by David Bruns
“Do you know where he is?”
The Iranian’s voice faltered again. “I’ve been tracking him all over the world. In Helsinki this morning we raided a ship believed to be carrying Roshed and the fourth weapon. Neither of them was on board. We’re tracing the ship’s ports of call since leaving South America, and we now believe Roshed got off in Tenerife two weeks ago.”
Brendan got out of the chair and began to pace. “So, if this Rafiq has a nuclear weapon, it could be anywhere. Europe, Africa, even the US. Anywhere.”
“Yes.”
“And—let me guess—no one believes you after the failed raid in Helsinki.”
“Yes.”
Brendan blew out a breath. “So you have a questionable source and a wild goose chase. Why are you calling me?”
Don answered him. “You remember the Iranian agent at the bunker? The one you captured in Iraq?”
Brendan grunted.
“His name was Hashem Aboud,” Reza said, “and Donald tells me that you were the last person to speak with him before he died.”
“I was there, yes. And he whispered something in Farsi to me, but I hardly see how that can help. I’ve given my phonetic rendering of the phrase to the experts and they did the translating. ‘Death from the north’ or something like that.”
“Can you tell me exactly what was said, please?”
Brendan closed his eyes. The image of Hashem’s death was not something he’d ever forget: the bloody lips, the fiery eyes, the tobacco-stained grimace. It was like something from a horror movie.
“You have to understand we were on the deck of a helo and there was lots of noise, but it sounded like doze-di-sho-male.”
Reza repeated the words softly. He paused. “Yes, I think the translation is accurate. The literal translation would be ‘thieves from the north.’ A more colloquial version might be ‘norseman,’ or ‘viking,’ but that’s hardly a common word in Farsi.”
Brendan stopped pacing, his eyes glued on the muted TV. “What did you say?”
“I said a more common translation might be ‘viking.’”
Brendan felt his mouth go dry. The flat-screen TV on the wall showed the new Minnesota Vikings stadium rising above the Minneapolis skyline.
“I think I know where Rafiq is.”
CHAPTER 56
Minneapolis, Minnesota
05 September 2016 – 1510 local
The traffic on southbound I-35 thickened even before he reached the Minneapolis northern suburbs.
An SUV with purple Minnesota Vikings flags clamped into both rear windows cut him off, and Rafiq had to slam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, taking deep breaths to calm himself. The detonation device in the weapon was ancient, the original gun-type model from the Iraqis. It was possible a collision with another vehicle might be enough to set it off—a theory he’d rather not test. The traffic started to move again and he put an extra margin of safe distance behind the car in front of him.
The new stadium rose into view as he got closer to the downtown area. He checked his watch again. He needed to make sure he was early enough to get a good parking place near the top of a parking ramp, but not so soon that his vehicle would attract the attention of security personnel. Rafiq was sure the local police would have extra patrols out to look for suspicious activity. He’d filled the back of the Whitworth Construction van with assorted tools and the black packing case blended in well.
Patience.
He’d waited nearly a decade for this moment. A few minutes more would not matter.
Killing Chas had felt more like a favor than a necessity.
The man had been drunk, of course, and it was a simple matter to stage his suicide. The only weapons Chas had in the house were a huge Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver and a 20-gauge shotgun. The handgun was overkill for the job, but necessary to keep up appearances. The shotgun was on the floor of the van behind his seat.
Rafiq had stripped to his undershorts before pressing the barrel of the revolver into the mouth of his college friend and pulling the trigger. The resulting spatter against the headboard and the wall was spectacular, like a macabre piece of modern art. The beauty of it made his breath catch in his throat. It had been a long time since he’d killed a man. Too long.
Rafiq had considered typing up a suicide note, but decided against it. Anyone who walked through the filth and despair of Chas’s house would conclude suicide before he even saw the body. He only needed a day’s head start anyway.
