn’t register with Smythe. He moved closer and asked her to repeat it.
“My right arm,” she managed to whisper.
“What does the shape remind you of?”
“The island of Corsica.”
Bingo.
“I need to check it. ”
Julia raised her right arm slowly, her face agonized as she moaned in pain. “My shoulder…ow…aah—my shoulder—”
Smythe inspected the mole. Julia had been monitoring it since her eighteenth birthday, after her grandmother died of melanoma. Empowered by the various tentacles of the Patriot Act, the FBI would have faced no obstacles in acquiring Julia’s medical records and extracting the images of her mole held by her health care provider.
“Dislocated?” Smythe said, pointing to Julia’s shoulder.
She closed her eyes and gave no discernible response, like she had consumed her last fumes of energy when she raised her arm.
“You’re safe now.”
He touched her hand and she clutched it and wouldn’t let go.
When his eyes met Polly’s, Smythe nodded. It was time.
Zeta read the cue and marched back to the helicopter to fetch the Jordanians.
“Out of the van,” the German said to Smythe.
Reluctantly, Julia let go of his hands.
“No dirty tricks. Once I get my men we’ll take off. Don’t move for another fifteen minutes. Remember, she’s just one of many.”
“Yeah. That’s what we agreed upon with your boss in New York.”
The masked man snapped back at Smythe with raw indignation. “I don’t have any bosses.”
He turned to Polly. “Delta Force?”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
“I’ve had a few of your colleagues for dinner in Mazer-e Sharif.”
Smythe admired Polly’s restraint, opting to look away.
In the distance Nabulsi and Madi were making their way toward the van with Zeta behind. Madi struggled to keep up with the more energetic Nabulsi. When they were both in, the masked man addressed them in passable but not native Arabic.
“Al Salamu Alaykom.”
“We alaykum al salam wa rahmatulah we barakatu.”
Almost involuntarily, Nabulsi ogled Julia’s naked thighs as if she was part of his release benefits. The first image of flesh in many years.
The driver pulled out a photograph and compared it to the Jordanians until he seemed satisfied they were the genuine articles.
“It’s them.”
“What was the license plate number of the van you were in when Egyptian police apprehended you?” the masked German asked.
How the hell did he expect them to remember?
Nabulsi’s jaw dropped, his pupils dilating.
“It was a taxi. A sedan not a van,” a voice whispered from behind Nabulsi. All eyes turned to Madi, who hadn’t spoken a word since they left the prison.
“Registration details?”
“A white Mitsubishi Lancer, 2002 model, registered in the South Sinai governorate.”
“Plates?”
“716680.”
“And the driver’s real name?”
“Abu Hamza.”
“Welcome home, brothers.”
Things moved fast after that.
The kidnapper shoved Julia with his foot, sending her soaring out of the vehicle. She would have cracked her head on the concrete if Smythe hadn’t caught her in time. With his gun still pointed at them, the German slammed the door shut as the van bit into the road and careened out of the park.
Zeta quickly wrapped a gray blanket around Julia’s body. She was shivering despite the heat and humidity. He carried her in his arms, her head resting on his chest for the walk back to the helicopter.
The rain had stopped now. The sun had finally prevailed.
§
Nabulsi knew the van couldn’t possibly go any faster given its condition, but he wanted the Americans to fade quickly into oblivion. When the van made its first turn left, he glanced at the street sign. They were on Via Calimberti Tancredi and getting further from the helicopter and any chance the Americans would change their mind. His chest heaved in growing contentment, finally allowing the luxury of euphoria to rush through his veins.
He kept his eyes peeled on the street signs and again made a mental note when they turned on Via Labriola Antonio, not that it meant anything to him. The van continued for about three hundred feet before making another turn into a complex of mustard-colored buildings. They stopped and parked in the rear.
The man who had freed them drew off his mask and embraced Nabulsi and Madi. He looked nothing like what Nabulsi had expected. This Muslim brother was taller than six feet with cropped blond hair and green eyes. Many Lebanese or Syrian Muslims could also have that complexion, but his accent and command of Arabic suggested he was more likely a European convert. Nabulsi was proud his faith was expanding into the hinterland of the enemy, but also envious of whoever scored
the ultimate virtue of converting a non-Muslim. He was free now and would dedicate the rest of his life for jihad in the name of Islam. Maybe he too would be fortunate enough to convert a few souls of his own.
