by Tom Abrahams
They walked into an open living room. A single lamp was on, glowing yellow in the corner of the room. A television was turned on, its volume off.
Matti was unarmed. She didn’t see anything that could serve as a weapon should she need it. This was reckless. They were trespassing. A homicidal nutcase might be just feet away.
Nonetheless, she stepped to the kitchen. Water dripped from the faucet, tapping the sink every couple of seconds. A half dozen prescription bottles littered the counter near the sink.
She walked back to the living room, noticing a broken piece of wood lodged into the handles of two large glass doors. To the right, the large room was empty, the flickering of the television casting a horror-movie-like glow onto the wall.
The room was otherwise empty. Brandon wasn’t there, and Matti’s heart rate accelerated. She moved from the living room to a hallway close to the entry door.
To the right was a bathroom. A nightlight flickered above the sink. She reached into the room and flicked the light switch.
There was a reddish brown streak across the lip of the bathtub that dripped over the edge to the floor. It looked like dried blood. Matti moved closer and knelt down.
“Nobody’s here,” Brandon called from behind her, startling her, causing her to nearly fall over. She caught herself on the tub, avoiding the blood.
“You checked the rest of the apartment?
“There are only two bedrooms,” Brandon said, reaching to help Matti to her feet. “Nobody’s home. Something weird happened here. Without question, the janitor is not okay.
“What do you mean?” Matti stood and adjusted her shirt.
“There’s a dried bloodstain on the floor of one bedroom,” he said. “There’s more in the bed, which is a mess. There’s also something yellow, like pus, staining the sheets. It almost looks like someone had surgery.”
“And the other room?”
“Nothing there. It’s clean, like nobody’s been in it for a while. The blinds are pulled. Spare bedroom, I guess. What did you find in the kitchen?”
“Nothing really. Just a bunch of prescription bottles,” she said. “The back doors are barricaded.”
“Really?” Brandon walked back to the living room. Matti followed. “Huh. Clearly the janitor was trying to keep someone out.”
“Or someone was trying to keep him in,” Matti countered.
Brandon shrugged and walked to the kitchen, where he picked up a couple of the bottles. He tossed one of them to Matti.
She looked at the bottle. Nothing stood out. “It’s a steroid. Methylprednisolone.”
“There’s no name on it,” he said. “It’s the kind of bottle a pharmacy would stock behind the counter. This one”—he held up the other bottle—“ceftriaxone? It doesn’t have a name on it either.”
“He did kill the woman at the pharmacy,” Matti said, rolling the bottle over in her hand. “I knew it.”
“It’s probably a safe assumption the janitor is dead,” reasoned Brandon, setting the bottle back on the counter.
“Or he’s part of the plan. We know he killed the flight attendant and left her body in the room. He did everything he could to prolong someone finding her.”
“Okay.” Brandon stepped closer to Matti, lowering his voice, “so he learned his lesson and took the body with him.”
“I don’t think so.” Matti rubbed her chin, unaware of the tremble in her hand. “Whatever this guy did to the janitor, he did it in the bathtub or on the floor of the bedroom. And then he moved the janitor to the bed.”
“Why do you say that?” Brandon’s eyes moved toward the hallway and the two bedrooms. He planted his hands on his hips.
“You said it yourself, Brandon,” Matti replied. “It looks like someone performed surgery. And if there’s blood and pus on the top sheet of the bed, that means it was covering a wound. The janitor was in bed. It just makes sense. Despite the smell of cleanser, the killer didn’t really care to hide anything this time. This place is a mess. Plus it was unlocked.”
“So that means he took the janitor with him.” Brandon pulled his hands to his hair and tugged it with his fists. “We’re too late.”
“No, we’re not,” Matti said. “Not if we get back to the Trade Center right now. He’s headed for that closet in the basement.”
Brandon checked his phone and cursed. “I’m late. I’m supposed to have breakfast with the president in forty-five minutes. Then the meetings start a half hour later.”
“We can make it,” Matti said, moving to the door. “But we need to go now.”
CHAPTER 46
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
President Jackson clenched her jaw and gripped her personal cell phone as if it were a stress ball. For five hours she’d been trying unsuccessfully to contact the assassin.
It was not unusual for the assassin to go radio silent for days. However, given the stakes and the proximity to the impending events, Jackson had assumed she would be more communicative.
Felicia Jackson dropped the phone onto the dresser in her suite and tucked in her blouse. She was wearing a cream-colored silk shell underneath a fire engine red suit. After she slipped on the jacket, she affixed an American flag pin to the left lapel.
She considered ordering the Secret Service to Matti’s room, but she worried that might create problems if Matti were already dead.
Her phone buzzed atop the dresser, vibrating against the wood. She grabbed at it, almost dropping it to the floor, and flipped it over. She rolled her eyes when she saw who was calling.
“Yes?” she answered in a tone that intentionally conveyed her irritation.
“I was just calling to wish you luck today,” her husband squeaked. “I know you’ve got a lot at stake.”
“Is that a sincere wish or a sarcastic one?” She adjusted the pin so it sat just so on the lapel.
