by Mike Brogan
Bruckner hit Play and Donovan watched the stunning, seventy-two foot white yacht ease into the Hudson River and cruise south . . . toward the forty-one million square miles of the Atlantic Ocean.
* * *
Nell cringed when a key clicked in the bedroom door. She watched the door open and Musa’s huge shadow blacken the wall.
He walked toward her, all six feet four inches. He stared down at Nell and Lindee, sitting beside each other on the bed. He moved closer and checked that her hands were still bound.
He held the purple velvet bag with a gold drawstring. The bag bulged with what she assumed were the tools of his trade - torture.
Her heart pounded.
He sat in a chair beside Nell and smiled like a friendly neighbor stopping by for a chat.
“Hasham is too patient with you.”
She said nothing.
“I’m much less patient.”
“You speak very good English,” Nell said, trying to flatter him, get him talking, buy time, maybe get lucky and find a way to talk him out of what was planning to do. It worked with Aarif. “Where did you learn English?”
“University of Guantanamo,” he said proudly.
“You’re really fluent.”
“Yeah. I persuaded the military shrinks I was innocent. The fools released me. Now, I’m back helping Allah.”
Does Allah’s work include killing thousands of innocent people? she wanted to ask.
“Hasham wants to know what else you told the FBI and CIA. What else you saw in the laboratory.”
She said nothing.
“He says you saw some file folders that contained information on plans for new chemical and biological weapons he’s been working on. You saw them, didn’t you?”
“I saw some folders on his desk. But they were closed. And Hasham had me too busy working to open them.”
“Hasham says you looked in his orange folder on a lab table. He wants to know what you read in the orange folder.”
“Orange? I didn’t see any orange folder,” she lied, remembering she’d glimpsed in it and saw it hinted at an attack on Washington DC.
Musa stared hard at her. “He says you couldn’t miss it. He left you alone with the orange file once for a few minutes.”
She shrugged. “I only noticed some beige files and two blue files on the wall shelf.”
He shook his head, clearly not believing her and losing patience with her answers.
Slowly, he reached into the velvet bag, removed a pair of shiny long-stem gold pliers. He gazed at them dreamy-eyed, obviously remembering all the pleasure they’d given him.
He showed them to her. “Beautiful, aren’t they. Custom- made. Solid 18-carat gold. Mother-of-pearl handles. A gift from Hasham.”
She said nothing.
Holding the pliers, he walked toward her and stared down at her bound hands.
“You have beautiful hands.” His eyes moistened.
She inched her hands back.
“My mother had beautiful hands . . . until your drone blew one off. She was just shopping for rice.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Not as sorry as she was.”
He looked at her hands again. “Maybe we should sacrifice one of your hands. You know, a hand for a hand. I could use my gold scimitar upstairs. The sharpest Arabian saber I’ve ever used. Cuts flesh like warm butter. And don’t worry about the bleeding – I’ve cauterized hundreds of wounds.”
She fought back a wave of nausea. Do not vomit. Distract him, keep him talking ...
“How long were you in Guantanamo?”
“Long enough to learn America’s goal.”
“What’s that?”
“To destroy Islam.”
“But that’s not true.”
“It is true!”
“Then why are so many mosques thriving in America? And why are Muslims elected to the US congress? And why do we allow vetted peaceful Muslims to immigrate to America?”
He shrugged the facts off like fake news.
“What else did you tell the FBI and CIA?”
“Nothing else. That’s all I saw.” Her heart pounded.
“I don’t believe you. Tell me now and you won’t feel pain.”
“Really. That’s all I saw – ”
He grabbed her left hand, and before she could react he clamped the pliers onto the nail of her index finger.
“Last chance!”
He smiled.
“Really - I saw noth – ”
He yanked the nail halfway off her flesh. Pain shot up her arm like a bolt of electricity.
She screamed. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Every nerve in her body seemed to cry out. Beside her, Lindee wept.
Musa smiled at the nail. “Tell me!”
She couldn’t speak, tried to catch her breath.
“But I saw noth – ”
- he ripped the fingernail completely off!
The pain felt like a hammer blow! Like no pain she’d ever felt. She gripped her throbbing finger, buckled forward, pain radiating through her body.
Lindee tried to embrace her, but Musa pushed Lindee back down on the bed.
“Here’s the good news,” Musa said. “Your nails will grow back. They grow even after you’re dead. Did you know that? And don’t worry. The bleeding is minimal. Stops in ten minutes. Unless you’re a bleeder.”
She said nothing.
“One nail down! Nine to go. Are we having fun yet?”
Nell fought to keep from passing out. She had to stay awake. She had to stop him . . . but how?
“Okay . . . okay . . .” she said.
”Okay what?”
“I’ll talk.”
His eyes dimmed in disappointment.
“I’ll tell Hasham everything else I told the FBI. But stop! My hand is hurting so much I can’t even think straight!”
“No! Talk! Tell me now!”
“I can’t. There’s far too much technical information. I need lots of paper and a pen to write down some complex chemical formulas. Believe me, Hasham will want to know. Especially the research specifications I saw. You can’t possibly remember them all. Hasham will want me to be very specific and absolutely accurate about what I saw.”
