Holding back, he watched the woman park in front of the GA terminal building and walk up the steps. Gripping the steering wheel his heart rate doubled, causing his face to flush red. He had only a few minutes to put together a plan.
He drove to the controlled access gate in the perimeter fence a hundred yards west of the terminal. The entrance allowed authorized personnel to enter the airport grounds using an access code. He tapped in the numbers and drove the frontage road to a row of twelve gray hangers. Avoiding his assigned parking space, he left his car in the adjacent common area, and with the handgun hidden, he hurried to his hanger. Bashir noticed the hanger next to him had the door open with people working inside.
In his hanger he flipped the lights on and locked the door behind him. He barely noticed his gleaming McDonald Douglas DC 3 centered on the floor. Bashir stood rigid while figuring out his next step. Using the gun would attract the attention of the nearby workers. After a few seconds he relaxed, unlocked the door, put his gun down and began searching for a silent weapon. He found it, turned off the lights and positioned himself next to the door.
ASHLEY WALKED TO the glass doors of the GA terminal and found the lobby lights on and the glass doors locked. She could see no one in the lobby or behind the counter, but knew from her days as a flight instructor that even on Sunday someone had to be providing flight services. She tapped on the glass with her car keys. After a minute she tapped again, harder. Still no answer. Ashley assumed the attendant, most likely in a communication center on the second floor, didn't hear her. She woke her phone and Googled Allen Aviation, noted the phone number and touched the link. A man with a Spanish accent answered. "Allen Aviation, may I help you please?"
"Yes. This is Special Agent Kohen with the FBI. I'm at your front door. I need to speak with you about an ongoing investigation."
"The FBI. Yes, I am here the only one. It's Sunday. Tomorrow can you come back?"
Ashley closed her eyes and promised herself to be patient. "Who am I speaking with, please?"
"My name Emilio Ortiz."
"Mister Ortiz this is a police matter. I need only a few minutes of your time."
"Oh, police. Yes, yes I open the door, but I am only one. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand, Mister Ortiz. Thank you."
In less than a minute a man wearing wireless headphones and a leather vest over a plaid shirt entered the lobby. Ashley showed him her ID through the glass doors that he immediately unlocked. When Ashley stepped inside, Ortiz offered his hand, but didn't make eye contact with her.
Ashley shook his hand. It felt cold and damp. "I apologize for this interruption, Emilio. I have only one question." Ashley had clipped Bashir's photograph to her leather ID holder. She unclipped it, and handed it to him. "Do you recognize this man?"
Ortiz glanced at the picture. "No, Ms. Kohen, I don't see him."
Ashley remained pleasant. "Please look again. This is important."
Ortiz studied the photograph for a full minute. "Sorry. I don't know this man, but I know this airplane behind him."
Ashley smiled. "That's good, Emilio. Tell me about the airplane."
"You see it's a DC 3. Popular in my country." He stopped and fumbled with the picture. "I mean in all countries."
"You're right. It's a famous aircraft still used around the world. Have you seen this particular plane here?"
He again inspected the photograph. "Maybe this airplane. I don’t know for sure, but there is one like it here." He paused. "Maybe I know this man, too. Not dressed like this." Ashley felt a heightened awareness. "I think he is the one with the DC 3 in hanger nine over there." He pointed toward the apron in front of a row of hangers. "Yes I see him. Not a happy man. Never smiles."
"Can you take me to hanger nine? I need to inspect it."
Ortiz shook his head. "Oh no Ms. Kohen. I cannot leave here, but you can go. We own the hangers. You are the police. I will give you the code for the gate and a key for the hanger. It is all right." He turned the photograph over and wrote four numbers on the back. He went to the counter and got a key and gave it to Ashley. Seconds later he looked over Ashley's head as if in thought, then pointed to the headphones. "I must go now. There is my work to do."
"Thank you Emilio. I’ll see that your boss knows you’ve been helpful."
He brightened with a toothy grin. "Si, I mean yes, thank you, too." He turned and dashed off upstairs.
