by Vince Flynn
He made his decision in an instant. Without sounding alarmed he said, “Mohammed, turn the car around, please.”
“Right here?” They were on a two-lane road with the next stoplight approximately a quarter mile away.
“Down a little further. We have a problem.”
Mohammed drove a little further and swung the cab around. “What is wrong?”
There wasn’t a lot of time to explain, so al-Yamani decided on the truth. “Some of my men have been following us, and they have been stopped by the police. Up ahead on the right.”
“What are you going to do?” The cab started to slow.
The police officer was back by the trailer now. He touched the padlock on the door, and then started walking back toward his vehicle. He was reaching for something on his shoulder and a split second later al-Yamani realized what it was. The cab was going less than twenty miles an hour.
Al-Yamani looked at his old friend’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Mohammed, do you trust me?” he said urgently.
“Of course.”
“Then I need you to do something for me, and you have to do it immediately and without hesitation.”
Hanover County deputy sheriff David Sherwood was looking forward to his weekend off. He’d just purchased a new Jet Ski that could do eighty miles an hour, and this would be his first chance to really open it up. This was his first Memorial Day weekend off since joining the department four years ago, and he planned on spending it down on Lake Gaston on the Virginia–North Carolina border. One of his high school buddies had purchased a little place with five beds, and Sherwood planned on getting one of them. More than twenty people had been invited and told to bring tents and sleeping bags. Sherwood didn’t do the tent thing. Not unless some little hottie wanted him to share her sleeping bag.
No, he definitely had his eye on one of the beds, and that meant when his shift was over at 2:00 he would have to get his ass out of town quickly or it would be tent city. His truck was all gassed up and his shiny new wet bike was hooked up and ready to go. All he had to do was pick up a case of beer on his way down and he’d be in great shape.
The pickup truck and its trailer had caught his attention several miles back down the road. Sherwood had a theory. Most people who pulled trailers were morons, himself excluded, of course. For starters they thought that the two-wheeled box they were pulling gave them an excuse to dispose with all common sense and the rules of the road.
This particular moron had pulled off in such a way that the tail end of his trailer was practically hanging out in traffic. And, of course, he hadn’t bothered to turn his hazards on. Sherwood had had no idea just how many stupid people there were in the world until he got into law enforcement.
As Sherwood pulled his cruiser to a stop he hit his lights and radioed in that he was making a routine traffic stop. A lot of people would die on the road this weekend, and just maybe he could talk some sense into this idiot before he caused an accident.
Sherwood noticed the Georgia plates on the trailer and shook his head. He got out and walked up to the already open driver’s window of the vehicle. He kept his right hand on the butt of his gun and stopped just short of the driver as he’d done a thousand times before.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked.
“No. No problem,” the man answered, sounding no more nervous than the average motorist.
Sherwood noticed a slight accent. He couldn’t place it but it definitely wasn’t southern. “License and registration, please.” The man handed it over immediately, which was always a good sign. Sherwood studied the Georgia license, and then looked over the top of his wraparound sunglasses at the driver. The photo matched the face.
“Where are you from, David?”
“Atlanta,” Hasan answered.
“I can see that…I mean, where are you from originally?”
“Oh…I’m sorry. Greece.” Hasan was suddenly grateful that al-Yamani had made them rehearse their stories over and over.
Sherwood nodded and then looked at the other two men in the vehicle. Something about the man in the backseat struck him. He was small, like a teenager, and he looked jumpy.
“Did I do something wrong?” Hasan wanted to distract the police officer’s attention from the nervous scientist.
Foreigners, Sherwood thought. “This isn’t exactly the best place to pull over.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be more careful when you’re pulling a trailer like this. Your tail end is hanging out in traffic.” Sherwood would probably let him off with a verbal warning, but he’d make him sweat a bit. “Sit tight while I run your license, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” Sherwood took another look at the passenger in the backseat. There was something about the guy, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Sherwood began walking back to his cruiser. He paused briefly and memorized the plate on the truck and then stopped at the trailer and looked at the heavy padlock. The padlock and the Georgia plates caused something to click. And then he thought of the dark skin and the accents. Greece wasn’t the Middle East, but it was close and besides, Sherwood didn’t have the foggiest idea what a Greek guy was supposed to sound like. He’d been tired when he came into work at 5:00 a.m., but he seemed to remember some stink that the Feds were making about a couple of foreign guys they were looking for who had been in the Atlanta area. He couldn’t remember specific features from the photos he had glanced at, but he did remember that one of the guys looked a little young to be a terrorist.
Sherwood stepped away from the trailer and looked back at the truck. The driver was watching him intently in the big side-view mirror. The twenty-five-year-old deputy put his right hand back on his gun and with his left hand he toggled the transmit button on his radio.
