by Marc Cameron
Chapter 56
A balding flight attendant in his mid-forties named Andre stood guard outside the door to the crew rest quarters.
“Are you the one that found the body?” Quinn said.
“No, sir,” Andre said. “Juanita found him. She’s the senior flight attendant.”
Before Quinn could ask anything else, the top of Juanita’s head came up the ladder. Ebony eyes flashed at Quinn, daring him to get in her way. She’d been affected by the dead bodies, and though on edge, did not appear to be afraid. There was a fierceness about her that made Quinn wonder if she was afraid of anything.
“Looks like Paxton was beaten to death,” she said. “The woman was strangled with some kind of cord.” Hauling herself up the ladder with one hand, she passed what looked like a coffee grinder to Quinn with the other.
Quinn passed it to Carly and stepped back, helping the other flight attendant onto the deck.
“No one else is down there?” he asked.
Juanita shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Just poor Paxton and the Chinese woman.” She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.
“Wait,” Quinn said. “The dead woman is Chinese?”
“I think so,” Juanita said. “I couldn’t find any ID, but that’s what I’d guess. I’ll keep watch if you want to go down and have a look.”
Carly held up the coffee grinder. “What’s this for?”
“That’s the weird part,” Juanita said. “Somebody plugged it in by one of the bunks. Looks like they used pillows to muffle the noise.”
Quinn opened the grinder and ran a finger around the sides. It came back covered in silver gray dust.
Carly looked at his finger. “What the heck is that?”
“Aluminum,” he said.
Juanita stepped away from the door leading to the crew quarters. “You want to go down and check it out?”
“No need,” Quinn said. A feeling of dread washed over him. He had to get back to Mattie. “I know what’s happening.”
Chapter 57
The White House
Baka, the derisive Japanese word for idiot, was nowhere near strong enough to convey Ran’s contempt for Hartman Drake. She stood at the back of the cramped White House pressroom and watched as the president droned on and on about his administration and what he was doing to counter growing Chinese nationalism and a legion of other threats to the United States. As if this buffoon, this mindless lothario, could do anything but chase women and admire himself in the mirror.
Lee McKeon flanked the president, a few steps to the left, hands crossed at his stomach. He was taller than Drake by half a foot, slender—almost to the point of bony—where the President was husky and, Ran knew, McKeon was brilliant where the other man was overwhelmingly dim.
Few knew the truth, but McKeon might as well have had his hand up the back of the President’s shirt, controlling him like a ventriloquist’s dummy. But that was the thing about McKeon—he was happy to be in the shadows, working as the power behind the throne. She’d asked him once, while he was still the governor of Oregon, if he did not wish to be the president. “Why waste time being the emperor?” he’d said. “When I can be the shogun?”
It was nothing short of amazing how he handled the fool—and Ran was not easily amazed. Though Drake strutted around as if he’d decided on his own to release the Uyghur terrorists in Guantanamo Bay to Pakistan where they could more easily escape and wreak more havoc against China, the idea had sprung from McKeon’s fertile mind. It was all part of his larger plan to push America and China into a devastating nuclear war.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, all his cabinet members, even close members of his West Wing staff, believed Drake was running the show. McKeon wanted it that way. He moved by suggestion and sheer force of will, rarely giving anyone more than a nod, or a word or two to nudge them in the right direction.
Drake was too shortsighted to see the larger picture. He wanted to open borders, allow members of al Qaeda, Lashkar e Taiba, and a dozen other terrorist organizations to slip through and put their little bombs in Disneyland and Times Square. But Lee McKeon was a big thinker. He’d inherited a sense of purpose and destiny from his father that the other man would never comprehend.
Under his quiet guidance, President Drake would chip away at the Chinese economy, throw the full weight of his support behind Japan and the disputed Senkaku Islands. He would start issuing a travel visa to the president of Taiwan and treat him like a head of state.
A cold war stalemate only worked if the US had someone at the helm who was willing to pull the trigger but hesitant to do so. A calculated overreaction, demanded by the American people for supposed atrocities by the Chinese government—like the bombing of an American airliner—would set off a chain reaction that would not stop until it was too late.
Lee McKeon foresaw how it would happen, and Ran had no reason to doubt him.
Chinese cyber experts would do their best to interrupt air defense systems. Ballistic missiles would be sent first, not to land- or sea-based targets, but to space, to destroy communication and military navigational satellites. The next barrage of missiles would rain down on American bases in Japan and South Korea. Chinese nuclear submarines would creep in close enough to fire dozens of Giant Wave nuclear missiles at cities along the west coast of the United States, while ICBMs arced over the North Pole toward New York, Baltimore, and Washington.
Of course, the US would not stand idly by. Theirs was the most potent and deadly air and sea war machine in the world. They would eventually “win,” but it would prove a Pyrrhic victory. Like the great empires of Persia, Rome, Babylon, and Assyria, America was unbeatable—and like all the others she would fall. When she did, Lee McKeon would be there to stomp on her dying neck.