He stared at her, trying to decide.
“I’ll go get some paper and be right back. But if your memory fails again, we’ll try another finger or two or three. And I just remembered – your sister has ten fingernails, too.”
He left and locked the door.
Nell fell back on the bed, holding her throbbing, bleeding finger.
I’m going to die on this yacht.
SEVENTY TWO
Minutes later, Musa walked back into the cabin and Nell’s muscles tightened.
He checked the ropes binding her hands and smiled at the washcloth soaked red with her finger blood. The bleeding finally stopped but the throbbing pounded on.
He walked toward her, looking eager.
She didn’t see the paper and pen she asked for – and panicked. Hasham gave him the green light to rip off more fingernails!
Her heart pounded.
“Where’s the paper and pen?”
He reached in his pocket and took out a small tape recorder and turned it on. “Hasham says you must tell him everything you saw in his laboratory. Writing takes too long. You will say everything into this recorder. You will give exact formulas. You will list files you saw and looked into. You will give details. You will tell the whole truth. If you lie, he will know.”
Nell melted with relief that she might keep her remaining fingernails.
She took the recorder, closed her eyes and began listing certain files and research folders she’d seen in the lab. She mentioned the obvious folders Hasham had left on lab counters, and a couple of concealed files in drawers so he’d believe she’d been snooping around and was now telling the truth. But she didn’t mention certain chemical and biological weapon documents he’d hidden beneath magazines in a drawer. Nor
did she mention she’d briefly peeked into his orange file.
When she paused, Musa pointed at the recorder. “Hasham wants to know what equipment you told the FBI about?”
“I told them about all the sophisticated lab equipment. The hermetically-sealed containers, the centrifuges and bio-level 4 chamber and biocontainment materials. I told them about the vacuum ovens, the three spectrophotometers, beakers, pipettes, round bottom flasks, sterilizers, and the expensive Meiji-5000 microscopes. Everything set up for chemical and even biological agents!”
He nodded.
She took a breath.
“What else?”
She closed her eyes as though thinking. “That’s all I saw.”
He stared back. “I still don’t believe you.”
She knew Musa wanted a reason to torture her.
She said nothing.
“You forgot something.”
“What?”
“The orange file on his desk. You told them about it, didn’t you? You told them what you read in it.”
“As I said earlier, I did not see an orange file. I saw three tan-beige files on the corner of his desk. And two blue files on a shelf. That’s all.”
He stared at her, then shook his head.
Slowly, he reached into the purple bag and pulled out his long stemmed gold pliers.
An acid taste rose in her throat . . .
“You know, I once went as high as seven nails before the guy talked.”
She said nothing.
“But you know what - fingernails take too long. And we’re in a hurry, right? So what’s faster you may ask? Permit me to show you.”
She said nothing.
Musa pulled out a vial of clear liquid he’d showed her earlier. It looked similar in color and viscosity to a chemical she’d once seen in her Aberdeen lab.
“My special sulfuric acid!” He smiled. “Very very strong. Nasty stuff. After I was released, I used it on my former Guantanamo guard, a cruel man. A few drops on his manhood and he screamed the answers I wanted. That night I rolled his head down Sherman Avenue near the base. You know what they say?”
“What?”
“Nothing rolls like a head.” Musa chuckled.
He took out a Granny Smith apple and placed a single drop of acid on its green skin. The acid fizzled, puffed smoke, then began eating its way down inside the apple. He added another drop and the acid quickly sizzled and burned its way down to the core.
Musa seemed mesmerized by the acid . . . then he studied her face. “You have a very smooth complexion. Smooth as the apple skin. Perfect. Maybe too perfect. They say a scar adds character to a face. What do you think?”
She closed her eyes.
“I think your face could use some character. . .”
His phone buzzed.
He answered, listened. He hung up and stared at her, clearly frustrated by the interruption.
“Hasham is writing down some very specific and comprehensive questions he wants you to answer in detail. I’ll be back.”
He left, locked the door and headed back up on deck.
Nell exhaled slowly. Lindee put her arms around her and held her tight.
Again, Nell feared she and Lindee would not leave this yacht alive.
Unless they did something . . .
SEVENTY THREE
Donovan tightened his seat belt in the FBI Bell UH-1H helicopter as he, Manning, and the FBI Hostage-Rescue Team raced down the Hudson River toward the bay and the Atlantic Ocean.
Donovan couldn’t shake his guilt for not preventing the abduction of Nell and Lindee. Even though the FBI had tactical responsibility for their custody, he had overall responsibility from the President, whose cousins, Nell and Lindee, had just been abducted from Lindee’s apartment - on my watch!
Agent Manning insisted he’d take the bullet for their abduction, even though he’d followed all requirements and all FBI/Homeland protective-custody rules.
“We should have moved them to the safe house sooner,” Manning said.
Donovan nodded. They’d underestimated Hasham’s uncanny ability to block their efforts and threaten family members to get what he wanted.
“By now, he’s torturing Nell to reveal what she told the FBI,” Donovan said.
Manning nodded. “But if Hasham believes the FBI has extracted data from his flash drives, he might be forced to change or cancel certain plans. A good thing.”
