by J. G. Sandom
Thursday, February 3 – 2:16 AM
Halfway across the Atlantic
The airplane shimmied through the sky, buffeted by winds. The flight attendants were having a hard time serving drinks, including the sour old crone who had spilled half a virgin Bloody Mary over Decker’s shirt. Heads lolled from side to side, against innumerable headrests bobbing all about them. Decker ate another nut. And then another. He relocated his legs – once again. He stared at Emily beside him. Her eyes were closed. She was still awake; he could tell. But she was trying to sleep. I should do the same, he thought, but he knew it was impossible. Decker went back to reading the book by Jamal ben Saad about Islamic architecture and design. That’s when he felt a jolt of recollection, like an electric current, hit him. He reached into his jacket pocket. He was still carrying that list of prisoners Warhaftig had given him, the men with whom Miller had associated back at Ansar II in Gaza. He began to scan the pages. It took him only a few seconds to confirm Warhaftig’s story: El Aqrab’s real name – Mohammed Hussein – wasn’t on the list. But something else had caught his eye. He flipped back through the pages. There. On page sixteen. At the very bottom. The name Jamal ben Saad. He’d been arrested once, it seemed. He’d spent three days in Ansar II directly under Miller’s supervision. Three days in jail was like a lifetime to some men.
Decker checked the book on Islamic architecture. The biography of the author revealed Jamal ben Saad had died in 1982, during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon – the same year El Aqrab had gone to Kazakhstan for the first time. Decker laid the photographs of El Aqrab and Jamal ben Saad beside each other on his tray. They could be brothers, he thought. Isn’t that what Emily had said? He looked up and noticed her staring at the photographs. Then she glanced over at him, and caught herself, and blushed.
“Well, they do look alike,” she insisted with a shrug.
“More than alike,” he answered. “I agree with you. I think they’re the same man.”
“You do? Really? Why?”
“Well, look at the eyes. The eyes first. Then the mouth.”
“No! I mean, what made you change your mind?”
Decker caught himself. “The dates are compatible,” he said. “The men look strangely alike. They both share an intimate knowledge of Islamic architecture and design. It all seems too much of a coincidence. It isn’t . . . natural.” But Swenson was right, he thought. He didn’t have anything concrete to hold onto. It was all circumstantial evidence. It was he who was acting unnaturally.
Without warning, the air phone in the seat before him started ringing. Decker stared at it, wondering if he had heard correctly. He had never heard an air phone ring before. He didn’t know they did that. Then it rang again. They were about halfway through the flight and most of the passengers were asleep. The gentleman across the aisle from Swenson began to stare at him, then at the phone. Soon others turned and looked his way. Decker reached out and picked up the phone. He put it to his ear.
“You shouldn’t have run,” a voice said. It was Warhaftig. “I’m not your enemy,” he continued.
“You haven’t exactly been my friend,” said Decker, staring back at his nosy neighbors. They turned away.
“Sometimes, you’re better off not knowing things. For your own good, John.”
“Is that the paternal crap they’re teaching at Langley these days?”
“You were right, John. The bomb was a dud, another diversion, just like you predicted. New York is safe.”
“All that means is that we’re facing a bigger problem. If El Aqrab sets off that mega-tsunami, it won’t just be New York in trouble; it’ll be the whole damned world. Every financial system will go down – some temporarily, some permanently crippled. All industry on the eastern seaboard – gone. All the intellectual capital in New York, in Boston, Philly and D.C. – gone, washed literally away. Our countries oldest and most treasured universities. All of those global corporate headquarters in New York. The United Nations. Media networks. Museums and libraries too. All gone. Wiped out. Destroyed.”
“Look, John,” said Warhaftig. “We’re all working toward the same goal, aren’t we? We want to stop that bomb.” He sighed. “So why operate independently, at odds? I understand why you may not trust me, but I’m asking you to anyway. Take me on faith, John. Here, let me give you something. A token. Some beads. A peace offering.”
“I’m listening.”
