by Mark Terry
He parked a good fifty feet away from Ghazala. As he drove in, the woman had climbed out of her car. She wore a kamiz, the loose pants and tunics of Islamic women in Pakistan. Her hair was covered—loosely, he noted with distaste—by a scarf. A purse hung over her shoulder, which she clutched to her.
To Malika he said, “I will come around and open the door for you. Do not move.” He held up his handgun. “Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, voice small.
He stepped out of the Jeep and slowly walked around the back to Malika’s door. Ghazala seemed uncertain what to do. First she started toward him, then stopped, waiting.
He opened the door for Malika. “Step out. Don’t go to your mother. Don’t run away. Don’t speak. Understand?”
“Yes.”
She stepped out of the Jeep and stood by him. Kalakar took out his cell phone and placed a call to John. When he answered, he said, “I’m at the park, John. Ghazala is here. I’m going to hang up so you can call Ghazala.”
He clicked off and put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. She flinched at his touch. “Sshhhh,” he said. “We’re almost done.”
Ghazala was petrified with fear. It was only the sight of her daughter, her hands cruelly duct-taped together in front of her, that kept her in control. A flair of anger spiked through her. How dare he!, this monster that had abused their hospitality.
The cell phone rang. She answered it.
“It’s John. Kalakar says he’s there.”
“He is.”
“And Malika?”
“She’s here, too.”
“How close are you?”
“Forty, maybe fifty feet.”
“Tell him to let Malika come to you.”
“John—”
“Go ahead. Don’t hang up.”
Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Send Malika over to me.”
Ghazala’s heart nearly stopped when Kalakar shook his head. “I don’t think so, Ghazala. She stays right here with me until John tells me the time and coordinates.”
She told John what Kalakar had said.
“Stay calm. He wants the information. Say: ‘John says that as soon as Malika is safe he’ll call you with the time and coordinates.’ Go ahead.”
“John says that as soon as Malika is safe you’ll get the time and coordinates.”
“John’s got a problem. He’s not here. I am and I have a gun pointed at your daughter’s head. Tell him I want the damned information right now.”
“John—”
“I heard him. Walk toward him.”
“John?”
“Do you have the gun?”
“John, I can’t do this.”
“Do you have the gun?”
“Yes. But—”
“Put your hand on it in your purse. It’s loaded. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger.”
“John—”
“Do it.”
She closed her eyes. Opened them. Kalakar was watching her closely. She unzipped her purse and dipped her hand inside it. She had a flash of what she hoped was inspiration. She said, “I have it here. Written down. Once Malika is safe, I’ll drop it on the ground and you can get it.”
Kalakar laughed. “Walk halfway here, drop it on the ground, I’ll come out and look at it. If it’s what you say it is, I’ll let your daughter go.”
He had called her bluff. She felt lightheaded. What was she going to do? She held the phone to her ear. “John?”
“I heard. Tell him to call me or give you his number so I can call him.”
“John—” But the phone was dead.
She yelled, “Call John.”
• • •
Kalakar didn’t like the way this was going. There was no way they were going to come to an agreement on this. He needed the information and didn’t trust John or Ghazala to give it to him if their daughter was safe.
He nudged Malika forward. “We’re meeting your mother halfway.”
They walked forward, slowly, one step at a time. Kalakar’s movements were slow. The pain in his ribs was like being poked by a knife with every step. Kalakar dialed John’s cell. “I don’t like this game, John. And the stakes are too high for you. Don’t play it. You have to trust me to play fair.”
“You kidnapped my daughter and threatened her life. Why would I trust you? You have to earn trust now. Do it by letting her go.”
“John, you need to listen to me. I have your daughter. I have a gun to her head. If I run out of patience, your daughter is dead. Then I will kill your wife. If I miss this deadline, I will track you down and kill you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. You’ve threatened me with that before. So this is how a jihadist works in the real world, Kalakar? This is Mohammed’s great plan for his people? Kidnap and murder children?”
“Don’t go there, John. We’re not having a religious discussion right now. We’re talking about—”
“You have twenty-five minutes, Kalakar.”
Kalakar’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at his watch. It was 7:05.
“Stop wasting time, then. Tell me the rest and I’ll—”
“I just gave you half the information, Kalakar. I need a show of faith on your end. Can you meet us halfway?”
Kalakar noted that Ghazala was walking slowly toward them. Her hand was deep in the purse and he didn’t believe that John had written the coordinates down and given them to his wife. Why was her hand in the purse? Did she have a gun?
“John,” Kalakar asked. “Do you own a gun?”
