Jihad (39 page)

“I guess so. How long will it take?”

“Are you connected to the Internet?”

“DSL,” said the man proudly, as if the high-speed connection were a status symbol.

“It won’t take very long, I suspect,” said Jackson taking out his satellite phone.

CHAPTER 120

KENAN STOOD UP as the boat approached the tanker. From the distance, the ship’s sides seemed very low in the water. But now that they were close, it loomed above them, larger even than the vessel he had crewed on the year before, let alone the ships he’d trained on as part of the advanced bridge management classes this past summer. It was a modern ship, with a long red hull and a bright white superstructure several stories high. The controls he expected to find on the bridge would allow it to sail with a normal complement of fourteen, and in fact it could be sailed with far less—and would be.

The
Aztec Exact
had been built in 1996 for a Dutch concern that had gone bankrupt; bought by the Iranian state petroleum company, it had been sold to two businessmen fronting for al-Qaeda. The plan to convert it into a floating bomb had been conceived more than two years before, but logistics—and money—had prevented its use until now.

Kenan braced himself, preparing to reach for the boarding ladder that hung over the side. Suddenly the boat seemed to durch backwards. Kenan recoiled against the thin metal rail, barely keeping himself from falling into the water.

“There is the matter of my pay,
señors,”
said the boat captain, his English considerably better than when they .started out.

Kenan looked at him, then at the mujahideen who had come in the bus with him from Mexico City.

“You were paid,” said the other man.

“Not enough,” said the captain. “If another hundred dollars cannot be found, perhaps I will forget my promise not to tell others what I have seen. A large boat like this, anchored out here for days—why would that be? Smuggling, perhaps?”

The captain grinned.

Kenan controlled his anger as the other mujahideen took the small shortwave radio from his belt. The greed of Devil People was almost incomprehensible.

“We have no money,” the mujahideen told the captain. “But I will see what I can arrange.”

The captain smiled. Kenan heard the mujahideen say something in a language he guessed was Arabic. Before he could try and puzzle out their meaning, shots rained down from the ship above, and the boat captain had fallen to the deck.

CHAPTER 121

IT TOOK ROBERT Gallo about two hours to download a full copy of the computer drive from the hotel Ambassador Jackson had found. By the time he was done, Angela DiGiacomo had already determined that the man believed to be Marid Dabir had used a fake name and address to register at the hotel. The name—Burkha Akhtar—didn’t correspond to any known alias used by al-Qaeda, let alone Marid Dabir. It did, however, match a name that had been cited by German intelligence in reports two years before of possible al-Qaeda activity in Germany. It was another coincidence, tantalizing but not quite conclusive.

“Kinda like my mom’s meatballs,” said Gallo as he discussed it with DiGiacomo.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re kinda like my grandma’s, but not quite.”

“Any time you want good meatballs, just let know.”

“Maybe I’m overinterpreting this, but did you just invite me to dinner?”

DiGiacomo flushed, but then shrugged. “Maybe.”

That “maybe” powered Gallo for the rest of the day.

“SEE, THEY’D BE in two different places at the same time,” Gallo told Johnny Bib, showing the credit card charges for the flights. “Why would you be making reservations to fly from Cleveland to Boston when you’re in Des Moines?”

“You’re sure he’s in Des Moines?”

“Angie checked it out. She called his hotel.”

Johnny Bib turned to DiGiacomo. “True?”

She nodded.

“Maybe it’s his wife or another relative.”

“No wife,” said Gallo. “And his relatives are all back in Texas.”

“We think he gained access to the motel’s computer and took the credit card numbers from there,” Gallo said.

A grin came to Johnny Bib’s face. He snatched the memory stick with the data on it and was about to bolt from the room, probably to tell Rubens, when Gallo stopped him.

“Wait, we’re not done. See, I checked out where the reservation was made from. Turned out to be a computer in a library in Ohio.”

“Good.”

“Another reservation came from there that same day, almost at the same time. This one’s for a flight from Boston to Ireland.”

