Power Down

by Ben Coes

  “Hold, I’ll need to speak with my supervisor.”

  “Do what you need to do. But make it quick.”

  Dewey waited for more than a minute. Then he heard a click in his headset.

  “It’s Jessica. What’s going on?”

  “I’m in the air, headed for New York City. I have the terrorist, Karim, in the back of the plane.”

  “My God, what—”

  “I need you to set up a pharma team in New York,” said Dewey. “Teterboro is the closest airport to the city. If that doesn’t work, use Newark.”

  “Both airports are closed. There’s a snowstorm up and down the East Coast. Whiteout conditions, the works.”

  “Just get a team there. You have to have one in the city, right? If not, ask CIA who they’d use if they had a situation in the area. Worst case put a team in a truck from D.C. We’re going to be in the air for several hours.”

  “I’ll get a team there,” said Jessica. “Can you ask him some questions before we get him into U.S. airspace?”

  “Believe me, I’d love to,” said Dewey, looking to the back of the cabin. “Me interrogating him won’t do any good. He tried to swallow a cyanide pill he had jammed in a tooth; he’s not going to respond, in my opinion, to pain. I’ll end up killing him, which is exactly what he wants.”

  “Got it. Let me go to work. Keep the headset on.”

  “I also need you to clear us through customs, FAA, et cetera.”

  “I’ll handle that,” said Jessica. “I’ll clear you through to Teterboro. I’ll head up there too. Tell your pilot the weather is horrible. Teterboro, JFK, Newark, and La Guardia are all shut down because of the blizzard.”

  “Right,” said Dewey, glancing over at the pilot, whose forehead ran with sweat. He looked back at Dewey, fear in his eyes. “Better get them to plow the runway.”

  “I’ll make sure they’re ready to plow when you’re close.”

  “What about Indiana?” Dewey asked.

  “They found something in a locker. Belongs to a worker named Mahmoud. Probably your Mahmoud. He’s been at Notre Dame for almost six years. Maintenance guy. I’ll know more in a little while.”

  “Got it disarmed yet?”

  “No.”

  Dewey stared out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. The ocean was a dark black carpet for as far as he could see. Far, far off in the distance, he could see the beginning edge of coastline. It would be the first time he’d been inside the United States since he left more than a decade ago. He felt a tightness in his stomach—and then the warm rush of adrenaline he needed.

  44

  NOTRE DAME STADIUM

  SOUTH BEND, INDIANA

  The small team of bomb experts had gathered just outside the large, basement-level suite of rooms that served as the maintenance facility for Notre Dame Stadium. John Banker, head of the FBI munitions team, the “Bomb Squad,” as it was called, had been rushed to South Bend. Banker and one of his deputies, Stella Galloway, had just begun to carefully disassemble Mahmoud’s locker.

  Banker faced several tough decisions. They could detonate the bomb remotely. They also could bring in one of the FBI’s bomb “robots” and attempt to defuse the bomb by remote control, from a safe distance. But Banker was old-school. He knew the greatest chance of successfully defusing the bomb, given the amount of time, was to do it himself, even though the stakes were considerably higher. Besides, based on what they saw at Long Beach, detonating the bomb remotely was not an option. There was no such thing as a “remote” detonation when the result would mean the destruction of one of the country’s most famous athletic facilities and Lord knows how much of the university itself.

  Banker ordered the other munitions experts who had arrived on scene, many of whom he’d never met before, to leave the facility. To a man, they all refused to leave. Even John Garvey, the head of maintenance for the stadium, refused to leave the building.

  Banker and Galloway didn’t bother putting on protective gear; it wouldn’t have mattered.

  As the gathered group watched, only Banker knew the true import of the situation. Jessica had briefed him on his way to South Bend. Dewey Andreas had tortured the information out of Mahmoud just a few hours ago, but time was passing quickly. If there was any sort of set check-in time between Mahmoud and his bosses, and Mahmoud didn’t make contact, the bomb could be set off remotely.

