by Mike Brogan
“I think I only held the corners of the check.”
“Where are the check and letter?”
She pointed.
Wearing latex gloves, Ethan placed the check, letter and envelope in a large zip-lock bag.
“Emma, . . . you look terr – ”
“ - terrible, I know.”
“I was going to say terrific.”
“Oh . . . ” She felt herself blush. She couldn’t remember the last time a guy said she looked terrific.
They smiled at each other. Ethan Miller – the good guy that moved away.
“I’ve been thinking maybe I should call you,” Ethan said.
“Why?”
“That Sadie Hawkins Dance at the VFW hall. Wondered if maybe you’d like to go . . . kinda make up for that prom we missed?”
“I’d love to. Maybe get those gossipy tongues wagging.”
SIXTY NINE
Hasham Habib strolled along the bridge of his 72-foot Hatteras, the Leyla, gazing at the ocean, hypnotized by the gentle, rolling waves. The only waves he’d seen as a child in Iraq were heat waves shimmering above the searing sands near Kirkuk.
He’d long dreamed of cruising through oceans of blue water, and now he was, thanks to Bassam Mahdi’s oceans of money.
My beautiful Leyla, he thought, admiring the yacht’s sleek lines and rich appointments. An appropriate remembrance for my wife’s ultimate sacrifice. And the perfect getaway for evading my pursuers. How many jihadists escape in a million–dollar yacht?
“Let’s question the woman,” Hasham said to Musa Igbal, two hundred thirty pounds of steroid-pumped muscle, walking beside him.
“I would like that very much.”
Hasham met Musa years ago at an al Qaeda training camp where the big man jogged wearing a fifty-pound knapsack. His pulse rate never rose above sixty-eight. What he lacked in formal education he made up for with brute strength, street smarts, and his very special gift: eliciting information from uncommunicative people. He called his gift “enlightened persuasion.” Everyone else called it torture. For men, Musa preferred carving M U S A on their genitals. He bragged he’d never made it past U.
An equal-opportunity torturer of men, women, and sometimes children, Musa’s instruments included fingernail pliers, electric drills, hammers, breast hooks, and the occasional drops of sulfuric acid. “Slow pain gets fast answers,” he often said.
Hasham smiled as he remembered how the US Army idiots released Musa from Guantanamo, thinking he’d lead them to bigger al Qaeda fish. Instead, Musa led the two CIA agents tracking him to their beheading in a Yemeni souk. Three weeks later, he was back in Dallas sipping Starbucks coffee with Hasham and doing Allah’s work.
America the Stupid.
He and Musa walked down below decks where they’d locked up Dr. Northam and her sister in a cabin.
“Do you have your tools?” Hasham asked.
“Never leave home without them.” Musa’s held up a purple velvet bag, bulging with sharp angles.
Musa slid the key in the cabin door.
***
Nell watched the door handle turn. Her muscles froze as Hasham and Musa walked into the bedroom and stared at her and Lindee sitting on the bed. Hasham’s eyes burned with revenge, Musa’s glowed with eagerness.
Hasham walked up to Nell. She leaned back, fearing he’d slap her again. Her jaw still ached from his earlier blow.
“Your people opened one of my flash drives twenty-three minutes ago!” Hasham said.
So opening it triggered an alert, she realized, but said, “The police must have found the flash drive in the cabin rubble.”
“Impossible. Everything in the cabin was totally destroyed by the fire and explosion.”
She said nothing.
Hasham stared out the porthole window. Over his shoulder, Nell saw the coast maybe two miles away. They were cruising south. Did the authorities have any idea where they were? Probably not. Did the authorities have any idea they were on a yacht? Probably not. Did the authorities have any chance of finding their bodies if they were dumped overboard? Probably not.
“What else did you tell the FBI and CIA?”
“I told them what we worked on in your lab.”
“The VX.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them about my unique delivery system?”
“How could I? You never told me what it was.”
“But you told them all about the bottling plant. And ChocoYummy?”
