Cellular Activity- The Djinn
Page 3
Pyotr Dmitri Zaytsev takes a deep breath impatiently. «The object will be here shortly, but first I want to be sure that the transfer of funds has been made as we agreed.»
«Alas, we live in dark times, my friend», says Amr raising his hands and smiling. «Nobody trusts anyone anymore. But it's okay, brother, this is your right.»
After that, he takes a tiny tablet from a pocket inside his jacket and types his credentials in a basic and anonymous portal. After a short while he shows the screen to Zaytsev, looking up to the taller man. This one looks carefully at the screen, his eyes flowing faster on the reported alphanumeric characters. Satisfied with what he sees he nods his head. Amr, his face ever-smiling, puts the small device back in the pocket from which he took it and turns to a sink, as to wash his hands.
Zaytsev waits for a moment, then he puts an unexpected question to his accomplice. «Just tell me Amr: if you had the chance, would you sacrifice all that you have to wipe out all the infidels from the face of the earth in one stroke? Would you die for the true glory of God?»
Amr's reflection looks back at him from the mirror. He doesn't smile anymore. His calm and studied response is full of pride. «I don't expect these questions from an old friend like you... Anyway... Yes, Pyotr, with all my heart. Yes.»
The pale skinned man nods, apparently satisfied by the response of his accomplice. «All right my brother. Wait here. The delivery is coming.»
The abrupt opening of a door catches the two with a start. A burly man enters the bathrooms main room. He is black, bald, very obese, and his skull oddly elongated in the forehead. He wears shorts that leave uncovered two legs as wide as pillars. In the hollow of his knees, some varicose veins are clearly visible and stand out in relief with a dark blue-green color. The newcomer is wearing an ugly yellow t-shirt with a drawing of Bart Simpson, completely naked and riding a pig. In one hand he holds a paper wrapping containing a half-eaten sandwich, overflowing with fries and ketchup. The man gives a distracted glance at the two, then he slips into one of the bathrooms, and closes the door with the clasp.
Amr turns back, pretending to rearrange his clothes in front of the mirror, sardonically smiling and shaking his head, as if to express his dismay at the sight of the newcomer's shirt. «Pigs, who admire pigs, eat pigs, and idolize pigs...», he murmurs in his language to his partner, who looks back at him from the mirror.
«And they will have the death reserved for pigs!», concludes Zaytsev. Then he enters another bathroom, closing the door. Once away from prying eyes he extracts a small, dull gray metal container from a pocket. The inside is clad with a rubbery, self-modeling substance, in the center of which there is a single tiny vial. A label shows a statement in Cyrillic fonts. The flask is of thick glass and contains a transparent liquid that seems to be just simple water. With a sigh, the man pulls out a syringe from another pocket and unwraps it with a bite. Then he spits it down the toilet. Carefully he inserts the needle into the tiny rubber section of the vial's seal and draws the content, making sure not to leave a single drop. When finished, the man throws also the vial in the toilet and flushes it, waiting to make sure everything is actually gone. Zaytsev then lifts the syringe in front of his eyes, looking at the liquid in back-light, trying to discern something microscopic inside.
Such immense power, concealed in a few milliliters...
God is truly great!
The subsequent events take place quickly.
The Chechen comes out of the bathroom and heads for Amr, who is still in front of the mirror and shows him his back.
Focused on his goal, Zaytsev doesn't notice the man in the yellow shirt just coming out from one of the bathrooms to his right, until it collides with him.
«Hey, what the fuck! Watch your steps man!», the black man yells at him, pushing him away with a big and greasy hand, glaring for a moment as he heads for the exit.
Amr absently looks at the scene from the mirror with half a smile on his face, then he continues to pretend to wash his hands.
Pyotr tightens his lips. His left hand whitens and contracts into a fist, as he struggles against the temptation to slay the man on the spot. Holding his breath he waits till that unwanted presence is gone, then without a word he comes close to Amr, focusing on the next move. With a quick move he grabs with his left hand the throat of his friend, pressing hard with his fingers in the neck points at the base of the jaw. Simultaneously he inserts the syringe needle into the man's right arm and presses the plunger.
The other tries to break free, but has just enough time to take a mixed look of surprise and disbelief. It's only an instant before his eyes flip down and his body collapses to the ground.
«It's just a precaution, sadiqi. After all, you were right: we live in dark times», says Zaytsev in Arab, as he watches the empty syringe whose needle is broken. Then he bends towards the lifeless body of Amr and, keeping an eye on the front door, rummages in his jacket with quick movements, pulling out a plane ticket. He reads it for a moment, then he puts it back in the pocket of his accomplice with a smile of satisfaction, and briskly heads for the exit.
Moscow
A tall and slender woman, short haired almost as a boy, very athletic and with beautiful deep green eyes, looks out of the door of a control room in which a feverish activity takes place. Her voice sounds almost robotic, like a prerecorded message.
«Sir, we have a report from Cape Town.»
The Russian intelligence's heart seems to freeze for an instant, all eyes look at the woman pointing to one of the screens.
The display shows the airport entrance. The footage rewinds then stops on a frame. The image zooms, an edge outlines a face.