Ashley followed the perimeter fence and found the gate, entered the code and drove down a frontage road lined on one side with gray metal hangers. Each one had a number painted over the entrance door and four reserved parking spaces for owner use. As she approached hanger eight she saw three cars parked there, but no cars parked next to it. She took one of the empty spaces in front of number nine and checked the time. Four fifteen–she'd have to call Walter soon.
With her senses on full alert, Ashley approached the door of number nine. She realized what she might find on the other side could change her life and maybe the lives of thousands of Americans. At the door her hand shook when she inserted the key and turned it. The door didn't open. She turned the key again and the door unlocked. Ashley hesitated. Hangers contain expensive aircraft and equipment. No one would leave a plane unprotected. She withdrew her gun for the second time that day, took a deep breath and yanked the door open.
The afternoon sun cast an extended shadow of the building into the street behind her making the interior of the hanger dark. She moved over the threshold, her gun at the ready, and waited a second for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Then she stepped further inside. Her peripheral vision sensed a blur of motion, but too late. She felt a sharp pain explode in her head, then nothing.
SIXTY-TWO
THE HANGER DOOR BURST OPEN. Bashir's muscles tensed as he raised the metal pipe gripped with both hands. A moment passed, and then the woman advanced holding a gun in front of her. A flash of panic seized him as he swung the pipe wildly striking a blow to the back of her head. She pitched forward, falling face down on the concrete floor. Her gun skittered into the darkness. Bashir jumped to her side and raised the pipe ready to hit her again. Her body remained still. He became aware of the daylight flooding through the open door. Turning, he switched on the lights and pulled the door shut.
Holding the pipe at his side, he studied the woman's motionless body. Blood oozed from the wound and stained the concrete. He poked her with the pipe. She didn't move. His eyes traveled from the bloody mass of hair down to her feet and back. He exhaled a heavy breath and began to relax. The pipe clattered on the floor when he dropped it.
Now he must find out who this person is–this chameleon that changed identity as easily as a lizard changes color. To be sure she remained unconscious, he kicked her twice, then knelt down, and turned her over. Even with blood covering the side of her face, she remained a beautiful woman. He unbuttoned her jacket revealing her rounded breasts under her blouse. He touched them and found them firm like ripe oranges. He moved his hands over her body exploring every curve. He had never seen such a woman–one so perfect. Aroused, Bashir became aware of his lust for this magnificent creature. He fondled her breasts again. She didn't wear a bra like most women. He grasped her blouse with both hands and ripped it open. His breath came fast and his heart thumped as his passion mounted. Her underwear gave way in his frantic effort to undress her. She was even more desirable than he had imagined. He touched her, massaging her soft pubic hair. I must have this women! With shaking hands he exposed himself and fell on her fumbling with clothing that got in the way. Her pants, wadded at the ankles, hiding her ankle holster, forced him to jerk her knees apart giving him entrance to her. Pulling on her shoulders, he forced himself into her. He grunted with savage satisfaction. Salivating, he licked the clean side of her face as he began an urgent thrusting motion that mounted until he could no longer control himself. Stifling a cry of ecstasy, his muscles gave way and he fell on her. With his face only inches away, his eyes focused on
her Star of David necklace tangled in matted hair.
Still breathing hard he pulled back as if dodging the strike of a viper. A wave of nausea passed over him. What had attracted him seconds ago became a repulsive heap of flesh. He felt unclean. As he struggled to free himself of contact, a compulsion to flee overtook him. Still reeling from his discovery, he stood on unsteady legs while pulling his clothes up. Would Allah forgive him? Could he forgive himself?
He stepped back and finished adjusting his clothing, his eyes darting about the hanger. Of course, no one saw him. Bashir walked a tight circle around her. He picked up her gun, and tossed it aside.
First he must find out who this person is. Repugnant as she had become, he began going through her pockets searching for some form of identification. Inside her jacket, he found his picture clipped to the outside of a leather folder. Inside was an FBI badge, with a set of handcuffs. His mouth opened in disbelief. FBI. How could this be? He had always protected his mission by using Abdullah as a diversion. Bashir realized that if she found him, others would soon do the same. He felt beads of sweat form on his face as he pocketed the cuffs, stuffed his picture in his back pocket and replaced the badge back into her jacket. His action caused the woman to moan. He reached for the metal pipe, and raised it over his head–then lowered it. This body, he had ravished only minutes before, looked wretched, even pathetic.
