404: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  “Go to the following IP address, Special Agent Decker, and see for yourself.”

  Decker pulled out his keyboard. “What address?” He brought up a browser.

  El Aqrab started to call off the numbers. Decker began typing them in when he suddenly locked on the sequence. Not a four, he thought desperately.

  “...four...three...”

  Not a six and a seven.

  “...six...seven...”

  It was the IP address for the nanny-cam in Becca’s bedroom.

  Decker leaned forward as the browser started loading the image. For a moment there was nothing. Then it swam into view.

  His daughter and Marisol were tied up on Becca’s bed. They were bound, back to back, entwined by some gray metal ribbon that Decker recognized instantly. Magnesium ribbon. El Aqrab’s trademark. Soon, he would set them ablaze and the ribbon would project ornate Arabic writing, Koranic calligraphy sculpted in fire. The camera zoomed in on Becca’s face. There was a cut on her eyebrow and she looked utterly terrified. Someone had stuck a sock in her mouth.

  “Please don’t do this,” said Decker. “It’s me that you want. She’s only seven years old.”

  “Who says I want you?” The camera started to turn. It swiveled and aimed out the window. For a moment the image was blurry. Then it fell into focus.

  A man in the street was looking up at the house. He was wearing a raincoat, light gray, and holding a phone. El Aqrab! There was no doubt about it. The same lupine face. The same smoldering features. He looked up from his phone screen and waved at the camera. “I wanted you to see me, to look into my eyes as I did this. Have I lost weight? I think I’ve lost weight. What do you think?”

  “My daughter hasn’t done anything to you. Why kill her? And my housekeeper. This isn’t your style. What’s the point?”

  “Rarely does death have a point, Special Agent Decker, except to prove that it is. You should know that.”

  El Aqrab lifted his hand. The one with the phone in it.

  “No, wait!” Decker said, but it was already too late.

  There was a loud screech and the image on the PC screen burst into light and then vanished. It was just gone. The phone died in his hand.

  Decker refreshed the browser but it returned a nondescript 404 error. Site not found. Site not found, Decker thought.

  Becca!

  CHAPTER 8

  Monday, December 2

  By the time Decker got back to Georgetown, the police had already arrived. So had the fire department and bomb squad. He had alerted them, as well as the local FBI office, as soon as the connection with El Aqrab had been broken. The entire street had been blocked off, from Congress Court to Corcoran.

  Decker left his Z8 on Thirty-first, flashed his ID at the cop by the tape, and made his way at a run toward his townhouse. As he neared the building, he could see a great gouge ripped out of the rear of the structure, where Becca’s bedroom had been. It looked like a crane had simply torn it away. Bricks were strewn about the post office parking lot. A fire truck was parked in the alley beside the old Federal Customs House. The ladder was up and a solitary firefighter was still hosing the area down. It didn’t appear to be burning but Decker could still smell smoke in the air. The charred aroma of wood, of plastic and flesh. He’d smelled it before.

  And, for the briefest of moments, he flashed back on his childhood car accident and the way that his parents had simply melted before him, trapped in the wreckage of their Chevy Biscayne as it crackled and burned. It crackled and burned and he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about it...except watch.

  When he reached the front door of his house, a metropolitan police officer stopped him. Decker flashed his ID but the cop still prevented him from going inside.

  “I live here,” said Decker, growing more and more angry.

  “Says he lives here,” the cop shouted over his shoulder. He was a kid, just a rookie, Decker realized. Hispanic. Ramirez. “Another FBI agent.”

  “It’s a ten thirty-three,” someone answered from inside the house. “Is he working the case?”

  “There was a young girl,” Decker said. He took a deep breath. “I just want to find out—”

  “Two victims,” the Hispanic cop answered, interrupting him. “A woman and girl. You can’t come in, sir. There’s still a threat of explosives.”

  “Did anyone—”

  “One survivor.” A second policeman appeared at the door. A black sergeant. Portly. With a wide, sensitive face. “Who wants to know?”