“Yes. We thought ChocoYummy was your unique VX delivery system.”
“Why?”
“Because it was so different. Like you said.”
He puffed with pride, then stared at her as though waiting for her to finish. “And then . . . ?”
“And then they discovered only some bottles contained VX.”
“Correct.”
“But enough bottles to kill many innocent children,” she said with raw anger. “Innocent, helpless children - !”
“- mere casualties of war,” he said with the emotion of a coma patient.
She said nothing.
“Then what?” he asked.
“Then they wasted a lot of time pursuing the ChocoYummy bottles in stores.”
A bent smile. “Exactly as planned.”
“But they soon realized many bottles did not contain VX.”
“Correct.”
She said nothing.
“And then you finally told them about the printers, correct?”
“I told them I saw some printers.”
“You told them about the IRS checks.”
“No. I never saw any IRS checks. I never saw what your printers printed.”
“So how’d they learn about the checks?”
“FBI technicians puzzled together tiny scraps of the checks. Tests confirmed the checks contained VX.”
Hasham paused, then nodded. “My compliments.”
She said nothing.
“And did they discover my secret substance that we blended with the VX?”
She nodded. “DMSO.”
“Good work. And do you know why I blended DMSO with VX?”
“Faster VX absorption into skin. Faster death.”
“My compliments again.” He looked out the window, then ran his finger along the shiny brass porthole sill as though checking for dust.
“You told them about many other things you saw in my laboratory. Like my file folders.”
She thought yes, but said “No.”
“Folders you should not have looked at, but did. They contain certain attack and weapon scenarios. And my special plan for Washington DC. You told the FBI about my DC plan, didn’t you?”
“No. I never saw it. I only saw some closed file folders. I couldn’t read them because you were always with me.”
“Not always . . .”
“And I was always so busy blending, trying to measure up to your extremely challenging specifications. They required my total concentration, as you well know. I was very focused! I worked to meet your demanding deadline! I had no time to read files.”
“Good Christians do not lie.”
She couldn’t hold back. “And good Muslims do not murder thousands of innocent men, women, and children just because they’re Americans!”
His face turned beet-red and he stepped toward her as though he would hit her again.
She stepped back and he stopped.
“As I told you - all Americans are guilty by association.”
She said nothing.
He turned and faced the ocean. “You will tell us everything you saw in the lab and in the cabin . . . everything you told the authorities in detail. It’s very important that you remember everything you told them. Musa is going to help you remember.”
“I’ve already told you everything.”
“What do you think, Musa?”
“She lies . . .” Musa’s grin revealed gobs of green khat stuck on his yellow-brown teeth. He, like Aarif, probably used
the amphetamine-like substance to stimulate him for what he was about to do to her.
Hasham dabbed his nostril with a clean white handkerchief.
“In Guantanamo, Musa laughed at what the Americans called torture. He called it pat-a-cake pat-a-cake. Love taps. So he developed his own special interrogation technique. Show them.”
Musa held up the vial of liquid.
Nell leaned away from it.
“Know what this is?” Musa asked her.
She studied the liquid, suspecting it might be sodium pentothal, truth serum. But it looked too viscous for that.
“Sulfuric acid,” Hasham explained. “Very nasty stuff.”
She knew how nasty.
Musa smiled. “Eats skin faster than flesh-eating bacteria. I once poured some in a guy’s ear. Guy screamed . . . begged me to kill him. So I pumped a nine-millimeter full metal jacket into the other ear.”
“Like a mercy killing?” Hasham said with a smile.
“Yeah . . .”
SEVENTY
Donovan’s hope sank as the deaths rose. Sitting in the CIA safe room, he tried to think of what more he could do. Only one thing made sense - more warnings. Many more. But despite the non-stop warnings on television, radio, and Internet, the latest numbers sickened him.
191 deceased
104 critical
Hasham was winning.