“It’s sincere, Felicia,” he bemoaned, mourning the loss of even the smallest kindness in their marriage. “Why would I call you and be an ass?”
“You just would,” she snapped. “If it’s sincere, thank you. We can use all of the good wishes, kismet, karma, serendipity, and whatever else we can get.”
“Do you have a thesaurus in front of you?”
“Is that supposed to be sincere or sarcastic?”
“If I’m considered an ass regardless,” he said, “I might as well enjoy the spoils, the riches, benefits, rewards, and whatever.”
“I’m hanging up,” she told him, but held the phone to her ear for an extra moment.
“The truth is, I’ll always love you, Felicia,” he said, his voice hushed. “Despite what you—we’ve become, I’ll always love you.”
She pulled the phone from her ear, ended the call, and dialed another number.
“Hello?” It was the young Western European policy analyst. “Who is this?”
“It’s your president,” she said.
“I didn’t—I mean—this—I didn’t recognize the number,” he fumbled. “I’m very sorry, Madam President.”
“Not a problem. I’m on my personal line. It’s encrypted. We’re free to talk.”
“Okay,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell me again about the meeting schedules this morning and who is with whom.”
“First thing after breakfast, you’re meeting the delegations from the UK, Italy, Canada, Sweden, and Japan. There’s another simultaneous meeting that includes the French, Spanish, German, Australians, Belgian, and Swiss delegations.”
“Good. And the topics? Refresh my memory.”
“SECURITY is on the table in both meetings,” he answered. “Even the countries that are not a part of the initial treaty are included in the discussions. They want their voices heard. We’ve been sure to include a healthy mixture of proponents and naysayers in both conference groups.”
“What else?”
“SECURITY should take up most of the time,” he said, “but there’s also a dis
cussion about Greece and its position with the EU, given their repeated financial shortcomings.”
“How does the EU feel about our discussing this?”
“They don’t like it.”
“Good.”
“Then lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” she said. “I’ll want you sitting near me. You seem to have a level head about all of this. I need someone who doesn’t succumb to emotion.”
“Yes, Madam President,” he said. Felicia could almost hear him snap to attention over the phone.
“I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Understood?”
“Yes, Madam President.”
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” she asked, pouting her lips in the mirror affixed to the dresser.
“No,” he said. “I have a PhD in International Development from Southern Miss. My thesis was about Western Euro—”
“Nevermind,” she said. “See you in fifteen.” She ended the call.
Felicia slinked over to her window. She’d wanted an ocean view, but the Secret Service suggested it would be easier to protect her with a room facing the concrete peninsula that stretched from the World Trade Center to the Plaça de les Drassanes. She pulled back one of the linen sheers and peered out the window.
In the distance she could see rows of satellite trucks parked along a narrow parking strip along the right side of the peninsula. The sun, rising over the Mediterranean, reflected the new day on the large white metal trucks.
Beyond the trucks to the southwest and closer to the plaza was a large group of protestors. They were too far away for her to make out individuals, but she could see some of them were shaking large signs, their fists pumping in unison. She could only imagine what they were shouting. She didn’t have to imagine how they smelled: a putrid mix of sweat, hemp, and patchouli oil. It was eau de dissent, she supposed. She let go of the sheer and checked the Patek Philippe on her wrist. It was time to go downstairs.
CHAPTER 47
PLAÇA DE LES DRESSANES
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Custos guessed there were two, maybe three hundred protestors gathered at the plaza across the World Trade Center peninsula. They were pushed against the police barricades, chanting and screaming at the line of black-clad police standing at attention fifty feet from them. The police were in riot gear, armed with billy clubs and tear gas cannons.
The crowd was swollen past the containment of the plaza. It was spilling onto the street, adding the cacophony of frustrated car horns to their protest.
Unshaven and weary, Custos blended seamlessly with the nonconformists, tugging a bleary-eyed Fernando Barçes behind him. The old man didn’t struggle. He followed as would a well-heeled dog, shuffling to keep up with his master.
Custos looked back at his chosen martyr, his human delivery system, and saw a recognizable look in the man’s eyes. He’d seen it in other people in the moments before they died. There was resignation, a recognition that no matter what he did, the end was near.
Some mistook it for peacefulness, a serenity that only came as the pain slipped away and the dying ascended to heaven. Custos knew better. He’d looked deep into the eyes of too many people in their waning seconds of life to believe there was peace.
He turned back to navigate the dissenters, trudging toward what he could best reason was the center of the amorphous mass of anarchists. Once there, he found a post, something like a traffic barrier to prevent cars from running onto the curb. He pulled a pair of large zip ties from his pocket and linked them together. He attached one of them to Barçes’s ankle and the other around the post. Nobody seemed to notice, their eyes up and across the street. They apparently were too focused on screaming obscenities at the police, who could hear them, and the world leaders, who could not.
Custos wrapped his hand around Barçes’s neck. The heat of a returning fever warmed his touch. He pulled the zombie’s ear to his mouth and told him what was about to happen. He explained that he would die regardless. A remote trigger would kill him, and if he started to move or struggle, it would only hasten the inevitable.
