by Tom Abrahams
That was why this attack had to be a dirty bomb. That was why it had to be public. That was why there had to be two of them: one blowing up people without protection, the other blowing up world leaders under the tightest of security. Americans would beg to give up their freedom for their security. The Spanish and French would too. The Italians would ask for it. The British would clamor for it.
A new world order was wafting into the air with the smoke clouding out the newly risen sun. Custos inhaled the acrid air and steadied himself. The job wasn’t finished.
He turned his attention from the charred, bleeding aftermath in front of him and started toward the entrance to the hotel. As he suspected would happen, the men guarding the door abandoned their posts, running toward the carnage. He looked at the ground as he lugged his bag and swam against the tide of first responders. Nobody gave him a second look as he shouldered his way through the door and disappeared down an emergency stairwell along the edge of the lobby near the elevators.
He hustled down the first flight, his heavy steps echoing against the concrete walls of the stairwell before stopping at the first landing. He leaned back against the wall, its cold seeping through his shirt. It wasn’t until he stopped that he noticed the half dozen shards of wood protruding from his thigh like porcupine quills. His pants were soaked with blood that pooled on the floor. Custos looked behind him and saw droplets leading their way back up the stairs.
He dropped the duffel to the ground and picked at one of the thick splinters. It was embedded deeply in his leg, as he imagined the others were, so he left it. But the longer he stood there, the more acute the pain became, the more aware he was of the damage to his leg.
A throbbing burn clouded his mind. He clenched his teeth, inhaled deeply, and pressed himself from the wall, using the handrail to lower himself another flight of stairs step by step.
*
“There has been an incident.”
The words from the head of the security group for the High Command of the Spanish Royal Guard echoed against the silence of everyone in the room. The delegations were using headsets and translators to negotiate the finer points of SECURITY and its affiliated bills.
“Somebody detonated a bomb outside the hotel. We are secure here and urge you to stay in this room.”
President Jackson gauged the reactions from her British counterpart. He didn’t react, but shot her a knowing glance. The Italian and Canadian delegations were abuzz. The Swedish prime minister stood from his seat and yelled something to his team of Säkertpolisen, the Swedish Security Service. Through the translator, Felicia could hear him dispute the intelligence of staying put.
“I want to leave,” he said. “I want my men to get me out of here.”
“The area outside of the hotel is not secure,” repeated the Spanish guard.
“I don’t care.” The Swede, with the help of his trio of Dolph Lundgren look-alikes, pushed his way out of the room.
The Japanese prime minister sat quietly. President Jackson noticed him taking in the scene, absorbing the reactions of others. He whispered into the ear of his aide and then leaned into the microphone at his seat.
“I agree we should stay here.” His voice was calm and even, almost without inflection. “It is not secure outside. It is secure in here.”
The Canadians and Italians voiced their agreement. President Jackson and the British prime minister followed.
“We’ll need a situation report ASAP,” ordered the president. “As much information as you have. The other working group, are they holding as well?”
“Yes,” the Spanish guard replied after waiting for the translation. “All of the delegations are in the room. They’ve agreed to stay in the secured room. We’ve assigned additional guards to that post.”
“Remind me again,” said President Jackson. “The French, Germans, Aussies, Swiss, Belgians, and, of course, your own delegation are all there. Correct?”
“Correct,” replied the guard.
Felicia Jackson would have done a happy dance if she could. Everything was falling into place. She, a woman, was about to preside over the single biggest shift in power since the fall of the Roman Empire. Too consumed by her own narcissism, it was lost on her that the fall of Rome brought about the Dark Ages.
She caught her reflection in a large mirror on the wall opposite her. She managed to pry her eyes from herself and waved over her press secretary, who was sitting quietly in a chair along the wall behind her. He shot up and gave her his ear, bending at the waist so she could speak to him.
“Three things,” she said, gripping his shoulder to draw him closer. “Where the hell is Goodman? I haven’t seen him since last night.”
The press secretary shrugged. “I haven’t seen him either.”
“Then get someone to find him,” she said. “He was supposed to meet me for breakfast.”
“I’m on it,” he said. “What’s the second thing?”
“Issue a statement,” she said. “I’ll give you unilateral discretion on this. Just make sure it says something like, ‘I join the American people in grieving the loss of innocent lives in this senseless, preventable terrorist attack in Barcelona. We stand shoulder to shoulder with our partner nations to bring the perpetrators to justice. These cowardly acts, designed to weaken our resolve and test our strength as one global people, must stop. We must do everything in our power to stop them.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
“Got it.”
“It doesn’t have to be exactly those words,” she said, “but do include ‘preventable’ and ‘one global people’. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She released her grip. “Now go sit down and make it happen. Then find Goodman.”
“What about the third thing?” he asked. “You said there were three things.”
She handed him her phone. “Deal with this.”
The press secretary scanned the information on the screen. It displayed the newest post at the salacious PlausibleDeniability.info site. Dillinger Holt was reporting about a murder in the Eurostars Grand Marina Hotel and its possible connection to a security breach and missing Trade Center employee. It contended the White House knew about the two and kept them quiet. He was citing multiple highly placed sources. It then drew a veiled connection to Sir Spencer and the death of Horus and read like a federal indictment.
