by Tom Lowe
“Officially, we don’t plea bargain with terrorists.”
“I don’t plan to,” O’Brien said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Abdul-Waahid backed the catering van up to loading docks at the rear entrance to the federal building. Drivers in two other vans did the same thing. They began unloading the large stainless steel containers filled with hot food. The caterers put the containers on rolling tables and waited for a deputy to electronically unlock the door. There was a loud click and a long buzz sound. The door opened and the catering team made its way slowly through the building labyrinth.
One man wore a white chef’s uniform and carried a clipboard in a meaty hand. He waddled with the gait of a weightlifter on steroids. No neck and a head like a fire plug on massive shoulders. He moved his Buddha body in a stiff, all shoulders march, barking orders at his cooking staff. Two women from prep joined them, pushing bowls of salad to go with the shiny, food-filled containers.
As they waited for a service elevator, the man in the chef’s outfit looked over at Waahid and asked, “You cold, guy?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing that windbreaker. At least it’s white. But when we start serving, lose it.”
“I understand,” Waahid said.
The two large service elevators opened, and the crew loaded the food inside. The chef said, “I appreciate you filling in so fast to cover for Bobby. It’d be like him to find help to take his place if he got sick. He knows this is a big account for us. As long as the hunt for these dudes continues, we’re serving three squares a day in here.”
The elevators opened, and they made their way down the long hallway.
***
MIKE GATES, ERIC HUNTER, AND PAUL THOMPSON approached the table and sat near Lauren, opposite from O’Brien and Dave. Gates said, “Here’s the situation: our agents and the troopers were killed by men who follow a Russian who’s been going by the name of Yuri Volkow.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dave said.
Hunter said, “Volkow, no doubt, has more than one alias.”
“Who is he?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled. “He’s the kind of guy who can as easily slip radioactive thallium in your tea as he could drop the stuff on a major city. He was mid-level KGB before the name change. We strongly suspect he did contract killings for the Kremlin, could knock off an outspoken journalist, whatever was needed.”
“What’s the plan for getting Jason back alive?” O’Brien asked.
“You’re the plan, O’Brien,” said Gates. “They know you and Nick Cronus from all the insane media coverage. They know of your association with Jason Canfield. Probably know you’re ex-police. It would be a natural instinct for you, a man not connected officially with the government, to take off and look for your young friend.”
O’Brien said nothing.
Dave said, “Well, now, there’s an obvious change of plans. We had a deadline to find the remaining HEU and exchange it for Jason’s life. So, besides what we already know—Sean and Nick found the stuff, the Russians stole it and put it up on the web for auction—by now Jason’s lost value to them. And, if he’s seen their faces … .”
“What can I do?” O’Brien asked.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to be the highest bidders, under an assumed name that’s part of their member’s only club.”
“What name?”
“Zuhair-Rafi,” he was hand-picked by bin Laden before we took him out.”
Lauren said, “Could be a problem. How do we know that Mohammed Sharif isn’t next in line? What’s to keep him from protesting if he feels he’s being outspent by a fellow al Qaeda member?”
Hunter said, “Because the way the auction is set, in non-traceable IP addresses, each player is guaranteed anonymity. So none of the bidders will specifically know who has the highest bid. But they’ll be able to see the numbers—each successive high bid. If Mr. X is at two-mil, for example, the player who wants to push the envelope a few hundred-thou higher can type it in with his code, and it’s officially registered. Volkow will collect the twenty million or so for passing go. The other three or four in the auction, we don’t think it will be more than that, will either stay at the poker table or they’ll fold and get out of the game. They won’t leave a trace of their presence to us or anyone who can take a seat at their Tehran fold ‘em game.”
Gates said, “For a guy like Mohammed Sharif, this would be a supreme test. Score enriched uranium on American soil, package it for delivery and let her fall over someplace like Times Square or Independence Avenue. O’Brien, we need you to be one of the team members who infiltrates Volkow’s hideout right after Mohammed Sharif’s people enter the premises.”