«Son of a bitch», exclaims Leonidovich. «He's our man. Anything else? Scan all airport surveillance footage, we must trace his movements.»
The man keeps giving orders, without taking off his eyes from the screen, almost to impress that face deeply in his memory and lock the man in place by the force of his will. «Morozov, who do we have in Cape Town?»
Without waiting for an answer, Leonidovich keeps giving orders. «Send all the available men. When was this footage filmed?»
«9:15 am, today sir», replies one of the officers, a brunette woman, with a deep voice and an almost masculine face.
Leonidovich slides instinctively his sleeve to check the time: it's just a little past 14. «I want a list of all departing flights, take into account the smallest margin for boarding operations starting from 9.15 am.»
«Sir, should we alert the local authorities?», asks one of the agents. Leonidovich looks at him uncertainly, as if he's checking his options, then, without answering he moves to another screen that's showing one of the surveillance footages.
* * *
The minutes pass by slowly, while several video clips, filmed by many cameras at the airport, are being closely checked by the operators.
«Sir, we have a match!», says one of the agents. Leonidovich, red in his face, almost flips a workstation while he rushes to look.
The footage shows Pyotr Dmitri Zaytsev approaching and talking to a man.
«Hold the picture and zoom on the face of the other man», orders Leonidovich. The operator hastes to obey, zooming on the smiling face of Amr.
«He may be an accomplice: the two men seem to know each other. Go ahead, see what happens.»
The display shows the two talking for a while. Afterward, one of them checks the time and a second later they split, heading for different directions and going out of range of the camera.
«It seems like he just asked a passerby the time, sir.»
«That's what they want us to believe, but no one grabs you by the arm to ask the time, and the behavior of the other man isn't that of someone who is suddenly grabbed by a stranger. They know each other.»
Meanwhile, one of the operators traced the position of the two men inside the airport, based on the elements in the scene.
«That's the clip of the surveillance camera B-9», exclaims t
he operator, who traces an invisible path with a pen on the display, «our man headed for that direction. The bathrooms are in that zone.»
«Trace also the movements of the other man, I want to know where he's gone. Do we have any footage of that area?»
He is another operator to answer: «Negative, sir, we have no direct view, however, there is a clip of a camera on the other side of the room. The entrance to the bathroom is far away, but...»
«Great, what are we waiting? Come on, people, we may be able to close this thing quickly.»
«I found it Sir! The other man headed to the cafeteria.»
Leonidovich approaches another workstation, where he sees a footage that shows Amr drinking from a cup, smiling and whispering with one of the girls behind the counter.
«Save a picture of that woman's face, she may be involved too. Morozov, where the hell are our agents?»
«Galkin is already at the airport, sir. Nikitin and Ryabov will be there within minutes», announces a voice-over.
After a short time, Amr moves out of the view-field of the camera inside the bar. At the same time he reappears in another clip.
«He seems to head for the bathrooms too, sir.»
«I was sure about it! Damn motherfuckers, it was a maneuver not to get any attention. Jump ahead with the footage, I want to see when they come out. Get me in contact with Galkin, now!»
«Sir, we have a match. I'm sending it on-screen.»
All eyes lock on one of the main display, where Zaytsev is passing the checkpoint before heading for a less crowded area of the airport.
«Where the hell is he going?», asks Leonidovich impatiently.
«That zone is the boarding area for private flights, sir.»
«Sir, I have a match from the A-12 camera.»
«Galkin online, sir.»
Leonidovich takes a deep breath.
Come on...
«Galkin, Leonidovich here. You have been sent the pictures of two men and a woman. A few hours have passed, but they might still be there. Nikitin and Ryabov will join you shortly. Sift the airport, find the two men and bring them to a safe place where we can handle it quietly. As for the woman, she is working in the cafeteria, but she may have finished her shift. If you find her, just keep an eye on her movements. Use utmost discretion and extreme care: the targets may have biological weapons.»
A click follows the last words of Leonidovich. Galkin isn't the kind of man who likes to get lost in conversation. He's cold, rational, fast and with a determination as hard as obsidian. Leonidovich has thought more than once how Galkin is more akin to a robot than to a human being. He is considered one of his best agents.
Meanwhile, in one of the footages they see Zaytsev heading resolutely for the door of the bathrooms. After a few minutes, he is followed by the same man he was talking to in the hall.
«I said it, damn it!», exclaims Leonidovich. «That man is an accomplice. Still no response from the facial analysis?»
«Negative, sir. That man isn't registered in our database.»
«Go ahead with the footage, I want to see when they come out.»
The footage goes on at high speed. The operator slows down the reproduction as soon as they see Zaytsev out the door. No sign of Amr.
«Jump ahead, he must come out sooner or later», says Leonidovich.
After almost ten minutes, Amr reappears on the clip, he comes out from the bathrooms, walking slowly in a different direction than Zaytsev.
«Something seems wrong, sir: the way he moves...»
«Zoom the picture as best as you can», says Leonidovich while nearing his face to the display in order to see better, despite the pixellation caused by hard-zooming the view.
«He seems unsteady on his feet, like a drunk or someone with vertigo...»
