NanoStrike (13 page)

Scott sighed and changed the subject. “And the train? Any leads?”

“Off the record?” Quinn asked.

“Sure. Shoot.”

“The perp was male. We picked him up on CCTV footage. We sent a mug shot to Interpol; perhaps we’ll get lucky and ID him. That’s all I’ve got.”

“And the gas?”

Quinn broke eye contact. “The lab boys don’t know.”

Scott’s head snapped up at the hesitation. “How do you expect me to trust you to protect Abdul when you’re lying right to my face?”

Quinn’s forehead crumpled like a paper bag. Scott recognized the look. The policeman was making a painful decision. Scott waited.

“You can’t use this. It’ll mean a total shit storm.”

Scott kept a look of tired patience on his face as if to say,
what do you take me for, a complete idiot?

“We don’t have any idea what the gas was, but I saw the bodies at the morgue. Scott, this was like nothing I’ve seen before. Their lungs were packed solid with charcoal. If this gets out, we’ll have a panic on our hands. No one will ever ride the tube again.”

“Charcoal?”

“Like the stuff you use on the barbeque. All we know is they breathed something in that expanded inside them and solidified. It happened so fast their hearts stopped. Two hundred simultaneous heart attacks, and the process took seconds.”

“You will know our work by its mark,” Scott said.

“Come again?”

“Ghazi said we’d know it was Allah’s Revenge who attacked because they had a terrible weapon.” Scott’s cell phone rang.

“Hold on, Abdul, we’ll be right up.” He hung up the phone. “Come on, Quinn. Ghazi’s replied.” He pressed the elevator call button.

“That was fast,” Quinn said.

Scott slapped the policeman on the back. “That’s the Internet for you. You should try it sometime.”

Quinn grunted.

Back in Scott’s office, they read from the computer screen.

“Abdul-Haqq, we trust only you. Be in your room at the King David Hotel, Jerusalem, Saturday at 6:00 p.m. We will contact you. Ghazi”

Scott looked at Abdul. He wasn’t celebrating. There was a big difference between planning and reality.

Abdul had just learned that life lesson.

Chapter 15

Friday afternoon, six days after Ghazi’s e-mail, Abdul turned in his coach-class seat. He and Quinn were flying El-Al. They were halfway to Israel, having been together since arriving at Heathrow at 8:00 a.m., and two men could discuss sports only so long. “So, how does an American join the British police force?” he asked.

“I’m as British as the next man.” Quinn exaggerated his American accent as he sounded out the words.

Abdul smiled. “With that accent?”

“Dad moved to Washington with the diplomatic service when I was five. I came home for university.”

Abdul turned in his seat. “You were raised in America.”

“Let’s say I’ve got an appreciation of both sides of the Pond.”

“I’ve heard the other cops call you ‘the Yank’.”

Quinn grinned. “There’s no cure for stupid.”

They laughed. This was common ground—they were both hybrids.

Quinn’s long legs jammed hard against the seatback in front—neither the Metropolitan Police nor the
Times
would spring for business class. The flight attendant had cleared away the plastic debris from lunch. Quinn had sweet-talked her into giving him two main courses—the chicken and the beef.

“You married?” Abdul asked.

“Divorced.” Quinn took a pull from his third whisky and water because, as he had informed Abdul, he was off duty until they landed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s difficult being married to a cop. She was a terrific woman. The marriage lasted eight wonderful years before we split.”

The puffy bags under Quinn’s eyes seemed to sag lower as he spoke of his ex-wife.

“Would you marry again?”

“Nope. I’m done. It’s easier this way. And you?”

Abdul laughed. “No chance. I’ve only been out of college six months.”

“What about Adiba?”

Abdul snapped his head around and glared at Quinn.

“The e-mails were on your computer,” Quinn said. “Special Branch located her and put a photo in your dossier. Sorry, Abdul, but I’d rather be up front with you; she’s a stunner, by the way.”

Abdul felt invaded, as though someone had broken into his bedroom and gone through his drawers.

Quinn changed the subject. “How come you took so long to finish college? They keep you back?”

Abdul gave a wry smile. Humor moved them to a better place, reduced the strain. “A journalism degree takes an extra year.”

“Fair enough . . . so, how do you like working for Scott Shearer?”

“Well, I’d only met him once before this Ghazi thing came up. Lowly junior correspondents rarely get his personal attention unless they’ve screwed up, but I have a lot of respect for him. He visited my family while Special Branch held me. It helped them.” Abdul sipped his soda. “You’re friends, right?”

“Known him thirty years. He’s an honest man. In my profession, I don’t meet many.”

Each time Abdul pried into the policeman’s life, Quinn threw him a crumb and then deflected. He asked, “Any kids?”

“No, we never did.”

“Was that why you split?”

Quinn shifted to face Abdul full on. His forehead wrinkled as he processed a reply. The policeman had piercing, pale-blue eyes; a few broken blood vessels floated around the whites, possibly from the Scotch. His face looked “lived in,” with scruffy blond eyebrows and a bulbous nose, offset like a boxer’s. Abdul assumed it had been broken, possibly more than once.

“When you see the things I do, every day, it’s hard to imagine a child living a happy, safe life. Doreen didn’t understand. No one does unless they’re on the force.”

Abdul felt sorry for the big man. “My parents gave up their homeland for us kids. I mean, they were doctors in a place that needed their skills. They moved to England so we could have the opportunities they wished for themselves. They don’t talk about it, but I know they miss the family.”

