by Dee Davis
"We've still got nothing to prove a connection between Kirov and Khamis," Gabe said, studying the time line.
"I might be able to help there, actually," Harrison said. "I can't provide a definite tie, but I did some digging and found a connection between Paulo Salvatore and Kirov. It seems the two of them share an interest in polo. Kirov's first posting with the UN was in Geneva. While there, he was quite active on the European circuit. Salvatore still plays there."
"Or he did." Payton's expression was inscrutable, but there was no missing the implication.
Harrison shrugged. "I found several photographs of the two men together. And a couple of references in various society pages."
"Then at least we know they were acquainted." Gabe sat down at the table. "Which would allow for the connection between Alexi's network and Paulo's."
"And we can tie Paulo to Khamis through the meeting in Turkey. Which seems to indicate he was using Paulo's network," Melissa posited. "Conceivably for the R-VX."
"Okay, add to that the fact that the Salvatore operation was in shambles, thanks in no small part to Nigel," Payton said. "It is reasonable to assume Paulo would try and find an alternate route for the R-VX if he'd contracted to move it."
"And the undocumented crate in Brooklyn, along with the evidence of the network in New Jersey would verify that Alexi was indeed a player." Harrison's eyes gleamed with excitement.
"The arrival of the crate fits in the time line nicely," Sam added, writing it down on the white board.
"But not with Wyland's death," Gabe interjected. "He would have to have been killed before the shipment arrived."
"Unless Alexi kept him alive for some reason," Sam posed. "And then killed him once everything was in motion with Khamis."
"That or maybe he and his Russian friends figured the dump site was a safe place to leave the body."
"Or were trying to leave a message." Harrison leaned back in his chair, still studying the white board.
"Either way, the man is dead." Payton as usual didn't mince words. "What's more important here is the fact that we have a link connecting Khamis to Kirov's network and the transportation of the R-VX."
"But if all that's true," Melissa interjected, "why would either of them risk bringing attention to the R-VX by targeting me?"
"Maybe we're looking at two unique situations." Sam stood up and walked over to the windows, leaning back against a sill. "Maybe Alexi realized you were onto him. Probably thanks to Ed Wyland." She looked at Melissa, her eyes full of sympathy.
"And so he decides to do something about it." Harrison nodded as his mind put together the facts. "Handling his problems with Celik at the same time."
"Meanwhile," Sam continued, "Paulo Salvatore is in desperate need of a secondary route for the R-VX in light of the heat on his organization."
"So he thinks of his friend, Alexi," Nigel said. "But Alexi has his own problems, with the chaos surrounding the attempt on Melissa and the murder of Celik. Still, he can't turn down a potentially lucrative deal, and agrees to go ahead with it. Paulo communicates with Khamis, not sharing any of Alexi's problems. And Khamis takes out Paulo, figuring one less witness. But then when Khamis arrives in New York, he finds out about the mess Kirov's created."
"But it's too late to cancel the shipment, so he waits until it arrives, then kills Alexi," Sam said, picking up the tale. "And tries to bring it full circle to the Russian mob, who conveniently have been in and out of the story enough times to provide at least confusion if not an out-and-out diversion."
"On the surface it's a good theory," Melissa said, "except that you're forgetting the fact that there's reason to believe that Khamis is the one who's out to get me."
"I'm sticking to what I said earlier." Pay ton's tone was grim. "If Khamis wanted you dead, you would be. The scenario we've painted here reeks of someone with a hell of a lot less field experience than Khamis al-Rashid."
"So we're completely discounting the connection between Khamis and Melissa?" Harrison asked, frowning.
"No." Payton shook his head. "We're just saying if revenge is on Khamis's agenda, he hasn't made his move yet."
Quiet reigned for a moment, and Melissa shivered.
"Look, there's no point in speculating about what hasn't happened," Nigel said, his dark eyes settling on Melissa. "What we need to do is find Khamis and the R-VX."