If he killed her he would have to dispose of the body or leave her on the concrete floor. Disposal would take time and be messy. Leaving her would open the chance that she might be found too soon. Someone gave her a key to his hanger door, probably that idiot Mexican. No matter how slight the chance, he must protect himself from discovery. Bashir placed the pipe on the floor and walked around to her head, reached down and grabbed both arms. Walking backwards, he created a path of blood as he dragged her almost naked body over to the plane centered in the hanger. Getting a better hold under her armpits, he pulled her up the portable steps on the port side of his aircraft. Her pants, still crumpled around her ankles snagged on the steps. Once inside he cast about trying to decide the best place to put her. A ghost of a smile creased his face.
Bashir had received the measurements of the case containing the nuclear device months earlier. He had built a metal platform designed to hold the bomb, and bolted it to the floor of the aircraft. He added clamps to the platform to guarantee the metal box would remain in place, even in turbulent weather. He would handcuff her to the base of that platform. Bashir enjoyed the irony of an FBI agent becoming a victim of what she had hoped to stop.
He snapped the cuffs on her wrists, made sure they were tight, and then pocketed the key he had found attached to them. He noticed her head wound had stopped bleeding. Good, he thought, I won't have to step in her blood.
Bashir suddenly realized that in his haste to deal with this woman he had left the bomb, detonators and money unprotected in the car. He dashed to the hanger door and quickly made his way to the adjacent parking lot where he gathered everything. Back inside, he carried his essentials into the plane, avoiding the trail of smeared blood on the concrete floor.
Bashir loved his DC 3. He had shipped it from his homeland because he had flown this plane for many years from Beirut, Lebanon to cities in Syria and Jordan as a commercial pilot. Later as a private pilot for the leadership of Hezbollah, he flew it to locations throughout the Middle East.
Restoring this Douglas DC 3 had consumed his life in recent months. With unlimited money he hired technicians to overhaul both engines, refurbish the plane with avionics including communication, and navigation controls. Now he faced the final step in his plan to carry out jihad in America. He must mount the nuclear device and assemble the detonator.
As he stood in front of the metal platform holding the bomb, he heard a gasp for air come from the woman sprawled on the floor at his feet. Good. The Jew bitch is waking up.
SIXTY-THREE
TIRED AND DIRTY, WALTER KENT returned from Maljamar mid-afternoon Sunday. Because of the terror threat, it became another workday. The field investigation reminded him of the war he had fought years ago and tried to forget every day. He considered going by his home for a quick shower and a nap, but his concern for Ashley forced him to head straight to his office. He hadn’t heard from her since she promised to check with him hourly.
When he entered his office he startled Dorothy Hogan. "You look beat and smell like smoke," she said.
"And I feel like..." He caught himself from saying a four letter word...”well, you can guess." He stopped in front of her desk. "Have you heard from Ashley?'
"No, Mr. Kent. Bill Johnson arranged for an early flight to El Paso for her this morning. Should I have?"
Kent remained expressionless and shook his head. "No. No, I just wondered. Ask Bill to come up, would you, please?"
Johnson got the call from Dorothy and headed for the third floor. He entered her office and raised an eyebrow as if to ask Dorothy what was up. She raised a shoulder, shook her head in response, and pointed to Kent's open door.
"Afternoon, Walter. You look like you've been dumpster diving."
"Thanks. I needed that assessment." Trying to hide his anxiety, Walter asked, "Have you heard from Ashley?"
"No. Not since she left for El Paso."
Walter motioned for Bill to sit. "I asked her to keep me posted on her investigation, but she hasn't called. I don't like her out there alone. There’s too much going on all at once.”
"Oh, she'll be all right." He then leaned forward. "But I know what you're saying. How about me giving her a call. She'll probably chew me out for becoming a mother hen, but I'll take the chance."
