by K D McNiven
After speeding off down the highway, Martin whipped the car into a back parking lot. He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. A deep, gravelly voice answered on the other end. Their boss, Gordon Pierce.
“What’s up?” Gordon asked.
“Martin here. Two of the men from the Jade II held us up with guns a while ago and demanded we tell them why we were spying on them.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” Martin said. “Only do as I’m told.”
“No problem. Besides, I was getting ready to call you and tell you to scrap surveillance.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve found the whereabouts of Decker Hayden,” Gordon said. “I want you and James to book a flight to New Orleans. I could draw in a couple of agents from New Orleans but you two have been on this from the beginning so I’d prefer it if you stayed with the assignment. When you arrive, give me a call. I’ll fill you in on what I want you to do.”
“Got it, Boss.”
***
Carson had been watching Ryn and Polly through the binoculars. When the car sped off without injury, Carson released his breath, happy the two crewmen restrained themselves. The last thing he wanted to do was to break up a brawl or worse. His cell phone jingled. When he answered, he was surprised to hear Harry Patton’s voice from NWAC’s meteorology department on the other end.
“Harry. What can I do for you?” Carson said.
“Wondering if we could get together and talk a bit more in detail about the storm you encountered at sea, and the electromagnetic island. I’m still intrigued.”
“Did you find something out?”
“Nothing specific, but I have some ideas. I thought I’d go over them with you.”
“Perfect. Where and when?” asked Carson.
“Tomorrow, six o’clock. Here at the regional office.”
“I’ll be there,” Carson said. “Have to tell you, Decker won’t be with me. He’s in the midst of a crisis right now.”
“Sorry to hear,” Harry replied. “But you can pass along the information. This is only my guess. Without a study in the area, it’s all I can do for you.”
“I understand. And when Decker returns, we intend to go back to do an analysis of the area. For the moment any information you can give us is beneficial.”
***
Carson made his way across town and hurried up the steps of the National Weather Advisory Center, anxious to obtain information concerning their trip to the Bermuda area. He knew when Decker got back he would be rearing to go and do an underwater exploration to see if they could come up with some answers pertaining to the island they discovered.
Harry anxiously waited for Carson’s arrival in his small office down the hall from the reception area and stretched out his hand to greet him when the secretary ushered him into the room.
“Glad you called,” Carson said. “I’ve been going over every angle trying to come up with some explanation as to why the ocean would drop, reveal a volcanic mountain, and have a tidal surge engulf it.”
“It’s perplexing,” agreed Harry. “Take a seat. Cup of coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Cream, please.”
Carson searched the perimeter of the room, the walls were covered with maps, and several monitors took up the long counter space. Graphs were stretched out over Harry’s desk, along with a lap-top streaming up-to-date data from satellite images, a hemispherical cup anemometer, a cup holder with a number of pens, a stack of chewing gum, and five chocolate candy bars. It was apparent he spent hours in this cozy den.
Harry brought a small stainless-steel coffee pot and set it down on the table, along with two white mugs filled with steaming coffee. He settled into the chair opposite Carson and opened a brown folder.
“What your crew discovered is more than a little puzzling,” Harry said. “I’ve never heard of anything similar. Of course, we all know water levels rise and fall but there’s always a scientific reason for such things. Say…like the icebergs melting at a rapid rate. Something you can put your finger on. But this is different.”
“Any ideas?” Carson asked, his spoon clinking against the glass mug as he stirred in the cream.
“My guess, and it’s only a guess, is tectonic plates in that area shifted, creating a disturbance. Possibly at the same time an underwater volcano erupted. The disturbance would generate a rise and fall of water levels. I’ll have to check with the NOAA to confirm if when you were out in that zone if an earthquake registered. The undersea island isn’t too unusual. Continued volcanic eruptions along divergent plate borders can form seamounts—some of them breach the surface over time and when the waves beat against the lava they tend to break off and float away.”
“I’m familiar with seamounts.”