  Banker now noticed a faint gasoline aroma wafting up from the removed floor of the locker, a smell most casual observers would never have noticed.

  Beneath the floor plate of the locker, Banker shined a light on what looked like a spongy, clear pillow of material. It was mashed down and completely filled the two-by-four-foot space.

  On one side of it sat what looked like two stainless steel tubes within a glass cylinder, a pair of small red wires sticking up into the air.

  “Bingo,” Banker said quietly, handing the light to Galloway. He reached down and pulled the cellular trigger from the octanitrocubane.

  45

  UNITED PARCEL SERVICE

  REGIONAL DISTRIBUTION CENTER

  RENO, NEVADA

  Sergeant Greer Osborne from the Reno Sheriff’s Office climbed out of the van. In his left hand, he held a letter-sized FedEx envelope. K-9 was painted on the back door of the vehicle, and Osborne glanced quickly at it. He opened the back door to the van.

  “Okay, Maude, come on, honey.”

  A large, black and brown German shepherd jumped out of the back of the van, then sat and looked up at Osborne. He clipped the leather leash to the dog’s collar. As the dog sat obediently looking up at Osborne, he pulled a small Ziploc bag from the FedEx envelope. Inside the Ziploc bag, Osborne withdrew a small swatch of cloth. He held it up in front of the dog’s snout for a few seconds, then put it back in the bag.

  “Let’s find us some . . . octo . . . oh, hell, whatever the fuck it’s called, some explosives, huh, sugar?”

  Osborne put the FedEx envelope back in the front of the van, then walked with Maude toward the front door of the facility.

  The Reno UPS Distribution Center was a massive warehouse that bordered the Reno Airport. Nearly six million packages shipped through the center every day, packages that came in lots from all over the country, then were broken down for shipment to locations in Nevada, California, Arizona, Oregon, Washington, and Hawaii. Hundreds of flatbed trailers were lined up in the parking lot that ran for as far as the eye could see.

  Osborne entered through the front door and was met by the center’s general manager, Sally McDonald.

  “Hi, Greer,” she said as he walked in the door, shaking his hand. “And who’s this?”

  “This is Maude,” said Osborne.

  “May I pet her?” asked McDonald.

  “ ’Course you can.”

  McDonald led Osborne through the small lobby and into the enormous warehouse. The scene was chaotic. Thousands of pallets loaded with packages were stacked everywhere, netting wrapped around them. Osborne counted more than twenty forklifts moving in seemingly random directions, lifting pallets and moving them toward the docking doors at the side of the building.

  “What are you guys looking for?” asked McDonald. But her expression told Osborne that—like most Americans these days—she had little problem imagining the worst possible threats popping up in the least likely places.

  “Needle in a haystack,” said Osborne.

  “Right.” McDonald nodded nervously. “Will I be down for a while?”

  “Hopefully not. Maybe an hour.”

  McDonald nodded again, then moved to the wall. She reached above a set of light switches to a large, yellow button. She pressed the button. Immediately, the warehouse was bathed in orange light. The traffic of forklifts suddenly ceased. Workers looked back toward the door where McDonald stood. Next to the yellow button, she pressed an intercom button.

  “Take a break, everyone,” McDonald said, her voice booming over the warehouse intercom. “See you in one hour.”r />
  Osborne led Maude down the wide aisle nearest the wall of the facility. On both sides of the aisle, pallets of cardboard packages wrapped in red netting were stacked neatly, reaching to nearly the ceiling.

  The UPS distribution center was the third facility they had visited that day, the others being the FedEx facility down on the far side of the airport and a U.S. Postal Service distribution center also near the airport. Those visits had turned up nothing, but this time, as they reached the midpoint of the first aisle, Maude began to act fidgety, pulling at the leash. When Osborne tried to calm the dog, she suddenly started barking. She pulled him toward the next aisle, past pallets of boxes, barking. He let her lead him. Soon, the dog seemed frenzied. They moved quickly toward the next aisle. He unclipped her leash and the dog dashed until she came to one of the pallets, stacked, like the others, in boxes that were wrapped in red plastic netting. Suddenly Maude stopped, but she continued barking.