Tilting his head toward the shoulder mike he said, “Dispatch…this is…”
The deputy never finished his sentence. Nor did he see what hit him. A passing car swerved from the right lane of traffic and struck him in the left leg, sending him bouncing off the trailer and to the ground, where his head hit violently. His eyes fluttered briefly and then closed.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The decision to head to the airport had been relatively easy. Reimer hadn’t heard back from the Russians, and the bevy of search warrants that had been served had yet to produce any explosive evidence. They were at a standstill in an investigation that Rapp had no real control over. In addition, Rapp’s people were telling him that they thought al-Yamani was already gone. The upper echelon of these terrorist organizations didn’t martyr themselves. They let the new recruits do that. Several of the CIA’s top analysts were predicting that al-Yamani had already left the country and was on his way back to his cave.
Rapp checked the clock. It was 3:08, which meant he’d be cutting things a little close for his flight. He was just pulling into long-term parking at Dulles when his digital phone rang. He checked the number before answering. It was McMahon at the Counterterrorism Center.
“What’s up?”
“You at the airport yet?”
“Yep. Just pulling into the parking ramp.”
“Well…we’ve got an interesting development that I thought you might want to hear about.”
Rapp rolled down his window and grabbed the ticket. “I’m listening.” The arm popped up, and Rapp drove under it.
“The Virginia State Police called. We’ve got a possible I.D. on Imtaz Zubair.”
Rapp eased up on the gas. “Is he in custody?”
“No, and this is where the story gets a little confusing. The report is that he was I.D.’d by a deputy sheriff who pulled a vehicle over for a routine traffic stop. Apparently the deputy was on his way back to his car to run a check on the driver when he was hit by a passing car and knocked unconscious.”
“When and where?”
“Just north of Richmond at approximately one this afternoon.”
Richmond was only an hour and a half south of D.C. �
�Have you talked to the deputy?”
“No, and we can’t. At least not for a while. They just rushed him into surgery to relieve the swelling on his brain.”
Rapp knew from the security tapes at the Ritz in Atlanta that Zubair had been there on Wednesday evening, and had left in the middle of the night. Why was he headed toward Washington? “Do we have a description of the car?”
“Yes. It’s a Ford F-150 extended cab, late nineties model, hunter green and tan. He was traveling with two other guys, and the report is that the driver had an accent.”
“Was there anything in the bed of the truck?”
“Not that we’ve heard, but we’re getting our information third-and fourth-hand, right now.”
Rapp stopped the car. “They could already be in Washington.”
“The State Patrol doesn’t think so. They had a trooper on the scene just four minutes after the deputy was hit, and they got out a description of the vehicle almost immediately. Within twenty minutes they had a plane and a helicopter in the air, one patrolling ninety-five and the other searching the surrounding area. My agent who spoke to them says they’re fully staffed for the holiday weekend. They are virtually guaranteeing that this truck is still in the Richmond area.”
“Any chance one of the other guys in the truck was al-Yamani?”
“I have no idea. This deputy isn’t due out of surgery for at least another hour.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“I have no idea, but listen. I know your wife is going to be pissed at me, but I need you to get back here. There are some things…” McMahon hesitated. “Some things that Paul and I need you to help us with.”
Rapp could tell that whatever it was, McMahon didn’t want to talk about it over an unsecure line. “She won’t be half as pissed at you as she will at me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Rapp pushed the end button, swore to himself three times, and didn’t move for nearly ten seconds. He just stared at his phone and tried to figure out how he was going to explain this to his inquisitive wife without giving her any details. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and decided he’d put it off for a little while longer. If he was lucky, by the time he got back to the office, the fugitives would already be in custody. If that was the case, he could probably wrangle Kennedy into arranging transportation on one of Langley’s executive jets. Rapp knew this was all wishful thinking, but it was better than calling his wife right now and hearing the disappointment in her voice.
RICHMOND
It was the scanner that had saved them. The little black box attached to the underside of the cab’s dashboard began squawking not more than two minutes after they’d left the scene. Al-Yamani hadn’t even noticed it. He was too busy talking to Hasan on his mobile phone, but Mohammed had heard every word of the drama as it unfolded, and it nearly gave him a heart attack. Like a lot of cabbies, Mohammed carried a police scanner. At first he did it to help avoid traffic tie-ups when there was an accident, but after a while the scanner became a source of entertainment. When he worked nights, the police chatter was often more interesting than the radio.
The initial report was that a motorist had reported an officer down. Mohammed knew that nothing got the cops more riled up than hearing that one of their brethren was hurt. Not more than two miles away from the incident a police car zipped past them headed to the aid of the fallen officer. Less than a minute later, a second and a third police car passed them. Just when Mohammed felt that they were going to get away, the voice of the officer he had hit came over the radio, giving a description of the truck he had pulled over and rambling on about some man the FBI was looking for.
Mohammed had to think fast. The plan was to take Interstate 295 over to Highway 301 and then up to Dahlgren on the Potomac River. That was where he had chartered the boat, paying for it in advance. Mohammed knew from experience, though, that 301 was a heavily patrolled road. His other option was to take Interstate 95, but that was even worse. Mohammed was once caught speeding on that road by an airplane. There was no way they could make it all the way to Dahlgren without being caught.