After a long shower to remove any traces of blood from his skin, he walked through the house room by room, carefully wiping down anything he’d touched during his stay. Rafiq replaced the sheets from the bed he’d slept in. They were in a plastic bag behind his seat in the van. For good measure, he’d even gone outside and retrieved some of the trash to put back in the kitchen.
By the time he’d finished, there was no record of Rafiq ever having set foot inside Chas’s home.
Except for the missing white van.
Rafiq circled the downtown area twice before settling on the parking garage at the corner of Park and Sixth Street, overlooking the entrance to the massive new Vikings stadium. He drove all the way to the topmost covered deck and took a spot on the side nearest the stadium.
He shut off the engine and took a moment to admire the view. Even he had to admit it was an impressive structure. Built to resemble a massive ship rising from the earth, the glass-and-steel bow of the metaphorical craft pointed almost directly at him. Rafiq craned his head to see the tip of the building around the edge of the parking garage roof overhead.
The plaza below him buzzed with people dressed in purple and gold Vikings colors. He knew from the radio reports that they expected a sellout crowd of over 65,000 spectators at this inaugural game against the Green Bay Packers. The radio reporter had also done a segment on the type of glass used to build the sheer face of the stadium front. Apparently, a group of bird-lovers were claiming the glass would confuse migrating birds. Rafiq shook his head. A billion-dollar structure erected in honor of a game and the news media talked about birds.
He would give them all something to talk about.
Rafiq smiled to himself when he saw the vans with television network logos lined up against the stadium. They would have a front-row seat to the halftime spectacle. He closed his eyes and tried to still the joyous hammering of his heart.
It was all coming together. The idea for an attack on the Vikings stadium on the same day as the meeting in Finland . . . surely this was divine inspiration. What better way to shatter this farce of a nuclear accord than to make a direct strike at the heart of the American Midwest? He looked down at the crowds of tailgaters. In his college days at Carleton, he had pretended to be one of them, drinking alcohol and consuming food to excess, to what end? He wanted to spit down on them from his perch, to rail at their American excesses and wasteful lives . . .
Today, after nine years of lying in wait, he would do more than talk. While the leaders of the Western world and the traitorous President of Iran met in Finland to sign their meaningless documents, he would turn this place to ash.
And the beauty of his plan is that they would never catch him. Even if they captured Hashem and tortured him, his brother had no inkling of his plan. He smiled at the Vikings logo on the side of the stadium; there was a certain fated symmetry to striking a symbolic Norseman in lieu of an actual Nordic country.
The atmosphere in the van started to get stuffy in the afternoon heat. Rafiq picked his way into the rear of the vehicle and cracked open the packing case. The long gray tube, the size of a fire hydrant, gleamed dully in the light that came through the windshield. He paused. When he considered all the sacrifices that had gone into making this moment possible, the surge of emotion formed a lump in his throat.
To work.
Rafiq fished two prepaid mobile phones out of his pocket. He checked that both were fully charged, and receiving a good signal. He
used one to call the other. The phone gave a shrill ring before he silenced it. He stored the outgoing number in memory and slipped that phone back in his pocket. For all its destructive potential, the nuclear weapon was remarkably simple: an explosive charge fires one piece of subcritical fissile material into another, forming a supercritical mass. Although inefficient by modern standards, the bomb had more than enough power to level the stadium and all of downtown Minneapolis.
Rafiq had modified the triggering device so he could explode it using a mobile phone, technology that had barely existed when the Iraqis built this bomb. The small black box he’d glued to the side of the packing case appeared modern and out of place next to the industrial-looking nuclear weapon. He set the counter on the black box to four; an incoming phone call would trigger the device after four rings. Then he attached the remaining phone to the detonator device with a simple connector.
The nuclear bomb was armed.
Rafiq sat back on his heels, tears stinging his eyes.
Oh, my brother, wherever you are, this is a day of days.
