“Still nothing?” Connor asked, taking hold of the next finger.
Khan blew out a series of breaths. “You’ll never stop him. The power of All—AAAH!”
The next finger snapped with ease. “I can do this all night. Hakimi has a nuke. What’s his plan?”
The mention of Hakimi gave Khan pause. He held his breath for a bit longer than he should have.
Connor grabbed the next finger. “Where is he?”
“There is nothing you can do to me that—”
Connor snapped another finger.
Khan pounded his forehead against the seat and let out a long string of curses in Arabic while trying to wriggle away from Connor’s powerful grasp. He tried to ball up his fist but couldn’t force the fingers to close.
Connor grabbed his index finger and squeezed. “Where?”
Khan took a long breath and began reciting the Koran in Arabic. “Slay the unbelievers wherever you find them and take them captive and besiege them and lie in wait for them in every ambush.”
“Koran, at-Tawbah 9:5,” Connor said, recounting the chapter and verse of the text Khan had quoted. “That’s right, I know my Koran too, and I always find it interesting when people like you quote that text, because the end of that verse says that ‘God is most forgiving and most merciful.’ But I guess that doesn’t match up with killing thousands of innocent people does it?”
“You know nothing of God’s will!” Khan screamed. “We will show you and all of the non-believers what Allah’s wrath looks like! They will repent and praise Allah when their cities are burning.”
“Where is Hakimi?”
“I will not—”
Connor snapped Khan’s index finger. The sheikh barked out an abrupt scream, then collapsed to the seat, unconscious.
Connor sat back. “Crap.”
“Guess he’s a four-finger guy, huh?” Annie asked over her shoulder.
Connor shook his head. “We don’t have time for him to pass out.”
“I don’t think he’s going to break as easily as Wagner. I’ve met his type before.”
“He’s a true believer.”
“The worst kind.” She dialed another number, and while it was ringing, said over her shoulder, “For the record, I’m beating you, one to nothing.”
“What?”
“With fingers. I got information, you didn’t. I’m winning.”
Connor scoffed, but before he could respond, Thompson answered.
“Thompson.”
“Can you meet us at safe house Gazelle in thirty minutes?” Annie asked.
“You got him?”
“Yeah, we got him, but he’s not saying much. He’s going to need a hand cast for a while though, that’s for sure.”
“Is Connor with you?”
“I’m here,” Connor said.
“The snatch job is all over the news already. The press was at the mosque almost before the cops were.”
“What are they saying?” Connor asked.
“Right now, they’re pegging it as a robbery gone bad, though I doubt that’ll hold up for long. Don’t worry, I’ve got a cleaning crew on the way there now. Brice is already working on wiping the surveillance drives, and all the local traffic cameras have been reset and their data cleared. We should be tight on our end. I’m going to wrap up here and head your way.”
“Hey, Thompson,” Annie said.
“Yeah?”
“Bring the kit.”
Thirty minutes later they were hauling Khan into a bare-bones apartment. Thompson was already there, along with a couple of techs who were busy setting up some equipment in the kitchen. It included a device that looked like a lie detector, with wires and cables laid out across the kitchen table, and a rack holding two cylinders of yellowish liquid. A line from one of the cylinders ran to an IV strung from a metal pole.
Beside all of this was a modified recliner, sporting wide leather restraints on both armrests, and more for the legs. It was into this chair that Annie put Khan, after cutting off his flex cuffs. The techs then attached the restraints and inserted the IV.
“We’re almost ready to go,” Thompson said. “Just a couple more minutes to let the solution fully mix.”
“Interesting setup,” Connor said.
Thompson shrugged. “Not very original. Sodium thiopental mixed with scopolamine and an IV of sodium chloride. It’s what we like to call our special sauce.”
One of the technicians knelt next to Khan and pushed a needle into his arm. The sheikh’s eyes snapped open, and he screamed and tried to get away. The straps held him firm. He glared at the team, fury burning in his eyes.
“I will kill you all!”
Annie rolled her eyes. “We’ve heard that one before. Can you say something original, please? I beg you.”
Another technician flipped a switch, and the yellow-tinged cocktail started flowing through the IV.
Thompson stood in front of the sheikh and crossed his arms. “You might think you’re going to make it through this if you say the right things, but you’re not. And regardless of what you might think, once this stuff starts working, you won’t be able to stop talking.”
“I will say nothing,” Khan said.
“They all say that,” said Annie, leaning back on the table and crossing her ankles.
Thompson grimaced at the sight of Khan’s swollen and misshapen fingers. “Jesus.” He raised an eyebrow at Connor.
“I was encouraging him.”
Thompson nodded. “I like it.”
“None of this matters,” Khan said. “You will not be able to stop what’s coming. The Great Satan will burn.”
Connor snapped his fingers. “That’s exactly what Hakimi said to you after he found the nuke. The Great Satan. You know where he’s planning on attacking.”
Khan laughed. “You think you’re smart. But your American arrogance blinds you.” As he spoke, his eyelids started to droop. “You… you…” He chuckled, smiling from ear to ear, and then began to laugh.