  “Special Agent Decker. FBI.” He held up his creds. “One survivor? Can you tell me who? Which one?”

  The sergeant checked his ID. “Right, Decker. OK. Sorry about that. The Assistant Special Agent in Charge is expecting you. Second floor. Paul Wolinsky.”

  “What happened to my daughter? Is she okay? Is she still in the house?” He looked at the policeman’s badge. “Sergeant Plummer.”

  “I think you’d better talk with Wolinsky.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Decker said with growing frustration. “Can’t you just answer my question? Where the fuck is my daughter?”

  “Hey, don’t get pissy with me,” Plummer said. “They took her to the hospital. The other one too. The housekeeper. Although why, I don’t know. Lost both her arms and a leg in the blast. They were both badly burned. George Washington University Hospital. That’s where they went. Look, the ay-SAC’s inside, like I said. Paul Wolinsky. He told me to bring you right up when you got here.”

  Decker turned from the door.

  “Hold on a second,” said Plummer. “What about the ay-SAC? Hey, Special Agent Decker.”

  Decker was already several feet away when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant’s talking to you.”

  Without even thinking, Decker reached back, grabbed the fingers, and twisted the arm back in a wrist hold.

  The Hispanic cop dropped to his knees. “You’re breaking my arm,” he shrieked, trying to grab Decker’s leg, but Decker kept applying more pressure. “Let go of me!”

  Plummer jumped in to assist him. Without releasing his grip, Decker turned, swept his leg out and the sergeant went flying.

  “Hold it,” another cop said, drawing his weapon. In seconds, three other metropolitan policemen had surrounded Decker, their guns aimed at his chest.

  Decker raised his hands. He took a deep breath.

  “I told you to stay where you were,” Plummer said, climbing back to his feet. “I told you.” He was out of breath and obviously furious. “You Feds think you’re so fucking special.”

  Just then, Rex McCullough showed up. “Excuse me. Just a minute there, Sergeant,” he said, holding his badge high in the air. A tall, well-built black man, with a shaved head and owl-like brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, McCullough worked with Decker at the NCTC, a fellow cryptanalyst.

  Plummer turned to face him, his hand on his gun. Then, he saw McCullough’s ID. “Oh, great. Another member of the First Bunch of Idiots. Are you going to take a swing at me too?”

  “I never took a swing at him,” Decker said, suddenly sober. He could feel his heart pound in his chest. He looked at the cops all around him, as if seeing them for the first time. The Hispanic policeman was still on his knees, nursing his wrist. “He shouldn’t have touched me,” said Decker, but even to him the words sounded ridiculous. The truth was, he had simply reacted. An autonomic response.

  Plummer took a step forward. He looked up at Decker, he puffed up his chest. “And I thought you were some kind of hero,” he sneered. “When we heard it was your place got bombed, every cop in the house wanted to come down and help. The guy who stopped the mega-tsunami.” He laughed. “Some fucking hero. And this isn’t the first time, is it? Is it, Decker? I read your sheet. Like going ape, do you?”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Maybe not. But it sure seems to find you.”

  McCullough drew nearer. “Look, Sergeant,” he said. “How about a little profession
al courtesy here? This man’s house just got bombed and his daughter’s been injured. He isn’t himself. The ay-SAC knows where to find him. They can always talk later. How about it, huh? One cop to another?”

  Plummer lifted his hand. “Okay, okay,” he said, looking back at his men. He nodded and they lowered their weapons. The young Hispanic cop finally rolled to his feet. He threw Decker a venomous gaze.

  Plummer turned back to McCullough. “Take your friend and get out of here. And make sure he contacts Wolinsky or it’s you I’ll come looking for.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” McCullough said, pulling Decker away. “I appreciate it. We both do.”