“Eres todo muertos,” he whispered. “You’re all dead.”
Custos kissed Barçes on the cheek and slipped away into the crowd. He distanced himself from the mob and walked nonchalantly toward the peninsula. He adjusted his wig and straightened his glasses.
It was time.
*
Matti jumped from the cab four blocks from their destination. Traffic was gridlocked in both directions. They weren’t moving.
Brandon stuffed ten euro into the driver’s hand and slid out of Matti’s open door, jogging to catch up with her. She was moving with purpose as she passed the intersection of Passeig d’Isabel II and Via Laietana, running south toward the World Trade Center.
Up ahead she could see the Mirador de Colom, the famous statue of Columbus. She knew once she reached the statue she was only a block from the entrance to the Trade Center peninsula. As she ran, she inhaled the salt air, thick and ripe with the distinct smell of a barnacled port.
She caught a rhythm, breathing in and out, in and out.
“Matti,” Brandon called to her.
Matti didn’t turn around. She sensed something was about to happen. She couldn’t turn around.
Breathe. In and out. In and out.
Her mind flashed to Washington, DC, nine months earlier, when she’d frantically raced to stop the Capitol plot. She remembered the acrid black smoke billowing from the Hanover Institute when a remote trigger blew up the political think tank in Georgetown. She’d known at that moment Bill Davidson was dead.
Breathe. In and out. In and out.
Minutes later, her world changed. The Capitol had exploded and collapsed in on itself.
Wait!
Matti stopped and whirled around to face Brandon.
“What is it?” His face was contorted with confusion.
“There are going to be two explosions,” she said. “Two attacks.”
“How do you know that?”
“That’s their MO. The janitor is the decoy, just like Bill Davidson was.”
“Decoy?”
She rolled her eyes. “For an Army Ranger you’re a little slow on the uptake. The first explosion won’t be the big one. He did something to that janitor. I’m telling you.”
“So where will the first explosion be? If the second one is the Trade Center…”
“I don’t—” Matti never finished the sentence. From the corner of her eye she saw a bright flash of light. Almost immediately, her knees buckled as the earth shook from a percussive blast. She collapsed into Brandon. He tumbled backward and she landed on him. Matti, though dazed, knew what had happened.
From the ground, she turned her head to look south. A familiar plume crawled its way into the sky, framing the statue of Columbus in black. Car alarms were wailing in the distance.
“Are you okay?” Brandon asked, his hand rubbing his neck.
“No,” Matti said. “I’m not.”
*
Jon Custos was standing far enough away from what he believed to be the blast radius. He braced himself against a concrete wall at the southern edge of the peninsula, just outside of the police barricade. He looked over his shoulder toward the security at the entrance to the hotel some fifty yards away.
Though the entrance was heavily guarded, people were moving in and out of the hotel. He pushed the glasses up on his nose and brushed the thick bangs of the wig from his forehead.
He noticed a police officer on the edge of the riot line glance at him twice. Custos wouldn’t wait for a third.
He took out his phone and held it horizontally, pretending to take a photograph of the protestors. But as he opened the screen, he autodialed a preprogrammed number and closed his eyes.
*
Dirty bombs were always a fear in the Western world, an urban legend that grew in the days after the Cold War and were amplified post 9
/11.
Equally as mythical was the undetectable explosive. Terrorists bragged they were close to formulating the perfect weapon, one that could pass through security checkpoints without question.
Combining the two into one singular device? Not even the most radical ordinance expert thought it possible. The Russians had done it.
Hidden in a laptop computer, the thermite components registered as part of the device in any standard airport machine. Glycerin was hidden inside an e-cigarette vaporizer, and the nuclear bomb was inert until it wasn’t.
Once through a checkpoint the carrier could easily reassemble them into a palm-sized plastic-resin container rendered on a commercial-grade 3D printer.
None of those components, none of the threat or the glory of the undetectable thermite dirty bomb were a reality until Jon Custos sent the signal. Only then did the world see what was possible.
Fernando Barçes was the hypocenter of the attack, and he never knew the bomb was triggered.
When activated, a magnesium ribbon was sparked. Its heat initiated the reaction. Iron oxide and aluminum burned white hot. That, in turn, ignited glycerin, which caught fire. Those flames detonated the dirty bomb. The chain reaction took less than a half second.
It was the nuclear material that vaporized Barçes, those within twenty feet of him, and killed scores more. Much of the explosion’s energy was an intense burst of heat. Traveling at the speed of light, it burned its way through most of the protestors. Those who didn’t die immediately would succumb to flash burns or shrapnel wounds. Unlike a conventional, aerial nuclear detonation, wide-scale radiation was not a concern. A dirty bomb, or a radiological dispersal device, was far more a psychological weapon than a physical one.
Custos knew when torturing a prisoner the threat of pain was often far more effective than the infliction of it. Such was the case with the dirty bomb. Smoking five packs of cigarettes a day or fake-baking in a tanning bed were more of a mortal threat to the general population. But like the fear of being eaten alive by a great white shark, people could be irrational. Their minds would run wild with the threat of pain.
