by Tim Tigner
But it was too late.
“If you give it to me, Omar won’t have to go looking for it,” Oz said, his tone brittle as lightbulb glass.
“I don’t have it.”
“If you give it to me, Omar won’t have to go looking for it,” Oz repeated.
Was there any reason not to tell him the truth? Katya wished she had time to think through that critical question, but she clearly didn’t. The fuse feeding the powder keg of his rage was already lit. “Achilles has it. I gave it to him at the store.”
“You never got within fifteen feet of him. I was there, watching most attentively.”
“Watching him, not me. I slipped it from my bra to my hand, then dropped it to the ground and stepped on it while you had him burying his gun.”
“You stepped on it?” he said, his tone rising.
“I meant no disrespect.”
Oz studied her face.
She held his eyes, which seemed to soften a smidge.
“Did Achilles see you drop it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you signal?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he got it?”
“I can’t be sure.”
“You better hope he got it. If somebody else did. If I can’t get it back … I’m going to be very upset with you.”
Katya had no doubt what that meant. Fortunately, she could answer honestly. “I think he got it. He’s a very good investigator. As you’ve seen.”
Oz pulled out his phone. He started to dial then stopped. She saw him begin working different scenarios in his mind. After a few minutes of solo back and forth, he nodded to himself. “Do you want to live?”
Katya coughed to wet her dry throat. “Yes.”
“Do you want Achilles to live?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to do exactly as I say. Exactly.”
“Okay.”
Oz told her what he wanted. Once, twice, three times. Then he put his phone on speaker and dialed.
Achilles answered after four rings. “Hello?”
“That took too long. Who are you with?” Oz asked.
“I’m in my room, eating pizza, alone. My mouth was full, that’s all.” To Katya, he sounded sincere.
“If I catch you lying, she dies.”
“I understand.”
Oz nodded to Katya. “Achilles, did you get the object I left you?”
He took a few seconds to answer. “I have the medal.”
Katya exhaled as Oz smiled. “That’s good news. Have you shown it to anybody?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? It’s important.”
“I’m locked up in a hotel room. The only person I’ve seen is the pizza delivery guy.”
“Have you discussed it with anybody?”
“Again, I’m locked up in a hotel room. The only person I’ve seen is the pizza delivery guy. The police and FBI are both after me. There’s a BOLO alert and a warrant for my arrest. I’m not talking to anyone.”
“That’s good, because Oz will trade me for it.”
“When?” Achilles asked, his voice suddenly excited.
“Tomorrow. But only if you don’t tell anybody about it. He says he’ll know if you do. He says he has friends in local law enforcement and the FBI.”
“Well then, he’s better connected than I am. Are you okay?”
Katya looked at Oz.
Oz nodded.
“I’m fine. Aside from not letting me leave, Oz and Sabrina are being very nice. It’s like when we visit Colin, a bit awkward but comfy enough. Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about anything. Don’t talk to anyone. Just wait for Oz to call and tell you the location for the exchange. That’s the best way to help me.”
“I understand. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Oz ended the call.
Katya wondered if she would ever talk to Achilles again—and immediately answered her own question. Of course she would. Tomorrow, when Oz set up the exchange they both knew would be a trap.
87
Things Unsaid
Florida
I LOOKED at the phone and smiled. Despite the extremely frustrating end to our encounter, it had still made me giddy. Katya was alive! And I was on the right track. My instincts were working. Psychologists would say this just set me up for a bigger blow if something went wrong, but that was nonsensical. Losing Katya would devastate me in any case.
But nothing would go wrong.
I would not let it!
Nor would Katya.
She had come through in a bigger way than I’d initially realized. That medal of merit clearly meant a lot to Oz. I could feel his panic over the phone. Sense his intense focus in the background. It was evident in his intonation and Katya’s prep. Surely sentimentality was involved, but I felt certain there was more to it than that. It had to be linked to his plan. Maybe simply as an identifier, maybe in some grander way. In any case, it gave me leverage.
The call hadn’t just exposed a potential vulnerability. It gave me a timeline and an avenue of attack. I had to figure out how to exploit it. And quickly. Tomorrow was only hours away.
Katya made it clear that the exchange would be a trap. I’d have assumed so in any case, but by comparing her status to visiting my brother, she’d left no doubt. Colin was dead.
I slipped out the back window of my room, which unlike the first floor wasn’t barred. I jogged to the shopping center and found a hobby shop. Florida was filled with those, given the abundance of retirees.
It took only ten minutes to top off my handbasket, thanks to the shop’s efficient organization. Pleased, but far from relieved, I hustled my purchases back to the room.
I cleared everything off the modest desk, and prepared to get to work. Time to replicate a Saudi medal.
I set aside the bag containing six cans of metallic blue spray paint and a contractor pack of masking tape. From another bag, I extracted a can of gold spray paint, jars of white and emerald gloss enamel, a small tub of liquid latex mold maker and a multipack of paintbrushes. After selecting an appropriate brush, I went to work using the heavy-duty flyer from a deep sea fishing tour operator as a mat.
