Each man answered in the affirmative, but before Moyer dismissed them, Zinsser spoke up. “Boss, when I was using the spy cam to check the rooms before we entered, I saw a den with a computer. I’d like to check that out.”
“Do it.” Moyer glanced at the others. “All right, ladies, let’s get busy.”
“LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE WORKED a computer before?” Moyer stood two feet back of the seated Zinsser, watching him enter keystrokes so fast his fingers seemed to blur.
“Who hasn’t? It’s all part of the new Army, Boss. They don’t call me Data for nothing.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to milk info from this thing, but the hard drive has been wiped. Apparently our friends want to keep a few things secret.”
“An untrusting bunch. If the hard drive has been scrubbed, then why are you messing with it? Let Polo take it back to his people.”
“Time, Boss. I have an uneasy feeling that there is more going on than we know about.”
“How so?”
“I’m just guessing, right now, but there seems to be a pattern in the chaos. Think about the bombings we assume are related to El-Sayyed: a Baghdad hospital; a London shopping mall; a movie theater in Barcelona; an elementary school in the same town; and Paris.”
“Go on.”
“If you pardon the pun, Boss, they’re all over the map. Baghdad makes sense. Suicide bombings will continue there for decades.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I, but I doubt it. London also makes sense. England has a huge and growing Islamic population. A small percentage of those are extremists. Maybe we can make the same argument for Barcelona and Paris, but it seems a stretch. Why so many suicide bombings? Why all female bombers? There has to be a motive.”
“Everyone agrees with that. That’s why we’re here.”
“Agreed, Boss, but we missed them. If we know their motive, then we might be able to stop them before they finish their task.”
“And you’re going to get that off the hard drive?”
“Doubtful, but I think it’s worth a try. The only way to completely clean a hard drive is to give it an acid bath or pound it to powder. I want to try something first, Boss . . . with your permission of course.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“It will take a few minutes, but I think I can get this baby to go online. If so, I’ll download a recovery program and see if I can’t rebuild something useful. FBI does it all the time.”
“Boss?”
Moyer watched Shaq enter the room. “I found this in one of the bedrooms. It was under the mattress.”
“You found toilet paper under the mattress?”
“You said to search the place. You say search and I search. It’s why I’m your favorite.”
“Careful, you’ll make the others jealous.” Moyer took the folded tissue.
“Go easy with it, Boss. There’s something inside. Several somethings.”
Moyer unfolded the thin, white paper. He could feel small, hard objects inside. “This isn’t going to make me gag, is it? Why did you fold it all up again?”
“I wanted you to experience the full effect.
Moyer peeled back the last layer and stared at the contents. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Yeah,” Shaq said, “I had the same response.”
“Fingernails? Why would anyone hide fingernails under a mattress?”
“Look closer, Boss.”
Moyer pushed the fingernail ends to the side and saw a word written in pink: Mexico. There was also a number: 110877. Moyer keyed his radio. “Polo. I need you in the den.” He released the key, then activated it again, “Sir.” Moyer was team leader and in complete charge of the mission, but he forced himself to remember that De Luca held officer status and they were in his country.
Thirty seconds later De Luca plowed into the room like a freighter. The man exuded industrial strength confidence. “Found something?”
“Shaq and his team found this.” He held out the opened package. “What do you make of it?”
“Fingernails? A woman’s fingernails.”
“We got that much,” Shaq said. “If El-Sayyed held women here, we might expect to find female fingernails.”
De Luca glanced at the big man. “They have nail polish on them.”
“Yeah, so . . . Oh.”
“Since when do Islamic women wear fingernail polish?” De Luca studied the fragments and toilet paper. “Mexico and a license plate number.”
“Of course,” Moyer said.
“It’s a commercial number; the kind used for trucks and buses.” He bent over Moyer’s outstretched hand. “Are you married, Boss?”
“I am.”
“Then you know what lip liner is,” De Luca said. “The person who did this had access to makeup.”
Shaq frowned. “Why would the black hats let the women keep makeup?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Moyer thought for a moment. “Shaq, the room you found this in, does it overlook the driveway?”
“It sure does, Boss.”
“So she could have seen any vehicles parked there?”
“Affirmative.”
Moyer nodded. “Polo, can you get a chopper in the air to search for a bus.”
“Yes. It’s still dark, but we have military craft that can see in the dark.”
“Make the call, then help Shaq check outside for any tracks that fit a large vehicle.”
“Will do,” Shaq said.
“Fingernails,” Moyer said to himself. “This has to be a first.” Then to Zinsser he said, “Hand me the satellite phone. It’s time to report in.”
“Don’t sound so down, Boss. You had no way of knowing this was a dry hole.”
“I’ll let you tell Colonel Mac that.”
“No thanks.”
