The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  He chased the memory away and glanced around his present-day environment. Although prepared for whatever lay ahead today, Gerard prayed the need didn’t come to pass. I’ll take the shot on Abrini if I must, even with what little I know, and there will be consequences for it. If I only had some objective confirmation of what Abrini is doing inside the apartment, I could again take lifesaving action. He inhaled a deep breath. I must choose between facing a trial in the Assize Courts before nine citizens and three judges or watching the hundreds of funerals my inaction will bring. That's no choice for any man to make.

  Gerard watched the bus stop until 7:45, when he had to move on to the next location. He drove away more confused by the errand but terrified of missing something developed from data the bombers themselves had unknowingly provided.

  May 11, 07:37am

  8 Rue de Corbillon. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.

  Beneath Michael, the white tar roof of Abrini’s building quickly warmed in the morning sun. He laid within six feet of the northern ledge and above Abrini’s windows and balcony. Although he’d covered himself and his gear with a white mesh cloth, Michael moved as slow and seldom as he could tolerate to avoid attention from the neighboring buildings. Only two are tall enough to see me, but I can’t afford to get sloppy now.

  A quick check of the Wi-Fi camera feed confirmed the battery in one had died and other had only minutes to live. Michael’s only view into Abrini’s apartment came from the eastern camera that showed part of the living area, the kitchen, and the back of the front door. Right where Abrini slept last night. The target was off camera at the moment. As the device’s low battery warning flashed in his screen’s upper right corner, Michael prayed it would last long enough.

  Abrini, naked and with a bath towel in hand, walked into view from the east, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. I have to go now!

  Michael replaced the work phone in his internal jacket pocket, slid his arms back through his backpack straps, and hurried to the edge of the roof. Just as before, he swung his legs out, lowered himself until he just touched the balcony’s railing, and used a barely controlled fall to descend the last four feet. Michael landed with a familiar, soft thud and hustled to open the window and sneak inside before Abrini or anyone in the lower apartments came out to investigate.

  The bathroom door suddenly opened and Abrini, still naked, stepped out. With nowhere to hide, Michael simply froze. His target took three steps out into the living area before looking up. Abrini’s eyes widened in surprise, and both men stared at each other for the full second their respective minds required to identify, decide, and react to the threat before them.

  Abrini lunged back toward the kitchen as Michael shoved the vertical windowpane up. It opened only six inches and firmly jammed in the frame. He was stuck outside with no escape, and the sounds of urgent, desperate fumbling came from the kitchen. Michael threw back his outer clothing as Abrini reappeared with an AK-style rifle in his hands. He brought it up to his shoulder and Michael knelt before the window frame and drew his concealed tranquilizer gun from its holster at this right hip.

  Time slowed as Michael's brain analyzed the situation in detail only capable when it perceived imminent death. Abrini raised the rifle and Michael struggled to get his inferior darts deployed in time. The AK’s barrel leveled at Michael’s head from a distance of no more than eight feet. He can’t miss from there!

  click

  Michael recognized the rifle’s misfire and immediately shot all three tranquilizer darts into Abrini.

  thuhthuhthuh

  The darts struck his target’s center-mass, near the man’s lower ribcage and diaphragm. Abrini staggered back a step, likely from the realization he’d been hit, and fear overcame him. While the anesthetic darts dangled from his midsection, he lowered the rifle and frantically worked the bolt carrier to make the gun function. A single round of ammunition ejected from the chamber and tinked onto the floor as Abrini’s movements grew lethargic. Abrini dropped to one knee but continued to try making the gun work.

  Michael had no chance to get inside the window, so he huddled beneath the frame and struggled to retrieve the extra darts from his backpack while begging for divine intervention.

  click

  A second, much louder misfire.

  thuTHUD

  Michael glanced over the bottom of the window frame. Abrini and the rifle were both down on the floor. He leapt up, shimmied the jammed window side-to-side until it opened farther, and urgently scampered inside. Bear crawling on all fours, Michael hurried over, took control of the rifle, stood up, and stepped back from the sedated man. He kept the dysfunctional weapon pointed at the outer block walls in case it went off. I’ve never had to dart anyone three times, but he should start waking up in about thirty minutes, probably coherent in an hour or so. Gotta keep an eye on his pulse and breathing while I get him restrained.

  thump thump thump

  “Hady! 'atfali nayimun!”

  Michael didn't understand the man’s words shouted up through the floor, but the intent was obvious. He imagined the father standing below him in their kitchen with a broom in his hands and a scowl on his face. Hopefully, the renewed silence is enough to appease him.

  After setting the rifle across the small stovetop and reloading his tranquilizer gun, Michael took several minutes to assess his most immediate priorities and allowed himself repeated deep breathing cycles. The neighbors aren’t storming up to protest or save Abrini, so I can go hunt the irrefutable evidence I need. Abrini has no reason to tie me to the Church, so, if I don’t find what I need to move forward with a clear conscience, I could just open the front door, walk out, and leave everything in Gerard’s hands.

