by Hal Ross
“Al-Qaeda has a particular hatred for infidels like you,” Dalton said.
Al-Qaeda? The name chilled Blair. “John, what kind of game are you playing?” he asked.
“My name is not John. You will address me by my proper name—Khalid Yassin.”
“Fine, John. Whatever you say.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “Not John,” he said with menace in his voice. “Do I have to threaten you?”
“I don’t think so,” Blair said. “You’ve done enough of that to last me a lifetime.”
Dalton/Yassin shrugged. “We’re not done with you yet, Mr. Mulligan. Far from it. We have been waiting for you, knowing it was only a matter of time. Why else did we loosen your blindfold when you were released from our custody a short time ago? Did you actually believe we would make that sort of mistake? The blindfold was made to come loose so you would notice the address and be able to find your way back. Same with the garage being left open today. And the unlocked door leading into the house. It was all choreographed for your benefit.” Amusement filled his eyes. “You took our bait. And I thank you for that.” He paused.
“I hope you weren’t too attached to your car, by the way. We’ve permanently disposed of it. But let me bring you up to date. I wasn’t getting anywhere with you, so I figured Rena would have a better chance. I admit the plot to get me out of the way was a bit melodramatic. But it worked, apparently. You are so predictable. You and your fellow Americans. You made it easy for us.”
Realizing how true the sentiment was, Blair flinched.
“So you go back to Israel like a good little boy,” Dalton/Yassin continued. “And this time you are successful. You convince Jeremy Samson to cooperate, to get the DVD production moved to OTE. You return to New York and Rena says she is making arrangements to get your daughter back. What you don’t know, however, is that she is stalling. She had to give us time to put our last-minute preparations in place.
“Meanwhile, I should tell you that some of the things that happened to you were not of our doing.”
“What things?” Blair asked bitterly.
“Oh, nothing important. The bombing in the restaurant in Tel Aviv? The truck incident in Montreal? These were all instigated by a rival faction, aiming to get you out of the way and disrupt our plans. Lucky for me, they didn’t succeed. Otherwise, I would have had to start over again.”
“Lucky for you?” Blair said, disbelieving the man’s indifference, how easy it was to dismiss the attempts on his life.
Dalton/Yassin now motioned with his hand.
The light in the adjoining room came on, giving Blair a clear view through the window. It was not one-way glass, after all.
Two bearded men wearing kaffiyehs sat at a table awaiting instructions.
Dalton/Yassin stepped up to the computer and turned it on. “You will soon understand the importance of your role,” he said. He pointed toward the window. “The equipment in that room is identical to that which you will find in the office we will provide for you. You will have access to a computer and all the amenities you are used to.” His lips parted in a half-smile.
“You are a one-man show,” Dalton/Yassin said. “Our research told us everything we needed to know. Your habits, your customs, the way you run your business, and your personal life. We couldn’t have found a better candidate. Out of the three potential men we considered, you came out on top.”
“I’m flattered,” Blair muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, John. Carry on, please.”
The slap on the table reverberated across the room. “Not John! My name is Khalid Yassin. Say it!”
“I hear you. I don’t have to say it. Now, where were we?”
Dalton/Yassin gestured to the men seated in the other room. One of them typed something on their computer.
Blair noticed the monitor in the room in which he sat coming to life. Soon, he caught his name scrolling across it after a ten-second delay.
“Give me a phrase or a sentence,” Dalton/Yassin requested.
Kiss my ass, was the one he wanted to use. And he almost said it out loud. “The little brown cow,” he offered instead.
Once again, one of the men in the opposite room typed and the words appeared on the screen in front of Blair.
“Everything you do,” Dalton/Yassin continued, “no matter the time of day or night, will be observed. Trying to trick us won’t work. The built-in delay allows us to stop any information you might try to disseminate before it is released.
“We know that you are involved in every aspect of your business. For instance, the standing orders you have at your distribution center, where nothing of value can be shipped without you being present. This most importantly suits our purpose.”
Blair paused, absorbed what he’d just been told, and involuntarily shook his head.
Killgallon Logistics was the company he used to handle his warehousing and shipping needs. He and the owner, Larry Killgallon, a broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties, liked each other, socialized together, and had grown fond of one another.
A year ago, a shipment scheduled for Walmart had ended up going to Toys ‘R’ Us. The product was stickered with the Walmart code and was priced at two dollars less than their competitor. It didn’t take long for the Toys ‘R’ Us buyer to become aware of this price discrepancy. And even though he had paid the same cost as Walmart, he held Blair’s company accountable. This resulted in a price concession of over thirty thousand dollars. In addition, because the promised ship date to Walmart was missed, he was hit with a five-thousand-dollar fine.
Blair immediately instituted a new policy. By paying a premium to Killgallon Logistics, they agreed to have a person on staff dedicated solely to his company’s needs. This was someone who would check the veracity of each shipment before it went out.