CHAPTER 17
TESS, HER DINNER RUINED by imagined fears and believing sleep would be impossible, returned to her office. It was nearly 10:00, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be home alone with her thoughts. She had just finished the last swallow of vanilla latte when the phone in her small office rang. The sound of the phone seemed out of place at this hour. “Tess Rand.”
“Dr. Rand”—the caller spoke in a heavy French accent—“this is Inspector Adnot D’Aubigne with ICPO. I expected an answering service.”
Tess did a mental search to unravel the initialisms. “ICPO—International Criminal Police Organization?” Tess had often thought how the designation made it sound like the organization was populated by criminal police.
“Oui, Dr. Rand—Interpol. I am sorry to bother you at this late hour.”
“No problem. It may be late here but it must be the wee hours there. You are in Europe aren’t you?”
“Oui. Paris. My work requires some odd hours. We understand that you are doing research on female suicide bombers.”
Tess had sent out a formal request to military and police organizations for information. “I am. I take it you have something for me.”
“Oui.” He paused. “Are you able to understand me, Dr. Rand? I am told by my American friends that my accent is a little . . . what is the word?”
“Thick?”
“Oui, thick.”
“I understand you just fine. Your English is much better than my French.”
“Thank you.” D’Aubigne paused then launched into the matter. “We have been working on the bombing that recently took place in Paris.”
“The one at the fashion show.”
“Precisely. As I’m certain you know, it is important that details of such investigations be kept secret, but we have something that may interest you, but I must ask that you keep this in the strictest confidence. Of course you can tell your superiors.”
“I understand the need for discretion.”
“Of course. We have been examining the body of the bomber. As you might guess, such an examination takes time and is quite difficult since
very little identifiable biological material remains. We recovered several large bones and a good portion of the skull as well as a fair amount of skin tissue.”
The image turned Tess’s stomach. No matter how difficult her job seemed, it could never be as bad as the crime scene investigators who had to gather body parts and sort them.
“Are you still with me, Dr. Rand?”
“I am, Inspector. Just making a few notes.” And trying to keep my dinner down.
“Of course, we sent DNA samples out for examination and possible identification. The bomber was a woman named Michele Tulle, Middle Eastern descent, twenty-four years old, and a well-known entity to French police.”
“Well-known entity?”
“She had a criminal record and was known to be a prostitute.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am being serious, Dr. Rand.”
“I know you are, Inspector. Please go on.”
“Prostitution is not illegal here. Brothels and procuring is, but not the individual’s right to sell sexual favors.”
“Procuring?”
D’Aubigne hesitated. “Helping someone sell sexual acts . . . um, I believe you call it pimping.”
“I see.”
“Most of Michele Tulle’s skin was burned, but we did find some whole segments. They were heavily tattooed.”
“Let me get this right. The suicide bomber was a tattooed prostitute?”
“Yes, she also had been arrested several times, the last time just two weeks before she blew herself up.”
“This is unexpected.”
“You assumed she was radical Islamic?”
“Perhaps, or, at very least a practicing Islamic woman.” Tess leaned over the desk, resting her elbows on the surface as if the news had deprived her of breath.
“We made the same assumption. This does not fit the pattern we’ve come to expect.”
“Why would such a woman turn herself into a walking bomb?”
“My experience tells me anyone will do anything if properly coerced.”
“What would coerce a young woman to slip on an explosive vest and kill herself and everyone around her?”
“I only know of one thing with that kind of power, Dr. Rand.”
“What is that?”
“Love.”
“THAT FITS.” COLONEL MAC sounded sleepy. Tess had sent him an encrypted e-mail, then called a half hour after she finished her call with Inspector D’Aubigne. Since they were talking over an unsecure line, most of the conversation was done in innuendo.
“Fits? How does it fit?”
“Someone recently suggested the same thing.”
Someone? “Anyone I know?”
“I believe you met, recently. He’s a neat freak. Fingernail clippings drive him nuts.”
Fingernail clippings.
“You don’t wear pink fingernail polish, do you?”
“Pink? You probably mean coral, and no, I wear a dark red. Coral is so yesterday.”
Colonel Mac laughed. “Women and their war paint.”
“Is he enjoying being on the road?” Tess bit her lip to keep from asking about J. J. and the others.
“So far. I think he’s a little bored.”
Tess took that to mean that the team was safe and had not been in an armed conflict.
“Boredom can be a good thing.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Boredom is temporary.” Death is permanent.
“I know exactly what you mean. Keep me in the loop.” Colonel Mac hung up.
“And you keep me in the loop too,” Tess said to the dial tone.
DE LUCA STEPPED INTO the den where Moyer paced like a hungry cat. Waiting was not his strong suit. “What ya got, Major?”
The Italian straightened. “The license number comes back to a 2008 eighteen-seat Irisbus mini. It’s a rental out of Rome.”
“I don’t suppose it came equipped with a tracking device.”
De Luca shook his head.