  Sergeant Osborne caught up to the dog.

  “Control,” he ordered. Maude immediately stopped barking. Osborne reached down and gave the German shepherd a quick pat on her shoulders. “Good girl,” he said.

  Osborne took his radio from his belt.

  “Reno five, this is Osborne.”

  “Go ahead, Greer,” came the male voice on the radio.

  “I’m at UPS,” he said, moving slowly toward the stack of cardboard boxes. “I think I might have something.”

  The early snowflakes from the front edge of the approaching snowstorm had just begun to fall on the city. Jessica stood by her window, staring out at the city. The slowly falling snow made the city seem peaceful and hushed. She sipped her coffee cup.

  Suddenly, the intercom on her phone chimed. She stepped to her desk, hit the button.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “It’s T. J. You’ve got me, Barnett, Tony, and Tom.”

  “Go.”

  “We got something.”

  “What?”

  “Octanitrocubane. In a box at a UPS DC in Reno. Bomb dog sniffed it out.”

  “Good work,” said Jessica. “Where’s the package from?”

  “Jordan. It’s going to a P.O. box in Brunswick, Maine.”

  “Let Portland regional—”

  “Already done. The P.O. box is rented by a guy who pays in cash. They’re going to set up a sting. Unfortunately, there’s no contact info on the guy.”

  “Okay,” said Jessica. “We should do a sketch anyway.”

  “Yeah, we’ll try. Nobody can remember exactly what the person looks like. There are more than five hundred boxes at the place.”

  “What about the package?”

  “We need your authorization to open it up. I assume it’s okay.”

  “No, don’t assume that. These guys are hitting randomly. What if their target is the DC itself? Probably not. But I am uncomfortable giving you that authorization. Make sure there’s no trigger.”

  “You’re right,” said Barnett Williams, the FBI’s West Coast field director.

  “Nearest bomb squad is in Las Vegas,” said Jessica. “They should be able to get over there within the hour.”

  “Okay, let me run that,” said Williams.

  “Hold on,” said Jessica. “Who’s running Maine?”

  “Shelly.”

  “Patch her in,” said Jessica. She began to pack her briefcase. Her phone clicked several times. Then a voice.

  “Shelly Martini.”

  “Shelly, it’s Jessica along with the working group.”

  “Hi, Jess, guys.”

  “Where are you?” asked Jessica.

  “I’m at the store in Brunswick. Good news and bad news.”

  “What’s the bad news?” asked Jessica.

  “He pays in cash. No name, no contact information.”

  “And the good news?”

  “We have some prints. On the box. I’m scanning them to Quantico as we speak.”

  “Okay. I want to run hard at end target prevention here,” said Jessica. “I want every dog that’s been trained from Boston north up there ASAP. Triage starting geographically, Portland, Freeport, Brunswick, Bath. Hit all industrial facilities and other key landmarks. Is there a refinery up there somewhere? Let’s look at fuel depots and major manufacturers. Also, universities and colleges, and L.L. Bean, while we’re at it. Oh, and Bath Iron Works. You get the idea. Scour the area, especially the coast. I’d look as far south as Portland and up to—”

  “I understand,” said Martini.

  “How many people do you have up there?” asked Jessica.

  “Four at the storefront,” said Martini. “I’m keeping it thin. I don’t want to scare them away. Another dozen in the field, waiting for my orders.”

  “Good. Get them moving. I want Boston to redirect some people up there as well. Who’s got that?”

  “I do,” said T. J. Chatterjee.

  “Let’s win one here for the good guys,” said Jessica. “And send me the name and number of that cop in Reno—I’m going to have Lou give him a call to thank him.”

  46

  FORTUNA’S APARTMENT

  Fortuna leaned against the bathroom door. He rubbed the space between his eyes in silence. Finally, he smacked a fist into his palm.

  I should have gone.