Despite this precaution, however, another incident occurred that was far worse. It involved a major release of a new, television-advertised product. An action-figure line licensed by the latest trading-card craze originating in Japan. The top three retailers, Target, Toys ‘R’ Us and Walmart, had each clamored for an advance release. But Blair had refused. Unfortunately, when it came time to ship the product, the person in charge at Killgallon Logistics missed most of the Bills of Lading and only shipped Target. By the time the error was caught, Target ended up with the advantage all three had requested in the first place. The grief Blair got from Toys ‘R’ Us and Walmart was severe. No explanation could mollify either one.
The person at Killgallon Logistics was fired. From that day forward, the only way a major release could go out was by Blair supervising the shipment in person. An inconvenience, but one that he felt was necessary.
Now, Blair very much regretted ever having put the policy in place. And he realized he was about to find out how much this policy was going to cost him.
The door opened. The two men he’d seen in the other room entered. They were guiding a small table on wheels in front of them. Something was hidden beneath a nylon covering, which was not unlike an oversized, opaque scarf.
Dalton/Yassin made a show of removing the covering and a sample of Cyber-tech was revealed. It had been split apart, its guts exposed. There were few wires. The motherboard contained mostly snap-in modules.
An alarm clanged inside Blair’s head.
“I said before that you were the best of our three candidates,” Dalton/Yassin said. “You see, no one else had access to what we truly needed.” He pointed to the broken-apart sample on the table. “Here, let me show you something,”
He picked up the sample of Cyber-tech and brought it closer. “This is called a capacitor. It is used to divert the electric charge from what was originally intended. In today’s world of miniaturization, you have transistors that are infinitely smaller and more versatile. All we had to do was insert a capacitor, then convert the starter to a trigger mechanism so that this innocuous-looking substance over here can be ignited.”
Blair could see not
hing but a minuscule, colorless blob that resembled a swatch of hardened glue.
“NC3,” Dalton/Yasin said with pride. “The latest, most versatile form of plastique available today. Thanks to your generosity, Cyber-tech comes with its own batteries. All the customer has to do is pull out this flexible tab like so.” He demonstrated. “And the contacts are no longer protected. Just turn on the switch, and voila…”
Sparks flew, and a strange sound was emitted, “phht,” like a flame igniting.
Dalton/Yassin laughed. “Imagine if the wiring was in place now?” he said. “You and I would be visiting with Allah as I speak. But here comes the best part. Thanks to your ingenious marketing plan, the total production of one hundred thousand pieces will have a specific lay-down date on the evening of September 7th.” He paused. “Why do all good things happen to you Americans in the month of September, I wonder? Anyway, precisely at midnight, Walmart, Target, and Toys ‘R’ Us will keep their doors open to allow their foolish customers to be the first in line to purchase this latest technological device.
“Imagine the headline: ‘Cyber-tech, now coming to you with enough plastique to blow you to smithereens.’”
His laugh rose in pitch, sounding eerie, almost demented.
“You see what I’m getting at, my friend? One hundred thousand homes filled with children. Nieces and nephews. Grandchildren.”
Envisioning exactly what was being described, Blair began to feel sick.
“To be honest with you,” Dalton/Yassin said, “there is the possibility that not all one hundred thousand pieces will sell out the first night. And even if they did, it is highly unlikely that everyone will turn them on as soon as they reach their homes. After all, some will be purchased as gifts. But worst-case scenario, say only twenty-five thousand units are activated. This will result in a minimum of twenty-five thousand people, or more likely double that amount, being killed.” He smiled. “And your company will become famous. Can you not see the irony, Blair Mulligan?”
CHAPTER 54
The truth of his own gullibility shamed him. The number of potential victims sent him into shock. Twenty-five thousand fatalities. Even more.
Blair wondered how Khalid Yassin could reach this point, how anyone could be this devious, so utterly demented.
The man had done an excellent job in conning him, twisting the truth in such a way that it was all made believable.
Blair knew he couldn’t turn back the clock. He had played perfectly into Yassin’s hands. And for that there was no forgiveness.
He sat in the chair, his mind reeling. He didn’t want to hear any more of his questions answered.
He watched now as the men removed the table. Then Khalid Yassin turned back to him. “Let me explain the balance of my plans,” he said.
Blair had found his accent faint but perceptible the first time they had met. Yet most of the time, Yassin spoke English like an American. “Were you educated in the States, John?” he asked.
The Arab’s face twitched with anger. “You know my name,” he said. “Why do you persist in insulting me?”
“Sorry. It was a slip of the tongue. Tell me where you went to school.”
“You are not in a position to be asking questions.”
“Oh? Why is that? Don’t you want me to understand you? So that I can better cooperate? Obey your every command?”
Khalid Yassin’s smile was more a smirk. “Obey you will,” he said. “Whether you like it or not.”
Blair’s temper ramped up a notch. “What makes you so sure?”
“Who is strapped in this chair? Me or you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters. Have you lost your mind?”
“No, but you’ve definitely lost yours!”
In one leap, Yassin was in his face, tightly squeezing his shoulders. “Show some respect! Infidel!”
“And if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to go there.”