“Um…about the matter of you finding metal and wood intertwined with the lava…the only logical conclusion is an electromagnetic field has saturated the area to such a degree it defies physics. It’s baffling, Carson. My scientific mind begs for more.”
Carson laughed. “I hope we can come up with some reasonable explanation.”
“Of course, this is only speculation on my part from what you have told me. However, unless your crew returns to do some studies of the area, I can only guess…Which leads me to why I called.”
Carson stirred the cream into his coffee, took a large swallow, and pressed forward with keen interest. “Go on.”
“I’d like to help fund the project,” Harry said. “I’m fascinated by this. You would have to use a larger ship than Decker’s yacht and would have to employ an autonomous underwater vehicle because of the ocean depth.”
“I have a feeling Decker will hire on Dax Drake,” Carson replied. “He owns a salvage ship fully equipped with research capabilities. Plus, Dax has an exceptionally experienced crew. Now, tell me about this funding.” Carson’s mouth turned into a wide smile.
Chapter 14
⁂
“One good thing,” Brock told Decker and Dax. “We were fortunate enough to get a fingerprint off Callie’s cell phone. Belongs to a man named Ismael Safar. He’s been living here in New Orleans for nearly five years going to college on a visa. Interestingly, Rafiq lives in the same apartment complex, though he hasn’t been seen for quite some time. Still, the rent is always paid.”
“Have they found anything to indicate where they might be hiding out? A relative maybe?” Decker asked.
“The feds are scouring the two apartments for evidence. Banging on every door. I’m told they have bags full of cylinders used in making pipe bombs, ammonium nitrate, fuses and such. It appears they were planning on more than bombing the casino,” Brock told him. “As for relatives, they just brought in Rafiq’s sister. She’s in the interrogation room as we speak.”
“Has she said anything that might help us?” The desperation in Decker’s voice was unmistakable.
Brock shrugged. “No information yet. I need to head in and see what turns up. Hopefully, she’ll have something newsworthy to impart.”
Two CIA officials were inside the small interrogation room, one standing, one seated opposite Rafiq’s sister, Amena Naifeh, whose eyes were downcast, her posture slumped. Dressed in a niqab, it made it difficult to discern her facial features.
Brock moved to the table and pulled out a chair. Amena’s eyes flickered up for a brief moment when she heard the creak of wood under his weight give while taking a seat. She lowered her eyes once more, refusing to meet his gaze.
“When was the last time you spoke with your brother?” Brock asked curiosity piqued.
“A couple of weeks ago,” came her soft reply.
“At his house?”
She shook her head. “No. He came by to see me, but only for a few minutes.”
“What did he want?”
“He dropped off a birthday card—it was my birthday.”
“And he only stayed a few minu
tes?” Brock rocked back in his chair, studying her demeanor.
She glanced up for a non-second, fidgeting nervously in her seat. He could see beads of sweat popping up on her brow. Along with trying to appear as demure and small as possible, her uneasiness gave him cause to wonder.
“We’ve never been close. I hardly ever see him,” she said quietly. “Sometimes only once a month and never for very long.”
“Do you visit him at his place?”
“No. He doesn’t want me there.”
The room was stuffy and Brock loosened his tie. The bright overhead lights added to the heat. “Doesn’t that seem a bit unusual for a brother?”
She shrugged, her fingers twisting together nervously, and still avoiding eye contact.
“What about friends? Have you ever met them?”
“No. As I said, he doesn’t want me around.”
“What about Ismael Safar?’
There was a sharp intake of breath. She shook her head. “I do not know any Ismael.”
“I think you do, Amena. Is he a friend of your brother?”
“I said, I don’t know him.”
The woman CIA agent who had stayed off to the corner of the room stepped forward and slammed both palms on the table in front of Amena. Amena jumped with a start and her head snapping up with alarm. Her eyes, fringed with fear, widened.
“I’ve had enough of this bull—you can’t tell me you’ve had no contact with your brother or that you don’t have any idea what he’s been up to?”