"Easier said than done." Gabe stood up again, hands on the table, his posture reflecting his frustration.
"Maybe not." Cullen walked into the room holding a photograph. "Harrison's face-recognition program just hit pay dirt. A man was photographed at an ATM in Manhattan a little over a year ago." He tossed the picture and another piece of paper onto the table. "The ATM was robbed and the tapes confiscated by police. The man was never a suspect, but he was questioned."
Melissa reached out to pick up the photo. The face was altered slightly, the bridge of the nose more pronounced, the hair lighter. But the eyes were the same.
"Could be a look-alike," Sam said, putting into words what they were all thinking.
"No way," Harrison said, studying the piece of paper. "There was a ten-point match. The program is designed to allow for nonstructural changes in the face. Eye color, hair color, prosthetics for the mouth or nose, anything easily altered." He handed the report to Payton. "This is definitely Khamis al-Rashid."
"What name was he using?"
"Francis Kennedy."
"Now there's a good Catholic name." Gabe's tone was dry. "Sounds like our man has a sense of humor."
"Let's hope he sees the humor in our rinding him, then," Cullen said, his impatience showing. "Anyone interested in rounding up a terrorist? Thanks to New York's Finest, I've got Francis's address."
AT THE SOUND of the knock, Khamis crossed the beautifully carpeted floor of his hotel room and, after checking the peephole, opened the door. The bellman smiled and offered to push the room-service cart inside. Khamis gestured for the man to enter, showed him where he wanted the cart and then slipped the man a ten-dollar bill.
It was just over twenty percent of the bill. Nothing overt that would make the man remember the delivery as anything other than routine. After closing the door, he walked back to the cart and systematically began to remove the items there, flushing the bulk of the food down the toilet, and stowing utensils and china under the bed.
He'd purposefully ordered things that were easy to get rid of, so that it would be days before anything odd was discovered. Housekeeping at the Waldorf was no different than any other hotel, the maids doing only what was absolutely necessary to clean the room. Checking under beds was not a daily occurrence, so it could be weeks before anything was found.
And even if it was, his alias was unlikely to be traced back to him. He looked in the mirror, smiling at his reflection. His hair and beard were shockingly red. So obvious he was all but invisible. Using mineral spirits he'd brought in a medicine bottle, he made quick work of the spirit gum attaching his false beard and mustache. Once he had them free, he removed his wig, putting all three into his duffel.
Using cold cream, this time provided by the hotel, he removed the pancake makeup, revealing the olive drab of his own complexion. The disguise completely discarded, he brushed a hand through his cropped and dyed hair, the blond streaks making him look both younger and of indeterminate origin. With a new eye color, he could easily pass as a citizen of almost any country. Most particularly America.
Returning to the room-service cart, he removed the soiled linen, stuffing it under the mattress, then retrieved a clean one from his duffel. Like the first, the Waldorf's emblem was embroidered on it, the replacement an exact copy except for a small change in dimension. The new one was longer on all sides, the result being that the bottom of the cart was totally concealed.
The difference in hem length was hardly noticeable, and Khamis smiled as he removed the copy, laying it carefully on the bed. First things first.
Crossing the room to the luggage stand, he c
arefully opened the suitcase housing Malik's bomb. Inside, it was nestled in a special fitting, although theoretically the thing was stable without the padding.
"No point in taking unnecessary chances," Malik had said, and just at the moment Khamis was inclined to believe him.
Khamis lifted the device, careful to keep it level. Everything was primed and ready. All he had to do was secure it to the room-service cart, maneuver it into place and set the timer. From there, it would be in Allah's hands, although Malik had done everything in his power to assure a successful conclusion. Even if discovered, the bomb would not be easy to disarm.
After setting the device on the bed, he flipped the cart and retrieved the roll of duct tape he'd brought with him. In short order, he had the bomb securely taped into place, the flashing red light indicating that it was armed.
