Armageddon Conspiracy bl-1

by John Thompson

  “It is not safe,” Abu Sayeed replied.

  “That’s eight hundred million of my dollars in there,” Biddle insisted. “I want to see it.”

  Abu Sayeed shrugged. “Be my guest, but if you open the lid, the radiation signature may signal a satellite or one of the roving detection trucks. The French and the Americans are hunting for these.” Abu Sayeed nodded to Mohammed who scowled but opened a Swiss Army Knife and started to remove the first of the screws that held the lid in place.

  Biddle’s eyes flickered back to Abu Sayeed. “That won’t be necessary.”

  As Mohammed stopped removing the screw and then helped Naif finish fastening the crate in place, Abu Sayeed experienced a momentary sense of wonder at what they were about to attempt, and he wondered what Allah could be planning. Success? Failure? Perhaps something that no one expected?

  Biddle interrupted his thoughts. “Which one goes?” he demanded.

  Abu Sayeed nodded toward Mohammed.

  Biddle turned. “You understand English?”

  “Of course,” Mohammed growled.

  “You must remember two things,” Biddle said. “First, strap yourself into the cot before they shove the container off the freighter. Second, never open the hatch.” He turned back to Abu Sayeed. “When it goes in the water, the container will turn right side up and float, but it will be almost completely submerged. A locating device will signal my boat. We’ll pick it up within an hour or two.”

  Abu Sayeed saw fear in Mohammed’s eyes as he stared into the suffocatingly small box. Abu Sayeed cleared his throat. “You are certain everything will work as you predict?”

  Biddle nodded. “All the arrangements have been made. We are doing God’s work. He will not let us fail.”

  Abu Sayeed bowed his head. “God is infinitely great,” he said quietly.

  “He is,” Biddle agreed.

  THIRTEEN

  OYSTER BAY, LONG ISLAND, JUNE 25

  SATURDAY EVENING, BRENT GOT DRESSED and drove out to Biddle’s estate for the firm’s annual black-tie party, even though on a list of things he hated, attending black tie soirees ranked just above bar fights.

  He followed the directions to a secluded lane in Locust Valley and turned at a pair of tall stone gateposts. A security guard checked his invitation and identification then directed him down the winding drive through several hundred yards of manicured grounds, to a grand brick house set near the water. Brent relinquished his vintage BMW to a parking valet then followed other arriving guests through the house and onto the veranda at the rear.

  He paused there to gaze at Biddle’s grounds, with formal gardens to the left and the cool lights of a swimming pool glimmering off to the right. Further to the left, across several acres of lawn, a tall hedge outlined a tennis court, while directly behind the house a series of descending walkways led to a huge white tent. Beyond the tent the calm waters of Long Island Sound glittered like a field of gems, reflecting the lights of the party.

  So this was how people lived when they had the really big bucks, he thought, in a house as big as a Marriott with a yard the size of a county park. He found it strangely disappointing and thought about Maggie, knowing her reactions would have been the same. He tried to ignore the sharp pang he felt.

  After another moment he joined the flow of guests down the garden path beneath a broad stone and wood trellis thick with flowering vines. Time to get it over with, he thought. The only people he’d know would be the other GA people, so he planned to put in a brief showing then hurry back to Manhattan for a late movie.

  He was nearing the tent when he heard his name and turned, surprised to see that the voice belonged to Prescott Biddle. Biddle detached himself from a cadaverous woman who lurched a little as he released her arm, until someone, maybe one of Biddle’s staff, swooped in and steadied her. Biddle appeared tanned and relaxed in a double-breasted tuxedo. He smiled broadly and gave Brent’s shoulder a warm squeeze.

  “Delighted you could make it,” Biddle said. He took Brent’s arm as though they were the oldest of friends and began to walk him into the tent. “Stay with me. There are a number of people I’d like you to meet.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Biddle kept his grip on Brent’s arm, introducing him to the quarterback for the New York Jets, the Yankees’ new first baseman, a lead tenor for the Metropolitan Opera, and several Fortune 500 CEOs. During one lull in the conversation, Brent caught sight of Owen Smythe beside a pretty blonde woman. He started to go move in their direction, but Biddle grabbed him again.