There was momentary silence on the line and Kalakar knew instantly. He dropped the cell phone, swung an arm around Malika, picking her up off her feet. He jammed the handgun against the side of her head. “Slowly take out the gun, Ghazala. Take it out and drop it on the ground. Do it or Malika is dead! Do it now!”
Malika struggled in his arms. She kicked and thrashed and shrieked, “Mother! Mama!”
He whipped the barrel of his gun against her skull. She screamed louder, but didn’t struggle.
Ghazala screamed. “Malika!”
“Drop the gun or she’s dead!”
“Mama!”
Ghazala dropped her phone. It fell to the ground, chirping like a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
She reached into the purse.
Kalakar adjusted his grip on Malika. “Slowly.”
Ghazala slowly pulled the gun out, holding it in her hand.
“Drop it to the ground.”
The fear and panic on her face was wonderfully satisfying to Kalakar.
Ghazala hesitated.
He jabbed Malika with his gun again. “Drop it.”
She dropped it.
“Pick up the phone and answer it.”
Slowly, Ghazala bent and picked up the cell phone. She flipped it open. “John? He made me drop the gun.”
Kalakar said, “Ask him to listen carefully.”
Ghazala said, “He says to listen carefully.”
Kalakar shifted position and shot Ghazala. A look of bewilderment and shock crossed her face as she fell to the ground.
“Mama! You killed my Mama!”
Malika struggled and kicked and flailed. He hit her with the barrel of the gun, harder this time. She slumped, dead weight under his one arm. He dropped her like a bag of bones to the ground, stepped quickly to Ghazala, who was struggling for air, hand pressed to her side, blood seeping around her fingers.
Kalakar picked up the phone. “I’ve shot your wife. And I’ll shoot your daughter if you don’t tell me the coordinates right now.”
CHAPTER 69
O’Reilly revved the bucar’s engine, screeching around nearly stalled traffic. Derek took the bubble flasher from the floor of the car and reached out and attached it to the roof. It didn’t help much, but at least traffic knew they were coming.
He returned to working the phone without any luck. He tried the main switchboard at the Department of Homeland Security and was flipp
ed over to voice mail. Finally, frustrated, he looked at his limited list of phone numbers and dialed Detective Connelly’s cell phone.
A sleepy-sounding Connelly said, “Yeah? What is it?”
“It’s Derek Stillwater—”
“What do you want, you psycho?”
“We know where Kalakar is headed and we know what he’s going to do, but because of the attacks at JFK we’re having problems getting hold of anybody.”
“You’ve got a problem with credibility, too, Stillwater. Everybody thinks you’re full of shit. Including me.”
“Then you’re not paying attention to my track record.” Before Connelly could respond, Derek told him everything he could.
Connelly grunted. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Derek clicked off, reached into the backseat, and retrieved O’Reilly’s Go Packs. She glanced over. “What’re you doing?”
Rummaging through the packs, he came up with a Llama Max-I, three magazines loaded with .45-caliber ammunition, and a box of .45 rounds.
“That’s my backup gun,” she said. “Stick it in my jacket pocket.”
He did. Not bothering to ask permission, he took out his own gun, a Colt M1911, released the magazine, and began reloading it with the .45-caliber shells.
Glancing over, O’Reilly said, “I didn’t think the military used those any more. Didn’t they stop around 1985? You weren’t in that early, were you?”
“Not quite. Marine Force Recon and Delta still use them, I’ve heard.”
“Those guys are all walking-talking armories. They’d carry howitzers if they could.”
“I used the Beretta just like everyone else when I was in the service. This was a gift and I’ve always been comfortable with it.”
“Who gave it to you?”
He frowned. “General Johnston.”
“What a sentimental guy.”
“Yeah. He made me promise not to shoot myself in the foot with it.”
“I wonder if he was speaking metaphorically.”
Derek nodded. “He was.”
John Seddiqi had made all of his phone calls while in a cab driving toward his house. Most of the conversation had been in Urdu so the cab driver wouldn’t understand. John was almost hysterical with fear. The words caught in this throat. His stomach churned. The driver, puzzled, kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, dark eyes concerned.
Kalakar repeated, “John, give me the information or your daughter is dead right now.”
The cabbie pulled up in front of John’s house. John flung some money at him and lunged out of the cab. Without a word the driver pulled away.
Into the phone, John said, “I need to talk to Malika. I want to—”
From around the back of the house sprinted four men in tactical gear, HOMELAND SECURITY printed on the back of their blue jackets. They all carried assault rifles, expressions serious, attitudes grim.
