by Tom Lowe
O’Brien and the men moved stealth-like though the rooms and halls. They followed blood splatter on the floor to a room with an open door and cautiously entered. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and burnt electrical wire was in the air.
“Holy shit …,” mumbled one SWAT member.
“It was a fuckin’ slaughter,” said another.
They counted nine bodies. Hunter knelt by Borshnik and looked at the bullet hole in the center of his chest. “Looks like the auction is off,” Hunter said sarcastically. “He’s the oldest here … the son of the only Russian spy ever killed by execution in America. He carries out his own revenge and gets a bullet through the heart. Ironic-it’s not by us, but by a new breed of spies-Islamic jihad extremists.”
“The hate is the same,” O’Brien said, looking at Borshnik’s body. “They took Jason. Mohammed Sharif has him.”
“Looks like Sharif had the same idea we had. But he was faster.”
“That’s because he knew the location before we did,” O’Brien said. “And I’m betting the reason why is that dead man in the front lot, he sold out. O’Brien walked to a window facing the front entrance. He studied the area while the men checked the bodies for signs of life. Then O’Brien stepped across the room, trying to avoid pools of blood, and looked out a window facing the wide river. He watched as a Navy Blackhawk helicopter hovered near Pier 13. Hunter joined him at the window.
“We’ll get Jason alive,” Hunter said. “I’ll have the choppers fly the main roads.”
“What are you going to look for?”
“They don’t have a long head-start. We’ll watch for fast driving with an emphasis on trucks and vans. Probably crated the uranium in a truck or a cargo van and are on their way to someplace like the Port of Miami … or they may be near here, right under our noses at Jax Port.”
“Maybe,” said O’Brien. “But, what if they have no intention of exporting the stuff? Why head south when you can go north.”
“Where would they go from here?”
“The closest place to make an atomic bomb.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
The taxi driver with no face rose from the cab’s front seat, sat up, placed both hands on the wheel and slowly turned his head toward O’Brien. Greenish yellow blowflies fed on the blood from the eye cavities.
O’Brien was in the old warehouse looking out toward the river. He watched the black helicopters in the distance hover then sweep down above the surface. They looked like giant black prehistoric birds, predators ready to scoop prey out of the dark water.
He awoke from a deep, erratic sleep, sat straight up in a strange bed and stared at a clock on the nightstand: 3:57 a.m. He sat there for a minute, the sweat dripping through his chest hair, the images of the dead fading in the dark, the sound of a passing car outside the motel.
O’Brien sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds trying to clear his head. Think. He got up, turned the light on and walked into the bathroom where he shook three aspirins from a bottle he’d bought earlier. He filled a glass with water and chased down the aspirins. O’Brien looked at himself in the mirror. Eyes red. Lips chapped. Hair matted. A four-day growth on his face.
He flashed back to his dream, to the Blackhawk helicopters flying over the river. “The river …,” he mumbled. “A perfect escape … if they had a boat.” O’Brien splashed water on his face, dressed, shoved his Glock under his belt and walked to his Jeep.
He stopped at pier 13, got out and turned on his flashlight. Pockets of mist drifted up from the river’s surface, like ghost couples entwined in a silent dance across a black marble floor. He heard the drone of a tanker moving upriver. He walked down to the edge of the dock, slowly panning the flashlight across the concrete for clues. O’Brien leaned over the edge, shined the light on the big rubber bumper guards protruding from the dock.
Blood.
Just above the water line, in the center of the cement joint. A spot the size of a dime. The tide was rising and O’Brien could tell by previous waterline marks, it wouldn’t be long before the blood was washed away. Was it Jason’s blood? Was one of Sharif’s men wounded? He looked at the last piece of physical evidence leading to the river. The escape was done in a boat. Why? He looked up at the river, the twirl of mist in the foreground, the silence of dark water moving toward the sea.
On the way back to the motel, O’Brien called Hunter and told him what he found and what he thought.