  “This way. I’ll introduce you to your largest account,” Biddle said as he towed him toward an elderly man with olive skin and an eagle’s beak for a nose.

  “Khaled,” Biddle said. “This is Brent Lucas, the young man I told you about. He’s our new young star, who now has day-to-day responsibility for your account.” Biddle gave Brent a wink. “Why don’t you get to know each other for a few minutes.”

  As Biddle spun away and disappeared into the throng, Dr. Faisal turned to inspect Brent with a pair of deep-set eyes. His baldhead and concave cheeks gave great prominence to his bone structure, making him appear both gauntly ascetic and immeasurably wise. Brent might have found his gaze unnerving if not for the laugh lines that crinkled at the corner of his eyes. “Mr. Lucas,” he said in a warm voice. “My new financial oracle.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Brent said with a laugh. He tried to hide his nervousness at meeting the man who was entrusting him with over three quarters of a billion dollars.

  Dr. Faisal gave him a wry smile. “Such a young man. You have a grave responsibility managing so large an account.”

  Brent nodded uncertainly and tensed for the admonition that seemed likely to follow.

  “The better you do,” Dr. Faisal continued, “the more money we will have for great purposes.”

  “Yessir,” Brent replied, recalling the correspondence file, all the distributions for human need or world peace.

  Dr. Faisal turned to several young women standing behind him. “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Amina, and her two friends from Princeton, Margot and Elizabeth. Ladies, this is Mr. Brent Lucas.”

  Brent nodded hello to the three young women. Dr. Faisal’s granddaughter was unmistakable, tall and thin with her grandfather’s prominent nose. She seemed shy as she shook Brent’s hand. But then she held his gaze, and he realized that she had inherited her grandfather’s quiet dignity. He chatted with Dr. Faisal and the three young women until the girls moved off toward the buffet table. Dr. Faisal moved to follow, but before he did, he turned to Brent. “I will invite you to stop by my home in Manhattan where we may speak at greater length.”

  Brent promised to call and set up a time then watched the old man hurry protectively after the three young women. He checked his watch. Time to hit the road if he was going to make his movie.

  “That is a grave responsibility.”

  He turned and found himself confronting a pair of rich blue eyes set into a stunning face. A longer look revealed remarkably high cheekbones and ripe lips that seemed to pout and smile at the same time. This woman, whoever she was, emanated a sensual energy that caught him off guard and made the air around him seem to hum. Her hair was blonde, pulled close around the scalp, and a choker hung at her throat with a red gem the size of his thumbnail. A quick glance at her left hand showed no ring, and he wracked his brain for a name, thinking she had to be famous, certainly a model or movie star.

  “What responsibility is that?” he asked, trying to recapture his bearings.

  “Running Dr. Faisal’s account,” she said.

  Her accent was English with a hint of German or Dutch. Her floor length black dress was cut low, and he struggled to keep his eyes from the swell of tanned cleavage and the puckered nipples outlined against the sheer fabric. “I guess,” he said.

  “You must think you’re up to it,” she said, sounding a challenging note.

  “I’ll just do my best and hope it�
�s good enough,” he countered, wondering again who she was, how she knew so much, and where she’d come from.

  “Now you’re being falsely humble.” She smiled. “Dr. Faisal wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t very good.”

  “I’m very new,” Brent said.

  She held out her hand and laughed, the sound melodic in his ears. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Very New. I’m Simone Hearkins.”

  “Brent Lucas.” Her hand was dry and firm, her fingers strong. She held his gaze and let her hand rest in his a second longer than necessary.

  “Um, I’m kind of dry from talking. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “That would be lovely. White wine, please.”

  Brent hurried away and returned a moment later, half expecting Simone to have changed her mind and disappeared. To his surprise, she was where he’d left her, beside one of the tent supports watching the band.