“Better!” chirped Johnny Bib.

“It’s on there,” said Gallo as his boss flew from the room.

“Do you think he was always strange?” asked DiGiacomo.

“I don’t think he’s that strange,” said Gallo. “Comparatively.”

CHAPTER 122

THE NOISE IN the engine room was deafening, but Kenan nodded as the senior engineer showed him and the man who had accompanied him from Mexico City around. The man’s name was Razaq Khan, and he was their leader.

The two engine experts had stayed with the ship when it was left here two weeks before. Kenan could tell from the rush of words leaving the engineer’s mouth that he was starved for company.

“The engines perfect in order,” said the man with his less than perfect English. “They are soldiers of God.”

“Mujahideen,”
said Kenan.

The engineer smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Kenan turned and looked at his assistant, a young man no older than he was. The youth had a slightly dazed look on his face, as if he were drugged. Kenan guessed it was the result of the foul air in the engine compartment, which smelled of sea water, fuel, and stale cigarettes.

The ship had been prepared in an Algerian dry dock several months before crossing the Atlantic. The tanks were filled with a liquid explosive derived from rocket fuel, primed to be ignited by a web of plastic explosives surrounding the tanks. The detonator wires ran through the ship to a pair of large control boxes connecting them to a control panel on the bridge. The bomb would be detonated by turning a simple key on the box and moving four levers one by one from neutral to the top position before plunging them together to the bottom. Khan kept the key on a chain around his neck.

“We will join together on the deck for evening prayers,” Khan told the men, using his Punjabi-flavored English. “Come.”

The senior engineer seemed reluctant to leave his engines. He took a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands, even though they were as clean as Kenan’s. Then he threw down the rag and started for the door.

Besides Kenan, Khan, and the two engineers, two African brothers were aboard. The men had been chosen probably as much for their ability with rifles as their experience as seamen; it had been one of them who had shot the Mexican fishing captain. They understood very little English; Khan used Arabic to speak with them, though it was not his native language.

“We have begun well,” said Khan when they reached the bridge. “We will do even better. It will take two days and nights for us to find our destiny.”

Kenan listened carefully as Razaq Khan laid out the plan. There had been some complications—at least one other brother was supposed to be with them—but they would leave immediately, for the plan required them to follow a strict timetable. This presented some difficulties, but Allah would help them overcome them.

Yes, thought Kenan; surely God would allow them to fulfill His plan. No job was too difficult if Allah willed it.

“We will live a glorious life in Paradise,” said Khan. He pointed to the east. “Mecca is that direction. We should all pray and rededicate ourselves to the glory of the one, true God, the God who brings His enemies to justice.”

CHAPTER 123

“YOU’RE CONSISTENT, BILLY, I’ll give you that.” The president leaned back in the chair behind his Oval Office desk. He’d been twiddling an oversized paperclip in his fingers since the briefing began; the wire was now a perfect circle.

“We don’t know where the target is. If we bug Marid Dabir, we may be able to find out.”

“Been there, done that,” said Bing. “Our best chance of getting information is to grab him as soon as we can.”

“He’s not planning on leaving the country for another three days,” said Rubens. “Why not? The most logical conclusion is that he has to meet with someone else.”

“All the more reason to grab him now, before he can do so,” countered Bing. Rubens knew she was still smarting from the fact that he had called on the president personally, bypassing not only her but the president’s chief of staff. Marcke had called her in, but only after Rubens had already told him what they’d found.

“What information do we have on a target?” Marcke asked.

“Nothing new,” said Rubens.

“Houston remains the best guess,” said Bing. “Despite the question raised about the CIA’s source.”

“Nothing new on that, Billy?” Marcke asked.

“I’m afraid not. We are working on it. I hope to have additional information by the evening phone conference with Homeland Security.”

Marcke got up and walked around the perimeter of his desk, thinking as much as stretching his legs. Word of the thwarted al-Qaeda plot in Saudi Arabia had leaked out over the weekend; the effect was another run up in oil prices. A successful attack on American soil, even one that was only partly successful, would push prices through the roof.

