Jihad (41 page)

Assuming, of course, they had the right man to begin with.

Karr wanted to see where Dabir would end up if he managed to slip out of the plane somehow. A parking lot for rental cars was just around the comer from the gate area where they were going to bring Dabir’s plane. Hopping the fence would take all of five seconds; he’d have to put two guys on the plane side of the fence to forestall that possibility. That was in addition to the people they’d have disguised as ground crew on both sides of the plane.

A hangar across the way that was used by U.S. Marine reserve units to maintain some of their aircraft had been vacated a few hours before. Right after the plane carrying Dabir landed, a CIA Gulfstream would taxi over to the area in front of the hangar; the jet would take off a short time later—a ruse to make anyone watching think Dabir had been taken away. In fact, he would be moved to a trailer set up in one of the large C-5A hangars on the Air National Guard side of the complex, guarded by a team of FBI agents and federal marshals as well as U.S. Air Force security. Several members of the Justice Department and FBI interrogators were already there, preparing for their interrogation.

Karr checked the truck that would be used to ferry him across the base, then looked at the two vans which would carry the federal agents. The trucks were guarded by a pair of U.S. Air Force security men, who were trying to look nonchalant while holding M-16s at the ready.

“Lookin’ good,” Karr told them after circling the trucks. “Now tell me, no bullshit: Where’s the best pizza place in town?”

CHAPTER 128

BETWEEN FATIGUE AND his concerns about the operation set to grab Marid Dabir, Rubens found his patience in short supply from the very start of the evening conference call updating possible al-Qaeda targets. He tried to explain how circumstantial the evidence his people had found that the Galveston-Houston area might be a target was, but the others clearly didn’t hear the nuances. As soon as he mentioned that one of the terrorists had possibly met a boat or ship off Mexico—information that the Art Room had given him only a few minutes before—they put two and two together and came up with forty-four.

“Sink a ship in the Houston Ship Channel and it would be even more devastating than blowing up the chemical plant,” said Cynthia Marshall, second-in-command at Homeland Security. “We’ll need National Guard troops. I’ll move the Coast Guard over and blockade the port. The Navy will have to help as well.”

“There’s no evidence the channel is being targeted,” said Rubens. “And from what I understand about the threat coming from the sea, there’s no evidence there either.”

“We have one source saying al-Qaeda may be interested in ships,” said Collins from the CIA. “That’s the extent of the intelligence.”

“Can we really take a chance?” asked FBI Director Griffin Bolso, who until now had been a voice of reason and an ally. “Blow up something there, and it’ll be worse than 9/11.”

“We have to be prudent in using our resources,” said Rubens.

He might just as well have read the horoscope, for all the good it did. Bing ended the meeting by saying that the Houston and Galveston area would be put under a virtual lock-down, with the navy and coast guard tasked to search every ship in the vicinity. Searching the ships would take weeks, not days, but the general representing the Department of Defense on the conference call was from the air force and clearly didn’t understand the logistics involved.

A few minutes after Rubens hung up, Collins from the CIA called him back. He’d promised to update her on the Dabir operation.

“They’re overreacting on Houston,” she said without prompting. “But you can’t blame them. We’ve given them bits and pieces of possible conspiracies, and they put them together in the worst way.”

“Concentrating on the wrong target may be worse than concentrating on none,” said Rubens.

Collins didn’t answer. Rubens told her about Dabir; when he was done, she asked if she could send a CIA interrogation team there as well.

Even though he’d expected the question, he wasn’t sure how exactly to answer it. The Justice Department had been adamant that the CIA people not take part; truth be told, they would have greatly preferred it if Desk Three wasn’t even involved in the operation, since the intelligence agencies would inevitably complicate any prosecution. But Collins was a potential ally against Bing, and Rubens knew that telling her no wasn’t going to go over well.

What else could he do, though? Base his decision on politics?

“Justice wants to handle the interrogation itself,” said Rubens, hoping that would end the conversation.

It didn’t.

“Justice wants a lot of things. The FBI has a terrible track record on interrogations. We don’t.”