With the help of the hotel’s hair dryer and a roll of gauze, it took me about an hour to create a latex mold thick enough to handle the quick-drying epoxy clay I’d bought. I carefully filled it halfway, then added a lead washer to give it weight before topping off the epoxy.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I set the filled mold aside. I had an important phone call to make while it dried.
In between bites of cold pizza, I used a Vanilla Visa to add another app to my portable phone. A clandestine video recording app.
After shoving the end of a slice into my mouth, I used a fresh burner number to call my old friend in Reno.
“Special Agent Link.”
“Oz says he has ‘a friend, a good friend, a close friend, high up in the FBI.’ ”
“That’s quite an opener.”
“I thought you should know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else?”
“The bombs are real. They bought detonators this afternoon.”
Vic paused. “How do you know what Oz is saying and doing?”
“I caught up to them. They’re holding Katya hostage. Using her unsuspicious face.”
“Have you been shot?”
“What?”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I’ve read your record, Achilles. Talked to people who know you. There’s no way you would have let them get away with Katya if you’d actually caught up to them. Not without a very serious fight.”
“You’re right about that. But Oz was one step ahead of us. He’s sewn an explosive belt around her waist.”
Again Vic paused. “What can I do?”
“Sound the alarm. Put Florida on high alert. The governor is part of this, right? I bet
he calls your boss on a regular basis.”
“What do I tell him?”
“You tell him you have a credible threat.”
“And then what? He shuts down Disney World? Closes Cape Canaveral? Evacuates Miami? You’re talking like a civilian, Achilles. You know there’s no magic wand. No team of stormtroopers standing by ready to swoop in and save the day. What we have are FBI, ATF and local law enforcement officers who already have burgeoning backlogs and grumbling bosses.”
I wanted to mention the National Guard, but thought better of it. Vic was right. And he wasn’t finished.
“Do you know how many tips the FBI gets? Have you been to the call center in West Virginia?”
“No.”
“Over 2,000 tips a day. Not all are credible, of course. But if just ten percent clear the hurdle, that’s still over 200 a day. As the third most populous state, about seven percent of those relate to Florida. That’s fourteen credible threats on Governor Rickman’s plate each and every day.”
I knew all that, more or less. But this wasn’t just a suspicion. It was happening. I had predicted the detonators, and now I was predicting … what? What specifically was I predicting?
“What do you have, really?” Vic asked. “You have a jetpack company that bought the chemicals used to make rocket fuel. And you claim to have the same people buying detonators. Do you know how many tons of those chemicals are sold in the US every day? How many thousands of detonators?”
I wanted to say “By Saudis?” but didn’t. I only knew that because of the medal. Oz had warned me not to mention it. He said he’d know if I did. He said he had a source within the FBI. I didn’t believe him, but couldn’t be sure. Certainly not enough to risk Katya’s life.
It wouldn’t matter anyway.
Of the 9-11 hijackers, fifteen out of nineteen had been Saudi, but we hadn’t so much as slapped the King’s wrist. Instead, we classified the twenty-eight pages of the official report that discussed those details. Hid them away. That staggering miscarriage of justice taught federal law enforcement that going after the largest foreign petroleum producer was a fool’s errand. The lobbyists and oil interests had Saudi Arabia shielded.
“So you’re not going to help me stop them?” I asked.
“Actually, I’m going to do everything I can.”
“What does that include?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s grab a cup of coffee and brainstorm. I’m here, in Florida.”
88
Looking Backward
Florida
OZ CHECKED HIS WATCH and acknowledged that he would likely get little sleep that night. Although he’d settled into his sleeping bag hours back, he was essentially just waiting for the 2:00 a.m. alarm.
His restless mind was the culprit. It was fighting nervous tension by rehashing old points of contention.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, had famously asserted that “ ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” The British poet was wrong, of course. Not surprising, given that he was a Cambridge guy. Anyone who had lost something truly important knew that it doomed you to spend the rest of your life looking backward, rather than forward. And that was no way to live.
Oz hadn’t lost a love. Actually, he and Sabrina were closer than ever—because they had lost everything else.
One day they, along with Omar and Shakira, were the rich offspring of two of Saudi Arabia’s most celebrated families, enjoying the kingdom’s wealth and privilege without having to endure its stifling climate, religion or social norms. The next day, the four were the destitute offspring of men charged with corruption. Their fathers disgraced, jailed and robbed of all possessions. Their mothers out on the streets.
They were victims of the new crown prince’s purge. Mohammad Bin Salman’s audacious move to boost his wealth and consolidate power under the cloak of reform.
Who knows what would have happened to the children if they had been in Riyadh at the time, rather than abroad? Many family members of other victims simply disappeared. Either murdered or jailed—not that there was much difference in the House of Saud.
Mentally, what happened to the two sibling couples was very clear. They’d been set on a relentless course to recoup what had been lost. The power, the prestige, the fortune.