  She turned, smiling, her eyes dancing with a light that seemed to suggest wild thoughts. “There you are,” she said as she took the wineglass. Something in her manner suggested she’d missed him. Her voice was low and warm with an aura of restrained sexuality that made his breath catch.

  They sipped wine and made small talk for a time. She explained that she lived in London and knew Biddle through her job at a British investment bank. When their conversation paused for a second she turned, glanced at the band, and her next question surprised him. “Would you care to dance?”

  Brent shrugged. “I’m not much in the dancing department.”

  “You’re being modest again,” she said with a delighted laugh as she took his hand and led him onto the floor. Her dress, cut high along one side, exposed a long sweep of thigh as she moved. She kept her eyes on him, seemingly unaware of the stares she drew from other men.

  Finally, the band slowed the tempo. Brent started to thank her, expecting to leave the floor, but Simone put her hand on his shoulder and stepped close. They began to move again, and she folded her body against him, pressing her hips in a way that was more than casual and then responding when he pressed back. Maggie flashed through his mind, but only briefly. Why should he feel guilty when she wanted nothing to do with him?

  They found a small table when the band eventually took a break. Simone said it was her turn to go for more wine. Brent found her far too fascinating to mention the slightly bitter taste of the glass she handed him. A few minutes later whatever was wrong with the wine no longer mattered because he’d started to feel more than a little light-headed, but so incredibly relaxed.

  Simone was the only thing he could think about. He’d never connected to anyone so quickly. Her beauty seemed to expand as they talked, and her desire for him was as tangible as heat. When she leaned back, the fabric of her gown lay against her skin like a coat of wet paint, highlighting the perfect outline of small nipples and areoles. He imagined them in his mouth.

  “Do you want to drive me back to Manhattan?” she asked, as if she’d read his mind.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Simone took his hand and started to lead him toward the main house, but as they reached the veranda fireworks began to rise from a string of barges several hundred yards offshore. They turned, and Simone folded against him, the mound of her mons veneris pressing his thigh.

  In the distance Brent saw a large yacht motoring smoothly toward Biddle’s dock, its graceful lines silhouetted in the bloom of an exploding rocket. He felt rooted in place. In addition to the heat and urgency of Simone’s body, the fireworks seemed overwhelming, their colors pulsing and vivid in an unearthly way, more beautiful that anything he’d ever experienced. At some point he realized she was tugging his arm, and he turned and followed her through the house.

  “Can I drive?” Simone asked when the attendant brought his mint BMW 3.0Csi.

  Brent waved her into the driver’s seat, even though he seldom let anyone drive his precious antique. Tonight was an exception. He felt so warm, so incredibly desired. As they left Biddle’s estate and wound along the darkened country lane, Brent realized that lights were dazzling his eyes so much that he couldn’t have driven if he’d wanted. They came to a stoplight and were suddenly back in traffic. Oncoming cars became twin lasers that swirled like roller coasters. Other lights, those of businesses and strip malls, kaleidoscoped into stunning patterns.

  He stared, transfixed. Rather than being shocked or frightened, he felt elated, as Simone drove with easy competence. He relaxed into a hammock of comfort, as though they’d been best friends forever.

  As they neared the city, Simone’s hand slid onto his thigh. Lines of heat radiated from her fingertips, moving upward, igniting him. They reached Manhattan and stopped at a light, and he traced his fingers along the top of her dress then slipped them inside. She looked at him and smiled.

  “Where should we go?” he whispered.

  Simone’s look said the answer was obvious. “Your apartment.”

  They parked and hurried the two blocks to his building, their hands already exploring. In the otherwise deserted elevator Simone wrapped her legs around his waist, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and pulling his lips toward her breasts. By the time they stumbled out and he unlocked his apartment door, the air in his nostrils burned, as though his lungs were full of fire.

  He pushed open the door and mumbled an apology for his unpacked mess. She laughed and then disappeared in the kitchen to get them both glasses of ice water. When she emerged a moment later to hand him his glass, she was naked.