An icy shiver runs throughout Leonidovich's back.
«Trace his movements too, I want to know where he's gone.»
«Here it is! The man who was with Zaytsev, sir.»
Leonidovich, visibly panting, approaches the operator, abruptly urging her to continue.
«He boarded on a scheduled flight. Heading for Paris.»
«How many people are on board?», asks Leonidovich, while cleaning some drops of sweat from his face with a starched handkerchief. The operator types on her keyboard, then gives the answer.
«Two hundred forty two passengers, plus the crew, sir.»
Another agent reaches the group.
«Sir, we have the list of the departures of private jets and the GPS tracks of their flights.»
The eyes of Leonidovich dart on the newcomer's face.
«Go ahead!»
«Actually there are only three jets. Two have done a relatively short trip and they have already landed. We tracked their data. They are big local entrepreneurs, whose flights occur regularly. We have their flight histories, if you want to consult them...»
«Go ahead, where's the third plane headed to?»
«There is no information on the third plane, it's plausible that its data have been purposely wiped off. We don't know whom it belongs to, there is no flight plan. However, we have a satellite track. We can estimate with good accuracy where it's going.»
The look of Leonidovich seems almost throwing flames, the agent swallows before continuing with a trembling voice.
«New York, sir. We believe with good approximation that it's heading for New York. Right now it's flying over the Atlantic.»
They spend moments of silence while Leonidovich feels like the entire world is crumbling under his feet.
Holy Christ, not the Americans...
The man takes a deep breath, then regains control of himself, turning to the staff. «Call the President and bring Ivanov here. Right now, damn it!»
Washington
The party
«I always wonder what you think, when I see you so focused with that faraway look...»
The eyes of John Ironside, Deputy Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security of the United States, seem to light up as he turns to look at the face of his wife Taisha. «I'm sorry honey, sometimes it's hard to blow off some steam.»
The man is tall, his physique is lean, hardened by years in the Marine Corps. His blond hair is perfectly ordered. He watches his wife with clear and limpid eyes. She is slightly shorter, but she also has an athletic body and a face that vaguely remembers that of Whitney Houston. Her hand slips on her husband's cheek, then both turn to look at the scene before them.
The garden of their home is a small chaos of children chasing each other, streamers, bass precincts overflowing with balloons that move slowly lulled by the wind, small groups of guests, mostly mothers, who chat peacefully.
Smiling faces, peace and quiet, things that everyone wants, but that only a few people are able to enjoy when they arise, setting aside for a few minutes the anxieties and thoughts of everyday problems, large and small.
«Don't worry about me, I am aware of how important and stressful your job is, even if I think that I'll never get used to it...», answers the woman «But today is a special day for our daughter. You know how much Darla cares to spend her birthday with you.»
He turns to watch her, his eyes are half-closed in a provocative look. Then he shows off a chilling smile while he girds her waist with one hand, slightly lower than how it's convenient in public. She pretends to rebel against his unexpected gesture of affection and intimacy.
«Mr. Ironside, maybe I have to remember that your position doesn'...»
«You said position? Go on, things are getting more interesting...», he interrupts her, further lowering his hand and pulling her closer.
Before she can react, the man adds: «Taisha, did I ever tell you how much I love you?»
Their faces almost touching, she looks at him pretending a formal expression, but the color of her cheeks seems to turn more intense, betraying her emotions. «A lot of times, Mr. Ironside, I'm afraid you have to strive a little more this time.»
Then she suddenl
y frees herself from his grasp, raising her hands in surrender and adding a smile. «Go and hug our daughter, you dodger. I'm really sorry but today you're entirely hers.»
He still smiles and winks at his wife before turning around and descending a few steps toward the huge back garden of their villa, heading toward that jubilant chaos.
John Ironside has walked only a few steps when the ringing of his cellphone intrudes abruptly. He replies nonchalantly, moving on, but his pace slows down gradually. After a few moments he stops, almost frozen in place.
His wife, watching him from the back entrance area under a large canopy, feels that the air is getting colder when she sees him turning around, exchanging a few words with his interlocutor and finally nodding slowly. The man puts his phone in a pocket of his gray pants, then he heads back to his wife. It's no longer John, but the Deputy Secretary of DHS, who comes to talk to her.
He doesn't smile anymore.
«Thompson. I have to get ready, they're sending a helicopter.»
The woman stays impassive, stern looking, as he kisses her forehead.
«I'll be back ASAP, I promise », he whispers to her before entering the house.
«Sure! You say the same words all the times. But today...»
Taisha stops in mid-sentence, listening as for confirmation of her thoughts. At that precise moment she notices the roaring swish of a helicopter rapidly approaching.
Washington
Pentagon
Two men walk briskly through a corridor lit by fluorescent tubes. John Ironside walks beside Richard Thompson, his immediate superior. The latter is shorter than the other. His head is bald and his body is wiry, almost ascetic. His dark, penetrating eyes look at the world with the sleek look of a bird of prey. «I'm sorry I bothered you, John, I know how much Taisha cares about it, but the situation is very serious. If old Vlad has bothered to contact the President, at a time like this... he must have really good reasons.»