Six Seconds

by Rick Mofina

  The room was secure.

  Like Meseret and Teferi, the few people Amir trusted were devoted to his philosophy and his protection.

  This room is where secrets remained secret.

  For few people alive knew anything of Amir’s life.

  It had remained a mystery.

  To the market gossips, Amir was one of hundreds of fabric merchants; a quiet, private man, rumored to be wealthy with a farm on the banks of the Blue Nile River, although no one had seen such a farm.

  Then there were the stories that Amir was a Yemeni prince who had rejected his family’s wealth because of his extreme beliefs. Others said his family was from Oman, that he was an engineering student educated around the world and fluent in several languages, but that his passion for a woman had brought him to Addis.

  One rumor had Amir being a former senior officer with the Saudi al-Mabahith al-Amma who was an expert at conducting covert operations without leaving a trace of evidence.

  Perhaps that’s why U.S. and European intelligence agencies did not believe Amir was anything more than a myth. They were unable to confirm his location, let alone secure a photo of him. Frustrated, the Germans had nicknamed him “Desert Ghost,” the Italians called him “the Wind,” while the Americans doubted his exis tence.

  But Amir was real.

  In body and in the hearts of his followers. His small organization reached around the globe. Yet few of his disciples had met the man known as “the Believer.”

  His wisdom and faith ran deeper than the others who came before him, such as “the Samaritan,” who’d become enamored with his fame through his televised videos and declarations.

  Yes, the Samaritan and his martyrs had, in one day and in one operation, surpassed the words of a million speeches calling for action.

  But the fire they had ignited was not the decisive blow.

  Amir thought of the abandoned baby dying in a gutter.

  No, to end the centuries of oppression and humilia tion inflicted by the godless nonbelievers, the snake that had led the crusade that stole the holy lands needed beheading.

  And Amir had been preparing for that great day.

  Like a patient gardener, Amir had nurtured his web of worldwide support. His funding networks, donations, blood diamonds, narcotic sales, money laundering and Internet lottery schemes ensured infinite sums of cash. His intelligence networks were impenetrable. His planning network drew upon the best minds of believ ers, physicists, chemists, nuclear researchers and engi neers.

  All of them followed Amir, worshipping him as a visionary and architect.

  All of them worked on refining technological ad vances to defeat the enemy. Dozens of operations had been in development. Some for years. Plane operations, naval operations, event operations, assassination plans, hostage operations, hits on pipelines, subways, cities, skyscrapers, malls or famous symbols to the narcissis tic greed of the debauched nonbelievers.

  In all cases, the agents were unaware of the full scope of their mission. Cell groups responsible for certain stages were unaware of others. Different aspects were guided by lieutenants who reported to commanders who, at times, disguised as merchants, would report directly to Amir.

  A few days ago he’d gone to a secret location to see the people behind a major operation that was showing promise.

  The meeting was arranged north of the capital among the remote mud-road villages on the mountain hillsides where Amir had contracted a group of expert weavers. No one troubled them, for they had long been banished over fears that they held the power to issue curses.

  Amir recalled how the smoke from their charcoal fires wafted over the villages where the goats wandered freely, except in the chief’s hut. It was there where Amir had met a small group of foreign brothers who’d come a great distance to brief him on their impressive new weapon.

  In the cool shade of the hut, bolts of common cotton fabric sat on the thatched mat in an array of colors and patterns. Laptop computers glowed with displays of chemical and mathematic tables, formulas and calcula tions. Some of the men talked softly into secure satel lite phones.

  The delegation had been led by Ali Bakarat, a spe cialist in chemical engineering from Libya, and Omar Kareem, an engineer in molecular nanotechnology from Kuwait. Amir had been dealing with them for the past year. Amid the gentle click-clack of the weavers’ looms in the hut nearby, Bakarat had placed his hands on the bolts and explained the engineering of the new material.

  In some ways, Bakarat said, the engineering was similar to the advanced technology the military was using in combat wear for camouflage, thermal or nerveagent detecting capabilities.

  The fabric looked, felt, smelled and responded like any common cotton weave.

  But interwoven into this material was microscopic tubing that was hollow and transparent. The tubing was filled with a volatile liquid developed through a complex process. The liquid was injected with millions of nano radio receptors which floated within the tubing and were programmed to receive a coded ultra-low-frequency signal.

  Once received, the signal first activated the liquid in a process that took sixty seconds, after which the new material would become an extremely powerful explo sive in proportion to its volume.

  A bomb.

  Detonation could happen at any point-within the next half second, or next month. But it could only be trig gered from a second radio signal which could be trans mitted from an encrypted code programmed into any device that could send a wireless signal, such as a cell or satellite phone, or camera with laser auto-focus, or a wireless laptop.

  The critical quality of the new material was the fact it was undetectable by sniffer dogs, swabbing, analysis, scoping-any type of bomb detection method known.

  It was an invisible bomb.