The only remaining steps were to place the bomb at the target site and trigger the timer. Returning to the bathroom, Khamis popped in a pair of contact lenses, turning his eyes a faded green. Next he donned the neatly pressed uniform of a bellman, the outfit secured months earlier when a colleague had raided the hotel's laundry. Khamis added a pilfered name badge for authenticity and smiled at his reflection in the mirror.
He was ready. The end was near. And, as always, the final responsibility lay on his shoulders. He would have it no other way. It was his life's destiny to see that the plan met with success.
Whether he lived to tell the tale was another story. He hadn't lied to Malik—he had every intention of leaving the city, hopefully well before the nerve gas was released. But he had been at this too long not to accept the possibility that something could go wrong. A delay or an unforeseen complication would mean he must sacrifice himself for the cause—and his family.
He was more than prepared. He even had brought something to make certain that he would not survive in the case of an emergency. He reached into his bag, producing a bottle containing a single capsule. If he were to be caught in the explosion, he would no doubt die instantly, but he wasn't prepared to leave it all to chance.
Stuffing the bottle into his pocket, he walked back into the main room. With an official-sounding snap, he shook out the tablecloth, watching as it fluttered down into place, covering ail evidence of the cataclysmic device it carried.
Turning back to the room, he made quick work of all evidence that could implicate him. The duffel was stowed beneath the cart for the time being, the empty suitcase thoroughly wiped for all prints. He'd been careful, everything dutifully sanitized, but one could never be too cautious.
Satisfied that the room was clean, he straightened the tablecloth and pushed the cart to the door. Opening it quietly, he checked the hall for occupants and, finding it empty, rolled the cart into the hall. He followed, squaring his shoulders, his best subservient smile firmly in place. After another quick glance to assure he was still alone, he produced the Do Not Disturb sign and hung it from the door.
That would keep prying eyes out of the room for at least thirty-six hours or so.
Pushing the cart down the hall, he shot a surreptitious glance at the tablecloth, his mind's eye seeing the bomb beneath. Malik's device was constructed to be easily transportable.
As with the original warhead, the two liquids were contained in separate compartments, rendering them harmless— until the force of explosion created inertia that would press the liquid contents of the front canister backward, bursting the wall separating the containers, the ultimate yield a deadly gas that would kill not only those present at the blast site, but anyone within a forty-mile radius.
It would be a victory for all true believers. And if it went as planned, bis own personal vengeance.
The service elevator opened and Khamis rolled the cart inside. He pressed a button and waited as the elevator whizzed to the top of the building. With a ding, it slid open and Khamis rolled the cart out onto the vestibule of the eighteenth floor.
The recently restored Starlight Roof was the pride of the hotel. Touted as one of the most elegant venues in the city, it was perfect for his purposes. Overlooking Park Avenue, its glass roof offered the perfect place for an explosion to catapult deadly R-VX into the New York night. Pushing the cart into an empty adjoining room, he situated it behind a table, carefully lodged in the corner.
Invisible in plain sight.
Reaching carefully under the table, Khamis followed Malik's instructions to the letter, the feat accomplished in seconds, the formerly blinking light now shining steady. In a matter of hours, the world would be changed forever.
After a last adjustment to the tablecloth, he grabbed the bag beneath the cart and ducked into the bathroom. Changing into jeans and a sweater, he stuffed the uniform into the bag, and returned to the vestibule, this time to the main elevators.
He stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, praising Allah for his good fortune. He had seen no one. Now all that remained was to exit the building and make bis escape. On the fifth floor the elevator dinged open, an elderly man and his wife stepping into the car.
After a cursory glance, they dismissed him, concentrating instead on the numbers as they changed from floor to floor. Khamis resisted the urge to say something—to press his luck. He had learned long ago that control was everything. Control and normalcy. The elevator doors opened and with a wave of his hand he ushered the couple off, then followed, striding through the lobby with a renewed sense of purpose.
