The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  While they allowed Donny a breather and a Coke, Brasher had a hurried conversation with Wright in the corridor outside. When they resumed the interview, she focussed on one question.

  “From what you’ve told us, Donny,” she said softly, “and what we already know, Malak was planning a hit against an American target, yes?”

  “Yes.” He finished his drink and sat back, looking drained.

  “Did he ever mention the following locations? Just nod if you’ve heard of them. The places are: Vance. Fort Sill. Altus. McAlester.” She repeated them and watched his reactions.

  Nothing.

  “That’s very good, Donny,” Wright told him. “You’ve been a great help and that will be taken into consideration later.” She glanced at Brasher, and at a nod from him stood up and walked out of the room.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Donny asked softly.

  “Nothing bad,” Brasher said, “as long as you continue to help us.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll discuss that later. But it will mean you can go home to Queens again. You would like that, I suppose?”

  Donny blinked and nodded. “You want me to tell you about others like Malak, don’t you?”

  “Like that, yes. But you don’t have to decide right now.”

  Ruth and Vaslik turned away from the window and stared at each other in consternation.

  “Is that it?” Ruth demanded. She was appalled at the lack of depth to the interrogation and the absence of hard information gained. “We’d already figured out most of that—but we still don’t know anything about where Malak is or what he’s thinking!”

  Vaslik opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Wright walking into the room.

  She seemed unaffected by the interrogation session and was picking at a nail, ignoring them both. It seemed as if she had already dismissed the visit here as a job done.

  “I think we should talk to him,” Ruth suggested. “There are a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”

  Wright didn’t even look up. “Well, you can forget that because it won’t happen. You’re British, right?”

  Ruth bristled at her spiky tone. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Because we work differently here—and last time I looked this was our turf. That little prick is a nobody, a gofer who knows nothing. Frankly, I think this was a waste of my time.”

  As Donny’s interrogation came to an end, a white van with tinted windows and a plexiglass roof vent pulled up outside the Woods County jail and slid into a space between an old Camry and a Mitsubishi pickup. The two men in the front sat watching the main entrance while a third man in the back squatted by the side door, releasing the latch and sliding the door open an inch in readiness. The rush of cool air was a welcome relief and he licked his lips, suddenly wishing he could have a long drink to quench his dry mouth.

  “This town is asleep,” said the driver, looking around at the quiet streets and buildings. He had a strong Middle Eastern accent and spoke in English for the benefit of the man in the passenger seat, whose family was Libyan by origin but who had been born and educated in the US. “We could walk up and down here and nobody would even notice.” He sniggered. “These Americans don’t know what’s going to hit them.” He reached down to the floor and patted the stock of an M4 Colt carbine fitted with a 30-round magazine, one of three in the van. Then he picked up three pairs of orange ear-defenders and passed a pair each to the other two, and they got ready to slip them on.

  Because any second now the noise in the van was going to be insane.

  “Don’t underestimate them,” the man in the back warned them. His name was Salem and he was a thirty-year-old former soldier originally from Yemen. He had been recruited for this job because of his military skills and experience, and spoke with certain knowledge. “The American police have great forces available to them and will not hesitate to use them. You heard what your leader Malak said: if we fail, they will be all over us.”

  “If we fail?” the passenger muttered sourly. He had made no secret of his disdain for the man in the back, brought into the assignment as though he and the driver were incapable of completing this simple task. “You mean you, don’t you? Isn’t that why you were brought along—to show us how it was done?” He tapped a photograph of a woman taped to the front dash. “Just in case you have forgotten, it’s the woman you have to look for, nobody else. The others are just—what do the Americans call it—damage?”

  The man in the back remained silent. He had seen and done this kind of thing before. And unlike these two idiots, he knew the risks involved and the potential outcomes. He was accustomed to following orders, but not from the likes of them—especially the driver, who seemed much too excitable for this to end well. As for the passenger who thought too highly of himself, Salem reserved a professional man’s contempt for him and his tiresome show of bravado.

  Salem thought about the man ultimately giving the orders and wondered at the hell he was planning on unleashing some distance from this place. He knew of him only as Malak, and wondered about the almost personal thing he had going with the woman in the photograph, for which he was risking their lives to eliminate her.

  He dismissed those thoughts and checked the tube he was holding, ensuring it was ready and that the second tube was close by. No more than three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, the tubes were olive green, fitted with a foresight, rear sight, and a trigger mechanism, with a webbed carrying strap, although he wasn’t going to need that since he wasn’t going anywhere. They were LAW66 M72A3s—light anti-tank weapons—or rocket launchers, acquired through the same supplier that had provided the M4 carbines via a series of cut-outs in exchange for cash. Not that their provenance concerned him at all; as long as they worked and didn’t blow up in his face, Salem didn’t care who had done what to get them into his hands.

  “Collateral damage,” he corrected the man without thinking. “They call it collateral damage. You should remember those words because there will be plenty of it. If this thing works and you two also do your job, there won’t be anybody else standing, doesn’t matter who they are.”