Zinsser looked up from the computer. “Eighteen seats tells us something.”
“True. A man doesn’t rent an eighteen-seat bus for four or five people.” He turned his attention to De Luca. “What about the helo?”
“It should be airborne in the next few minutes.”
“In that case, we need to be ready to rock.” He walked to a spot behind Zinsser. “How you doing, Data?”
“It’s going to take more time than we’ve got to recover more than a handful of files. I did find one thing interesting. The computer is on a network. It recently accessed a teleconference site. I bet the Major could make a call and find out where the other end of the teleconference is located.”
“Make it happen. I want us on the move in fifteen. Got it?”
“Got it, Boss.”
THE PAIN IN DELARAM’S thigh grew. She ran a hand along the back of her leg and the inside of her thigh. The gentle touch felt like another beating. Her right leg had swollen over the last hour, and the rough road only made things worse. It was clear they had left the private road for a dirt path better suited for a four-wheel drive than a boxy minibus. Every few moments one corner or another of the vehicle would drop into a pothole and bounce out, jarring her and the other passengers. Each bump sent nails of pain through her hip and up her spine. At times she had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. She might be helpless, but that didn’t mean she had to give them cause for satisfaction.
She shifted in the seat, seeking a less painful position. She gave up trying to be comfortable. If she could just move from excruciating pain to mere horrible discomfort, she’d consider herself lucky.
Lucky. She had always considered herself fortunate. Born to a well-to-do family, free to attend the best schools, encouraged to travel the world without a care, she had a life most of the world would envy. No one would envy her now. Parents held halfway around the world, subject to beating and most likely awaiting their execution. Their only hope rested on her willingness to kill herself and a few dozen innocent bystanders.
Delaram had been in the Italian countryside several times before and believed it to be some of the most beautiful scenery she had seen. Now, outside her window scrolled a twilight land of nearly black gloom; a stygian panorama.
Dark as it was outside, the mood in the bus was darker. The women sat in silence. Occasionally, someone would sniff, and she knew they were fighting tears. Like her, they had not only their lives to lose, but those of their loved ones also.
More than ever, she wished the bomb vest she had been wearing had been set to go off when she pressed the button. She would have killed herself, her captors, and, yes, the other girls, but maybe she might have saved many more lives. At least she wouldn’t be sitting in this bus.
Despair darkened the night and thickened her depression. Like a ping-pong ball in a tornado, her thoughts flew in tight circles of ever-increasing speed. She tried to force her mind onto a single track, to hold one image, one question, one hope, one anything, but she failed at every attempt. For a few seconds she thought of her battered parents; for the next few seconds she thought of her impending death; the next few moments made her focus on the hatred she felt for the men who were doing this; every once in awhile, she thought of the other women.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and Delaram felt the tires skid in the dirt. The men in the bus rose. One turned to them. “Everyone—out.”
“MEXICO?” MOYER FROWNED. “AGAIN with Mexico. I don’t get it. What does Mexico have to do with our mission?”
“I can’t say, Boss.” Zinsser stood next to Moyer, who had joined the others in the basement workshop. “Data made a few calls and I searched the computer. We confirmed that a teleconference occurred with someone in Mexico.”
“Do we know who?”
“No,” De Luca answered. “It was routed through several countries. Whoever did it has someone who knows how to manipulate the Internet.”
“I found something else,” Zinsser
said. “I was able to reconstruct some pictures.”
“Pictures of whom?”
“Not who, Boss; pictures of what. The pictures were screen captures of satellite services. You know, like Google Maps. There were pics from several servers including a private company. All satellite shots of the same place.”
“And that place is . . .”
“Naples, Boss.”
Moyer felt the blood drain from his face.
“Yeah.” Zinsser’s expression was grim. “I had the same thought.”
“What?” J. J. looked from one to the other. “I’m not making the connection.”
“G-20. Didn’t I hear that it had been moved to Naples?”
“G-20?” J. J. frowned at Moyer.
“Group of Twenty. It’s a gathering of government leaders. They meet from time to time to discuss economics.”
“I thought it was the G-8,” Rich said.
“It used to be the leaders from the top economic powers: Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the United States. It started back in the mid-seventies. The number changes from time to time.”
Zinsser ticked off the countries on his fingers. “Brazil, China, India, and Mexico have been included. This meeting includes several countries from South America and a few others.”
Everyone stared at him.
“What? You think Shaq is the only one who reads?”
“You think these guys are thinking of doing something at the G-20 meeting?” Shaq asked.
Moyer thought for a moment. The puzzle pieces in his mind began to assemble. “It could be. Think about it: women bombers struck a hospital, a school, a fashion show, and the like. Bombers usually try to do their work in crowds, but each of these involved entering a building. It’s one thing to set yourself off in a religious procession or an open air market, but to do so in a building presents challenges.”
Blaze of Glory Page 10