And incredibly, some people, despite hearing the warnings, were still trying to deposit their deadly IRS checks. Minutes ago a Brooklyn man dropped dead insisting a teller take his check. A Hoboken bank president tried “cleaning” his VX check with hand sanitizer and dropped dead a minute later.
Most bank cashiers now wore gloves and face masks. Some wore protective wraparound glasses. Many refused to touch any IRS check until Homeland Security personnel verified it was safe. Cashiers called in sick.
Shrewdly, Hasham timed his VX-IRS checks to arrive in mailboxes when many genuine IRS checks arrived. Many people were expecting their IRS refunds. And those that weren’t figured it was their lucky day. The urge to rip open the envelope and hold the IRS check in their excited fingers was overwhelming. Who can resist an unexpected windfall of thousands of dollars? And so far, all VX-IRS checks paid out thousands.
Many people refused to open their genuine, authentic IRS checks - until specialists tested them to be safe.
The door swung open and Special Agent Drew Manning hurried in.
“A young woman over in Weehawken saw two dark-skinned men in business suits with two women fitting Nell and Lindee’s description.”
“Where in Weehawken?”
“At the Lincoln Bay Yacht Club Marina.”
“A yacht marina?”
Manning nodded. “The two women and men got out of a black limo, then walked toward the yachts.”
Donovan wondered if Hasham would escape by water.
“I know . . . a yacht escape makes no sense!” Manning said.
“Maybe why Hasham would use it.”
“Anything’s possible with that bastard!”
“What exactly did the young woman see?”
“First, she saw Nell’s and Lindee’s photos and descriptions on CNN. Five minutes later she saw two women wearing the exact same clothes getting out of the limo. And she knows clothes. She works at Nordstrom.”
Donovan nodded.
“Also the two women acted strangely.”
“How?”
“Like they didn’t want to go with the men.”
Donovan grew more interested.
“One woman turned around as though searching for help, but the man kept pushing her along. The girl described Nell’s face and Lindee’s to a tee. And the small thin man matched Hasham’s description. He even dabbed his nose with a white handkerchief. Bottom line: the women’s clothes, shoes, and faces match. And Hasham matches. What are the odds?”
“Good enough to go check out now. Do we know which yacht?”
“No.” Manning said.
“So it might still be docked.”
“Yes. Especially if they don’t think we’re onto them.”
“What about the marina manager?” Donovan said.
“He saw nothing. Been working in his office.”
“Let’s get over there!” Donovan said as they hurried to the elevator, headed down, and rushed outside into brilliant sunshine.
“Forget the car,” Manning said, pointing at the sky.
Donovan looked up and saw an FBI Bell UH-1H helicopter descending into the nearby park, scattering sunbathers like autumn leaves.
Donovan and Manning boarded and soared up over Manhattan’s concrete canyons. Manning alerted the New Jersey police, NYPD Harbor Police, and Coast Guard to be prepared for a description of the yacht. He also directed an FBI Rescue Team to meet them at the marina and prepare to board a yacht.
Minutes later, they landed on a small patch of grass on Harbor Boulevard near the Lincoln Bay Yacht Club. They deplaned and hurried into the manager’s office.
Donovan saw a tanned, fiftyish man with a blond mustache look up from his desktop computer. His desk nameplate said Ned Bruckner, Dockmaster. His blue T-shirt said . . . Beeracuda.
“You guys from the chopper?”
Donovan nodded and flashed his ID.
Bruckner sat up straight. “Whatcha looking for?”
“These two women?” He showed him the photos.
Bruckner frowned at the photos. “Sorry, but like I told your fella on the phone, I haven’t seen any ladies ‘cuz I’ve been buried in here crunching budget numbers.”
“How many yachts left in the last three hours?”
“A bunch. Sun draws ‘em like flies. Let’s see. Bruckner tapped his keyboard and the screen filled with a long list. “Thirty-nine departed. Small, medium, and large.”
“Does a man named Hasham Habib have a berth here?”
Bruckner frowned like he’d never heard the name. He checked his computer, then turned back. “No Hasham Habib has a berth here at Lincoln Bay.”