Nabulsi and his partner stepped out of the van into a bright, stunning day, trailing behind their white liberator, and adhering to his instructions to follow his cues and not utter a single word.
They followed him to a street-level coffee shop with a few tables outside. He motioned for them to sit down then disappeared inside, reemerging with a tray of soft drinks and pastries. Nabulsi and Madi ate and drank in silence as the German sat quietly.
His phone began to rattle on the table, and without looking at it he got up and started marching toward a building on the opposite side of the complex. Nabulsi and Madi shadowed him diligently.
An older Italian man in a light blue shirt and dark sunglasses met them at the entrance and seemed mildly annoyed they were late. Perhaps the stop at the cafe was unscheduled.
He let them in and the four of them squeezed inside a shoe box pretending to be an elevator. In the tight space and against the backdrop of the Italian man’s unabashed perfume, Nabulsi realized for the first time how much he and his friend stunk to the high heavens. Not just the sweat incurred on the journey here, but the stench of years of neglect. A real shower with hot water would be his first order of business when they got to their final destination. Wherever that would be.
They reached the top floor and stepped out. The Italian searched through a bunch of keys until he found the correct one and let everyone into the rooftop terrace. He shook their hands, turned back and locked the door on them.
Nabulsi stood motionless next to Madi, his imagination dry of any ideas as to what comes next. All he knew was it couldn’t possibly be any worse than where they were this time yesterday.
The European pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Siamo pronti,” he said, then hung up.
A single-engine helicopter materialized in the sky and landed on the rooftop of the building. The words Stelle Elicotteri were imprinted on its tail.
The blond man escorted Nabulsi and Madi to the aircraft and motioned for them to embark. In less than a minute, the helicopter had disappeared in the Neapolitan sky.
EIGHTEEN
Sunday, November 6, 2011—4:12 a.m.
Manhattan, New York
Smythe’s voice was barely audible on the loudspeaker, the sound of the helicopter and the background hustle of the other men overpowering it.
“We have her. She’s safe.”
Blackwell sighed from the deepest part of his heart as the negotiating room erupted in raucous applause. The first piece of good news all night and a welcome release from the dark gloom since Voss and his men were killed.
Deputy Director Benny Marino had also been patched in to the call.
“Outstanding work, Jamie. How soon can Senator Price speak to his daughter?”
“Not a good idea now, sir. She’s been beaten up quite bad. Frail, dehydrated and quite distraught.”
“Have they assaulted her?”
Smythe did not respond, but his silence said it all.
“She’s alive, sir. We’ll get her checked out at the Navy hospital in Naples and take it one step at a time.”
The voice of the communications officer echoed in the room.
“Mr. Blackwell, I have the suspect on line two for you.”
“I’ll take it.” Blackwell zipped back to his seat.
“You kept your end of the deal. Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi are on their way home as we speak, free at last.”
“You got what you came for, Seth, now let’s end this.”
“My men and I would like safe passage out of this building, and a flight out of this country.”
“The hostages first, Seth. You know how this works. You’re not going anywhere until you release them and tell us where you’ve planted the other bombs.”
Seth completely ignored him and carried on with his instructions.
“There is a LAN Airlines flight originally scheduled for Guayaquil, Ecuador, leaving tonight at ten fifty-five from JFK. The aircraft will arrive on its inbound leg in about an hour. I want this plane fueled and ready for us at ten a.m. That’ll give you five and a half hours to get all the approvals you need to make this happen.”
“How do you expect to get to the airport and then clear security?”
“We’ll use the Lexus SUV my associates drove here. When the clock strikes nine, the three of us will walk out of this building and drive ourselves to JFK.
“You’re the FBI. So figure out a way to clear us through immigration and security at Terminal Eight. We’ll be using three Ecuadorian passports. Juan Bermejo, Ernesto Guzmán and Ortiz Alvaro. The plane must be parked at Gate 47 in Concourse C. We’ll walk to the aircraft without being intercepted.”