Outside a doorman hailed a taxi, and Khamis slid into the backseat, then leaned forward to give the driver instructions.
With that accomplished, he leaned back, closing his eyes, his wife's lovely face floating through his mind. "I do this for you, Kerea, my love. Only for you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
APPARENTLY FRANCIS KENNEDY wasn't hurting for money. His loft in the heart of the financial district had cost something close to four million. Terrorist dollars at work. The building itself was the usual warehouse facade, although this one looked as if it had been inspired by someone's idea of a warehouse rather than the real thing.
Either way, it wasn't the standard Manhattan walk-up. As well as a staircase, the building had an elevator that accessed all the apartments. The team had split into three components—Gabe and Payton on the stairs, Sam and Harrison watching the front and rear of the building, and Nigel and Melissa taking the direct approach via the elevator.
Surprise being the most important element, Nigel had disarmed the elevator's sound system, permanently putting the kibosh on the floor-announcing chime. According to the blueprint he'd studied, the elevator opened directly into the apartment on the tenth floor, which meant they had to be ready.
The stairs came out into a service area on the opposite side of the apartment, most likely behind a locked door, which meant that Gabe and Payton's arrival would be delayed at least for the amount of time it took them to deal with the lock.
For that reason Nigel had allowed extra time for them to get situated. The static in his earpiece solidified into the sound of Gabe's voice. They were in place.
"Ready?" Nigel glanced at Melissa, impressed as always with her relative calm.
"Let's do it," she said, shooting him a thumbs-up and stepping into the elevator. Seconds later the doors slid open on the ninth floor, a tactic designed to give them a moment for preparation.
"Next floor, lingerie and extremist bastards." Nigel hit the close-door button and leveled his gun on the door.
With a small lurch the elevator stopped at ten and the doors slid silently open again, this time revealing the interior of the loft. Moving with precision born of practice, Nigel entered the room, turning in surveillance while at the same time protecting both his and Melissa's backs.
She followed suit, taking up position on the opposite side of the open doors. Nothing moved, the only sound the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. The furnishings did not match the price tag on the apartment. Either Francis had spent all his cash on the loft, or he didn't give a damn abo
ut what was in it.
Since the man appeared to have overriding interests, Nigel assumed the latter. The loft hadn't been divided into rooms at all; the entire floor plan was visible from the elevator. Unless someone was hiding under the bed, the place was empty.
"It's clear," Nigel said into his mouthpiece, lowering his gun, disappointment washing through him. "No sign of any occupation."
"We're in," Gabe responded, stepping from behind a tattered screen, Payton on his heels.
"What do we do now?" Melissa's frustration echoed his own, but not finding Khamis didn't necessarily mean the end of the ball game.
"Let's see if he left anything behind." Nigel holstered his gun and began to search the apartment, the rest of the team joining in. Fifteen minutes later, it was more than clear that the place had been professionally sanitized. There was nothing. No food, no trash, no clothing, nothing at all to signal occupation.
"Maybe he was never here at all," Melissa lamented, dropping down on the sofa.
"He was here," Pay ton said, running a finger across a chest of drawers. "If someone hadn't been here recently there'd be dust. And this place is cleaner than the kitchen at Cipriani."
"Fat lot of good that does us." Melissa's tone was despondent.
"Tracy's folks are on the way," Gabe said, leaning back against the kitchen island. "I'll have them go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. This place is huge. Maybe they missed something when they were sanitizing it."
"Like this?" Payton held out a strand of filament wire, about two inches in length.
"Where'd you find that?" Nigel frowned, taking the wire.
"Between the wall and chair over there." He nodded toward a table and chairs sitting under the window. "It was caught under the baseboard. We'll need Sam to confirm it, but I'm fairly certain it can be used for circuiting a timer."
"Not the only use, though." Gabe blew out a breath. "And even if it were, it doesn't do a damn thing to tell us where the hell the bastard is now."