Mohammed told al-Yamani that they had to abandon the truck. He was then informed very succinctly that this was not an option. Since they could not get rid of the truck and knowing for sure that they would be caught if they went north or stayed on the main roads much longer, Mohammed made a quick decision and told al-Yamani to tell the others to follow him. He led them at high speed over several lightly traveled and tree-lined country roads away from both Richmond and Washington, D.C. Mohammed liked to fish, and he knew of an isolated spot where they could regroup and sort things out.
Mohammed and al-Yamani hung on every word that was uttered over the scanner. By the time they reached the York River, additional information about their caravan was being reported. A description of the trailer as well as the truck was now out, and to make matters worse, the police were also looking for a green-and-white Metro Cab.
With every mile they traveled, they risked getting caught. Finally, after passing through the town of Plum Point, al-Yamani decided it was time to stop running scared and take a gamble. It was the sight of water through the trees that gave him the idea.
“What is that body of water on our left?” al-Yamani asked Mohammed.
“That is the York River.”
“Where does it lead?”
“To the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And these roads we keep passing…do they lead to homes on the river?”
“Yes.”
“Take the next one.”
Mohammed, obviously hesitant, looked over his shoulder.
Al-Yamani raised his voice and repeated the command. This time his friend followed orders, and they turned off the paved road onto a gravel drive and into the woods. Several hundred feet in, the drive split off in two directions. To the left there was a sign for two families and to the right only one. The Hansens. Al-Yamani told Mohammed to turn right. They followed the slightly rutted gravel drive for several hundred more feet. Intermittently they caught glimpses of the river as its surface sparkled in the afternoon sun, and then they saw the house.
It was a two-story Cape Cod with gray siding and white window trim. Next to it was a detached three car garage with a bunk house above it. Beyond both, there was a perfect carpet of lush grass that sloped down to the river and a dock. Al-Yamani smiled when he saw the boat.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Mohammed.
Al-Yamani couldn’t tell if anyone was home. It would be easier if they weren’t, but either way he would get what he wanted.
“Stop in front of the house.”
Mohammed brought the cab around the circular drive and parked it by the front door. Al-Yamani asked him to get out with him. Hasan and Khaled joined them on the front steps and al-Yamani told the scientist to wait in the truck.
“Go around back,” he said to Khaled. “See if there is anyone down by the water.” Then looking to Hasan he said, “Go with him and check the back door. If it’s open wait a few seconds and then enter.”
They nodded and took off. Al-Yamani tried the door. It was unlocked, but he did not open it. Instead, he rang the doorbell and waited to see if anyone was home. About ten seconds later a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties came to the door in a pair of shorts and a tennis shirt. Al-Yamani was careful to stand back a few feet so as to not alarm her. Mohammed was standing by his cab.
The woman opened the door but not the screen. “Yes?”
“Hello, you must be Mrs. Hansen. I’m looking for Doctor Hansen.”
The woman gave him a confused look. “I’m Mrs. Hansen, but my husband isn’t a doctor.”
“I must have the wrong house. Do you know of any other Hansens on the river?”
Mrs. Hansen thought about it for a few seconds and then said, “No…not that I know of, but it’s a pretty big river.”
Al-Yamani put a disappointed look on his face and took a step
back as if he was leaving. “Would your husband know if there was a Doctor Hansen on the river?”
“He might, but he’s not here right now.”
Al-Yamani put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “That’s too bad.” He saw Hasan coming down the hall behind the woman and said, “Sorry to have bothered you.” A second later Hasan was within striking distance. Al-Yamani made eye contact with his man and nodded.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
There was an accident on the expressway. Traffic was thick in both directions with people who felt the need to gawk at the crash, and it was nearly 4:00 by the time Rapp got back to the Joint Counterterrorism Center. He wasn’t so sure he’d made the right decision to miss his plane. He wanted al-Yamani in the worst way, but at this point it was law enforcement that was going to have to catch him. There was something in McMahon’s voice, though, that had been slightly pleading and very uncharacteristic for the thirty-plus-year veteran.
Rapp found McMahon standing in the elevated glass-enclosed bridge located at the rear of CT Watch. He was monitoring the situation in Richmond and trying to separate the facts from the white noise. Without speaking, McMahon signaled for Rapp to follow him, and the two men entered a small conference room at the back of the bridge and closed the door. Rapp plopped down in a gray fabric chair and rested an elbow on the shiny wood-laminate conference table.
“I assume from the look on your face that they haven’t found the truck.”
“No, they haven’t.”
Rapp glanced at his watch. “It’s been what…almost three hours since the traffic stop? That’s not good.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“Has the deputy come out of surgery yet?”
“He just made it out, but he’s not awake yet.”
Rapp tapped the shiny surface with his forefinger. “They’re sure our guys are still in the Richmond area?”
