24 Hours: A Kirk McGarvey Novella

by David Hagberg

  “Okay, the drone is approaching the Annandale exit,” Otto said. “Lots of traffic, tail end of the commute. Stand by.”

  It was dark now, and lights were on in most of the houses on the block. Several cars were parked on the street, most of them clunkers except for a pickup truck in front of the house one door up from the corner. It was parked in the wash of the streetlight on the corner.

  McGarvey wondered how long it would be before some of the neighborhood kids took notice and either tried to steal it or at least strip it. But then he saw what he thought might be someone sitting in the passenger seat. The figure moved to the driver’s-side window, and McGarvey realized that it was a large dog.

  Otto was back. “It’s our Ford van. Apparently, it got off at the Annandale exit, and it’s heading east now on the Little River Turnpike.”

  “Toward Alexandria.”

  “I’m getting a good infrared through the windshield. One body behind the wheel, no one in the passenger seat, and nothing in back, unless they’re hiding under a space blanket.”

  “No reason for it,” McGarvey said. “Whoever’s driving wanted to get somewhere away from where they’re holding Dot so that he could make the call, and now he’s headed back.”

  “I’m on him,” Otto said. “But we’ve got another problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Presumably, the van’s driver went somewhere to get orders about the president’s deal. He’s apparently got his answer, and he’s headed back to the barn. But with Petit out of the picture, who’s going to deliver the message?”

  “You can’t break the algorithm to listen to the message, right?”

  “That’s right; go on.”

  “And you haven’t been able to find the number in New York.”

  “Christ on the cross!” Otto practically exploded. “I’ve gotta be stupid or something. I got the number of his cell phone, but no address, no registered owner. But what good will that do us?”

  “Give me the number. I’ll pass it to the president, and he can call the son of a bitch. See how that grabs him.”

  Otto gave it to him.

  “Can you make it three-way so that I can listen in?” McGarvey asked. New York was evidently where ISIS maintained an underground presence for recruitment and operations. Terrorist operations like kidnapping the president’s daughter.

  “Four-way—I want my darlings to chew on the voice. Might tell us something.”

  McGarvey called the White House and asked the operator to connect him with the president.

  “Who is calling, please?”

  “Kirk McGarvey. Thunder dome.”

  The president came on almost immediately. “Do you have some news?”

  “Yes, sir. I think we may have caught a break.”

  “My daughter?”

  “Not yet, but we’re closer,” McGarvey said, and he explained what Otto had come up with. “The drone is going to follow him back, presumably to where they’re holding your daughter. But I don’t want your Secret Service or the local cops to get too close. If they spot Bernstein’s people, or SWAT teams, squad cars, anything like that, they won’t hesitate to kill her.”

  “Goddamnit, McGarvey, what the fuck are you telling me?”

  “Whoever is in the van made an encrypted call to a number in Manhattan. We don’t have the number or location yet, but we’re pretty sure that the caller was asking for instructions about the red mercury offer. But with Ralph Petit out of the picture, there’s no one to get a message to you.”

  “I would never have suspected.”

  “Neither did the bureau or the Secret Service, who I assume vetted him.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We have the number for the cell phone the man who kidnapped your daughter used. I want you to call him. Ask him if he’s ready to negotiate the deal for the red mercury. Find out where he wants it delivered.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He’ll be shook up, but press him. Tell him you know that his people in New York have accepted the deal.”

  “They might kill her anyway.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, it’s possible.”

  Hour 21

  Dot’s left hip was on fire from where she’d been shot. She’d passed out from the pain, and when she’d awoken, she’d found that someone had placed a wadded-up towel over the wound and had buttoned up her jeans to hold it in place.

  A woman stood next to the door, glaring. She was the one who’d fired the shot.

  “You’re lucky that my aim was off.”

  “No, you’re lucky that you didn’t kill me,” Dot said, her voice thick in her ears. “You’d have nothing to bargain with.”

  “We’ll see.” The woman opened the door. “Tell Fathi that she’s awake,” she said to someone in the corridor.

  “Where is Tarek?” Dot asked.

  “He’s dead, and the crime is on your head for bribing him into helping you try to escape.”

  “You’re Riham,” Dot said. Tarek had mentioned her name. “I’ll remember you at your trial, if you live that long.”

  The woman drew her pistol and came across the room. Her face was red, her nostrils flared, and Dot could almost imagine sparks coming out of her eyes. But she didn’t know if she gave a damn anymore about her own safety, except that she wanted to go home, but at the same time, she wanted to stick it to the bastards.

  Riham raised her pistol and aimed it at Dot’s head from two feet away.

  “You shouldn’t miss this close.”

  Riham’s gun hand was shaking. “You’re arrogant, just like your father.”

  “News flash, you fucking idiot, every American worth their salt is arrogant. And do you know why?”

  Riham was speechless.

  “Because most of us are not fanatics. Not out of our fucking minds. Most of us want to help each other. Didn’t you people learn anything from 9/11?”