  Decker looked back at his house, at the shattered rear corner where Becca’s bedroom had been, at the fire truck and other emergency vehicles. The flashing red and blue lights gave the scene a surreal feel, like some Hollywood set. Not quite real. And, high in the air, rising higher, he could see them: small pieces of ash and debris floating up toward the heavens. Like confetti.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday, December 2

  Decker and McCullough made their way down the street to McCullough’s silver Accord. Moments later, they were cruising southeast on Pennsylvania toward George Washington University Hospital. McCullough’s bubble was fixed to the roof and the siren was wailing.

  “She’s going to be alright, John,” he said, taking a peek at his friend. Decker looked pale, his eyes glassy, unfocussed. “I called on the way over. I figured they’d bring her to George Washington. It’s the closest.”

  Decker didn’t respond. He simply stared out the windshield.

  “She’s in surgery. They say it could go either way. Marisol didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  Decker still didn’t say anything. It was as if he were sitting alone in the back seat, looking on at himself and McCullough in the front. Looking on at the world as it whirled past the windows.

  “What was that about, John, back there at the house? John? They were just doing their jobs.” McCullough paused. “John? John, answer me.”

  “I know, I know,” Decker said, finally. He stared at the traffic choking the avenue. It felt like it was taking forever, as if the cars were moving in slow motion. The whole world seemed to be underwater.

  “Still seeing that counselor?”

  Decker bristled. “You sound just like Hellard. I’m fine, Rex,” he snapped. Then he softened and said, “Look, it’s just that...I’m worried about Becca is all.”

  “Of course you are. You’re a parent. It’s our fucking job to be worried. We’re professional worriers. But she’s a tough cookie. Survived a plane crash for crying out loud. A bombing is nothing. Becca’s resilient.”

  A space finally opened up and McCullough put his foot to the floor. The Accord shot up the avenue. People were finally beginning to pull off to the side of the road.

  “It was him, Rex,” said Decker. “El Aqrab.”

  “What?” McCullough glanced over at Decker. “What are you saying? El Aqrab’s dead, John. You know that. He died on La Palma.”

  “His body was never recovered.”

  “What body? He died in a nuclear explosion.”

  “Are you sure?” Decker shook his head. “I’m telling you. He called me up at the Crypt, Rex. On the red phone. He told me to pull up a particular URL.” Decker filled his partner in on everything that had happened.

  “I heard your house had been bombed,” said McCullough when Decker was finally finished. “That’s why I rushed over. But...You actually saw him?”

  “It sure looked like him. And that voice. It was his voice, Rex, I’m one hundred percent certain. I’ll never forget that voice. Never.”

  “But if it was him, why would he re-emerge now, after all this time? What’s he planning?”

  “It looks like the Brotherhood of the Crimson Scimitar may be behind the logic bombs I found in the Westlake Defense Systems software. Maybe they’re looking to disable defense systems around some particular event or location. Some attack somewhere. I don’t know.”

  “Then why blow up your house, burn your daughter? It doesn’t make sense. He’s just drawing attention to himself. No, this is different. It’s like a personal attack against you. Like a challenge.”

  “Or a feint,” Decker said. “A distraction.”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They finally arrived at the hospital. While McCullough looked for parking, Decker ran to the Emergency Room. Minutes later, he was ushered upstairs. Becca was still in surgery. No word yet, the attending nurse told him. But she had third degree burns around both of her arms and her legs.

  Decker tried not to imagine it. It was too painful to see in his head. It’s where El Aqrab had wrapped her up with magnesium ribbon and then set fire to her.

  Eventually, McCullough came upstairs and they waited together in the lounge, drinking coffee.

  Several hours passed by. They barely said a word to each other. Decker sat there without speaking, trying to turn off his brain, as McCullough read magazines or tapped at his smartphone.

  After what seemed like an eternity, a surgeon finally appeared at the door. Decker leapt to his feet. The surgeon approached them, looking grim. “Mr. Decker?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re Rebecca’s father?”

  “Becca. Yes, that’s me.”

  “It was a difficult surgery but she’s going to pull through. Frankly, it’s a miracle she survived. I saw the other victim, what was left of her. If your daughter hadn’t been nestled beside her when the explosion went off...There’s been extensive damage, however. She’s suffered third degree burns.”