"Okay, do that. Let me know what you find out." He shuffled papers on his desk. "Fast-tracked preliminary DNA results should be in today. The more I think about her hunch, the more I fear she might be right about Bashir. Those lab reports will confirm who survived and who didn't." His face hardened with concern. "If Bashir's alive, Ashley will have plenty of company whether she wants it or not.
SIXTY-FOUR
IN THE SHROUDED DARKNESS of Ashley’s unconscious mind, an undefined existence flickered. It grew like a pinpoint of light that increased in brightness. This light, her awareness, flooded the emptiness with a blood red pain that seared the core of her being, forcing consciousness to surface. Her eyes opened.
She floated on a bed of agony. Amid this misery, her mother's sweet face appeared. It comforted her when life became cruel and unbearable. She heard her mother’s words from faraway. Ashley, when they knock you down and kick you, reach up and grab their foot and twist it until it hurts. Yes. Yes, I must fight back. But the pain is so great, Mamma. Only then did she realize the meaning of the pain. It was a sign that told her she was alive.
The blinding light faded as Ashley focused on an object in front of her. A black object. Not far away. She strained to make it out. She closed her eyes, then tried again. Finally she realized–it’s my coat sleeve. Fear swept through her as she questioned how wounded she might be. She began to test her senses. First, she moved her head. That hurt, but she could turn it in every direction. Then her left arm. It moved only a few inches. She studied her arm and found a handcuff around her left wrist and another cuff around her right arm. Ashley became aware that she was lying on a hard surface that vibrated along with a distant roar. The pounding in her head eased as she focused on her surroundings that were dimly lit by rows of square windows. The hard metal floor tilted back and forth slightly. It led to curved walls and a concave ceiling. The sound, the vibration–she knew that combination, but couldn’t place it. Then it came to her. She was in an aircraft. An aircraft in flight.
She moved her legs–they responded. Bunched around her feet were her pants. She rubbed one leg against the other and felt her ankle holster still in place. Did it hold her revolver? She rolled over onto her side. Her breasts and most of her lower body lay naked. A coldness gripped her. Naked? She concentrated on how she felt in her most private parts, and sen
sed a rawness that shouldn't be there.
The handcuffs dug into her wrists when she tried to sit up. The chain that linked each cuff hit against a steel rod bolted to the floor. Her vision began to clear. The rod, part of a four-legged structure, had a metal box clamped to the top. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to clear her head. At that moment a shaft of light struck her when a door opened and a man's form advanced toward her. She rolled flat on the floor in an effort to protect herself, and turned her head, glancing up.
The man knelt down on one knee, grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head, causing the pain to intensify. "I see you are still alive," he said without expression on his face. He let go of her and wiped his hand on her sleeve. "I want you to live so you can die with me." On the floor he sat cross legged only inches away. "My name is Bashir, but then you know that, don't you?"
Ashley made no response.
"How do you like my plane?" He waved a hand over his head. "I call her The Awakening. Allah the Bringer of Death has allowed me to prepare her so I can advance His will. You shall share in this great deed.” A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “It's unfortunate that no one, other than you and I, will know of your sacrifice.” Ashley believed his sincerity, ridiculous as that sounded.
"Oh yes, I have bad news." He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a smashed phone. "Right after we took off 15 minutes ago, you got a call, but before I explained your predicament," he mouth twisted into a hard line, "I stepped on it." Bashir dropped the smashed phone on the deck next to the platform and continued. "Since you will join me in this monumental endeavor, you should know what is about to happen." He placed each elbow on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his face. "Above you I have mounted a bomb. It is small, as atomic bombs go, but I plan to maximize its potential. I understand it will kill at least a quarter of a million Americans in Las Vegas, Nevada, maybe more and hundreds of thousands over the next few weeks and months. That will happen five hours from now. Nothing can prevent it. The bomb is already armed. A radar altimeter, measuring our distance to the ground, is integrated into the detonator. The bomb, activated a few minutes ago, when we climbed above 1000 feet, will detonate when we descend below 500 feet. Even I cannot disarm it. But then I suspect you know nothing of altimeters."
The Seventh Message Page 28