Spinning away from them, John blurted to Kalakar: “Go to the Mt. Wilson Observatory. Stark’s jet will fly just to the east at 7:30. It’s not a commercial airliner. It’s a Gulfstream III, a—”
One of the Homeland guys, tall, thick, and blond, plucked the phone out of his hand, demanding to know who was on the other end. Another agent caught John by the hair and slammed him to the ground, knee on his spine. Yet another swung John’s arms up behind him and cuffed his wrists. It was all done with a frightening efficiency. What shocked John most was their silence. They didn’t say a word. They were as fast, silent, and as effective as attacking sharks.
A black Chevy Suburban motored up and Agent Zerbe climbed out of the passenger seat. “Get that phone to the lab ASAP. We want to know who he was talking to and where he is. Go!”
Zerbe crouched next to John. His voice was patient, but there was an undertone of threat. “Okay, Mr. Seddiqi. Time to talk.”
Governor William Stark leaned back in his leather recliner on board the Gulfstream III his campaign was using and stared out the window. As far as he could tell, they were either in California or northern Nevada. After an early morning stop in Chicago where he shared breakfast with some party high rollers followed by a short rally at Northwestern University, he and his team headed for California.
Donna Price, voice shrill with anger, snarled into the phone. “We want an update—yes, I know things are in flux, but—” She clicked off. “No update.”
The Governor smiled slightly, thinking that Donna was having a meltdown, that her obsessive-compulsive control-freak tendencies that served her so well as his campaign manager were going to kill her if anything else went wrong. Stark admired her, respected her, needed her. Sometimes, he thought, she was a little scary, which could sometimes be a good thing in government. She’d make a good chief of staff. “I’m sure they’ll inform us as soon as there’s something to know.”
“They’re shutting down JFK and rerouting the entire eastern seaboard.”
Stark’s grin was wry. “Bet Newman’s having a fit about that. Wasn’t he concentrating on the South and East today?”
“He was, but I imagine they’re going to have to do something different. We might have to, as well.”
“Let’s just get through the California rallies, then get me home to vote.”
Bill Lamb, one of their staffers, walked up, phone in hand, big smile on his face. “Just got off the phone with the pollsters on the East Coast. Exit polls have you up by four points!”
“Four! That’s fantastic!”
Stark couldn’t hide his elation, but said, “It’s a long day. A lot can happen. Best not to get too excited.”
Kalakar knew something had gone very wrong. A voice that wasn’t John Seddiqi’s said, “Hello? Who is this?”
Kalakar shut off the phone, peeled back the battery compartment, ripped out the battery and tossed it aside. They wouldn’t be able to trace his location now.
Turning, he nudged Malika, who was crumpled to the ground, dazed, but otherwise fine. Her mother lay bleeding to death on the ground a dozen feet away. He considered either leaving Malika there with Ghazala or putting a bullet in both of their heads and heading for Mt. Wilson. He had seen the signs nearby. It was going to be tight. Damn that bastard for forcing him to play it so close.
He decided that Malika might still come in handy, as insurance if nothing else. Kalakar reached down and dragged her to her feet. Her face was twisted in fear and hatred. “Mama! You killed Mama!”
Half dragging her, he walked her over to the Jeep Cherokee and tossed her into the front seat. Climbing in, he raced off, eyes on the clock. Time was running out.
CHAPTER 70
Derek gasped and clutched the door handle. O’Reilly, concentrating on her driving, said, “Shut up.”
Red Box Road was not meant for a mad dash sprint in a car. It was narrow and steep, winding up the side of the mountain toward the summit of Mt. Wilson. The bucar was struggling with the grade, but O’Reilly was pushing it as hard as she could. She had it up to eighty-five miles an hour, but the twists and turns were such that she was skidding around the bends, tires screeching.
He tried his cell phone again, only to note that at this elevation he had no signal. Mt. Wilson was the site of dozens of antennae, but for some reason he didn’t currently have a signal. Shaking his head he said, “We might be alone.”
“Shut up.” She struggled with the wheel as the bucar screeched across the yellow line, angling toward the drop-off.
Derek said, “I might be a little fatalistic, but I don’t have a death wish.”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Derek decided it was probably good advice. If his estimates were correct, they were only about a mile from the top of the mountain. There had been no sign of Kalakar. They didn’t even know what vehicle he was driving. He hoped they were wrong. He also hoped that somebody—Connelly, Zerbe, Johnston, anyone—had gotten through to Governor Stark and called him off. That would solve a lot of problems.
Around the last bend appeared the entrance
to the Mt. Wilson Observatory. Barely visible through the trees was a white dome. There were a couple cars there, but this early in the morning he didn’t know if they belonged to tourists, hikers, observatory staff or, perhaps, Kalakar, shoulder-fired missile in tow.
O’Reilly braked to a halt and jumped out of the car. She checked both guns and said, “Eyes wide open, Stillwater. Let’s go.”