  To achieve this state, the fabric must be steeped for a few hours in a special clear solution before it is tailored into any type of apparel or common item. That clear solution was en route to the U.S. west coast by ship, while bolts of the fabric had arrived in New York City’s garment district, where they awaited shipment to anywhere in the U.S.

  Bakarat and Kareem would soon depart to enter the U.S., where they would oversee the final stages of the operation.

  After watching their demonstration video, Amir smiled and embraced the men.

  “Well done, my brothers, well done.”

  Now, as Amir worked in his bunker, he glanced at his printout of the newsletter that had been posted online many months ago by the boastful priest who could not refrain from sharing advance news of a papal visit to Montana.

  “It is with great joy that we can confirm the Holy Father will visit Cold Butte.”

  Amir almost smiled.

  The Montana project was emerging as his jewel, as the time for execution was nearly upon them. The op eration would be carried out by the widow of Baghdad.

  “The Tigress.”

  Her determination was profound.

  A few gentle keystrokes and she appeared before him on his laptop’s screen in video recordings.

  Samara.

  Amir studied her ferocity as she swore her ven geance during her interview. Then he clicked to her training in the mountains along the Afghan border with Pakistan. Then he saw her in the United States.

  Preparing.

  Her instructions were to assimilate into American society and to get a job in her profession in the target zone. That is all she was to know until further instructions.

  Other agents in local religious and professional as sociations played roles in helping her succeed at every step of the way, sponsoring her, acting as references, ex ercising influence when needed.

  All of it so subtle as to be invisible.

  The security cell was headed by a young group. Its agents had been outstanding, protecting the operation at every step, eliminating vulnerabilities.

  “All is well,” one reported in an encrypted dispatch. “Our brothers are watching over our sister.”

  Amir nodded.


  Then he clicked on to other video recordings. One was a family vacationing in the wilderness. Amir watched the camera take him along a river cutting through a magnificent mountain range.

  A scream rises above the river’s rush.

  The video cut to a city street and news box display ing headlines about a tragic accident and the deaths of an American family. Then a cut to the surveillance images of a woman who appeared to be working in a large American bookstore.

  Amir nodded, then touched one of the laptops on his table.

  One not in use.

  It belonged to Ray Tarver.

  Amir watched another video recording.

  It showed a boy eating a hamburger at a picnic table.

  Logan Conlin.

  He looks into the camera, refusing to smile for the person behind it.

  Amir was pleased. Yes, all was well.

  Soon the course of history would be forever changed. Amir sent an e-mail to Samara.

  Grandmother sends her love. Her gift has arrived. Cousin will call with details…

  Book Three

  Breaking Point

  30

  Blue Rose Creek, California

  Maggie pushed the green button and the dispenser spit out a parking ticket.

  The barrier arm lifted and she parked at Mercy General Memorial Hospital. This was where Madame Fatima’s friend had told her to come for information on Logan.

  As Maggie walked to the hospital doors, she looked at the clouds swirling overhead, recalling that a storm warning had been issued.

  She’d forgotten her umbrella.

  She didn’t care.

  In the wake of all she’d been through these past few days, getting wet was not a concern. She wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t eating. Bit by bit she seemed to be slipping from reality into a dream that took her from disappoint ment to disappointment along an ever-darkening road.

  But she was not defeated.

  One goal, one crystalline purpose, kept her going. She would never give up searching for her son and her husband.

  194 Rick Mofina

  As Maggie approached reception, the woman at the desk eyed her coldly.

  “I’m here to visit Fatima Soleil.”

  “Spell it, please.”

  Maggie did and the woman’s keyboard clicked.

  “Your name?”

  “Maggie Conlin.”

  “Family or friend?”

  “Friend. I was called here by her friend Helga Kimmel.”

  The keyboard clicked and the woman found Maggie’s name listed.

  “I’m going to need a photo ID.”

  “Is my driver’s license okay?”

  The woman nodded then traded Maggie’s license for a visitor’s badge and her signature on the visitor’s log attached to a clipboard.

  “She’s on the ninth floor. When you get off the elevator, go right, to the nurses’ station.”

  “Thank you. Can you tell me her condition?”

  “Ask the nurses on the ninth floor.”

  As the elevator ascended, Maggie tried to keep her hope in check.

  In her heart she believed Fatima had detected some thing during her session. Maggie had, too. She swore she could feel Logan nearby. Now, she tried not to guess at the information Fatima had for her.

  Did it matter?

  Maggie would pursue any possibility.

  The chime sounded for the ninth floor.

  The air was heavy with antiseptic smells. Down the hall a short, thickset woman in faded jeans and an over size flowered shirt was talking to a nurse. It was Helga.

  “Excuse us, Nancy,” Helga said to the nurse. “I need to talk with Maggie.”

  “Hi,” Maggie said.

  “Come this way, there’s a lounge around the corner.”

  The bright-colored walls could not mask the gloom that resided here in the brownish-gray vinyl couches and the outdated copies of long-forgotten magazines.

  Helga sat down, rubbed her bloodshot eyes and exhaled.

  “They do not expect Madame to live through the night.”