  “Yes, they told me. The nurse did.”

  “I see. Well,” said the doctor. “You’re going to need to prepare yourself. She’s going to be here for a while in the burn unit. And then you’ll have to take care of her, or have an attendant at home, to make sure she recovers. This is only the first of her surgeries, I’m afraid. She’ll require several more skin grafts.”

  Decker didn’t say anything. He stared at the doctor. He could hear the words but they didn’t seem to make any sense. It was as if he had forgotten the code.

  “Yes, well,” the doctor continued. He was a young surgeon, an Indian, Decker noticed. Dr. Naini. It said so right there on his scrubs.

  “Can I see her?” asked Decker.

  “I’m afraid not. She’s in recovery now, in a bacteria-controlled nursing unit. It’s vital to keep her isolated for a while to stave off infection. What she needs most now is sleep.”

  Decker stared at the physician. He knew that he should be asking him something but he couldn’t for the life of him think what it was.

  “I suggest you go home, Mr. Decker. Come back tomorrow. Someone will call you if there’s a change in her condition. Yes, well.” Dr. Naini started to back away slowly, started to turn toward the door. “Until tomorrow.” And then he was gone.

  Decker stood by the coffee machine, a puzzled expression pinned to his face.

  “Could be worse,” said McCullough. “Marisol wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Yes, Marisol,” Decker said. He turned toward McCullough.

  His friend took a step back. Decker’s features were twisted and drawn.

  “I’m going to kill him,” said Decker, his voice icy, bereft of emotion. “I’m going to hunt him down, find him and kill him, Rex.”

  McCullough issued a sigh. “I was afraid you were going to say that. You’re not alone, man. He went after your family, bombed your house. There isn’t a brick agent anywhere who’s not going to bust his hump to track El Aqrab down. But if you make this thing personal...Well, it’s what he wants, John. He’s just trying to fuck with your head. He wants you to come after him.”

  “I know.” Decker turned and started down the hall toward the elevators. He pressed the button. “But it’s like the old Chinese curse,” he said, without turning.

  “Be careful of what you ask for...” McCu
llough began.

  “Because I’m going to give it to him.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Wednesday, December 4

  It was snowing in Brooklyn. Huge white flakes descended from the heavens, covering the rooftops and parks of Bay Ridge. Inside Lutheran Elementary on Ovington Avenue, children in uniform were lined up in the school cafeteria, getting ready to head off to class. But, for some reason, it was taking forever. One child, a black kid with a Spiderman backpack, suddenly pulled a bright orange watch cap off the head of another and took off. The second, a heavy-set Hispanic boy, chased after him. The black kid ran down the hallway, swung open a door, only to crash directly into a man dressed in black body armor, with a helmet and some sort of machine gun.

  The man lifted a gloved finger to where his lips should have been...were they not covered by a chin guard, face stocking and goggles.

  The boy with the Spiderman backpack stared up at the stranger. He started to say something, and then rushed back through the door, which closed quickly behind him.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said school Principal Laurie Cucillo. She was complaining to Ed Hellard at the head of the classroom. “I don’t want the children to see you, with your helmets and guns. No offense, but to them, you look like Imperial Storm Troopers.”

  “If you’d stayed in the hall,” Hellard said, “like I asked you—”

  “Surely, there’s another way,” said the principal, riding over him. Blond and excruciatingly thin, her herringbone skirt reached down to her ankles. She was wearing a pair of very sensible shoes and tasteful gold earrings. “Every class faces the alley or playground,” she added. “They were designed to do that, to give the children a view. There’s no way they won’t see your men passing. Their parents are going to crucify me when they hear about this.”

  Hellard sighed. He was sitting with Decker behind a large wooden desk near the blackboard. Jack Doherty, captain of the FBI SWAT Team of the Joint Terrorism Task Force of New York, stood beside them. A large man with broad shoulders and the arms of a bear, Doherty towered over the principal.