Oz and Omar’s father had been one of the most celebrated businessmen in Saudi Arabia. Founder of the Al Abdilla Advisory Group, he had interests in many industries, including leisure, tourism, education, transportation, real estate and hospitality. He served on the boards of multiple multinational corporations and international associations.
All his positions and every ounce of goodwill he’d generated vanished when he was jailed. And, in the bitterest bite of irony ever tasted, so did his fortune. About six hundred million dollars, stolen by the crown prince in the name of anti-corruption.
There was no easy climb back from that fall. For him or his family.
There was no way to request a retrial. Not that there had been one in the first place.
The family of Sabrina and Shakira had suffered a similar fate. Their father jailed, their mother disgraced, their fortune stolen.
The only way to restore the families’ names, status and fortunes was through royal decree. And the only way to warrant one of those, given that the crown prince had ordered the arrests, was to win over the king himself.
How do you sway a man who has everything? There’s only one way. You stroke his pride. Not an easy task, given what billionaire king’s consider normal. In fact, the last man to so touch a Saudi king had done it many years ago. And he had done it with one of the most memorable acts in human history. His name was Osama bin Laden.
Of course, the king had feigned disgust in public. He had even condemned the act. But in private, he couldn’t have been more pleased. More proud. His David had outsmarted and slain the West’s Goliath. His warrior had initiated America’s demise. Forced it to begin choking off its own lifeblood, its precious freedom, its great economic base, out of paranoia.
Oz would finish the task.
Rolling from his side onto his back, Oz reflexively reached into his left pocket, only to find it empty. The medal that the king had presented to Oz’s father not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions was not where it had been for the past two years. It hadn’t magically reappeared.
The medal was a symbol with strong sentimental value, for sure. A link to lost pride and status. Oz would hate to lose it.
But that wasn’t his concern at the moment.
The problem was that the medal identified him as Saudi. The king would not be pleased if the upcoming event was linked not just to his country but directly to his palace. That would have the opposite of Oz’s intended effect. It would enrage the king. Have him cursing the Abdilla and Saida names.
Some might speculate in any case, but there would be plenty of speculation. Fact was, there were tens of thousands of Abdillas and Saidas in the Middle East, and quite a few more in Malta. Because of their legitimate Maltese passports, their true national origins would always be in doubt—if investigators didn’t have the medal.
Oz would do anything to retrieve it. To keep his dream alive.
But first, he had other business. A plan to follow. A thoroughly thought-through and meticulously prepared list to finish checking off. Beginning now.
He reached over and caressed his wife’s arm. “It’s time. Prepare the girl.”
89
Three Tasks
Florida
KATYA was already awake when Sabrina slid the key into the padlock securing the chain around her waist. Not from the noise—the fans and peeps had camouflaged those—but from the nerves. Her pre-battle nerves.
Oz had told Achilles that he would call today to arrange to swap her for the medal. It was a trap, of course. She knew that. Achilles knew that. Oz knew that. But traps could work both ways. So really, it was a battle of minds. Oz versus Achilles. Or more accurately, Oz and his three accomplices agains
t her and Achilles.
She had to find every opportunity to help him. She had to be bold and brave while appearing meek and mild. She had to be clever and cunning while coming across as clueless and incompetent.
And she had to do it with a bomb strapped to her back.
Or neither of them would live to see the next sunrise.
She would die single, thousands of miles from both her birthplace and her home, just days into her thirty-second year, after helping Middle Eastern terrorists commit a terrible crime against the adopted country she loved.
And she wouldn’t die alone. Achilles would die trying to save her. She couldn’t picture that. Achilles dead. He was too virile. Too grand a force of nature. Surely he would prevail. They would prevail.
During the night, she had made one small step toward justice. She’d used the corner of the padlock at her waist to scrape a K into the corrugated steel wall. Just a single initial a few inches from the ground, but enough to identify the building even after the chickens had obliterated all other evidence.
That was how you survived life’s toughest times, Achilles had once told her. You claimed little victories.
Sabrina held out a handful of clothes. Literally just a handful. A red, revealing top with a pushup bra and a pair of cutoff jeans shorts. Dangling from her middle finger, almost symbolically, were a pair of high-heeled strappy sandals. “Put these on and comb your hair.”
Katya’s hair was already in good form. She’d attempted to calm herself to sleep by combing it for hours. Clearly Sabrina was also a bit distracted. “Do you have an overcoat? Or perhaps a sweatshirt?” she asked Sabrina.
“The car has a heater,” Sabrina replied.
As she changed, Katya noted that they’d sized her outfit just right. She hoped that was due to good guesswork on Sabrina’s part and not the result of an activity undertaken while she wore a headset. That was one creepy invention.
The boxes and tarps that had formed her prison wall were now rearranged atop pallets. Twelve, she noted with some satisfaction, confirming her earlier calculation. Twelve pallets of trouble.