“Gulzhan Baqrah – the guy whom El Aqrab trained with in Kazakhstan – had a young lieutenant named Uhud, wanted by the Israelis in connection with several suicide bombings in the West Bank. He was also suspected of executing a half dozen bombings in Iraq, primarily against Iraqi security forces using IEDs at M and Ms. You know: Mosques and markets. Police recruiting stations. That sort of thing.”
“And?”
“According to Egyptian Intelligence, Uhud was killed in the raid that Baqrah mounted when he stole the HEU. Seems he got a little greedy.”
“How so?”
“Well, after you told me about your mega-tsunami theory, I did some checking. According to Interpol, a number of bank accounts controlled by Uhud were recently used to initiate some significant stock transactions in the U.S., so-called ‘Puts’ on a whole series of companies. He shorted them. They only have one thing in common. I ran it through the Company computers.”
“Don’t tell me,” Decker said. “They’re all either in, or based on the East Coast.”
“Bingo,” said Warhaftig. “You are a fast study.”
Decker looked at the list of prisoners from Ansar II on his tray. “Do me a favor,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Run a background check on someone for me.”
“Who?”
“He was on that list of prisoners you gave me. His name is Jamal ben Saad. He was some sort of adjunct professor at the Arab University in Beirut in the early ‘80s, an expert on Islamic architecture and design. Find out whatever you can and fax it to me at Dr. White’s hotel on La Palma. It’s called the Parador, in Santa Cruz. I want to know if Jamal ben Saad and El Aqrab knew each other.”
“El Aqrab and his father did work for a guy named Hanid ben Saad, some wealthy real estate developer. Of course, ben Saad may be a common name. Is it important?” Warhaftig asked.
“It may be.”
“You got it. By the way,” Warhaftig continued, “you won’t be alone on this. I sent a couple of agents along to La Palma two days ago: Nick Thompson and Colin Strand.”
Decker smiled. “Otto, you surprise me,” he said. “I thought you didn’t have any faith.”
“Never hurts to hedge your bets,” Warhaftig answered blithely. “Look, I’ve gotta go. My station chief put in a call to Assistant Director Gammon. That may be him right now, on the other line. Director Kennick has a meeting scheduled with the President tomorrow morning. I wish it could be earlier but, frankly, no one believes you, John.”
“If the bomb’s not in New York or Israel, where do they think it is? What about the missing HEU?”
“The consensus is that Gulzhan Baqrah sold it. He’s a mercenary, after all. Most people think it’s in Iran. The Iranians have been trying to get their hands on a nuke for years. Or in Iraq, God help us. Or hidden in some cave deep in Afghanistan.” He sighed. “I mean, this whole volcano thing is a little crazy. The President’s science advisors don’t believe a tsunami can be manufactured. They conferred with some famous oceanographer named Dubinsky. A real star. Anyway, Dubinsky said it couldn’t be done.”
“Mega-tsunami,” Decker said. “And I wouldn’t necessarily believe what E.J. Dubinsky says. She and Emily know each other. They have a history.”
“Regardless, John. Everyone thinks the crisis is over, at least temporarily. All three of El Aqrab’s mules are dead. And we’re getting intelligence reports that El Aqrab himself is still in Lebanon.”
“He’s not,” said Decker. “He’s on La Palma. I know he is.”
“You may be right. And if you are, Thompson and
Strand will find him.”
Decker shook his head. “Will the Director tell the President about my theory?”
“I think he will. With any luck, we’ll get permission to mobilize a team of Rangers. Be on La Palma by sunset, maybe earlier. I’m sorry, John. I wish I had better news for you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Look, I’ve got to go. Be careful.”
“Thanks, Otto,” Decker said. Then Warhaftig was gone.
Decker turned and looked at Swenson. He took her by the hand. “I’m glad we have this time together,” he said, trying to smile. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
She squeezed his hand back, saying, “You have? What?”
“This is just between the two of us, at least for now. You have to promise me.”
“I promise. Go on, tell me.”