Donovan agreed. He looked out the chopper window at a row of yachts hugging the coast.
“And,” Manning said, “if the flash drives reveal jihadist locations, many will be running for their lives.”
“Nice thought,” Donovan said, “But I’m worried we might force him to do something even worse.”
“What?”
“Unleash future attacks sooner!”
“Like now?”
Donovan nodded.
Manning blinked. “Let’s hope he’s too damn busy escaping. The Leyla’s photo is now with the Coast Guard, New Jersey Police, NYC Harbor Police, Yonkers Marine boats, and US Navy. Everybody’s looking for it.”
“But nobody’s finding it,” Donovan said. “The Leyla’s two-hour head start gave him time to hide the yacht.”
“But he may not realize we know about the yacht.”
“He’ll know any second. He’ll have sophisticated police listening equipment. He’ll hear Coast Guard bulletins, police radios.”
Manning nodded.
“He could have headed out to some island,” Donovan said. “Or hid the Leyla in a covered boathouse and escaped by car.”
Manning stared east into the ocean. “Or raced out beyond the US territorial waters, beyond American jurisdiction.”
“We’ll pursue the bastard beyond all jurisdictions! He’s involved in an active terrorist act.”
Donovan stared down at some small yachts near the shore, then turned to the FBI tech seated behind him. “Any kind of signal from the Leyla yet?”
The tech shook his head. “They incapacitated GPS and their AIS, Automatic Identification System. Even their SeaKey.”
“What’s SeaKey?” Donovan said.
“Like GM’s OnStar. It tracks the yacht’s position. The Leyla came equipped with SeaKey. But Hasham has obviously disabled it. In fact, it looks like he’s disabled or deactivated all electronics on board: sonar, depth sounders, all radar and trackable systems. Even their ship-to-shore and marine radio.”
“So the Leyla’s cruising dark,” Donovan said.
“Like a ghost! We’ve got nothing to track unless he uses a phone.”
“Then he’ll have to stay within about five miles of a cell tower on shore,” Manning said.
“Maybe not,” Donovan said.
“Why not?”
“The Leyla might have one of those built-in mini phone towers. The mini tower links up with a shore tower. He can call from farther out at sea. If he has a mini tower and makes a call we can pinpoint the Leyla’s location.”
Manning asked an agent, “See if the Leyla came with a mini cell-phone tower. Or was retrofitted with one.”
“Also,” Donovan said, “check if the Leyla has a satellite phone. With that he could call from anywhere in the ocean.”
He grew more frustrated as he looked out the window and saw Sandy Hook Bay below. Large, white yachts lined the docks. Many looked like Hatterases, Sunseekers and large Dutch-built yachts, but smaller than seventy feet.
“The Police and Coast Guard should be able to find a seventy-foot yacht named Leyla,” Manning said.
“Maybe not.”
“What. . . ?”
“The Leyla may not be the Leyla.”
Manning stared at him.
“Hasham’s name game. His magnetic stick-on names. He changed his trucks from Zelda’s Fresh Garden Flowers to Ask
Mommy for ChocoYummy to J. Smith’s Medical Supplies. Why not change the Leyla to something like – The Proud American.”
Manning nodded. “The bastard can’t
change length. We’ll check all yachts over seventy feet.”
Donovan’s phone buzzed with a text.
He slumped in this chair as he read the latest IRS check death total . . .
Deceased: 396
Critical: 319
The attack grew worse by the minute.
But by now, Donovan hoped the half million people sent the deadly IRS checks had seen, heard, or read the media warnings. If so, the death rate should soon start slowing down.
But when would it stop? After a thousand people died? After two thousand deaths? Five thousand?
My most important assignment ever, Donovan thought. My worst failure ever. The worst attack on American soil since 9/11. . . and the attack is still going on.
Hasham was winning big - escaping to kill another day. The man had all the advantages.
And Donovan saw another one – angry black storm clouds rushing in from the southeast – the kind that could ground their chopper and the others.
SEVENTY FOUR
Nell looked out the window and saw the Leyla had cruised farther away from the US coast . . . deeper into the Atlantic . . . heading to our final resting place . . . unless we do something.
She sat back on the bed, then looked down at her bloody, throbbing finger. Her entire hand felt numb and she worried about infection. An absurd worry, since she was probably within hours of her death.
“Lindee . . .?”
“Yeah. . .”
“We have to stop Musa!”
“I know!” Lindee stood up and paced along the desk.
“But how?” Nell said.
“By first untying your ropes.”
“With what?”
“These,” Lindee bared her teeth.
She bent down, and began gnawing into the knot on Nell’s ropes. After much biting and tugging, she loosened the knot a bit. She dug her fingers into the knot and unraveled it all the way.
Nell pulled her hands free, rubbed her wrists and felt warm blood flow into her hands. She then worked on Lindee’s ropes using her teeth and good hand. Soon she loosened and pulled off Lindee’s ropes.
“We need a weapon,” Nell said.
They looked around the master bedroom, paneled with beautiful rose and cherry wood furniture, but saw nothing they could use. Everything was too big: chairs, bedside table, a small desk.