“How do we know they’ll enter?” O’Brien asked.
“We don’t,” Hunter said. “We’ve learned that Mohammed has received information that can lead him to Volkow’s location. We think Mohammed is planning to hit Volkow before the auction, kill everyone, including Jason, and take the HEU.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” O’Brien asked. “We can’t sit in some car like detectives staking out a crack house. We need an idea of what, when, how, and where.”
“We can answer most of those,” Gates said. “We believe Volkow is hiding somewhere in Jacksonville. Their online site is routed to half dozen different IP’s. Some in Egypt. Our tech guys can say they’re somewhere in the Jacksonville area, we’re just not sure exactly. We think he’s holed up in there with at least half dozen men, maybe more, the HEU, and the kid.”
Lauren said, “And because we have no clue where Mohammed Sharif and his group are hiding, this is an opportunity to get two birds with one strike force.”
“Why do you want me part of it?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled and said, “Because we’ve read your profile. You’re an expert at finding people. We know you just might be the one to find Jason alive amongst all of this. And, with your background in hostage negotiations, should it get to that, you might be quite effective at getting the kid released.” Gates looked at the digital clock. “O’Brien, finder of lost souls … see if you can find Jason Canfield.”
“I found Robert Miller. He sends his regards, but not his regrets.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Andrei Keltzin smoked a cigarette outside the old warehouse, pacing nervously, glancing up at the second floor and wondering if Yuri Volkow was looking down at him beyond the glare and dirt on the glass. Keltzin propped his AK-47 against the building and dialed his cell. Mohammed Sharif answered. “Yes.”
“I will give you the location. The rest of the money when you arrive.”
***
DEPUTY RONALD HOBBS OPENED a door leading directly from the serving room to the command center. O’Brien looked up, seeing the movement of the caterers in the background, the smell of red pepper and Cajun sauces floating in the air. Over Gates’ shoulder, he saw a cook in a light white jacket.
Gates looked at O’Brien without any noticeable reaction and said, “Robert Miller, what a career. We could use his expertise today. If you see Bob, give him my regards.”
“When I see Boris Borshnik, a.k.a. Yuri Volkow, shall I tell him the same thing?”
Gates’ jaw muscles popped, his eyes had a snake-like coldness, no emotion beyond indifference and a minuscule allusion of subliminal madness. He smiled and said, “I’ll ignore that comment because I know you’re under extreme duress to find your friend, Jason, and to recover the HEU that you introduced to the crazies.”
“One of those crazies is your contact Mohammed Sharif. You’re busted, pal—”
“And you’re under arrest!” Gates looked at his watch and then the digital clock. “Hold him, Eric. I have to take a conference call with the director and the vice president. I’ll address your comments in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Sean O’Brien, you’re in federal custody. Do not attempt to leave this room or you will be shot.” He stood to leave, his eyes holding onto the movement of t
he caterers through the open door in the adjacent room. He licked his dry lips and left through the main entrance.
Lauren said, “Okay, now what?”
“He knows Borshnik personally,” O’Brien said.
“But you can’t prove that.”
“He just did,” Hunter said.
“You agree?” Lauren asked.
“Yeah, I do. Gates is very good, but there was something in the way he looked, or maybe it was the way O’Brien was looking at him, but the truth was hitting Gates right between the eyes, and he flinched.”
“Now,” Dave said, “what are you going to do about it? Arrest him?”
“Let’s bring in Robert Miller,” Lauren said.
O’Brien said nothing. He watched the door that Gates had exited. Then he looked at his watch. 11:56 a.m.
Lauren said, “Food smells good. My blood sugar’s down. I need a quick bite.” She smiled, got up and walked into the serving room, followed by a few agents.
Hunter said, “O’Brien, how long have you suspected Gates?”
“How long have you been watching him?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Only once.”
Hunter smiled and shook his head. “And one day you’ll tell me when, right?”
Dave said, “Maybe you can talk Sean into joining the Agency.”