“I-I…d-don’t,” Amena cried out. “The brother I know would never do such a terrible thing as you say.”
“You just admitted you don’t know anything about him. Not his politics, his friends, or his lifestyle. So, which is it?” the agent grilled her, her face cut sharply with intimidation. “How can you possibly know what he’s capable of?”
“I want a lawyer!” she retaliated.
The CIA woman threw her arms in the air dramatically and shook her head. “I think you’re lying through your teeth. You know exactly what your brother was up to and I’d venture to say you know where he’s at right now. You’d be well advised to tell us everything before you’re charged with murder and conspiracy. I’ll see to it personally you rot in jail!”
Amena stayed silent. She was not going to say another word. Later, after a few more hours of interrogation, she’d break. But it was not looking promising at the moment.
Brock steepled his index fingers and placed them under his chin. He sighed and remained quiet for a span of time watching as she continued to fidget uncomfortably in her chair. Knowing they weren’t getting anywhere, he decided to go back to his desk. Maybe after more pressing in the hands of these anxious CIA agents, Amena would loosen her tongue? He could tell they were champing at the bit to gain answers from her, the same as he. In the meantime, he would pursue some of the other leads.
Brock pushed himself to his feet and nodded to the other agents to carry on. “If you come up with anything let me know immediately.”
The dark-haired agent nodded, but clearly, she was frustrated. She’d hoped to gather enough intel to locate and apprehend Rafiq. As it was, they had gotten nothing more than they already had. Zilch.
Once outside the room, one of the detectives flagged his hand in the air “The video you requested is set up for you, Detective Brock.”
Brock nodded and walked back out into the noisy din rippling through headquarters. When he saw Decker and Dax, he motioned for them to follow him.
When they’d joined him, he led them down a long narrow hall past several offices. When he reached the end, he swung open a door and ushered them inside. They eyed a computer monitor set off to one side, a bit perplexed. Brock told them to take the seats in front of the visual display unit, poked at one of the buttons on the keyboard to activated it, and within seconds a video pulled up on the screen.
“What’s this?” Decker asked.
“Video of the car crash,” Brock said. “There were surveillance cameras on all four corners. We got hold of the footage during the time frame of the crash, lucky enough to see the event as it transpired. If you don’t think you can sit through it, please let me know, Decker. I understand.” When Decker remained quiet, he asked, “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Decker said dreading the thought of witnessing what had happened to Callie but desperate to know how it all went down.
Brock settled back against the wall, crossing his feet as he ran the clip. He knew how difficult this would be for Decker, but hopefully one of them would spot something they’d overlooked.
Every muscle in Decker’s body tightened as he watched the terrorist’s car smash into the side of the rental car Callie was driving. He watched helplessly as he saw her stumble out of the car dazed and rush to help one of the terrorist’s bleeding from a head wound. At the same time, the good Samaritan stopped alongside the curb and leaped from his vehicle to offer his assistance. One of the terrorists pistol-whipped the man and turned abruptly to grab hold of Callie, shoving her brutally into the good Samaritan’s vehicle, which he’d left running, and sped off.
“I can’t wrap my head around this,” Dax sputtered.
“If she’d only stayed on board the Shark Eater…” Decker’s words trailed off.
After watching the video, Decker experienced a sense of futility. A dark, foreboding shadow crossed his face while he processed what he’d witnessed and tried to cope with the fact he may never see Callie alive again. He knew what the terrorists were capable of and thinking of Callie being held by these madmen sparked a burning rage inside of him that he fought hard to suppress.
“The video shows the route they took. It corresponds to the same one you and Dax took when you found Callie’s cell phone. At least we have a perimeter to scour,” Brock said.
An officer poked his head in the door. “Phone call, Brock.”
Brock turned off the computer and walked back to his desk. Once inside, he sat down and lifted the phone from its cradle. He remained online for some time. Nodding. Making short acknowledgments. When he hung up, he looked squarely at Decker and Dax.