“Oh, yes, I do, I want to go there very badly. Because there is nothing more you can get me to do. Capisce? Any chance of my cooperating further is kaput! Fini!”
The man leaned even closer. “Don’t push your luck,” he warned, spittle running from his mouth.
And Blair’s control was gone. “I am pushing it, you bastard!”
The Arab moved back, pulled a remote switch from beneath his robe, and pressed it.
Suddenly, a blue light streaked across the front of Blair’s chair. He noticed it before the pain, before an excruciating force attacked his lower extremities. His body convulsed. Once, twice, a third time. And he lost consciousness.
When he came to, the severity of the assault had been such that it took an effort to move.
“No more of your insolence,” Yassin was saying. “Do we understand each other?”
He didn’t reply.
“I will not ask again.”
He nodded.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “We understand each other.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Khalid.”
“Khalid Yassin.”
“Khalid Yassin,” Blair repeated, disgusted with himself.
His attention was drawn through the window to the adjoining room. One of Yassin’s men came into view. He was pulling someone behind him.
Reality hit Blair with such power, he wanted to scream. He had failed. At the one thing that mattered the most.
Sandra was hardly able to walk.
The second man appeared, holding something metallic-looking in his hand.
Yassin pointed to the computer monitor.
A picture filled the screen, a close-up of Sandra’s face. Blair noticed how pale his daughter was. She seemed worn out. And frightened.
The camera panned the room. It zoomed in on the object in the second man’s hand. An instrument was exposed that resembled a dentist’s pliers.
A knot formed in Blair’s stomach and started to burn. He turned in Yassin’s direction. “What are you doing?” he asked.
There was no reply.
“Khalid,” he pleaded.
“You need to be taught a lesson.”
“She’s only a child,” Blair said, feeling faint.
The picture on the monitor changed. It flipped from Sandra’s face to her hand. It was now being held by one of the men in what seemed a viselike grip.
“Three weeks before Cyber-tech is to be released to the public,” Yassin said in a blasé tone of voice, “you will be driven to your distribution center. There you will give the okay to ship the product to the retailers’ various warehouses across America. If you do not follow our instructions, your daughter will be made to suffer.” He paused. “Let me show you what I mean.”
Blair’s heart fluttered. “No, John,” he began to say, then quickly caught himself: “I’m sorry. I mean Khalid. Mr. Khalid Yassin. Please. Whatever it is you want me to do, I will do. I understand you perfectly well now. Only don’t hurt my daughter. She means you no harm. Please…”
An unknown force drew Blair’s attention to the computer monitor. The more he watched, the more his eyes felt physically assaulted.
The pliers were not pliers at all, at least not in the conventional sense. The tip of the bottom arm was ultra narrow. It was flattened and seemed as sharp as a razor. The man inserted this part beneath the nail on Sandra’s pinky finger of her left hand.
Blair was surprised that it fit, her nail being so tiny.
The upper arm of the pliers had a serrated edge. The man brought it down until it closed on the nail. And he gave the instrument a vicious pull.
Blair’s mouth flew open in shock. He saw the nail being yanked free, then blood squirting, Sandra’s blood, as her holler filled the room.
The bile rose in Blair’s throat and he knew it wouldn’t stop there.
“This is the least painful part,” Yassin said as if he were describing an everyday occurrence. “If you disobey
us, if you become incapacitated before the ship date, if you cause any delay in our plans whatsoever, your daughter will be torn apart, limb by limb, leaving nothing left for you to bury. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Dizzy, the bile not only rose to Blair’s mouth, it came spewing out.
PART TWO
JUNE • AUGUST
CHAPTER 55
When Sandra was born, Blair was out of town visiting Walmart. He never would have made the trip had his wife not assured him that the baby wasn’t due for another week at the earliest.
By the time he arrived at the hospital in Queens, Sandra was a day and a half old. He hurried to the obstetrics ward on the sixth floor. He gave his name to the nurse and explained who he was there to see.
The woman was Puerto Rican, in her late thirties, attractive in an understated way. But slow to smile. Her finger traced names along a foolscap sheet of paper. Then she apologized and asked him to wait a moment.
Blair didn’t think anything of it. The nurse was most likely following protocol. He took a seat.
The wait turned into twenty minutes.
“Mr. Mulligan?”
He jumped at the sound of his name. He came face to face with a young doctor—of average height and weight, brown eyes and a scraggly beard. The man smelled like he hadn’t showered or bathed in at least a month.
“Yes?” Blair said.
“I’m Dr. Morgan. Your wife is asleep. I’ll take you in to see your daughter. Would you follow me, please?”
Typical of hospitals, they traveled in a semi-maze. Three-quarters of the way along the corridor the doctor said, “I want you to know, there’s been a slight complication.”
Blair steadied himself. “I beg your pardon?”
“There’s nothing to be alarmed about. Your child is doing as well as can be expected. Before I take you into the ICU, you should know that it will appear worse than it actually is. MAS is rather common these days.”
“MAS?”
“Meconium Aspiration Syndrome.”