There was something about him, about his vision, that hypnotized Ran. He made her feel like a small child, full of wonder and amazement—the way her father had done, so many years ago when he was teaching her to kill.
She watched as President Drake began to take questions from the media and imagined the time when she could use those skills on him.
Chapter 58
Flight 105
Tang steadied himself in the mid cabin lavatory, sifting the ground aluminum powder through the espresso sieve to remove the larger bits of foil. Rather than risk detection by staying in the crew quarters too long, he’d decided to finish the process in the lavatory.
He held up a sandwich bag containing nearly five tablespoons of the silver powder. Ma Zhen had assured him that would be more than enough, but still, he worried. Their device was so small for such a large aircraft. He agonized over the thought of merely damaging the plane and rotting in American jail where officious men would order him around all day. He might as well be back in China if that happened.
Crippling waves of doubt pressed him down, making it difficult to breathe. Hu had seen a man locate Gao in his seat as if it was known that he was the killer. This fact made Tang wonder if there were cameras on board. And if there were cameras, they might have noticed patterns in movement by now. In any case, there was some kind of policeman on board, possibly an air marshal. The way Hu described him, Tang was certain it was the guizi child’s father. That made sense. He’d had the predatory look of someone who liked to be in charge.
Tang leaned against the counter, clutching the precious bag of metal in his fist as he stared into the mirror. Bloodshot, stricken eyes looked back at him—eyes that had seen death and knew there was nothing but more of the same in his future. There was no escape when he closed them, only the vision of his wife, strangled at the hand of another while he did nothing to stop it. Tang told himself it was for her own good, to stop her suffering, end her struggle—her jihad. But that did not matter now. Reasons were nothing to a bullet in a gun. He sniffed, steeling himself for what lay ahead, and pushed open the door.
Flight attendants seemed to be everywhere when he came out of the lavatory. He’d washed his face and left it da
mp so it looked like he’d been sick. A balding man met him mid-aisle and gave him an up-and-down look.
“Where are you seated, sir?” the attendant asked.
“Up front,” Tang said. He let his voice tremble slightly. “Is something wrong? I heard there was a murder.”
“We’re taking care of it,” the attendant said. “Return to your seat and stay there.”
Tang nodded meekly, pressing past the much larger man. Ma Zhen had taken Lin’s seat. It was only right. He was the most righteous, the most zealous. But more than that, he understood how the bomb worked. Now that Lin was gone, he should be the one to detonate it. Tang and Hu would act as guards to make certain he was not stopped.
Another flight attendant passed—this one shorter with dark, intrusive eyes. She moved quickly, counting heads and comparing them to a list in her hand. Not being Chinese, she wasn’t likely to know if Lin was a masculine or feminine name. Tang waited until she hustled by, and then passed Ma Zhen the Baggie of aluminum powder.
Tang leaned forward in his seat, resting his head in his hands. They were so close . . . so incredibly close. He had to succeed now, for the sake of his wife, for the sake of their children. He had never been much of a praying man, but he listened to Ma Zhen’s whispered prayer and found solace in that.
The bomb was brilliant in that it was so rudimentary. In theory, it was much too small to do much more than punch a small hole through the skin of an aircraft as large as the Airbus. But that was the beauty of it. A small hole would be large enough for his needs.
“Your wife destroyed the detonator,” Ma said, nodding to the open backpack on the floor.
Tang’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Don’t worry, my brother,” Ma said. “I have another. I would never trust the success of this mission to a single point of failure. I must make one more trip to the lavatory.” He held a flask discreetly so other passengers couldn’t see it. He needed to mix the aluminum powder with the PETN and then fill the flasks with water—but that would take no time at all.
Tang craned his head around to look toward the back of the plane. All the flight attendants were still moving backwards, focused on their lists.
“Go now,” he said. “I’ll let Hu know to do his part.”
Ma took a deep breath, his normal frown perking slightly. “In five minutes’ time, our pain will be over,” he said. “And I will see you in Paradise, Allah willing.”
“Yes,” Tang said. “Allah willing.” But he could only think of getting to the back so he could watch the guizi child suffer the fate of his wife.
Chapter 59
Quinn stopped at the aft lounge just long enough to make certain Mattie was safe before contacting the captain on the interphone. He explained the ground aluminum powder and its probable use in an explosive device, but went into less detail about the murders since he’d not seen them himself.
Listening in on the conversation with the captain, Gao began to laugh hysterically when Quinn mentioned that one of the victims was an Asian woman, likely Chinese. Half the passengers were of Asian ethnicity so it was hardly standout news.
“Two murders,” Gao said in Mandarin, though he obviously understood English. “Two dead . . . Double Happiness . . .”
Quinn’s mouth went dry when he heard the words. He dropped the phone, letting it swing from the cord as he wheeled and grabbed the cackling man by the collar. “What did you say?”
“Double Happiness,” Gao said, quieter now but still grinning. His big head wagged stupidly back and forth as he spoke. “Lin is dead. I think double happiness is no happiness at all.”
Quinn shoved Gao backwards, letting him fall against the stairs, and ran to fling open the curtain where Mattie sat with Madonna Foss. He knelt beside his daughter.