“A couple of callers said they saw the Chevy Impala heading out of town on Interstate 10 the same day they took Callie. More confirmation.”
Brock raised his ceramic mug to his lips and took a swallow. “Damn. Coffees cold again,” he grumbled, setting the cup back down. “I’m sure the terrorists aren’t even aware of what they stole. I spoke with the owner. It’s a 1959 Chevy Impala hardtop coupe. Harbor Blue paint. Complete with batwing fins. Signature taillights called “cat’s eyes. And a hp Super Turbo-Thrust Special V8. Did I forget to mention, spinner hub caps? Not an inconspicuous car by any means,” he chuckled and slapped his thigh.
“Great. It may make it easier to pinpoint their location,” Decker said. A glimmer of hope sparking in him.
“I’m sure they will try and change the color. The license plate for sure. However, you can’t change the body style.” Brock rocked back in his chair and grimaced. With great discomfort, Brock began to rub his throbbing shoulder. He hadn’t had time to rest after taking a bullet, and the effects of the pain pill had since worn off.
“Maybe you should take a few hours and go rest, Detective,” Dax said. “You’ve been here for hours.”
“Could tell you both the same thing, but I doubt you’ll listen. Oh, and the car you stole…I explained things to Mr. Klegg and told him you would reimburse him for any damage and for the inconvenience. Thankfully, he was a sport. But, c’mon Decker, no more!”
“Warning taken. And thank you, Detective. Sometimes I don’t use common sense. And I have to say I feel like I’m going to go ballistic…this waiting…”
“I’ll take you at your word. Do it again, and I’ll slap your butt in jail for the duration of this investigation, and leave it to the courts to determine what to do with you.”
Detective Raymond Brodsky strode across the room, his light blue shirt rolle
d up at the sleeves and his armpits were soaked with sweat. His brown hair was combed back from a square face, bushy brows were drawn into a frown. Dark, intense eyes were fixed solidly on Brock as he pushed his way through the crowd of people in the station.
“They released Rafiq’s sister a moment ago,” Raymond said. He did not miss the look of disappointment on Decker’s and Dax’s face.
“Did they find out anything more?” Decker pressed him for any information.
“Not anything she hadn’t already said when Detective Brock was there. Only background specifics. Says she had no idea what her brother was up to. Said he never showed any signs of radicalization. Though I’d not expect her to say differently.”
“She wasn’t living in the same apartment, was she?” Decker asked.
“Across town from him,” said Raymond. “Her house has been gone through from top to bottom. Nothing found, unfortunately. She also told us she seldom saw him. Said he kept to himself most of the time and only called once a month. Usually to borrow cash.”
“No other relatives?” Decker persisted.
“You should be a detective, Mr. Hayden, except you’d probably be reprimanded every time you stepped out of the station, but what the hey,” chuckled Raymond, getting back on track when he noticed Brock’s eyes reprimanding him. “No. Apparently, their parents live in Syria. His father has a small shop. Sells carpets. The mother stays home with two young boys. They are highly respected in the community and have no known ties to extremists. They were very cooperative and saddened to hear what their son has done, so I’m told.”
“This Ismael guy…what do you have on him?” Decker continued to question.
“He did have a girlfriend for a short time. The team is looking to find her. She spent some time at his apartment according to the neighbors, so it’s possible she saw some of the firearms or bomb-making supplies he had stowed, maybe even helped him. We have gobs of photos of what we uncovered if you have any interest in viewing them.”
“Have any ideas where he got hold of the weapons?” Decker inquired.
Raymond shrugged. “We’re investigating. As yet, we don’t have much to go on. Appears someone has been financing him, though. We’re assuming, but have no solid evidence to confirm that his supplier is Ali Bukai from Syria. You can bet he’ll stay under the radar right now. However, we have every available man on it. Not an inch of New Orleans will go untouched until we find these men.”