O’Brien said, “Right now we’ve got to find Borshnik. For all I know, Gates is outside, smoking a cigarette and calling Borshnik—” O’Brien felt his words tighten in his throat. From across the room, under the flat light of the fluorescents, he could see directly into the service room. The man in a white windbreaker turned and looked up at the ceiling, his body facing east. O’Brien saw the man talking to himself. Or was he praying? Praying to Allah.
“NO! DOWN!” O’Brien yelled.
“What—” Dave uttered.
“There!” Hunter pointed.
Lauren came across the threshold, a plate of food in her hands, a smile on her face. O’Brien felt the world stop. Time measured in disjointed increments of human movement. The numbers on the digital clock—frozen.
The click of Lauren’s heels—silent.
The drone of the command center—gone.
The man in the white jacket opened his eyes. Prayer finished. His right hand slipping inside the jacket in a faltering movement, like film caught in the gate.
Lauren’s smile dropped. Her mouth made an O. She turned her head to look behind her as the jacket disintegrated into a ball of white heat. The explosion turned the wall separating the rooms into dust. The force of the bomb knocked O’Brien to the ground, heat radiating through the command center like a blast furnace.
O’Brien was flat on his back, ceiling tiles raining around him. Electricity arching through shattered wires, fire sprinklers gushing water. The smoke billowed forcefully as if it were an angry cloud in extreme weather. Visibility zero. Pain seared from his left shoulder, the heat of his blood trapped between skin and clothes.
O’Brien could hear nothing. Then a ringing swelled in his ears. It faded and he heard the sounds of agony, pain and imminent death rise up from the smoke and charred furniture, walls and floor. A woman made inhuman grunts and shrieks. A man whimpered and begged for his mother. Sobbing meshed into wailing. O’Brien crawled on his hand and knees. He found Dave Collins knocked out cold. A pulse, but faint, blood oozing from his forehead.
A cough. Eric Hunter held his shoulder with one bleeding hand. His hair was covered in a white powder, pieces of dry-wall sticking to it.
“You okay?” O’Brien asked.
“Think so,” Hunter said.
“Dave’s out. He’s breathing, but his pulse is weak.” O’Brien kept low, face near the floor, crawling in the direction he’d last seen Lauren. His hands slipped in blood and wet brain matter scattered like red oatmeal on the floor. He could smell coppery odors mixed with the scent of C-4, gun powder, and burning electrical fires.
A woman moaned. “Lauren! I’m here!” O’Brien crawled fifty feet though rubble and the sticky heat of blood and body parts. Lauren was on her back, one leg bent at an awkward right angle. Her white blouse ripped, the remaining fabric soaked red.
O’Brien knelt over her. His hands trembled as he wiped the blood from her face, gently pushing hair from her eyes. Her breathing raspy. She looked up at O’Brien, her eyes filling with tears. “Hold me, Sean. I can’t feel my legs … hold me.”
O’Brien lowered his body to hers, his cheek touching her face, his hands holding her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of tears run from her eyes and down to his lips. He could hear the labored breathing, the erratic muscle spasms of her body.
Sirens screamed in the distance. “Hold on … help’s coming. You’ll be in the hospital in a few minutes.”
“Sean, it’s okay—”
“Just breathe … easy … you’ll be fine—”
“I can’t see you. Sean … .”
“I’m here. Just breathe easy. They’re coming. Stay with me, Lauren!”
She coughed. O’Brien leaned up and wiped blood from her lips. “Don’t let Gates get away with it. He’s hurt too many people … .”
“Don’t talk … rest.”
She reached up with one hand. O’Brien held it, squeezed gently, hoping to somehow squeeze full life back into her body. “Find Jason … .” Her smile quivered. “You’re a good and decent man, Sean. You care about people … and I’ve always cared deeply for you and … .” Lauren’s chest heaved, gasping for air.
“No! Help’s coming! Lauren! Just breathe easy. Fight it!”