One final touch remained. Rafiq hefted the shotgun and loaded a single shell into the chamber. He clamped the weapon into a portable vise and aimed it at the back door. Then he ran a length of wire from the trigger to a large rattrap he had scrounged from Chas’s garage. He set the trap and, holding the hammer down with his foot, wedged a corner of the bar under the back door of the van. He duct-taped the entire assembly to the floor and carefully secured the shotgun trigger wire to the hammer of the trap. Then he covered the shotgun with a light blanket.
He smiled grimly. Hashem, his ever-cautious brother, would approve.
Rafiq exited the driver’s side door and paused to pull a Vikings jersey over his head. Number 22, a player named Smith. A Vikings ball cap and a pair of dark glasses he’d taken from Chas’s closet completed the outfit. He made his way to the street level, joining the pregame throng.
A few blocks away, Rafiq boarded the light rail bound for the Mall of America.
CHAPTER 57
FBI Minneapolis Field Office, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota
05 September 2016 – 1745 local
Liz watched Brendan’s Subaru Outback pull into the visitor’s spot in front of the FBI field office. He stepped out of the car and stretched.
Her gut clenched. She never intended their dinner last week to be the spectacular ultimatum she’d turned it into. All she’d wanted was a nice let’s-get-reacquainted meal. There was no rush, no need to lay it all out there on their first date in years. For God’s sake, the guy had taken three weeks just to call her!
But that look in his eyes when Tony had shown up . . . part jealousy, part confusion, part doubt. After all she’d done to be with him, that look was like a knife in the belly. She needed him to know that—despite whatever she’d said before—he was the one for her.
So she did it. Loud, proud, and in your face. And she scared him. The look on his face at the end of her tirade said it all: pure terror.
When he’d called her this afternoon, her heart beat faster at the sound of his voice. What followed was a cockamamie story about a rogue Hezbollah terrorist in Minneapolis with a nuclear device. She half-expected him to say “gotcha!” It sounded too far-fetched to be believed, but when she found out Don was involved she’d called Tom Trask, her SAC, immediately.
Liz pushed open the door to the security building and waved at Brendan to hurry. He jogged across the parking lot, favoring his injured leg. He was dressed in an open-necked sport shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” he said, meeting her gaze for a second before brushing past her.
“Hi.”
She’d already cleared him into the building. He signed the log and clipped a visitor badge to his shirt pocket. Without waiting for him, Liz started down the long walkway toward the main building.
Brendan caught up with her. “Listen, Liz, about the other night, I—”
“Brendan, I’m only going to say this once. This is where I work. Whatever this thing is between us”—she waved her finger between them—“is between us. It has nothing to do with this place. So—so just focus.”
He held the door for her. There was an open elevator waiting for them. She pushed the button for the top floor, level five. She met his gaze as the door closed. “Look, Tom Trask is a good man, I trust him. Just give him the facts, and he’ll make the right call.”
Special Agent in Charge Thomas Trask had a corner office on the fifth floor with an attached conference room. Liz’s gaze traveled over the familiar pictures on his wall: a younger Trask in a Marine Corps officer’s uniform, Georgetown Law School diploma, a family photo with his wife and two kids, one in a midshipman’s uniform. The man himself was a compact, fifty-something guy with an iron-gray crew cut and a more-than-firm handshake. He nodded as Liz made the introductions and he shook Brendan’s hand.
“McHugh, Tom Trask. Good to meet you. Liz has told me all about you.”
“She has?”
Liz closed her eyes. She had told Trask about Brendan. He was a fellow Marine and he kind of reminded her of her father. Trask winked at her and jerked his head toward the attached conference room. “Let’s get started,” he said.
Two other agents were already in the room: Kamen and Adams, known in the office as Cain and Abel. The light on the speaker phone was blinking red, indicating someone on hold. Liz punched the blinking button on the phone. “Don, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Putting you on the screen now.” Don Riley’s round face popped up on the wall monitor.