“The CIA has information that the attack may come from the sea,” said Bing.

“Based on what?” said Rubens.

“Humint. It’s being evaluated.” Bing rattled off the slang term for human intelligence—spies—with phony casualness. “There are also tons of Chinese explosives in the mix, remember,” said Bing. “It would be easiest to move those by ship.”

Rubens hadn’t forgotten about the explosives at all, but once again, the information was so vague that it was in effect useless. The Chinese had sold explosives to a company that maybe was helping al-Qaeda, or that al-Qaeda operatives had pretended to represent—of course, it could be true. Until they were able to actually trace the explosives—they’d tried without success, as had the CIA—the information wasn’t worth the status of rumor.

“You’re not positive this is Dabir who’s going to Boston?” said Marcke, returning to a point Rubens had made earlier.

“We’ll know tomorrow in Cleveland,” said Rubens. “We know someone is using those cards other than their legitimate owners, and that the tickets were bought from a small town accessible to Detroit by bus. It may not be Dabir, but the circumstantial evidence is tantalizing.”

“Where would you mount the operation?” asked the president.

“The airport in Cleveland is a little difficult to control,” said Rubens. “I’ve spoken with the FBI people about this extensively, and we think it would be easier to get him when he changes planes at Stewart Airport in Newburgh, N.Y. We could stage an incident that would look entirely natural, and insert the bug there.”

Located about seventy miles north of New York City, the airport was much smaller than Cleveland’s and the layout made grabbing Dabir simpler; he could be isolated when coming off the plane without tipping off any of the other passengers, or even anyone at the airport. Stewart also had Air National Guard and Marine Corps facilities that could be used.

“The old Stewart Air Force Base,” said Marcke. “Ham Fish Jr. used to fly a puddle jumper to D.C. from there. Back when I was knee high to a grasshopper.” Fish had been a prominent Republican congressman when Marcke served one of his two terms in the House. “I wonder what Ham would think of this mess.” He smiled wanly, as if remembering the old congressman.

“We can’t run the risk of losing a second source,” said Bing. “It’s too much. At least if he were in custody, we’d have a chance of getting information. And politically, it would at least be defendable.”

That was the sort of argument that George Hadash had never made—basing a national security issue on how it would benefit or hurt the president. Rubens waited for the president to rebuke her. Instead, Marcke merely frowned.

“Time’s running out here, Billy,” said the president. “Let’s arrest him and interrogate him. Take him in Cleveland, as soon as he shows up for the flight.”

“It’s possible that Dabir’s arrest may move up the timetable for an attack,” said Rubens. “The quieter the operation, the better. The FBI preferred Stewart because it would be easier to control. It’s a little more than an hour away.”

“Very well. Do it there,” said Marcke. “But get it done.”

CHAPTER 124

LIA DEFRANCESCA PUSHED the cleaning cart slowly across the floor, eying the line of food shops at the Cleveland Airport Terminal as she continued on her quest to get a good idea of the place before the mission tomorrow evening. There wasn’t all that much different about this terminal than most others in America, or across the world for that matter, but sometimes the subtle things made a difference; knowing to turn left rather than right out of the bookshop to get to the gate, for example.

She stepped over to a waste can that had a view of the concourse and put down the video bug she was using to check positions for the surveillance tomorrow.

“If you could go six inches to the right, that would be perfect,” said Claudell Greenstreet, the runner. Greenstreet was new, which was why he drew the comparatively unimportant task of helping her prep for the mission.

The fly blended perfectly with its surroundings, and rather than move it Lia pushed the waste can itself over.

“Lookin’ good,” said Greenstreet.

As Lia returned to her cart, a middle-aged woman wearing a dark blue business suit and a touch too much makeup walked up and waved her hand in Lia’s face.

“Yo, Miss. Miss?”

“Yeah?”

“That little brat over there spilled his soda all over the floor.” The woman pointed in the direction of the food concessions, where a three-year-old was using the tables as a jungle gym.