Donovan’s hope sank. “A Mr. Smith?”
“Three Smiths. One’s eighty-two, retired dentist. Cruised his new Sunseeker down to South Carolina two weeks ago. The second’s a rich real estate fella. Been in the Bahamas five months. The third’s a stockbroker lady.”
“The yacht’s probably in someone else’s name,” Donovan said. “This man, Hasham, is a very dangerous terrorist. He’s abducted the two women. Killed many others.”
“Jesus!”
The dockmaster stood up, looking very worried. “Sorry, but the Rollin’ Stones been pounding in my ears as I worked. Didn’t pay much attention to anyone outside.”
“So they could have boarded and departed without you knowing?”
“That’s right.”
“How many yachts dock here?”
“Over a hundred.”
Donovan knew it would take hours to search them all. His frustration grew.
Bruckner closed his eyes a minute. “What’s this Hasham fella look like?”
“Short, thin, dark hair, dark-skinned. Sorta like a professor.”
“Does he speak like . . . a foreign language?”
“Arabic,” Donovan said, realizing he should have mentioned Arabic sooner.
Bruckner nodded. “I heard some fellas walk by my office speaking something foreign. Sounded like they were clearing their throats. Mighta been Arabic. They headed toward the last dock. I was on the phone. Didn’t see them. Minutes later, I saw that Mr. Duncan’s big Hatteras had pulled out.”
“Mr. Duncan?”
“What’s Mr. Duncan look like?”
Bruckner described Hasham Habib in perfect detail.
“Mr. Duncan told me he’s in the medical supplies business.”
Donovan thought of the new J. Smith’s Medical Supplies sticker now on Hasham’s gray trucks and looked at Manning who nodded back.
“Speaks with an English-accent. Quiet fella. Looks kinda middle-eastern I guess.”
&nbs
p; “Where’d he dock?”
“Last pier.” He pointed out the window.
“Any other yachts launch from that pier today?”
Bruckner checked his computer. “Only his.”
“What kind of yacht?”
“Huge Hatteras! She’s a beauty!”
“What’s it look like?”
Bruckner fingered through some desk drawer files, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Manning. “That’s his actual yacht! A 72-foot Hatteras! Fully loaded with extras. Cost a bloody fortune.”
Donovan and Manning studied the full-color photo of a spectacular, gleaming Hatteras yacht, plus a list of its luxurious appointments and engine specifications.
“What’s the yacht’s name?” Donovan asked.
Bruckner checked his computer. “Mr. Duncan’s yacht is called the . . . ah . . . Leyla.”
“Bingo!” Donovan said.
“What?” Manning asked.
“Hasham’s wife’s name is Leyla.”
SEVENTY ONE
Donovan heard Manning phone in a BOLO for the Leyla to the Coast Guard and NYC harbor police.
“How long ago did the Leyla depart?” Donovan asked the dockmaster.
Bruckner turned to a bank of security monitors showing multiple views of the yacht club. He tapped in commands and the screen zipped back to earlier in the day. He hit Fast Forward and yachts skated across the screen like an old-time movie.
Donovan couldn’t help but smile at some yacht names:
The Codfather . . .
Fish and Chicks . . .
Ship For Brains . . .
She Got The House . . .
“Lots of comedians!” Manning said.
“Look, there’s the Leyla!” Bruckner said.
He pointed at a very large white yacht gliding into view. He freeze-framed the video.
“The Leyla departed here two hours and eight minutes ago.” Bruckner said.
“Go back a few minutes earlier. Maybe we can confirm the women are Nell and Lindee . . . and with Hasham.”
Bruckner reversed a few minutes earlier. The video showed two men escorting the two women onto the deck of the Leyla.
“That’s Lindee and Nell,” Manning said.
“With Hasham and a big guy,” Donovan said.
On board, a small deckhand took the women below decks. Donovan scanned the Leyla and saw Hasham and the big guy standing beside the captain on the bridge. Hasham signaled the captain to depart.