  Michael checked his watch and pulled a pair of medical exam gloves from his pants pocket. Only then did he realize the bedroom door was closed. First things first. Time to tie up the naked guy.

  May 11, 08:34am

  8 Rue de Corbillon #415. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.

  After securing Abrini in the custom nylon restraints constructed for Michael and his fellow Absolvers, he’d drawn the apartment’s curtains closed and conducted a slow, methodical search. Since getting the Reachback return that alleged Abrini had an unknown quantity of the explosive compound triacetone-triperoxide in his apartment, Michael had studied the explosive enough to reduce the probability of initiating an accidental detonation.

  A quick, periodic check of Abrini’s pulse and breathing again confirmed he remained among the living. Michael has first swept the kitchen and living room with the chemical sniffer, which again directly reported the compound’s presence this time. That’s both unsettling and reassuring that the device didn’t need secondary confirmation from Reachback. The TATP must be much more prevalent inside the apartment than it was at the window two days ago.

  With Abrini and his rifle now incapable of causing harm, Michael devoted his attention to the contents inside the dwelling. Starting in the kitchen, his second sweep was a hand search. He donned medical exam gloves and worked to uncover the source of a light, fruit smell that permeated the space. Despite my need for irrefutable proof, I’d still rather find overripe plums than a highly volatile explosive.

  The nature of TATP demanded that Michael proceed cautiously and inspect everything by sight before touching or moving it. He reminded himself of what he’d read about the chemical and his need to stay focused and deliberate. A white crystalline powder that usually smells like bleach when mixed, or fruit when it’s nearly pure. Heat, friction, U-V rays, static electricity, or shock all act as a trigger, so yanking open a drawer can detonate any powder caught in the cabinet frame. Slow and steady survives the race today.

  Michael took thirty minutes to examine the living room and kitchen. Moving clockwise inside the small home, he discovered a pistol in a drawer in the writing desk but found nothing else incriminating. Michael stood in front of the closed bedroom door and debated how to proceed. He looked back at Abrini.
Still out. I can either wait until he revives, or risk the door being rigged. That could be why he slept on the kitchen floor last night. He steeled himself to continue. No logical reason for him to boobytrap the door while he’s still living here. He did just walk out of the bedroom right before he tried to murder me.

  Michael inhaled a deep breath, slowly turned the knob with his gloved hand, and waited. Nothing. He moved outside the door frame, next to the handle, and apprehensively pushed it open several inches. Even from his limited view into the darkened room, a dozen dark brown gallon-size glass jugs sat on the floor next to a raised twin mattress. A blue and green quilt neatly covered the bed and fell just above the floor. The jugs’ labels had been roughly torn off, and he couldn’t read any compound names from the doorway or determine how full the jugs remained. Michael expected that had been Abrini’s intent.

  As he pushed the door open a little farther and stepped into the doorframe, light from the living room spread further into the bedroom and revealed an elaborate chemistry set along the room’s north wall, right in front of the doorway. As the much-feared fruit smell strengthened, every ounce of Michael’s apprehension returned.

  “What the hell...”

  Michael understood Abrini had used the room’s long dresser as a laboratory workspace. Light green rubber hoses connected three Bunsen burners to camp stove propane tanks. Tall metal stands elevated several different beakers and a round-bottom flask over the burners. Even though he saw and heard no flames or the hiss of escaping gas, Michael inhaled a deep breath through his nose to deliberately search the air for the rotten egg olfactant routinely mixed with naturally odorless propane. Nothing but fruit. A two-liter graduated cylinder sat at the far end of the dresser and white powder filled in its bottom third. If that’s the finished product, that’s enough TATP to blow this whole floor apart. The box of assorted lab equipment he’d previously seen in the kitchen now sat in the back left corner of the bedroom next to the dresser.

  Michael remembered enough from his hazardous materials classes with the Silver City Police Department to fear proceeding farther into the room. The biggest lesson I learned was that my body has natural defense mechanisms to fight radiation exposure, but no such protection against chemical hazards and explosives. One bad whiff, or drop, or granule, and I could end up D-R-T.

  Without knowing what specific dangers he faced, Michael couldn’t know if he stood a greater risk in closing the door back and allowing fumes to build inside the room, or leaving it open to risk inhaling greater amounts of whatever remained inside the large beakers and graduated cylinders. That’s definitely the fruit-smell source, and probably the TATP, so I can mitigate that somewhat, but I have no idea what else is in there.

  Although Michael would have preferred to find an assembled and intact IED before proceeding with Abrini’s final absolution, he feared intruding into the bedroom put everyone else in the building at risk. I’ll have to go forward with ‘good enough.’ This is well more than what I’d need to convict the guy in a reasonable court of law, especially when you combine it with what we know of his isolation, the pseudonym, the shipments, and his online and communications behavior. All these straws of information and fact, when taken and considered together, form something far more substantial than their mere sum.