“How do you want me to deal with this?”
“The people of the United States pay you one hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars a year to deal with it. Make it disappear.”
*
Matti gagged, bent over at her waist, and retched. She felt Brandon’s hand on her back.
“We need to keep moving,” he said. “If he is where you think he is, we don’t have much time.”
Matti wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked at the scorched earth in front of her. There was char mixed with a slurry of blood and entrails. Men and women were wailing or bleating like sheep. She saw a man mumbling to himself, dragging himself on the ground toward the lower half of one of his legs. Matti’s vision blurred and she bent over and retched again.
Brandon grabbed her elbow and pulled her with him. His pace now faster than hers, he maneuvered their way past ground zero, around the police trying to secure the scene while trying to triage the wounded survivors. Matti closed her eyes, relying on Brandon to drag her past her newest failure.
A shot of cool air blasted her as they burst into the hotel lobby, and she opened her eyes. Brandon was holding her hand now, gently guiding her toward the stairwell.
“What about the elevator?” Matti asked. “Would that be faster?”
“Look at the floor,” he told her, pointing to their feet. “There’s a blood trail. It’s him. I’m sure of it. Anyone else hurt in that blast wouldn’t be here.”
Matti took a deep breath and flexed her hands. Both of them were shaking. She needed a pill. She needed C-Dunk. Maybe she could go to her room for just a minute and…
/> “Matti!” Brandon snapped her from her daze.
“Okay.” She shook her head. “Okay.” She refocused and pushed through the heavy metal door separating the stairwell from the lobby. The bright red droplets guided them down the first flight of stairs. At the landing there was a thin pool of blood stamped with a footprint.
“He must have hurt himself in the blast,” Brandon observed. “It’s gotta be him.”
Matti and Brandon sidestepped the blood on the landing and trotted down the next flight. Their hurried footsteps echoed loudly in the vertical tomb of a stairwell.
They reached the basement level at the same time. Matti nodded at Brandon and she pulled on the door, feeling the cool whoosh of air-conditioning hit as she stepped into the hallway.
Then something else hit her. Her world went black.
*
Custos heard voices and pounding feet echoing in the stairwell above. He thought there was a man and a woman, but through the flames of pain shooting up and down his leg, he couldn’t be sure.
He was certain, however, whoever it was intended to stop him. Why else would someone bound down the obscure stairwell on the heels of an explosion?
He quietly opened the basement door and slipped through it. Next to the door was a combination ashtray/trashcan. He grabbed the brass ashtray insert and gripped it in his left hand. He stood flat against the wall, dropped his bag to the floor next to the door, and waited.
The footsteps got louder until he knew they were at the basement landing. Custos used the back of his arm to wipe the sweat beading along his brow. He blinked away the drops that stung his eyes, holding his breath when he saw the handle crank and shifting his weight to his uninjured leg.
When the door opened, he waited a half breath and swatted the ashtray against the side of the intruder’s head. It slammed her into the wall and she slumped to the floor, blocking the other person from moving through the door.
Ashtray still vibrating in his hand, Custos swung open the door and stepped over the heap. He charged the man still in the stairwell and tackled him against the cement wall.
A surge of air left the man’s lungs as he sandwiched him with leverage. But the man was strong, and despite having the wind knocked out of him, he managed a thick punch to the side of Custos’s head.
Dazed already from blood loss, Custos staggered backward and offered a wild swing with the ashtray. It caught the man on the nose and dropped him to the ground.
Custos made the decision to bolt. With one of the intruders unconscious and the other struggling to breathe, he limped back into the hallway and grabbed his bag, hobbling as quickly as he could to the supply closet.
He wasn’t certain he was headed in the right direction. His path to the closet was indirect at best. He stumbled against the wall and fell down twice before he reached the door.
Custos was nearly blind with sweat, incapacitated from his injuries, and out of breath from his waning burst of adrenaline. He fumbled around in the bag, looking for the access key. His hands were trembling, his mind was foggy, and he questioned whether or not this was, in fact, a dream.
He couldn’t fail. Failure was not his destiny.
*
“Mmmaaadddeee,” the voice called to her through the darkness. “Mmmaaadddeee, caaannn youuuu hearrrrr meeee?”
Matti fought her way back to consciousness, unaware of what had happened. The last she remembered, she had her hand on the door handle to the basement entrance. Then nothing.
She sucked in a deep breath and open her eyes to see Brandon’s face above hers, a large, swollen purple knot on the left side of his nose. His hands were on her shoulders.
“Matti? Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
His nose was bleeding.
Matti tried to nod her throbbing head. The left side of her face and her neck ached. Her left ear was ringing; sounds were muffled.
With Brandon’s help, she pushed herself onto her elbows and then sat up. She looked around and looked back to Brandon, her eyes asking him for help.
“We’re in the basement. The terrorist was waiting for us. Now he’s ahead of us again. Can you walk?”