Gao’s bellowing had been easy enough to hear. Quinn hoped the slurred Mandarin had been more difficult for Mattie to understand. The look on her face said he hadn’t been that lucky.
“Is Lin all right?” Mattie said. “I heard that man say ‘double happiness.’ That’s what I drew on the card I made for her. He said the word dead. Is she really dead?”
Quinn took her by the shoulders with both hands. “I don’t know, sweetheart. What seat is she sitting in?”
Mattie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “It’s upstairs, at the front. I remember she was two rows up from the bathrooms by the window on that side of the plane.” She pointed to the left.
“Two forward of the lavatories and galley . . . That would be 12A,” Carly said. “Business class.”
Madonna Foss groaned. “That’s near one of the emergency exits,” she said. “Perfect place for a you know what.”
“I already know you’re talking about a bomb,” Mattie said, shaking her head as if she had no time for secrets. “Really, Dad, do you think my friend is dead?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Quinn said. “A Chinese woman has been killed, but we’re not sure it’s her.” Blunt honesty had always been the best policy with Mattie. He nodded toward the handset. “Carly, can you get someone up front to take a look at 12A? Tell them not to make contact. Just see if anyone is sitting there.”
Carly used the interphone to page Andre in the upper-deck business class and spoke with him for a short moment.
The captain’s voice came across the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We’re approaching some extremely rough air. Please take your seats.”
Handset to her ear, Carly’s face grew pale as she listened to Andre report back.
“There’s an Asian man sitting in 12A,” she said. “And another two that refuse to take their seats.”
“Refuse?” Quinn said. “Are they arguing?”
“Ignoring.” Carly nodded. “According to Andre, one just ran down the front stairs.”
That made sense, Quinn thought. Put the bomber in the middle while they had two men guard both sets of stairs on either side of him. “Tell Andre and whoever else is up there the bomb is probably in 12A. I’ll be right there.”
Quinn kissed Mattie on the top of her head, taking a short moment to smell her hair before he looked up at Foss. “Can you keep watching her for a few more minutes?”
“Goes without saying,” the air marshal said.
Natalie stood, giving Quinn an uncharacteristic hug. Her perfume reminded him of his mother. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. He gave his daughter one last kiss on the head, wondering if he’d ever see her again.
Natalie pulled Carly to her, whispering something in her ear.
“Sit tight, sweetie,” Quinn said to his daughter.
“Take the back stairs,” Carly said. “It’s quicker.”
“I would,” Quinn said. “But I need to grab something from my seat on the way.”
Chapter 60
Tang was standing just aft of the forward galley when Ma Zhen came out of the lavatory. He couldn’t see the small plastic flasks full of water and explosive, but knew the device was ready from the look of relief on Ma’s face. The men nodded, each dropping their shoulders in a half bow of respect and resignation. Then Ma disappeared behind the forward galley curtain toward what had once been Lin’s seat.
Tang looked toward the back of the plane, watching for the American girl’s father. Hu had already gone down the front stairs and was sweeping backwards on the main deck. They only had minutes left, but between the two of them, Ma would be protected.
“Hey,” a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt said. “Why aren’t you in your seat?” Her voice held the suspicious edge of a mother with teenagers.
“Very dangerous man on board,” Tang said, keeping up the image of frightened passenger for a few moments longer. “Crew say he come from there.” He pointed toward the tail.
A burly man with a beard craned his neck to look behind him, and then stood. “I’m not going to sit around while someone is killing people on this plane,” he said.
&nbs
p; “Me neither.” Another man, across the aisle and two rows back, stood as well. “What does he look like?”
A moment later, Tang had a group of six men who were spoiling for a fight. He described Quinn as best he could remember and started toward the back, leading his posse. He didn’t have much time to make it to the guizi girl. Ma would detonate the device as soon as he attached the detonator—two minutes away at the most. The angry mob gave him credibility with the other passengers as he strode down the aisle. The irony of it all made him smile for the first time in months.
Chapter 61
Maryland
Bowen ended the call with a frantic Joey Benavides and stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket. They were parked in the shadows on a side road off Rockville Pike, a block from the west side of Walter Reed Military Medical Center.
Bowen had never been much of a worrier, but sitting in a stolen truck with a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the president and now bent on breaking a federal prisoner out of custody ranked right up there with the activities that had caused his hair to go prematurely gray in the first place.
It was warm out, humid in the DC way that made clothes stick to skin and the odor of the last ten passengers rise up from the upholstery of vehicles left shut up too long in the sun. The concrete truck smelled like pastrami, overripe bananas, and half a can of Axe deodorant.
Bowen wore a short-sleeve sports shirt, plaid so it broke up the imprint of his Glock, unbuttoned and open over a black T-shirt. He’d left his ballistic vest in his Charger, which was still parked back at the strip mall, but consoled himself that getting shot was about to be the least of his worries.
“They’re taking her to a ship anchored off Bloods-worth Island,” Bowen said. “Some kind of old Navy gunnery range out in the Chesapeake.”