“Gimme a second,” Hunter said, his voice heavy with sleep. “Could have been fish blood for all we know. Maybe somebody had been fishing there earlier.”
“No. There are high-water marks on the bulkhead. Tide was probably going out when Mohammed hit Borshnik. Tide’s been rising all night. At high tide it’ll cover the bumper. I could see the blood was fresh. It dripped there today.”
“How far are you from the motel?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“I’ll start the calls now. Coast Guard and Navy are all over this place. Mohammed could have been in the Atlantic in a half hour from Pier 13. Depending on the speed of their boat, they may have headed south toward Miami or north. They have a big head start.”
“I don’t think Sharif plans to export something he’d kill to have imported into this country. Where is he going to get the stuff packed and made into a real bomb that will work? If we can figure that out, we might have a chance of stopping him.”
CHAPTER NINETY
It was early morning when the 45-foot Sea Ray turned portside from the Atlantic and slipped into Wassaw Sound east of Savannah. The pilot followed the channel markers. Small fishing boats and jet skiers buzzed across the wide bay.
Mohammed Sharif sipped a dark coffee. He had not slept in two days. He knew there would be no sleep until the work on the bomb was underway. That would be very soon. He watched as they passed Sister Island on the left and the opulent homes of the Wilmington Island Club on the right. An attractive blond woman in a tiny bikini stood at the end of a dock and applied sun screen. Mohammed stared at her, watched her rub sunscreen on her breasts, felt the movement in his loins and disgust in his heart.
The pilot looked at his gauges and said, “We will have to refuel in about an hour.”
“They will be waiting for us in a cemetery next to the river,” Mohammed said. “It is called Bonaventure Cemetery, and we will see the road next to the river. This road is Mulryne Way. We will load the truck. You will go on farther, perhaps three kilometers to dock in Savannah off East River Street. Leave the keys, walk away, check into a hotel and wait for instructions. You will fly the plane. You, Anwar, will be the man who releases the bomb on America.”
“It is my honor … my duty and destiny. Allah Akbar. ”
O’Brien pulled into a McDonalds restaurant parking lot. He turned on his laptop and found a signal.
“What are you doing?” Hunter asked.
“If they went south, assuming the boat even had twin diesel tanks, they’d probably be looking to refuel somewhere in the Fort Pierce area. If they went north, Savannah might be as far as they’d get. Now what would be-” O’Brien stopped in mid-thought, his eyes burning into the satellite image of Savannah.
“What is it?” Hunter asked.
“Is Dave Collins out of the hospital?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you have a chopper waiting for us?”
“Yes, Sean. But I need to know why.”
“It’s a hunch, but I need to Skype in Dave to make it happen.” O’Brien made the Skype connection, glancing at his watch. Nick Cronus appeared on the screen and said, “Hey, buddy. You okay? Where the hell are you, Sean?”
“Where’s Dave? Is he okay, Nick?”
“For an old dude, he’s all right. Got his shoulder in a sling. Picked him up from the hospital last night and brought him back to his boat-refused to stay there overnight. Right now he’s lying down, maybe sleeping.”
“Get him, Nick. We have a hell of an emergency here.”
&n
bsp; “Hold on.”
O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose, his scalp tightening, head pounding. He looked over at Hunter and said, “If my hunch is right, we need to head north.”
“Sean,” said Dave on screen. “What’s the situation?”
O’Brien said, “I’m here with Eric Hunter, near Jacksonville. When you were talking about Remote Viewing, you mentioned a physicist. Believe you said he worked at the Savannah River Nuclear Site.”
“Yes, name’s Lee Toffler. Why?”
“You’d said he had a daughter who was just killed in a car accident.”
“Awful. From what I read she died in a car fire. Burned beyond recognition.”
“Did they check dental records?”
“Don’t know. Probably not if it was her car.”
“Was another car involved?”