Matti grabbed Brandon’s shoulder and pulled herself to her feet. The room spun around her for a moment. She steadied herself and started walking toward the supply closet.
With Brandon following, their pace increased until the trail of blood stopped at the closet door, disappearing underneath it. The door was shut. They had no way inside.
Brandon looked at Matti, his eyes sad with defeat. Matti dug into her pockets and pulled out her cell phone. She scrolled through the screen, typed in some information, scrolled some more, and then punched a number. She nodded at Brandon and placed the phone to her ear.
“I need the manager now.” She waited a moment, impatiently flexing her free hand. She winced against a wave of pain and braced herself against the wall. The overhead lights flickered, and for a moment, Matti thought she was about to pass out. Then the manager came to the phone.
“We were in your office earlier. We’re with the White House. I need you to remotely unlock the supply closet in the Trade Center basement.” She paused. “Do it now!”
The door hummed and clicked open, and Matti shoved her phone back into her pocket. Brandon yanked it open as the lights went out. They had access to the supply closet. But they were completely in the dark.
CHAPTER 48
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
All of President Felicia Jackson’s concerns about a mission failure disappeared when the power failed. She knew they were moments from a successful completion and braced herself against the desk for what was coming.
The multilingual murmurs in the room crescendoed when the lights failed. There were shrieks from some of the young women translators before the assurance from the king’s guard that all was safe and they should not panic.
Jackson knew from lengthy discussions with the group of planners that, after the distraction attack outside of the hotel and Trade Center, power failure was next. Both were intended to induce confusion and to spread thin those responsible for immediate response.
Initially, the idea was to leave the second explosion inside the accessible area above the supply closet and detonate it remotely. But that proposed too many risks, too many opportunities for failure.
So the decision was made the bomb should be delivered by hand. The carrier, a Sir Spencer protégé, was the logical choice. He’d always performed well.
After his release, Sir Spencer was told he’d be the one to deliver the news to the protégé. That, as far as President Jackson knew, had happened. That was where the plan revealed its weaknesses.
The protégé recklessly, without forethought, killed a woman in the very hotel where the plot was to unfold. Then Matti Harrold spotted Sir Spencer alive, corroborating a tabloid report about his prematurely reported demise.
The president had to improvise. She had to task her asset with cleaning up leaks both foreign and domestic. From the loudmouthed rapper, Horus, to the whore of a medical examiner and that disappointing addict Harrold, all of whom threatened to unravel what she’d worked so hard to attain, Felicia Jackson resorted to the one tool so many world leaders had authorized long before she ascended to the Oval Office: assassination.
Each of the murders was tricky. Each posed its own risks. However, those risks were far outweighed by their rewards. And here, in the darkness of a G12 summit, Felicia Jackson’s heart raced with the knowledge she’d succeeded.
She, alone, had managed to pull together the most extravagant of revolutions. She’d stitched its seams as they threatened to tear. She’d resuscitated it as its life support failed. She could almost feel the rumble of the explosion before it happened. She envisioned the nameless, faceless Sir Spencer protégé clinging to the infrastructure, his body pressed against the floor underneath the room in which French, Spanish, German, Australian, Belgian, and Swiss would die together. She chuckle
d to herself, imagining a real-life melting pot.
She adjusted her grip on the edge of the table, prepared for what was about to come.
The new order was at hand.
*
Custos was nestled amongst the pipes and wires that ran along the underside of the basement’s true ceiling. He’d managed to find his way into the closet and close the door behind him. He slung the bag onto a low workbench and fished out what he needed for the coup de grâce before strapping the explosive to his chest.
He clumsily climbed the shelving unit, refusing to put any weight on his injured leg. The low light in the closet was enough for him to find his way to the ceiling tiles. His chest burned from the effort to get that far. Sitting awkwardly on the top shelf, he tugged his drenched shirt collar with his free hand, wiped his hand dry on the back of his pants, and then punched his way into the space between the tiles and true ceiling. Now, secured in that space aboard a wide iron support beam, he took a wire cutter and snipped through a series of wires labeled “primer a través d’un tercer pis elèctrica”. The lights below him flickered.
He found his phone and fumbled with it, finding the flashlight app. He flipped it on and aimed it above his head. He couldn’t afford to be in the dark. With the help of the light, he cut through another trio of wires, and the light below him died.
With the lights out, now he needed to move twenty yards along the beam, about halfway to an insulated firewall. That would place him underneath the center of the targeted conference room. From that position, with the bomb pressed against the floor, the explosion would inflict maximum damage. He slid a couple of yards in that direction and lost his balance, almost falling from the iron beam. He took his phone and stuffed it into his mouth, trying to aim the light straight ahead of him on the beam. He shuffled on his knees another five yards, the pain in his thigh blindingly intense. He stopped to weather the burn, biting down on his phone to ease the intensity of it. When he tried to move again, he couldn’t. Something was wrapped around his ankle, stopping him. He turned around, the light flashing on a hand gripping his ankle. Then he saw the arm and the man at the other end. He was balanced on the beam behind him, trying to yank himself forward.