Trask placed his hands flat on the table. “Alright, McHugh, the floor is yours. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
Brendan took a deep breath. “A few months ago, I was part of an operation to take down an Iranian nuclear weapons site. They had three nuclear-tipped missiles on launchers, ready to strike at Israel during the Tel Aviv nuclear accord meeting.”
“Holy shit,” muttered one of the FBI agents. Trask’s jaw tightened.
“The operation was run by an Iranian Quds officer named Hashem Aboud. I’ve run into him a few times over the years. Nasty character, but very well connected in the region. He was mortally wounded during the takedown; I was there when he died. He threatened me—in Farsi—but the deathbed confession never matched with any other intel. I think it’s best if Mr. Riley takes it from here.”
Don leaned closer to the screen. “This afternoon, an Iranian agent I’ve known for some time contacted me. He divulged that the Iranians believe there is a fourth nuke. The weapon was passed to Hashem Aboud’s half brother, a Hezbollah agent named Rafiq Roshed, and placed with a sleeper cell in South America. The Iranians have been pursuing this angle on their own and tracked the weapon to a Malaysian freighter that was docking in Helsinki today.
“The Finns raided the freighter this morning outside of Helsinki Harbor. The ship was clean, but it made a port call in the Canary Islands two weeks ago. After some persuasion, the captain acknowledged that one of his crew departed in Tenerife. We’re coordinating with the Spanish authorities for more details on where our suspect may have gone, but if he had prearranged transport, he could be anywhere by now.
“At first blush, the Helsinki connection made perfect sense. The translation of Aboud’s threat referred to activity in the north, and we know their goal was to disrupt the Tel Aviv nuclear agreement. Obviously, we were fooled.” Don’s voice took on an apologetic tone. “We now think the Helsinki freighter was a red herring and the real nuke is . . . somewhere else. The Vikings angle came from a side conversation with Brendan earlier today.”
Trask blew out his breath. “Wow, that’s pretty thin.” He looked at Liz. “You’ve verified the translation?”
Liz avoided Trask’s gaze. “I’m working from a phonetic recollection of a deathbed confession that happened months ago. Is ‘vikings’ a possible translation of what this Hashem character said? Yes, one of about a dozen potential meanings.”
Trask scrubbed his crew cut with his short fingers. “Okay, what do we have on this Hezbollah brother and why the hell would he choose Minneapolis?”
Cain and Abel perked up. Cain pulled the keyboard close and punched some keys. The picture of Rafiq filled the split screen next to Don. Abel did the talking.
“Mr. Riley sent over Roshed’s file via JWICS. This is the only picture we have of Rafiq Roshed, and it’s old. Using facial recognition software and screening for gender and age, I’ve run a comp against all entries into the US in the last two weeks. Nothing. I also searched for a match against active US passports in the last ten years, and got no hits. But, when I ran the software on the database for student visas, I found something.” He struck a key and a passport picture page appeared on the screen next to Rafiq’s photo. Liz studied the photos. Side by side she could see some resemblance, but nothing conclusive by a long shot.
“Meet Ralf Faber, student at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, from 1999 to 2004. Graduated with a degree in international relations. No problems with the law, didn’t overstay his visa.”
Trask pulled a face. “What’s the degree of confidence on the match?”
“Seventy-nine percent.”
“So if this is our guy and we think he’s here, how did he get into the US?” Trask asked.
Cain and Abel exchanged glances. “We might have a possible lead, sir,” said Abel. “When Faber renewed his visa, he put an emergency contact as Charles Whitworth, home address in Bayfield, Wisconsin. I pulled it up on the map. It’s a mansion, with a big boathouse attached.”
“People, this is weak stuff, barely circumstantial.” Trask pressed his lips together. “That said, the possibility of a rogue nuke on US soil, the Vikings stadium grand opening . . . I guess if a terrorist wanted to make a statement, this would be a pretty good place. Washington wants us to check it out, but let’s keep this out of the news.”