“A second car? I remember the story … said she’d lost control and hit a tree.”
Eric Hunter looked at his watch and asked, “Sean, where the hell are you going with this?”
“Maybe to one of the most dangerous places in America.” He glanced at the computer screen. “Dave, when was the last time you saw Toffler?”
“Not since the ‘90s when we hired him as a consultant for the Remote Viewing.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Probably in my files. Toffler is the kind of guy that’s lived in the same house for thirty-five years. Drives the same car until the engine dies. Frugal and very smart.”
“Call him.”
Dave sipped his coffee. “Okay. But what am I going to ask him? ‘Hey, Lee, are you sure you buried your daughter. Hell of a conversation opener.”
“No, you won’t have to ask him that because by now he probably knows his daughter is alive and being held hostage.”
“What?” Dave asked.
“When you had mentioned Toffler to Nick and I and then said his daughter had just died, it was about the same time Sharif thought he’d have his hands on the HEU. Kidnap the renowned physicist’s daughter and you raise red flags. Fake her death, nobody remembers in a few weeks. Sharif probably called her father a day after the funeral, put the terrified daughter on the phone a second and then started making demands. Toffler keeps his mouth shut and does what the terrorists want.”
“In this case,” Hunter said, “you get him to take the HEU and make it go boom.”
“Jesus,” Nick said, taking a sip of black coffee.
“Nick,” said Dave, “hand me the Rolodex on the desk, next to the laptop.”
O’Brien said, “After you touch base, ask him who’s holding his daughter.”
Dave nodded. “I’ll put him on speaker. Jump in, Sean, wherever you want.”
In two rings, a fatigued voice answered, “Yes?”
“Lee, this is Dave Collins, CIA.”
“Oh … Dave. I can’t talk right now … ”
“Have your daughter’s kidnappers approached you?”
Silence. Then, “How’d you know she was kidnapped?”
“We didn’t for certain, Mr. Toffler,” O’Brien said.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Sean O’Brien. Old friends with Dave. I’m helping the FBI and CIA find the people who took your daughter. Do you know where they are holding her?”
“I can’t risk my daughter’s life. They said they’d cut her head off if police-”
“We’re not police. We’re the people who can get your daughter back alive. But we can only do it with your cooperation.”
“I’m sorry.” The phone disconnected.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Lee Toffler drove slowly through the northwest Savannah neighborhood of 1960’s ranch-style homes. Toffler, with his wide forehead, graying hair and thick wrists, looked more like a retired football coach than a nuclear physicist. He stopped in front of 2973 Sycamore Drive, backed up, and pulled his twenty-year-old Land Rover into the drive next to a dark blue van. He knocked on the door and waited. A man with dark features answered. In perfect English he said, “Professor Toffler, we’ve been waiting for you.”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“She is downstairs. I believe you call it a basement. She is there with the rest of the things you said you needed. The spark gaps, oscillator scopes, casing, all the wiring, everything on your shopping list.”
The man opened the door, and Lee Toffler entered the home.
Across the street, Myrtle Birdsong peeked out of an opening in her drapes. She sipped a diet coke and watched the man enter the rented house. He’d parked his green car next to the blue van. Who were they? Burglars? Maybe terrorists like what they’ve been saying all morning on the TV news. Call the police. The phone rang. It was Alice, the sister with all the issues. She was going through a divorce, and Myrtle was the only one who really understood.
“Daddy!” Lisa Toffler sobbed when she saw her father come down the stairs. She was in a chair, hands bound behind her back. Jason Canfield, tied to a second chair, sat a few feet away from her.
Toffler ran to his daughter and wrapped his arms around her. Tears streamed down her face.
Sharif walked into the large room. “Enough!” he shouted. “There is important work to be done.” He gestured to a long wooden table, the U-235 canisters laid side-by-side, the wires, detonators and other materials stacked on one side.