  Brent’s breath froze at the sight. He picked her up and carried her to his bed, struggling out of his clothes as he went. She lay on her back, knees spread apart and watched him kick off his boxers. He stumbled slightly and felt his knees go a little wobbly but tried to shrug it off. He looked at her there on the bed, so eager for him, so extraordinarily beautiful.

  “I hope we can make love all night,” she murmured.

  Brent nodded in agreement. He moved to the bed and took her in his arms. He felt the most amazing desire but also an immense weight that swept in like a storm cloud and seemed to press in from behind his eyes. No matter how he tried to resist, it seemed to pull his head down, force his eyes closed. In another instant he tumbled like a man falling off a cliff, downward into a dark pool of sleep.

  FOURTEEN

  OYSTER BAY, LONG ISLAND, JUNE 25

  ABU SAYEED NOTED THE CHANGE in pitch as the engines throttled back and the bow settled in the water. For several seconds the yacht seemed suspended in time, and he raised his eyes to the stars overhead. They were anemic in this part of the world, pale as sick children. In the desert he could lie on his back and almost touch their laser brightness. There the face of God was so much closer, he thought.

  He had rolled back one of the sliding glass doors and was squatting in the opening where the yacht’s darkened salon led onto the aft deck. It was probably unwise to expose himself like this, but he detested the ship’s confinement and the sea’s constant smell of putrefaction. He craved the sensation of wide-open space. He believed Allah would not deny him this moment.

  Suddenly, he heard a familiar thump and whoosh, the unmistakable sound of a heavy mortar being fired. It came from someplace to his right. He reacted instantly, dropping to his belly, bracing for the explosion that would follow, while he heard Naif and Mohammed inside the salon do the same. Only, when the explosion came, there was no destruction, only a huge blossom of colored sparks in the sky overhead.

  All three men crawled to the salon windows on the port side and squatted with their eyes pressed to small slits in the Venetian blinds as the line of fireworks barges sent rocket after rocket into the air. It was beautiful, Abu Sayeed thought, even though the sound of the explosions churned his stomach.

  A moment later as they approached the dock, they could see the shoreline and Biddle’s mansion and a crowd of guests in a large tent. Servers dressed in dark pants and white shirts scurried like worker ants, carrying trays to and from a nearby preparati
on tent.

  Abu Sayeed let out a tense breath. So far, the execution had been flawless. The container had been floating at almost the exact intended coordinates, the beacon had worked perfectly, and they’d picked up Mohammed and the missiles at around two that afternoon. Now, all three of them were dressed like the servers. It was a clever way to bring everything to shore.

  The hundred-foot Hatteras reversed engines, the bow thrusters engaged, and they bumped gently against padded pilings. The mate and captain were the same two men who had delivered the cases of Coke in Penn Station and served as Biddle’s bodyguards in Paris. Abu Sayeed had taken pains to keep them separated from his men. When they were all in the same small space for even a short time, he could feel a fog of inchoate violence start to gather.

  He heard one of Biddle’s men jump onto to the dock where he secured the lines and fixed the gangplank. The other one shut down the engines, and Abu Sayeed tensed as he awaited their signal.

  Several minutes passed. Finally, footsteps came up the gangplank. It was the red-haired guard. “Follow me!” he snapped. As Abu Sayeed came off the yacht, he spotted Biddle’s other man far ahead on the shore, positioned where he would be able to turn back curious guests.

  At Abu Sayeed’s soft whistle, Naif and Mohammed brought one of the two missile crates off the yacht. Abu Sayeed walked ahead of them with a tablecloth folded over his arm, his silenced Heckler & Koch MP5A3 sub-machine gun beneath. Anyone who noticed them would assume they were carrying party supplies.

  The ground lights near the dock had been turned off, and when they entered the pool of shadow, Biddle’s men led them away from the party. They passed through a narrow opening in a tall hedge and came into a brick courtyard between a garage and a stone cottage with heavy slate roof.

  Biddle’s man unlocked the cottage, handed Abu Sayeed the key, and the three Arabs hurried inside. They put the crate in the small living room. Abu Sayeed re-locked the door before they returned for the second crate and the heavy duffel that held their extra weapons and ammunition.