  Karim had gone incommunicado, something that would only have happened if he were taken, or dead. What if Cuban authorities had caught them? What if Andreas had killed Mahmoud, his partner, and Karim in Cuba? He had to think—and quickly.

  He paced back and forth across the carpet in front of a window that overlooked Central Park. Finally, he went to the fireplace. Beneath a large painting of two naked women, done by Caravaggio, sat a long rectangular ivory box. Of course, he should’ve done it sooner. Fortuna opened the box and stared for a few moments at the detonator. He picked it up, pressed in the code for Notre Dame Stadium, Mahmoud’s cell.

  He walked down the hallway to his office. Once inside, he closed the doors and flipped a switch on the wall that created a low-frequency background noise that rendered any conversation he might have inaudible to any electronic eavesdroppers.

  He dialed, heard a series of clicks, then punched in a ten-digit number. After a few moments, the phone rang again.

  “Buck.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Did you send someone to Castroville?”

  “Yes. There’s a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “Yes. We haven’t heard from them. It’s been nearly eight hours.”

  “That’s not good,” said Buck. “What do you want from me?”

  “Information.”

  “I’ll do what I can and call you back. But I want something. A promise.”

  “What? You want me to release you?”

  “Yes. They’re getting closer. The noose is tightening.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Well, when you’re done considering, let me know. And if the answer is yes, I’ll get you the information you want.”

  “Fine. Get the information, then go.”

  Fortuna’s throat tightened for a moment; he felt fear. He went to his room and changed into his running gear, then hit the gym. He ran a relaxed five miles with Fox News on the large flat screen on the wall. He waited for the news from Notre Dame. How long could it take for the national networks to pick it up? When he finished, he returned to his room, took a shower, and got dressed. His cell phone rang.

  “What?”

  “It’s me. Your men are dead. Some farmer found them in a tobacco field. One was tortured.”

  “How many?”

  “Two. Both young Arabs.”

  He breathed a slight sigh of relief, knowing that it meant Karim was still alive. Still, the thought of a highly trained operative like Mahmoud being eliminated said much about their quarry.

  “Alex?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Andreas just made hamburger out of your men, so you gotta figure he’s really piss
ed now, as well as informed.”

  “Don’t tell me what I already know,” said Fortuna. “Tell me how you’re going to kill him.”

  “Look,” said Buck. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I got arrested here. I’m going to get the hell out of Dodge—real soon—and you’d better too. You know why? They just sent a small army out to Notre Dame. Was that your next target?”

  Fortuna’s silence confirmed it.

  “Well, they stopped it. They found the material, the detonator, everything.”

  Fortuna stared out the window, still silent. He thought about Karim.

  “You’re getting perilously close to fucking this whole thing up,” added Buck. “If I were you I would do what I am about to do. Disappear. How many billions do you have salted away, after all?”

  “I’m not going to run,” said Fortuna. “Notre Dame was a single cell. Obviously Andreas broke my man in Cuba. But that is where the trail ends.”

  “If they know Notre Dame was a target they’ll rapidly ID your guys there. Whatever alias he was using, they’ll find him. It will take a trained FBI screener less than half an hour to pinpoint the employee. Within an hour, they will have ransacked the guy’s apartment, house, whatever. Then all bets are off. You better hope your protocols hold up; however you designed the cash flows, the communications, everything, if it wasn’t segmented perfectly they’ll be onto you by morning.”

  “What about Andreas? What’s his status? Can you get him?”

  “Like I said, I’m cut off. I have no idea. He’s running free, as far as I know. You should too, while you still can. Forget about Andreas. Get out.”

  “Spoken like a true American. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “Whatever. But if that remaining eighty-five million dollars isn’t in my Prominvest account by noon, remember: I might accidentally e-mail your name to someone at the FBI.”

  The phone clicked as Buck hung up. Fortuna stood at the window for what seemed like an eternity. There were dark storm clouds over the city, and snow fell in thick blankets across Central Park, which he could barely see even though he was only a block away.