  “What about the brother inside the jail?” said the driver. Like the others, he’d been given the barest of details about the job: find out where the prisoner was being held, go in and hit them hard, get out fast. Nothing had been said about releasing the prisoner, even if he was one of them.

  “What about him?” The front seat passenger cleared his throat and spat through the window. “By his actions he betrayed us all. Let him rot in hell.”

  thirty-eight

  “I want to talk to Donny.” Ruth faced Brasher the moment he entered the room. She was having a hard time holding in her anger at Wright’s attitude and how she appeared to have dismissed the possibility of Donny providing them any useful information.

  “What?” He looked surprised and waved a hand, frowning at the idea. “Sorry—that’s not possible.”

  “I already told her that,” Wright snapped, stepping in close enough for Ruth to smell her perfume. Her mouth was set in a line and she looked ready for a fight. “You’re not authorised. This is our responsibility.”

  “Why—because I’m British?” Ruth turned away and focussed on Brasher, who was looking nonplussed at the crackly atmosphere between the two women. “There are several unanswered questions remaining, Tom. Donny probably has an idea where the others have gone even if he doesn’t realise it. Men like Donny and Malak don’t travel around together for several days on end without something slipping out, even by accident. And Donny’s no idiot; he’s probably managed to join the dots without even thinking about it.”

  “That may be true, but Agent Wright is correct. Can you imagine what a good lawyer would do if he found out we’d allowed you to interrogate a suspect? They’d tear us apart and ‘poor innocent’ Donny would bec
ome a YouTube sensation.”

  “Really? I happen to know the FBI sits in on British interrogations in the UK whenever it wants if there’s a US connection; why doesn’t the reverse work for you?” She held his gaze, irritated as much by Wright’s condescending and bullying manner as Brasher’s instinctive response to play it safe. “Chadwick’s wife is British, don’t forget. That’s what brought us this far and unveiled a real and genuine threat. I think you owe us that at least.”

  “His wife is not my concern. Let me remind you this is an FBI matter.”

  “Which we alerted you about in the first place, and we came up with the evidence that brought you two out here. If you still have doubts about that, talk to Dave Proust.”

  “I know what Dave thinks.”

  “His name’s Arnold Keegan, if you want to call him,” said Vaslik.

  “What?” Brasher threw a scowl at him.

  “The FBI bureau chief in London. Arnold Keegan. I know him quite well. You want me to call him? I’m pretty sure he’d back up what Ruth said.”

  Brasher looked annoyed at being cornered, but after a few moments he nodded in defeat. “Okay. I guess it can’t do much harm at this stage.”

  “I disagree!” Wright snapped, face flushing. “This is against all the rules—”

  “To hell with the rules,” Brasher replied. “They’re right—we have a real and imminent threat against the president and we don’t have time to stick to the niceties. Or maybe you’d like to call in and report me?” When Wright bit her lip and said nothing, he turned to Ruth. “What do you want to ask him?”

  “We know from the phone call to the office in New York that I’m being followed. How closely is what we don’t know. But I’m willing to bet Donny knows about it because Malak is the controller behind this whole thing and would have mentioned it in case we showed up. Let me start with that—it might just throw him off.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Moments later Ruth stepped into the interview room, leaving Vaslik, Brasher, and a fuming Special Agent Wright next door. Donny didn’t look up, his shoulders slumped in defeat and exhaustion. She walked slowly around the room, her footsteps measured, passing close enough behind him to note the greasiness of his hair and skin and the smell of his nervousness in the air. She came to a stop in front of him.

  “Hello, Donny.”

  At the sound of her voice, Donny looked up. For a couple of seconds, he didn’t react; then he jerked back, his mouth dropping open before he shut it again and swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping furiously. Now he was looking seriously nervous and said, “Where is the other woman? I want to talk to the other woman!”

  Ruth smiled. He’d recognised her, which he could only have done if he’d seen a picture of her. Now all she had to do was find out what else Donny’s leader had let slip.

  “You recognise me, right, Donny?” she said briskly. “My name’s Ruth, by the way. How did you know me?”

  “I … I saw a photograph. You aren’t American. Are you British?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I am. Tell me about the photo.”

  “It was sent to Malak by his people in London and New York. Also the picture of a man with you, but in New Jersey, I think it was.”

  “I see. So he has others working for him.”

  “Yes. Several others. But I don’t know their names,” he rushed to add.

  “That’s fine. We don’t need those yet. But one of these men knew how to find me in New York, Donny. They contacted an office where I was working—a new place only just set up. Tell me how they were able to do that.”

  He shrugged. “Simple. Malak showed your photo to Chadwick; he didn’t recognise you personally, but he guessed you were from the company in London that sent you here. Malak got one of the brotherhood to track you down and they found you had an office in New York.”

  “You mean the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  “No. Not them. This brotherhood … it’s not an official name. They’re just … people who are willing to help, that’s all.”

  “Help and weapons.”