  The door slammed open, and Fathi came in with another man, who was carrying something that in the dim light looked like a bulky jacket of some sort.

  Fathi said something in Arabic, and Riham lowered the pistol and turned around to face him. She started to answer when he backhanded her in the face with such force that she was knocked off her feet. For just a moment or two, Dot wondered if the woman would shoot the bastard, but it didn’t happen.

  “The others are here. Go downstairs and tell them that we’re getting out of here in a few minutes.”

  Riham got to her feet, said something in Arabic, and left the room.

  For a seeming eternity, Fathi stood stock-still, his head lightly cocked, as if he was listening for something. He had been angry, almost totally out of control, just a moment ago, but now he seemed calm, serious, but apparently at ease.

  “Your father has not bothered to answer, and our messenger is silent.”

  “First Tarek, and now Ralph Petit,” Dot said. “Rats deserting the sinking ship. You fucked up and got them killed.”

  Fathi smiled. “He may have told them about this place, but no matter; this business is nearly completed. You will have what I think your people call a ringside seat.”

  He stepped aside, and the man with what had looked like a jacket came to the bed.

  But it wasn’t a jacket, and Dot reared back, nearly losing it, mindless of the sharp pain in her hip. It was a vest, ribbed with thick pockets all connected to each other by wires that led to what looked like a pair of small pliers with bright orange plastic handles.

  “My God,” Dot said softly.

  Fathi looked around theatrically. “I don’t see your god lurking in the shadows ready to save you. The police may come, your Secret Service may show up, but not your god. Pity.”

  “Your left arm, please,” the man with the vest said.

  Dot reared back against the tattered headboard. “Fuck you.”

  Fathi came over and slammed his fist into the side of her face where he’d hit her before. She didn’t go unconscious, but she fuzz
ed out, and she was totally helpless.

  “Too bad you’ll be covered up. You won’t have your bare tits as a distraction this time.”

  The man pulled her limp body forward and put the vest on her. He eased her back, her head lolling side to side as she tried to regain her strength, and he did the fasteners in front.

  He stepped back. “All it wants is arming,” he said.

  “Watch her.”

  “Only a couple of hours—perhaps you should give them more time.”

  “No.”

  Fathi left the room, and as Dot became fully aware of her situation, she looked up at the man who’d put the suicide vest on her. He had a square face and deep-set eyes made all the more serious by the short black beard. His lips were nice, as was his nose, and Dot had the stupid feeling that the guy would be reasonably handsome if he shaved his face.

  She looked down and ran her fingers over the vest. The pockets were filled with explosives, she could understand that much, and it was heavy on her back and shoulders. That was something she’d never expected from watching movies and news shows.

  And it had an odd odor, like vinegar and maybe something else.

  “I wouldn’t play with that, if I were you,” the man said. His accent was Middle Eastern, but not thick.

  “Are you afraid that if I blow myself up, you will be killed too?” Dot asked. She took a couple of the wires and started to pull them out of whatever they were connected to in the pockets.

  “No!” the man shouted. “It will explode!”

  Dot didn’t let go. “Then maybe you and I will die here,” she said. She had no earthly idea what she was doing or even why, or especially where she was getting courage all of a sudden. But she was tired of the bullshit. She was tired of getting hurt. And at some level, she didn’t want to be a burden to her father.

  “There is another way out for you, for all of us. If your father will cooperate you will be safe.”

  With a great effort, Dot managed to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. They hadn’t taken her boots, and somehow that one small thing was a comfort. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t freeze her feet.

  “Fathi has killed his own people tonight. Why would he stop at me? Or you?”

  “For the cause.”

  “Oh, save the bullshit for someone else. What cause? Some caliphate? Sharia law?”

  “It’s the path.”

  “It’s why you behead people? Why you’re willing to blow me up, and anyone standing near me? Is it why you wipe out entire towns—men, women, children—or at least the women you don’t want to fuck and the kids you don’t want to brainwash and teach how to use an AK-47?”

  “Crude.”

  “Crude?” Dot screamed. She yanked at the explosive vest. “You strap this thing to my body and call me crude? Are all you fucking people brain-dead? Do you actually think that you’re going to win your jihad? Just about every true Muslim on the planet thinks you people are nuts.”

  The man stepped back a pace or two. “You can’t save the world, little girl, but at least you can save yourself if you’ll cooperate.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He turned to go when the door opened and Riham came in.

  “She wants to blow herself up,” he said. “You can stay with her.” He went out and disappeared around the corner.

  “So you want to become a martyr?” Riham asked. The side of her face was red and swollen.

  “If need be.”

  “But then your timing would be off. Your father has called.”

  Hour 22

  McGarvey had just gotten off I-66 and was heading back Wilson Boulevard in Arlington when Otto called. The van had parked behind what had once been the Capitol City Motel but was now closed. A McDonald’s was on one side, and a Shell gas station was on the other. Mac had spotted it from the interstate.

  “I’m just about there. No lights, and no sign of the van or anything else in the parking lot.”

  “Hold back a minute, Mac. The president has just called the cell phone.”