“I can’t argue with you, Debra, but it’s not my call.”

“If you said the team was from Desk Three, no one would question it.”

“Well, I can’t lie,” blurted Rubens.

A moment of awkward silence followed.

“Bill, sometimes it would be helpful to remember the old adage, ‘one hand washes the other’,” said Collins before she hung up.

CHAPTER 129

THE BIG HELICOPTER shook the shoreline as it approached, but the night had turned overcast, and Dean couldn’t even make out its running lights.

“They want you to fire a flare, Charlie,” Chafetz told him. “To make sure they’re in the right place.”

Dean didn’t have any flares. This was just like the navy: always asking a marine to do the impossible.

And being a marine, though a retired one, he came up with a way to do it.

“Turn on your lights,” Dean yelled to the Mexican police chief a few yards away. “The helicopter needs something to guide it.”

The chief reached into his Volkswagen and red and blue beacons split the darkness.

“All right. They got you,” said Chafetz.

A spotlight searched the beach as the helo, a large CH-53E Super Stallion from the
USS Wasp,
settled over the beach in a hover, descending to about eight feet above the ground, whipping grit and a fine spray of water in every direction.

“Charlie, they’re waiting,” said Chafetz.

“For what?”

“Aren’t you getting in?”

“Aren’t they landing?”

“Beach is too narrow and sloped,” said the runner.

Dean saw a crewman in the surf, trotting toward him.

“Sergeant Dean?”

“Nobody’s called me that in about a million years,” Dean said.

“I was told you were a marine, sir. Once a marine sergeant, always a marine sergeant. I should know,” added the man, who was wearing marine combat fatigues. Though it had taken off from a navy ship, the helicopter was actually a marine aircraft.

“Gunny, you’re just trying to butter me up so I won’t complain about having to climb up the rope, right?”

“I hope it worked,” cracked the marine. “Otherwise I’m going to have to throw you to the crew chief.”

CHAPTER 130

LIA PULLED THE covers around her neck, pushing onto her side and trying to find a comfortable position in the hotel bed. She’d jacked the AC to full, chilling the room so she could bundle up. Covers always made her feel drowsy, and helped her to sleep.

So did cuddling next to Charlie. She’d slept like a baby during the two weeks she’d spent with him in Pennsylvania.

She missed him badly. She felt—not that she’d betrayed him, exactly, with Pinchon, because she hadn’t, not at all. But she hadn’t given him the attention he deserved.

Or the explanation. Something of an explanation.

He was just a guy I fell in lust with, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything, Charlie.

He wasn’t as big a jerk then, either.

Lia could almost see Dean squinting at her. Then he’d say, “Okay.” In a while, if she didn’t add any more, he’d drop it completely.

That was the way he was.

She, on the other hand, would brood and think and scheme, try and figure it out. Attack it.

Dean thought they were good together because they were alike in a lot of ways, but she knew they were different, different on this.

She curled the covers tighter, missing Dean more than she ever had before.

CHAPTER 131

DR. SAED RAMIL TOOK a train from Baltimore to New York City’s Penn Station, then made his way to Grand Central, where he caught a commuter train north to a burp of a city named Beacon. There a limo met him and took him across the river to Newburgh, where he’d been booked into a small hotel not far from the airport. The driver gave him a brief history lesson on the area along the way, telling him how Newburgh had once been voted the best city to raise kids in the U.S. and was now among the worst.

“Because nobody believes in nothin’ no more,” railed the driver. “They got their rap, their MTV, video games. Don’t go to church. No morals. No beliefs.”

Ramil didn’t know what to say, but the man didn’t really want answers; he wanted to rant. Ramil gave him a tip, even though the Art Room had said he’d already been tipped, then ensconced himself in his room at the Holiday Inn.

This was an easy gig, merely standing by in case something happened. Inevitably, nothing did. Ramil could stay in his hotel room the entire time if he wanted. Or he could go and explore the local area, as long as he kept the Art Room aware of where he was.

The last time he heard the voice, it had told him he would have another chance. Was this what it had meant?