He began to speak with her in low and measured tones, his mouth only a few inches from her ear. Voices carried unpredictably on airplanes. She slumped down in her chair, leaning further into him. He told her everything: about the suspects they’d been watching in Queens; about the wallpapers; the bombs in Israel; about Moussa and Ali Hammel; about El Aqrab and what probably awaited them on the island of La Palma.
When he was done, Swenson did not speak for a long time. She simply sat there, sipping her water directly out of the bottle.
“I’ll completely understand if you want to stay in Madrid instead of flying on to Santa Cruz,” continued Decker. “In fact, it’s what I would advise.”
“What if we’re too late?” she finally offered up, in a whisper, almost at no one in particular. “What if you’re right and El Aqrab is there, and he sets off that nuclear device?”
Decker shook his head. “Then the world will never be the same. There’s no way to stop a mega-tsunami once it starts, right?”
Swenson looked out the window. “Not according to Newton. I don’t see how. How do you dissipate five thousand trillion joules of kinetic energy? Unless . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Unless what?”
She shook her head, continuing to stare at the glistening sea below. “No,” she said. “There is no way.”
SECTION IV
Hajj
Chapter 38
Thursday, February 3 – 10:05 AM
La Palma, The Canary Islands
Decker and Swenson arrived in La Palma via Madrid in the late morning. A local policeman named Juan-Antonio de la Rama met them at the airport in Santa Cruz. A willowy dark man with a drooping mustache and agreeable face, de la Rama informed them, in a thick Spanish accent, that Otto Warhaftig’s fellow operatives – Thompson and Strand – would be rendezvousing with them later on that afternoon. They had been called away at the last moment.
Decker and Swenson rented a silver Citroën Saxo and followed de la Rama into Santa Cruz. With only eighteen thousand inhabitants, the city lay on the east coast of the island, on the slope of a mountain, within the amphitheater of a long-extinct volcanic crater called La Cadereta. The road from the airport skirted the sea and there were modern buildings alongside large old houses with massive covered wooden balconies jutting from their sides. Decker and Swenson were both flabbergasted by the height of the volcanic ridge that ran the length of the island, north to south. La Palma seemed to be rushing upwards toward the sky. Banana plantations, many surrounded by wind walls, covered every inch of the steep slopes.
The Parador Hotel was only a few hundred yards from the sea. It seemed oppressively dark inside the lobby; but, perhaps, that was just in contrast to the brilliant sun outside. A solitary clerk stood behind the front desk. He was no more than a boy, really, barely a teenager, and wore an ill-fitting forest green uniform with oversized epaulettes. Decker inquired politely about the missing Doctor White in Spanish but the pimply youth did little more than shrug. He was too busy sorting mail with his long fingernails. He shrugged and shrugged, and moaned about the Doctor’s unpaid bill, his overbearing friends, and how – in accordance with posted policy, no matter how regrettable – they’d soon be forced to give away his room. Swenson whipped out a credit card.
Decker continued to pepper the clerk with questions as the boy ran the card. When exactly had the scientist disappeared? Had he been seen with anyone during his stay? Had he given them his own credit card, or had someone else pre-paid? The boy didn’t seem to know very much until Decker handed him a twenty Euro bill. Then he perked up. He passed the credit card back to Swenson and vanished through a small door in the back. A moment later, he returned with a large envelope and handed it to Decker.
Decker tore it open. It was the fax from Warhaftig. It had come in an hour earlier. The document featured background information on Jamal ben Saad. Apparently, the man sent to Ansar II and the author of the book on Arabic architecture were indeed one and the same. Or had been. Jamal had disappeared soon after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in ’82. According to the fax, his father – the wealthy entrepreneur Hanid ben Saad – and younger brother Ibrahim had collaborated with the Israelis; they’d handed over information about Amal and Syrian installations prior to the invasion. Hanid ben Saad, his wife and son Ibrahim were subsequently killed by Amal in a car bombing. Jamal ben Saad was later arrested by the Israelis but he only spent three days at the Ansar II prison. Then he was released. No charges were filed against him. The Mosad suspected he was killed by Amal like his father and mother and brother. No, that was wrong. Hanid ben Saad’s wife, A’isha, was not Jamal’s biological mother. His natural mother, Rabi’a, had drowned when he was ten – a suicide. Although no note was found, they did discover a bottle of sleeping pills inside her purse. Apparently she’d been depressed for months. The fact that Jamal had only spent three days in Ansar II undoubtedly marked him as a collaborator like his father and brother. But his body was never found. Of course, Lebanon had been in chaos in those days. A missing corpse was hardly unusual.