  McGarvey pulled over into a parking area in front of a group of four-story apartment buildings.

  “Am I speaking with someone who has the authority to negotiate for the trade?” the president asked.

  “Yes, I am in charge,” a man answered. His accent was definitely Middle Eastern, but he sounded a little shook up to McGarvey.

  “What do I call you?”

  “Sir will do for now.”

  “As you wish. We know that you have made contact with your brigade commander in New York less than one hour ago. And can I assume that you have been given orders to accept the deal? Or haven’t you had time to discuss it with your soldiers at your Arlington location?”

  Fathi hesitated.

  “My darlings are picking up high stress, but he’s trying to hide it,” Otto said.

  McGarvey didn’t know if he meant the man’s voice or the president’s. Or both.

  “There are those who believe that red mercury is a hoax.”

  “I’m sure that there are some who might believe that,” the president said. “But I want to make myself perfectly clear on two points. Number one is I will not order American soldiers into Syria. It would mean going up against Russian air and ground forces already there. As a strategist, you must understand this simple fact.”

  “I don’t care what you want. We have your daughter.”

  “Yes, I understand that very well. And my Secret Service tells me that taking her was brilliantly executed. May I speak with her now?”

  “You said two points.”

  “General Wilder has strongly urged me to find something else, other than red mercury, to offer you. Do you know who he is?”

  “Of course I know who the warmonger is; everyone in the world knows it. He is the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, hiding in a Pentagon bunker at this moment, I suspect.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s right here with me in the White House Situation Room, with most of my National Security Council. They’re listening in.”

  “Sir, this is General Wilder. The current rate for red mercury is something around two million dollars a kilo. We’re prepared to offer you ten times that much in U.S. dollars or gold bullion—your choice, of course.”

  “The money would go a long way toward equipping your soldiers with weapons,” the president said.

  “Stinger missiles,” Fathi said after a very long hesitation.

  “We’ve got him,” Otto said.

  “They’re available on the black market, along with other MANPADS,” the general said. “Man-Portable Air-Defense Systems. The Russian Strela and Igla-S go for considerably less than one hundred thousand a unit in Bulgaria and Cyprus. Our Stingers are a bit more expensive. The going rate in places such as Afghanistan, Pakistan, Ireland, and even here in the States range from around eighty thousand all the way up to a quarter of a million each. The point is, with twenty million to spend, you can buy a great many of them. Allied as well as Russian air operations would be seriously compromised. If that’s your aim, sir.”

  “Shit, shit,” Otto said.

  “I’ll have to get instructions,” Fathi said.

  “My daughter will of course be part of the deal,” the president said.

  “Five minutes,” Fathi said, and he was gone.

  “Someone got out of an SUV behind McDonald’s and lasered my drone’s camera and infrared chips,” Otto said. “I’m blind.”

  “Is he making a call to New York?”

  “No.”

  “They’re moving out,” McGarvey said. “How long before you get another drone in place?”

  “Thirty minutes at least to prep, and another fifteen flight time from Andrews.”

  “Get on it right now. I’m going in. In the meantime, have the president call the bastard again.”

  “Watch yourself. We have no idea how many people he’s got inside the motel, but we know that he has at least one next door behind Micke
y D’s.”

  McGarvey pulled out of the parking lot and got onto the frontage road a hundred yards away, less than a quarter of a mile to the motel. He kept the phone lying beside him on the passenger seat in the speaker mode. It chimed, indicating that a call was being attempted.

  “They’re not going to pass up some kind of a deal,” Otto said. “They have the president’s daughter, and she’s too valuable to burn just to make a point.”

  “So were the Twin Towers.”

  The phone chimed again.

  “Those guys were making a statement. They didn’t ask for anything.”

  A beat-up pickup truck going the other way passed McGarvey, but it was only the driver, an older black man, behind the wheel. McGarvey took the Walther from the holster at the small of his back and laid it on the passenger seat next to the phone.

  The phone chimed again.

  “Stand by, Mr. President; I’ll make it answer,” Otto said.

  The phone chimed for the third time, and then they could hear someone speaking in Arabic.

  “This is Robert Young. If you’ve made a decision, we’ll need to know where to deliver either the money or the red mercury.”

  The connection was broken.

  Otto reconnected the call.

  “Do you want money or the product?”

  “The product,” Fathi said. “Is it there at the White House?”

  “It was delivered twenty minutes ago against the possibility it’s what you wanted.”

  “Then you can hand it to me personally,” Fathi said. Once again, the connection was broken.

  “Shit,” Otto said. “He’s taken out the SIM card. But my darlings are giving a 70-plus percent probability that the guy is lying. He doesn’t give a shit about the red mercury or the money. They were always going to kill her. They used the ransom demands as a diversion.”

  “I’m there,” McGarvey said. No cars were at the Shell station, nor did there appear to be any activity at the motel. No lights shone from the lobby or from any of the windows.

  But three cars were parked in front of the McDonald’s, and McGarvey pulled in. “I’m at the McDonald’s. What about the drone?”