“Finally,” Annie said. “I was beginning to think it wasn’t going to work.”
“It always works,” Thompson said. “Now we just need to hope he actually knows something that can help us.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Connor white-knuckled his harness and pressed his back against the seat, eyes locked on the chair in front of him, avoiding the scenic nighttime views below him. He’d seen pictures of the New York skyline; there was no reason to look at it now.
He’d never been a big proponent of flying, especially in helicopters. There was just something about a spinning blade of death a couple of feet above his head that turned him off. It didn’t help matters that most of his experience in helicopters had been during combat missions in Afghanistan, where he knew that he was just as likely to be blown out of the sky as he was to get to his destination.
“You okay?” Annie asked him, her voice coming through his bulky headset. The helicopter’s internal comms gave her voice a digitized sound.
“Fine,” he said, straight-faced.
“Don’t like flying, huh?”
“Oh, no, it’s great. Love it. Couldn’t be better.”
The chopper banked to the right, making the world spin outside the window. Despite staring intently at the metal in front of him, Connor couldn’t help but see the rotating city outside. He groaned and closed his eyes.
“Would never have guessed that the big bad Connor didn’t like flying.”
“Yeah, well.”
The chopper leveled out, and the whine of its engines changed pitch as it descended. Connor’s stomach lurched. He held his breath, fighting back the urge to vomit, positive that the pilot was swooping down at a steep angle on purpose. He made a mental note to punch him when they landed.
He tried to ignore everything around him and focus on what they’d learned from Khan. Drugged up and loose-lipped, the sheikh had revealed that Hakimi was bringing in the nuke by container ship, and though Khan didn’t
know the exact schedule, he was confident it was going to be within the next day or so.
But that didn’t make sense. It took forever for ships to move freight across the ocean. There was no way a ship could have gone from the East China Sea to the East Coast of the US in so short a time. It would probably take a month. The package must have been flown—and then shipped across the Atlantic. Why?
Brice was running through the cargo manifests for all the inbound freighters, looking for any clue as to which might be the ship they were looking for, but it was a crapshoot. Hundreds of ships came and went through the New England ports every day. It was like looking for a specific needle in a stack of needles.
Connor’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID. Brice. For a brief instant he considered answering it, then he felt his stomach turn and held it out for Annie. “Here.”
Annie took it and answered. “Yeah, Brice? Yeah. Slip number what? What was that container number again?” She pulled a pen from inside her jacket and jotted down several numbers on her palm. “Okay, thanks!” She hung up, leaned forward, and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Red Hook Terminal, Slip Fourteen.”
“Roger that,” the pilot answered, giving her an exaggerated nod.
The engines whined as he throttled up and the chopper’s nose dipped.
Connor gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.
“You really are missing a wonderful view,” Annie said.
Connor gave her the finger.
She laughed. “Brice says this ship is registered out of Naples, Italy, left around the same time as Hakimi disappeared, and guess what they’re transporting?”
The chopper banked again, and Connor groaned.
“Olive oil,” Annie said.
“Just get us on the ground,” Connor replied through gritted teeth.
He kept his eyes shut until the helicopter touched down and the whine of the engines were quieting. Then he disconnected his harness, pulled open the door, and practically jumped from the aircraft.
The pilot had set down in the middle of an empty loading zone. Stacks of containers surrounded them, some piled several stories high.
As Annie climbed down, Connor turned to her with his arms out to the sides. “Where to?”
“The Port Authority guys are going to meet us here.”
As if on cue, two white-and-black sedans pulled around the end of one of the container rows and stopped a few feet away. A slightly overweight man in a short-sleeve button-up shirt and tie stepped out of the lead car, looking confused and more than a little frustrated.
“You guys with Homeland?” he shouted over the sound of the chopper’s down-revving engines. He approached, hunched over and holding his tie to his chest.
“That’s right,” Annie shouted back. “We need to get to Slip Fourteen.”
The chopper’s engines wound down to a minimal hum, and the downbeats from the rotors almost completely died away. “I’m going to need to see some identification,” the man said.
“Sure,” Annie replied, digging in her jacket pocket.
“This is all extremely irregular.”
The man crossed his arms. He had a pistol holstered on his hip. It was a cheap plastic Fobus holster, the same one the FBI had banned several years back for causing a number of accidental discharges. A golden badge clipped to his belt in front of the holster identified him as a security supervisor, and the ID clipped to his shirt pocket said his name was Josh Price.
“What is it exactly that you’re looking for?” he asked. “The agent on the phone wasn’t too forthcoming.”
“That’s classified,” Annie said, holding up her fairly real-looking Homeland Security credentials.
Connor made a mental note to ask the folks at the Outfit what type of credentials he should be carrying.
Price leaned forward and squinted at the ID. After a moment he straightened again and nodded to Connor. “And yours?”
“He’s the new guy,” Annie said. “Doesn’t have his green card yet, you know what I mean. He’s with me.”
The man hesitated.