  “Some. Not all.” He scowled. “Many are ordinary people, but they know others who can do these things.”

  “So it’s a loose network, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe. Why do you people always assume any group of people is an organised terror cell?”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows at this sudden show of spirit. “Maybe,” she said heavily, “because if they supply or use guns and violence, that’s what they are.”

  Donny shrank in his seat, refusing to meet her eye.

  “Fine,” she said softly. “Let’s call them sympathisers, but not necessarily extremists. What else do they provide?”

  “One is a computer expert who was with Egyptian Intelligence. I think that’s who found you. When Malak heard you were so close, he was pretty angry. He said he would get you tracked down and …” He hesitated and looked away.

  “And what?” Ruth rapped on the table with her knuckles to grab back his attention. “And killed? Is that what he said?”

  “Eliminated.”

  “Do you know who’s coming after me?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t know. They’re from outside. Malak said they’re expert trackers and have already dealt with many traitors who have turned against the cause, wherever they try to hide.”

  Ruth felt chilled at the idea of a mobile hit squad travelling the world to do the bidding of whoever could call on their services. “Freelancers?”

  “Yes. Wherever they have to go, they go. The brotherhood is all over the world.”

  “You mentioned the cause. What cause is that?”

  “Islam. Jihad.” He shrugged as if it was obvious. Or of little importance. Ruth concluded that right now, in Donny’s eyes, it was probably more of the latter and he was wishing fervently that he’d had nothing to do with it.

  “Is Malak part of a terror group, Donny? Al-Qaeda? Al-Shabaab? Islamic State? Or is he a lone wolf ?”

  Another shake of the head. “I don’t know. He doesn’t say anything about others. But I know he has contacts because I’ve heard him talking, although I don’t know what he says.”

  “But he can’t be a loner, can he? I mean, all this planning, stealing the drones, kidnapping James Chadwick, setting up the airfield where he kept him prisoner and where you flew the drones. That takes time and money to organise. So who is he working for? Who’s behind him? You must have an idea … bits and pieces you’ve picked up, fragments you’ve overheard. You’re not stupid, we know that. So what’s your guess?”

  “I don’t know, I told you. Yes, I heard bits, but not enough to form an opinion. I wasn’t part of it; he deliberately kept me out of it. All he wanted from me was to prepare and fly the drones once Chadwick had taught me how.”

  “Prepare? What does that mean?” This was something Agent Wright hadn’t covered in her line of questions.

  For a long moment Donny said nothing while his eyes went walkabout and his fingers became knotted together on the tabletop.

  “Donny. Focus.” Ruth rapped the table again. “What did you do to the drones?”

  Donny’s eyes filled with tears, and he swallowed hard, then said, “Malak made me adapt the parachute tube fitted on the drones to take a cylinder.”

  “A cylinder? But I thought they’d already been adapted to take powder. Isn’t that what was used at the airfield—a red dye? We saw the rocks.”

  “It was. But he got me to change them back. It was a simple process because it worked on the same principle. A radio signal would activate the parachute by releasing the cap on the tube, and the powder would be drawn out through the passage of air over the top in a gradual stream. It worked well in trials.”

  “The red dye.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he got you to c
hange them again. Did he say why?”

  “He said the dye was not part of his original plan and he needed me to make some alterations.” He looked suddenly drawn and hollow, as if the full realisation of what he had been a part of was just now hitting him.

  “To do what?”

  “He asked me to fit sensors to enable something else fitted inside the parachute tubes to be activated, allowing …”

  Ruth had to force herself to breath. “Allowing what, Donny? Tell me.”

  “He didn’t say what was inside the tube, only that it would bring—” He banged his hands down on the table with a crash and shouted, “I can’t say it!”

  Ruth lifted her hand to stop any of the guards rushing in. They couldn’t stop now; it was too crucial and they were right on the brink of a discovery, she was certain.

  “What, Donny? Tell me!”

  Then it came to her: she knew precisely what he’d been about to say. “Bring what, Donny? ‘The sting of death from the sky … your own toys of death spraying our message of destruction on the head of your leader and ending his tyranny.’ Was that what Malak said?”

  Donny stared at her in dismay and whispered, “Yes.”

  thirty-nine

  The tears were now streaming down Donny’s cheeks and he was staring at her in disbelief. “How did you—?”

  “We know lots, Donny. What we don’t know is what the sting of death refers to. Perhaps you can tell me.”

  “No. I promise you, I can’t, even if I wanted to—I don’t know!” He clutched his face in his hands and bent his head to touch the table. “This is all crazy!”

  “But you’re a chemist, aren’t you? Wasn’t that part of your training at NYU, among other things?” She leaned forward and got him to lift his head, staring him in the face, deliberately piling on the pressure. She had no reason to believe Donny was anything other than a techie originally brought in by Malak to fly the drones. But squeezing him on the question of the weapon involved might be enough to make him crack. “Isn’t that one of the reasons you were recruited at the mosque in Queens—to produce a chemical agent?”