Blackwell thought hard about this. Three terrorists alone in an airplane over the New York skies. A nightmare. But before he could articulate his concerns, Seth jumped a step ahead of him.
“We are getting on this plane with nothing more than our passports. You can have the TSA scan us for guns and explosives, if that’s what you’re worried about. The crew of the plane can remain locked in their cockpit for the duration of the flight. We’re not trying to recreate history, we just want to get to Ecuador.”
“And the hostages? And the children?”
“The conference room has sensors on the doors that will set off the bombs if any of the hostages try to leave. Each set of explosives we’ve planted—whether here or at the day cares—is connected to two cellphones. One phone disables and the other detonates. Once we arrive safely in Ecuador, we’ll deactivate the bombs. We’ll also tip off the relevant police departments across the country about the locations of the three day cares. But if anything happens to us, our people on the outside will trigger the explosives by calling the other phones. Do we have an agreement?”
Blackwell turned to Monica for a decision.
She nodded.
“We do.”
“And so it ends, Alex Blackwell.”
Seth hung up.
Blackwell removed the headset and turned his chair to face the conference table. He knew immediately from her face Monica had already decided what the next move would be.
“Over my dead body they’re getting on a plane and flying into the sunset. The show is over once they step out of that building.”
Monica’s eyes transformed as she spoke. Summoning multiple personalities at whim was her special talent. Right now with her eyes screaming insanity, she was worlds apart from the almost remorseful performance of last night. This volatility, that instant flip of a switch to decide whether men, women and children get to live or die was exactly what tormented Blackwell all those years.
This was starting to feel like Hermosa Beach all over again.
“Monica, we have no other option but to do exactly what he asked for.”
Monica sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Maybe living on a cute island has eroded whatever was left of your common sense.”
“It’s not about common sense. You heard what the psycho terrorist just said. What other option do we have?”
“What the hell happened to you, Alex? There’s always another option, usually requiring balls. If you think for a minute these guys are going to deactivate the bombs once they’re home free, you’re a whole lot dumber than I feared you were.”
How dare you.
Years of submerged rage surfaced to the top like a soda can shaken violently. Blackwell charged to the conference table and stopped in front of Monica with a finger pointed at her face.
“Now that Julia Price is safe, everyone else can go to hell, isn’t that right, Monica? How far up Benny Marino’s ass do you want to snuggle before innocent people stop dyi
ng on your clock?”
Did I just say that? She’s winding me up and I fell for it.
“Is that the best your walnut brain could come up with?”
Blackwell hated where he was about to go. That point in an escalating argument with a long-standing foe when your unfiltered emotions take over your rational judgment and force you into doing and saying stupid things you know you will regret. No matter how hard you try to rise above your base instincts, the buildup, many years in the making, is formidable. Your evolved motherboard overheats and relinquishes control of your faculties and accountability to a primordial animal trapped inside your chest—the very worst pilot. All the animal knows to do is vent rage at whatever price.
“This isn’t about me, Monica. Whatever anger and feelings of inferiority are festering inside you from your messed-up childhood should be dealt with on the couch of a good shrink. But never in a hostage situation, because every time you do that, good people like Albert Voss and his men end up murdered. I hope you have an endless supply of soap because I see their blood all over your hands.”
Blackwell was expecting a massive slap when he saw Monica’s hand pull back and swing toward him. Instead, a sharp stinging blow landed on his jaw. Even after the pain had numbed the rest of his face, it took him a few seconds to register that Monica had actually slugged him. Really hard, too.
Nishimura jumped to his feet and grabbed a Red Bull from Blackwell’s chiller and gave it to him to hold on his face. Monica’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes suggesting she was equally as shocked as the other agents in the room at what she had just done.
Despite the punch in the face, Blackwell felt an unexpected calm. The animal had achieved its goal and scurried back from where it had come. Years of tension between them had culminated into a confrontation he had been relishing for a long time. A purging of emotion that should have happened during and after the Hermosa Beach standoff.
Monica’s eyes welled up with tears, ready to erupt. He had pressed hard on her vulnerabilities, leaving her no option but to come straight at him.
Terminal Rage Page 17