“Slip Fourteen,” Annie repeated. She looked at her turned-up palm, reading the numbers she’d written there. “We’re looking for container F74-G82A. Can you help us out?”
Price nodded slowly, then motioned to the two cars behind him. “Boat’s already docked and unloading, but we can get you there.”
“You need to stop all the cargo from leaving the area,” Connor said, following Price to the cars.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Price said over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea how much money goes through these docks every hour? I call for a shutdown and that’s my ass. I ain’t doing that for no one, not even Homeland Security.”
Connor put a hand on the man’s shoulder, stopping him before he climbed back into the lead car. “If you don’t stop it, you could be responsible for the deaths of thousands, if not millions.”
Price stood there for a moment, studying Connor’s face as if trying to determine whether Connor was feeding him a line or not. “You’re talking about the bombs in Manhattan. This has something to do with that?”
Connor nodded. “We have reason to believe that a much bigger bomb is coming through your port right now, and if we don’t stop it, the potential body count is…” He trailed off, not even wanting to entertain the number.
The color drained from Price’s face. “My cousin’s in the hospital from the JP Morgan bombing. He might not make it.” He pulled in a deep breath and sighed. “I guess we don’t have any time to waste.”
Connor and Annie climbed into the back seat, behind Price, and the cars took off through the maze of containers.
“This place is massive,” Annie said.
Price turned, putting an arm over the back of his seat. “The Port Authority bought the piers back in the fifties, but the container terminals weren’t built until the eighties.”
Annie shot Connor a sidelong glance, which Price either didn’t see or ignored.
He continued, “We handle over a hundred thousand containers a year and have over four hundred thousand feet of warehouse space across the complex. It’s a bitch to keep locked down, even under the best of conditions.”
“I can imagine,” Connor said.
The radio on Price’s belt buzzed. “Hey, boss, the boat in Fourteen is already unloading. They’ve got pods on the deck.”
Price pulled the radio off his belt. “Tell the cranes to stop moving and make sure those workers know not to load any of the pods.”
“Those drivers are going to be pissed.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn whether they’re pissed or not, this is a national security issue,” Price said, his chest puffing out. “Put them on standby until I say otherwise.”
“Copy that, boss.”
Price waved the radio in the air before clipping it back on his belt. “I swear, sometimes you just can’t get good help these days.”
“You got that right,” Annie said.
Connor caught her look and held up his hands. “What?”
“So what’s the story on this bomb?” Price said. “What are we looking for?”
“We can’t say,” Annie repeated.
“Now, just hold on a second there, ma’am.” Price glanced back at Annie, frustration written on his flabby, middle-aged face. “I may just be an old washed-up security guard around these parts, but I’m the head washed-up security guard here, and everything that happens here happens because I say it happens. So if you think you’re just going to show up here and—”
“It could be a nuke,” Connor said, interrupting. Annie gave him a dagger-eyed stare, but he knew he needed to cut off this conversation before it got too far. “It could be giving off a radiological signal.”
“A n-nuke?” Price stammered, and the blood drained from his face.
Annie motioned toward the front of the car. “Eyes ahead, if you don’t mind. I’d rather you not slam
us into a shipping container.”
Connor reached forward and patted the man’s shoulder. “It’s okay—that’s why we’re here. Like you said, national security. We take any threats to the homeland seriously.”
Price took a deep breath and nodded. “Amazing. Well then, if it’s a nuke, holy crap… really? A nuke?” But then he seemed to regain some of his bravado. “You people don’t have anything to worry about. We have some of the best technology in the world. Our detectors can pick up on anything coming through here with a radioactive signature. Nothing is going to get past them.”
“Unless the nuke is shielded,” Connor said. “Which we believe this one is.”
Price’s confidence waned. “Of course it is. Damned terrorists need to come up with ways around everything, don’t they?”
Annie leaned forward. “The container we’re looking for might be loaded with olive oil. Large amounts of water have the ability to mask the radiation signature. Bulk olive oil does the same thing. It’s also how the terrorists have been smuggling bombs into the city.” She added, with a growl, “All of which is classified, by the way.”
“Listen, lady, I’m retired navy. I know all about classified.”
“Did you just call me ‘lady’?”
“Enough,” Connor said. “How much further?”
Price pointed ahead. “We’re almost there.”
Connor didn’t know how the man could even tell where they were in this maze of containers, but he didn’t press the issue.
They soon pulled to a stop along the wide concrete tarmac, a massive container crane towering above them. Several containers had already been offloaded and were waiting on trucks behind the crane, and hundreds more waited on the deck of the ship. Forklifts and workers crisscrossed each other with practiced precision.
Connor and Annie followed Price to a foreman standing on the dock near the ship’s bow. As they approached, the man was pointing to one of the suspended containers, barking orders into a handheld radio. Yes, that’s what they said. Hold up.”
“Hey, Jerry!” Price called, shouting over the commotion.
The foreman turned and frowned. “What the hell is this all about, Price? I’ve got six hours of work to be done, and about three to do it in.”
Patriot Page 20