  “Oh, my God.” Maggie touched Helga’s knee. “I’m so sorry.”

  Helga nodded.

  “The cancer is eating her up. She has no time left. She’s not in pain. She’s heavily sedated and is in and out of consciousness.”

  Maggie took quick stock. No other people were in the lounge or down the hall.

  “Has she no family?”

  “I am her only family,” Helga said. “Madame told me to summon you. She wants to give you information.”

  “Did she say what it is?”

  “It can only be about the session concerning your son. Are you ready to see her?”

  Maggie nodded and Helga led her to a private room.

  “I’m going to leave you alone with her until you are done. The nurses are monitoring her from their station. You will have privacy. Do not be alarmed that she passes in and out of consciousness. She knows if people are in the room.”

  Maggie slowly pushed the door and entered.

  The room was dimly lit and fragrant from the floral

  196 Rick Mofina arrangements. The gentle hum of the equipment moni toring Fatima’s breathing, blood pressure and heart rate was calming.

  Maggie was not prepared for what she saw next. She actually took a step back to fetch the nurse be lieving that Fatima had vanished as evidenced by the empty crumpled sheets of her hospital bed. It took a second to register that Fatima was there- under the sheets-her body so ravaged as to be nothing more than a living skeleton.

  An oxygen tube ran under her nose. An IV dripped morphine. She was unconscious.

  Death’s work was nearly complete.

  Maggie sat in the cushioned chair next to her bed.

  Fatima turned her bare head to Maggie and opened her eyes to acknowledge her presence.

  “I’ve come as you have requested.”

  Fatima blinked then resubmerged into unconscious ness.

  Maggie sat with her for an hour. She stood to leave the room for a short break and almost screamed.

  Fatima’s ice-cold fingers had seized Maggie’s wrist.

  Maggie didn’t move.

  Fatima’s grip was strong. Her eyes opened but re vealed only white orbs. She moaned and her skeletal jaw began to work.

  “I lied to you, Maggie. I did see something.”

  The pressure of Fatima’s grip increased.

  “Do you wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is not good. Do you wish to know?”

  Maggie’s chin crumpled and she fought to push the word out of her mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “I am seeing it now. Your son is alive.”

  “Where is he?”

  “But he is in danger.”

  Fatima’s grip was hurting Maggie. She fell to her knees at the side of the bed.

  “Where is he?”

  “He does not know he is in danger.”

  “Please, I’m begging you, where is he?”

  “There is a woman. I see a woman. There is fire, ex plosions, destruction. She is carrying something.”

  “Who is the woman?”

  “The woman is carrying a child.”

  “Is it Logan?”

  “The child is dead.”

  “No! Nooo!”

  Fatima released her grip.

  Her body convulsed. Her jaw locked open and she was still. The monitor began ponging with alarm.

  “Help!” Maggie called. “Somebody!”

  A nurse hurried into the room, uncollared her stethoscope. Listened, then pressed a button on the intercom system above the bed. “We’ve got an expired DNR in 921.”

  Maggie covered her face with her hands, stepped back into a far corner out of the way. What followed unfolded in snatches.

  Helga entered and sobbed.

  The nurses consoled her, Maggie consoled her, for how long, she couldn’t be certain. Maggie was not sure how long she stay
ed with Helga, or how she made it back to reception to retrieve her license. She remem bered it was raining.

  She remembered thunder, lightning, her skin prick ling the entire time she walked to her car. She remem bered the words of a dying psychic warning her that Logan was in danger.

  “The woman is carrying a child.”

  31

  Washington, D.C.

  The plot to kill the pope played out in grainy photos on the computer monitor of Special Agent Blake Walker of the U.S. Secret Service.

  The gun rose from the crowd in St. Peter’s Square. A Browning 9-mm semiautomatic pistol.

  In the right hand of Mehmet Ali Agca who fired five shots at Pope John Paul II.

  The first round penetrated the pope’s stomach, the second hit his hand, the third his arm. The fourth and fifth shots wounded spectators.

  The Holy Father fell back into the arms of his secre tary.

  May 13, 1981.

  A day most of the world would not forget, Walker thought. He was lead advance agent with security for the pope’s upcoming U.S. visit. For Walker, a stickler for research, this was the umpteenth time he’d studied papal assassination attempts.

  Next.

  The Philippines. 1995.

  During a papal visit, firefighters in Manila were called to an apartment fire near the Embassy for the Holy See, where the pope was to sleep. Among the ruins they discovered: bomb-making material, the route of the papal tour marked on maps and two sets of priests’ cassocks.

  Suspects were tied to the first attack on the World Trade Center.

  That one was chilling; so was the next.

  During the pope’s recent visit to South America, a violent group of Marxist extremists cut power to the airport as the pope’s plane was making a night landing. Every single light went black on the ground. The pilots couldn’t see. At the last moment they aborted the landing and flew to another site. Later, airport police rushed to investigate an abandoned truck in a forest road near a runway. Inside they found a shoulderlaunched surface-to-air missile that had malfunctioned.

  Walker studied the database index.