Swenson finished paying the bill and she and Decker headed toward the elevator. Decker wanted to examine White’s room. It was on the third floor, facing the main thoroughfare. Decker pressed his ear to the door for several seconds before entering with the passkey. The room featured a queen-size bed draped with a light blue quilt, a bit tatty, somewhat stained. There was a tiny writing desk in one corner, and a dressing area. The bathroom was not very big. It did, however, include a small bath, and an even smaller shower in one corner by the sink. A pair of French doors faced the wooden terrace that ran along the length of the facade of the hotel.
Decker began to search the writing desk. His back was to the terrace, and there was no way that he could have seen the figure passing right behind him. But Swenson did.
She screamed – just as the French doors burst apart, as Decker turned and the stranger leapt onto his back. They rolled across the floor. Swenson screamed again. Decker took a right cross to his chin. Then somebody punched his stomach. There seemed to be two men now, or three. They swirled around him, held his arms. Decker dropped to the floor. He swung his right leg out and one of his attackers went down. He wore a soft blue cable-knit sweater. His hair was rather long. Decker reached out and grabbed it. He pulled, and there was the neck, and he came down on it with an elbow strike. The blow shook the stranger to the core. Decker stared about the room. Swenson was gone. She had been there a moment ago. Now she was nowhere to be seen. Another man stood on the balcony. He was looking at his friend on the floor. Decker leapt up like a predator, feeling the blood pulse in his veins, feeling his lips curl as he raced across the room.
The stranger started running down the terrace. He’d only gone about ten yards when he came to a sudden stop, jogged left, and disappeared into another room. Decker started after him. In just four steps, he was standing by the French doors where the other man had disappeared. He didn’t hesitate. He leapt into the room. He rolled and locked his knees. The room was empty. The man was gone.
Decker spun about. He spied the bathroom door. It was ajar. He stared at it and felt th
e hair stand upright on his neck. Someone was in there. Decker could sense him. With a kind of snarl, he leapt across the room, drawing his gun, kicked the door and fired as the door sprang back. There was the sound of shattering glass. The man with the gun before him looked familiar. Too familiar. He lowered his weapon. Glass shards tumbled to the floor as the full-length mirror on the wall gave way. He’d shot himself.
Decker pulled back, just as another bullet split the doorframe by his head. He turned and fired two quick shots. They puckered the shower curtain. And then he saw the bloodstained hand.
It clasped the curtain at the top, it pulled and the curtain gradually gave way, one ring at a time. The man struck the bathroom floor with a dull thwack, directly on his face. There was an unnatural stillness as he bounced and settled. He was already dead. The bullets had found their mark.
Decker heard a car start. It was so loud it sounded as if it were parked in the next room. He dashed out of the bathroom, lunged toward the terrace, and there it was. An off-white two-door. A Renault. It was skidding from the lot. Even from this height, Decker could plainly see the pale outline of Emily’s head framed by the window, her blonde hair waving, that terrified expression through the glass.
Decker raced back through the door, bounded downstairs, and was out in the open parking lot in seconds. He jumped into his Citroën Saxo rental. He started her up and crawled out of the lot. Eventually, as he descended a small hill, the Saxo picked up speed. He followed the narrow road. It ran outside the city, due south, and started up the mountain valley. It wound its way across a hill, then up again, beginning a harsh ascent of the volcanic walls. Decker saw the sea wink in the distance, far below.