Toffler stood, his eyes moving across the table. Sharif said, “It is all here, the items you said we must procure. It is very convenient being close to the largest nuclear plant in America. I was surprised at what money can buy.”
“Let me see the HEU,” Toffler said.
“Absolutely.”
Toffler carefully examined one canister. He said, “I’ll need to wear the protective gear. Everyone must leave this room.”
“How long will this task take you?” Sharif asked.
“If all is here, not too long.”
“Good, very good.”
“Then you said you will release my daughter.”
“I am a man of my word.”
“Who’s he?” asked Toffler, looking at Jason.
“This is Mr. Jason Canfield. He is going to make a video with us, a most exciting video for the world to watch on the Internet.”
O’Brien looked out the side window of the Blackhawk helicopter and saw at least two-dozen SWAT members and police officers waiting on the ground. He rode in the backseat with Hunter, the co-pilot and pilot were hovering the chopper about five-hundred feet over the Statesboro, Georgia, airport before setting down.
Hunter said, “We’ve got Toffler’s address, not that he’ll be there. He drives a 1990 olive green Land Rover. Wife passed away six years ago. Never remarried. He raised his only daughter through her teenage years. So somewhere out there Lee Toffler and his daughter are in a room with the most ruthless men on the planet.”
“The airport where we’re landing … is it the only one between here and Savannah?” O’Brien asked.
The pilot said, “Couple of small airstrips, mostly for crop dusters and a few people who hanger small planes in what is essentially farmland.”
O’Brien scanned the countryside. “Eric, see if your people can find out if anyone has rented a plane, probably a twin engine, in the last twenty-four hours. Also, check to see if someone has reserved one.”
“What if Sharif isn’t going to drop the bomb from a plane? What if the fucker, and his camel-breath followers, just strap the bomb in the front seat and drive a truck into the Jefferson Memorial?”
“It’s a hell of a lot easier to hit almost any target in America by air. From here D.C. is only two hours in a twin engine. They may not have Washington as a target. What’s the most densely populated, probably one of the least protected big cities in the nation, a city that’s a half hour away by air?”
“Atlanta.”
“Bingo. Whoever you call to put the F-16s on alert from Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport, better start calling them right now.”
Mohamm
ed Sharif stood Jason up against a wall in the living room of the house. One of his men pointed a light in Jason’s face and clipped a microphone to his blood-stained shirt. They placed the video camera on a flimsy tripod and nodded.
Sharif said, “Jason Canfield, before we turn the camera on, let me make one thing very clear to you. We do not have time to edit this. You get it right the first time.”
“People will know you forced me to say it.”
“Abdul, produce the knife for Mr. Canfield-the knife he has was used to remove six heads.” Abdul reached behind his back and retrieved a hunting knife with a serrated blade. “That,” said Sharif, “will be the knife we use to remove your head, and we will do it on video if you do not cooperate. The blade is sharp, but small. The victim can feel the steel and the four to five cuts it takes to sever the spinal cord. It is a slow death.” Sharif grinned, his eyes dancing. “Abdul told me after he removed the head of an infidel, he held it in his out-stretched arm, and the eyes of the severed head blinked for a few seconds. What do you imagine, Canfield, the dying brain was thinking?”
Jason said nothing, his eyes on the blade. Sharif said, “Turn on the camera.”
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
O’Brien and Hunter drove a rented Toyota 4-Runner from the airport. Plenty of room for the assault rifles. He was still carrying the Luger along with his Glock.
Hunter’s cell rang. “What do you have?” he asked. He listened, nodding his head. “Send back-up. No sirens.”
“What is it?”
“We got an address: 2973 Sycamore Drive. Turn left at the next light.” Hunter quickly entered the address in the GPS, then added, “A neighbor-lady across the street apparently saw five, I’m quoting here, ‘five bin Laden types’ get into a large blue cargo van and leave with something wrapped in a quilt. One of the men looked American-a young guy who was walking with a limp.”