No. The voice was simply a result of stress and fear—a perfectly logical explanation.

Unless it had predicted the future.

Lying awake well past midnight, he thought of the limo driver’s rant. The problem with the world wasn’t that no one believed in anything anymore, but that they believed in the wrong things. And the line between wrong and right was more difficult to discern than one could ever imagine.

CHAPTER 132

THE U.S. NAVY’S LHD-1 Wasp was an amphibious assault ship, designed to deliver roughly two thousand marines to a beach-head or an inland battle zone. To Dean, it looked like an aircraft carrier, albeit one with a straight landing deck. The ship sat high above the water, which made it easy for it to deploy its air-cushioned landing craft sitting at a sea-level “garage” below the flight deck.

This type of ship had not existed in Dean’s day, and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed an early-morning tour after his “rack time”—which was actually a decent snooze in an honest-to-God bed. But both Dean and the ship’s company had better things to do. The
Wasp
had been tasked to join a sea armada checking vessels approaching Galveston from the south. Her helicopters were assisting ships to the north and west. Dean, meanwhile, had been told by the Art Room to get up to Houston to check over the chemical plant that the terrorists might be targeting. First thing after breakfast, a UH-1N Huey—a Vietnam-era helicopter retained as a utility craft—was gassed up and readied for him.

“We are just going to make it fuel-wise,” the pilot warned Dean as he strapped himself into the copilot’s seat. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Dean adjusted the headset. “Sorry to put you out.”

“Hey, no way. I get to spend two days in Houston thanks to you. Got a whole bunch of friends there. We’ll be golfin’ and shootin’. I should be thanking you.”

The helicopter leaned forward and rose, skipping away from the deck of its mothership like a young bird anxious to leave the nest. The sun had just broken through the low-lying clouds at the horizon, coloring the distance a reddish pink.

“You want some joe?” asked the pilot, handing him a thermos.

“I’ll take some coffee, sure.”

“All I got is that one cup. Don’t worry. I don’t have AIDS.”

Dean poured about half a cup’s worth of coffee into the cup. It had far too much sugar in it for him, but he drank it anyway.

“Heard you were a marine,” said the pilot.

“Ancient history.”

“Once a marine always a marine.”

“True enough.”

“What were you?”

“I did a lot of things. I was sniper in Vietnam.”

“No kidding? You’re that old?”

“Older,” said Dean. He laughed. “I bet this chopper’s as old as I am.”

“Probably flew you around in Vietnam.” The pilot reached over and took the coffee from him. “You liked being a sniper?”

“It was a job.”

The pilot had to answer a radio call. Dean tightened his arms around his chest. He had liked being a sniper. He liked the simplicity of it. Not like now.

“I have a sharpshooter’s badge myself,” said the pilot. “I’m pretty good. Every marine, a rifleman.”

“That’s right.” said Dean. But inside he was thinking that there was a world of difference between doing some shooting and being a sniper. Shooting was the least of it.

“We practice insertions, do a lot of work with some recon guys,” continued the pilot. “It’s good work.”

“Yeah?” said Dean, feigning interest, thinking about Kenan and how he hoped he was wrong that he’d met a ship.

CHAPTER 133

UNABLE TO SEE the O’s for the O’s, Gallo had printed a dump of the storage files on the drive belonging to Kenan Conkel’s college roommate. He hoped that looking at the data on paper might put it into a new light, but all it did was cover the lab with paper. He had piles and piles of printouts, showing files in every conceivable format.

Most had to do with chemistry and hockey. The roommate seemed to have a perverse need to follow the Red Wings; the remains of web pages pertaining to the hockey team were strewn across the drive.

“Paper, Mr. Gallo?” Johnny Bib was standing in the doorway.

“You told me to go back to the roommate’s drive to look for clues.”

“Paper?” said Johnny Bib again, as if it were a foreign substance.

“I thought it would, like, let me see things more clearly. I was here all night, and I figured, you know, get a different look at things.”

“Did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Mmmmmmm,” said Johnny Bib. He walked into the room, surveying the different piles. “Chemistry?”