She stopped breathing, her blue eyes open, the light fading in the dust and smoke.
O’Brien held her hand. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, a single tear falling from his eye and mixing with her blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Mike Gates drove the speed limit, stopping for the convoy of police and emergency vehicles streaming toward the federal building. The only visible anxiety was the size of the sweat stain, which had grown into large, dark patches on his blue dress shirt. The odor of garlic from last night’s meal mixed with adrenaline and rose in an acrid blend from his pores. The taste in his mouth was like metal, hard water and rust. He used his cell phone.
“Yes,” Boris Borshnik said.
“I’ve been exposed!”
“How?”
“O’Brien! The fucking ex-cop! I don’t know how. I have to leave the country within the hour. I need asylum in Russia, with a guarantee I’ll be left alone.”
“No problem. You can be on an Aeroflot jet and routed from Miami to Moscow.”
“I’ll need papers, passport and money.”
“I understand. Meet me at the warehouse. You can obtain the money there. I’ll have the papers ready for you at Miami International.”
“Outside only.”
“Pardon.”
“Outside, meet me outside with the money, money still owed to me.”
“Certainly.” Borshnik disconnected. He turned to Zakhar Sorokin and said, “Gates will be arriving momentarily. Ambush him.”
“Shall I kill him?”
“No, bring him to me.”
***
ROBERT MILLER SAT IN AN OPULENT bar in the Ritz Carlton overlooking the ocean. He nursed a glass of Jameson and watched a news bulletin that appeared on the wide screen above the bar.
A female reporter stood in front of the federal building and began talking. Her brow wrinkled, face animated. Behind her were dozens of fire and rescue vehicles, smoke filtering ghostlike from three blown-out windows on the top floor.
“Turn it up, please,” Miller said to the bartender.
The news reporter pulled a strand of hair behind one ear and said, “The questions investigators now are asking is how did a suicide bomber get access into the federal building and who was he? It’s believed that the bomber is connected to a radical Islamic Jihad sect that may have the highly enriched uranium missing from the German submarine and t
he cache found on Rattlesnake Island. The body count is reported at nine now with at least a dozen people injured, many critically … .”
Miller sipped his drink and stared at the screen. His cell rang. Mike Gates was furious. “What’d you tell Sean O’Brien?”
“Nothing he didn’t already know.” Miller’s voice was filtered through Irish whiskey.
“You old fool! You didn’t have to say anything. There is no proof.”
“Don’t blame me for your mistakes. The only reason O’Brien found out was due to your carelessness—”
“I leave no trail!”
“Borshnik found you.”
“And O’Brien found you! You’ve cost me everything. I can’t even tell my wife goodbye. I no longer exist.”
“I’m sitting here watching your fuck ups. Half a dozen agents blown to hell and back. Your mistakes are massive, resulting in loss of life and property.”
“That was no mistake.”
“Then you’re sub-human. You belong in—”
“You fucking old hypocrite! You sold this country’s ass to Russia as Hitler was going down. You may be personally responsible for the deaths of thousands, from Korea to Vietnam, and you have the sanctimonious balls to lecture me. Go to hell!”
“I’d say we’re both almost there. It was your choice long ago. It’s a lonely life playing the game. But when you step out of the boundaries, you step into a house of mirrors. What you see reflecting back is whatever illusion you’ve created. Forever begins now, Gates. Hold that point up to the light from hell and leave me alone—”
“They’ll come for you, too. You just got away with it longer. You’ll go down as this country’s worst traitor! They’ll write the name Benedict Arnold over your damn grave. Do you hear me Miller? You fucking hear me!”
The phone went dead in Gate’s hand.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Mohammed Sharif sat in the back seat of the rented SUV and spoke Arabic into a satellite phone. “Salaam alaikum,” he said. The SUV stayed below the speed limit as the driver’s eyes darted from the road to the mirrors. Another man sat in the front, one in the back next to Sharif, and two minivans loaded with heavily armed jihad soldiers followed.