  Placing his faith in Abrini’s assumed desire to live through most of the day, Michael carefully closed the door and hoped his target had reasonably done so from greater information than Michael had at the moment. Even though the French police, hazmat, and bomb crews needed to control the apartment building as soon as possible, Michael had to delay his call to Gerard until Abrini chose his eternity. I don’t know French rules of evidence, so if I called the cops in now, Abrini might walk away from the court process and repeat his efforts somewhere else with better op-sec and a different result. At least I got to him before he assembled or dispersed any devices.

  Michael rechecked his watch and stepped over to evaluate Abrini’s vitals. The man’s pulse and breathing continued to improve on their own. Once he wakes up and decides on his forever, I can make a better-informed decision. If he refuses to play along, I’ll walk away in about an hour and transfer the responsibility of this shit storm to the French police.

  May 11, 09:16am

  Rue Albert Walter. Villataneuse, France.

  Gerard sat in his unmarked police sedan and impatiently watched a soccer field in a suburb east of the Université Paris. He compared the few men gathered there against the photos of his current suspects, but none of them matched. Only one player on the field even appeared to be Middle Eastern.

  Even though Andrew had told him the soccer players he hoped to find were probably cooperating with Abrini, he’d never explained the raw data that supported that conclusion. He’d only offered that the conclusion came from analyzing the triggerfish data. Gerard disliked that nothing he knew or suspected could be used as evidence in the French courts, but it did put him in a position to gather evidence he could use. I don’t even have an accusation, really. I’ve got an unknown form of digital voodoo and nothing more.

  The alleged conspirators and potential bombers played on a soccer team together, and Gerard expected that allowed them a benign reason to meet others and be seen together. Abrini probably hopes their acquaintance with one another will propel them to success and follow-through. An isolated mind has too much time and space to wander. Teammates, however, can convince you to move forward, even against your own reason and doubt.

  Gerard scanned his surroundings for several minutes, but no one else approached the fields. He rechecked his watch and found he would soon have to move to the next potential meet-up.

  Andrew’s intel seemed accurate up to this point, so Gerard felt compelled to investigate the leads his impromptu partner’s analysts had generated. However, in a few short minutes, this location would become the third miss of the morning. Andrew never explained why his analysts couldn’t better define the group’s intended meet-up location and time. Now that I think about it, I’m the one who offered the possible explanation for the uncertainty. Andrew had only agreed with me. Dammit!

  Gerard hammer-fisted the top of the steering wheel and swore at himself. What the fuck does this mean? Am I chasing bad intel and shitty analysis, or did that asshole send me off on a make-believe assignment? He hated having been so desperate for help and vindication that he hadn’t seriously doubted the plan until this moment. Something’s wrong. I fear I’m out of time to identify the cause, and terrified that I might have allowed myself to become a useful idiot to fulfill another man’s ulterior motive.

  He retrieved his cell from the center console, logged into the camera feeds, and urgently scanned the two most relevant views. Nothing yet. Abrini hasn’t left the apartment and he damned sure didn’t leap out the window. I have to go back and get to the bottom of this! Gerard started the sedan, slammed it into drive, and hurried toward the now-distant parking garage.

  May 11, 09:21am

  8 Rue de Corbillon #415. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.

  Dressed in a black cassock and stark white collarino he’d brought along in his backpack, Michael sat at Abrini’s writing desk and watched his laptop force-copy the bomber’s computer and external hard drive. He looked the part of a typical parish priest and hoped his subject recognized the authority God had instilled in him to aid the man’s transition.

  For the moment, Michael focused on collecting electronic evidence while he awaited Abrini’s revival. There's gotta be something in here John’s analysts can use to identify and track his conspirators. Even if Abrini defies my expectations, humbles himself before God, and submits to my Catholic dogma, I’d wager there’s still no chance he gives up anyone else involved. Whoever he knows on the soccer team are still ghosts, and we need to find them, even if we use the French police to do so.

  “Hhhmmff...”

  Michael looked at the kitchen floor to his left where Abrini lightly shifted his limbs against the nylon restraint
s. A glance at his watch confirmed the third dart had been more effective than Michael expected. Just glad his vitals stayed up on their own. I’d prefer to avoid tranq’ing another man to death if I can avoid it.

  He rose from the chair, strode quietly into the kitchen, and stood over Abrini, who laid nearly flat on his back in a modified, crab-like position. His eyes remained closed, but the man steadily emerged from sedation. Michael knelt next to him and rechecked the restraints; they had to be tight enough to hold him in a weak position, but loose enough to not restrict circulation or leave bruises that might compel a coroner to label his death as suspicious or, worse, homicide.

  Modeled after those used in hospitals and emergency rooms, the restraints confined Abrini by limiting his movement and denying him use of his strongest muscle groups. His arms were bent with his elbows above his head and his hands behind his neck. His legs, also bent, placed his knees above his hips, which were rotated out so that each foot was nearly sideways in front of his groin. Two straps secured Abrini’s appendages, crossed his torso behind his back, and tied together there. The strap that secured his right elbow and wrist passed behind his back, over his left outer ribcage, and ended at his right ankle and knee. The other limited use of his left limbs and passed over the man’s right outer ribcage.