“I guess that’s what caring people do,” Quinn said. “They make sacrifices for the people they love.”

They sat quietly awhile. Quinn sipped at his Scotch. Abdul stared at the TV. Quinn broke the silence. “So tell me about Jerusalem.”

“Are you religious?”

“Naw. Dad’s people were Irish-Catholic.” He lifted his whisky glass as if that were sufficient explanation. “We went to church for weddings, baptisms, and funerals.”

Abdul smiled. “Jerusalem’s a unique place that each visitor views differently. The Bible stories Christians learned by rote as children come to life on the streets of the Old City when they walk and stand where Jesus once walked and stood. The same is true, but different, for Jews, and for Muslims.” Abdul faced Quinn, warming to his subject.

“The Dome of the Rock, for example. Sitting high above the city, its golden domed roof dominates the skyline. It’s the oldest Islamic building in the world. Muslims believe Muhammad ascended to heaven from the rock over which it’s built, and only Muslims may enter the Dome. Many Jews think King Solomon’s temple lies beneath, and the rock inside the Dome is where Abraham offered to sacrifice his son. They would like to raze the mosque and excavate the site to reveal the original temple. To Christians, the Dome sits on top of Herod’s Temple where, in the Bible story, Jesus cast out the moneychangers. Ironically, atheists point to this dichotomy as proof that religion is a purely human artifice, and God exists only in fables. Everyone sees a different Jerusalem.”

“All because of religion,” Quinn said.

The pilot announced their final descent to Ben Gurion Airport. Quinn leaned in to Abdul and spoke in a low voice—suddenly all business. “Okay, Abdul. This is no tourist trip, so let’s get some ground rules agreed. I’m your bodyguard. To keep you safe, I need your cooperation. When we land, we’re going to separate. Ghazi’s people may be watching the airport, and if they are, we’d like them to think you’re here alone. So don’t acknowledge me once we walk off the plane. The Israelis are supposed to be observing us. I hope they’re good enough so no one notices them. Okay so far?”

“Clear.”

“Once you’re through customs, grab a cab, same as last time. Go to the hotel. Check in, and wait. I’m in the next room. I’ll knock on the common door, you open the lock, and we can meet. All right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll stay in our rooms until Ghazi calls. Once he makes contact, the Israelis will take over.”

“What will I say to Ghazi?”

“You’re never going to meet Ghazi again. You’ll listen to his instructions, agree to do what he says, then put down the phone. A decoy will take your place. You’ll remain with me until we get the all clear from the Israelis. Depending what happens then, maybe you’ll have time to call on your girlfriend, and perhaps I can visit this dome thing you told me about. But until I give the okay, don’t contact anyone, including Adiba.”

Abdul nodded. “But how will the Israelis handle Ghazi?”

“Not our problem. Our job is to lay low until the crazies are locked up.”

In the airport, Abdul had to stop himself from trying to spot Israeli agents watching him. After an uneventful cab ride and hotel check-in, he reached his room thirty minutes before Quinn knocked.

“Everything okay?” Quinn asked.

“Fine. What took you so long?”

Quinn opened his jacket and revealed a holstered gun. “Took some persuading to allow me to carry on their turf.”

“Huh, so now we wait?”

“Yep. Leave the door unlocked. If you need anything, holler.” Quinn returned to his room. Abdul heard the TV being surfed. They ordered dinner separately, but once the trays were delivered, they met up in Quinn’s room to eat. Quinn drank only water.

Tired from the trip, Abdul opted for an early night, and Quinn didn’t argue.

Abdul showered and put on pajamas, a habit from cold, old England. He pulled back the top cover. A white envelope, with his full Arab name handwritten on the front, lay at the center of his pillow. He opened it and pulled out a note and a photograph. He looked at the picture, and his heart started thumping.

Adiba, her eyes wide and terrified, was strapped with black duct tape to a straight-backed chair. More tape covered her mouth, and a man in Arab robes stood behind her. His face wasn’t pictured, but he held a large serrated knife across her throat.

The note said, “At 7:00 p.m. tomorrow, visit the bathroom next to the hotel swimming pool. You will be given further instructions. Tell no one, and you have my word she will be safe. Fail to obey and Adiba will die. Ghazi.”

Abdul ran to the bathroom, knelt at the toilet, and threw up.

Quinn’s voice came. “You okay, Abdul?”

He must have heard the retching. It sounded as if he was shouting from the bedroom. Abdul had left the note on the bed.

Shit.

With a hand towel to his mouth, he hurried back to the bed. Quinn wasn’t there, but he must have been standing right at the adjoining door. Abdul shoved the note under his pillow.

“Fine, thanks, Quinn.”

“Okay, I’m here if you need anything.”

He climbed under the covers, feeling afraid and out of his depth. Adiba must be terrified. Would they keep her in the chair until tomorrow? His head spun. Should he show Quinn the note? What if Ghazi mentioned her on the call? No. The note meant Ghazi believed they weren’t going to meet at 6:00 p.m. He suspected a trap, so the Israeli decoy was in danger? Abdul wanted to tell Quinn, to share the problem. But Ghazi would kill Adiba. Quinn might not believe that, and the Israelis wouldn’t give a damn about some Arab girl getting her throat slit.

No, he had to do what Ghazi said. He didn’t like the man, but he had to trust his word for Adiba’s sake.

A loud banging on the connecting door woke him. He opened his eyes, and it was light outside. He must have finally drifted off.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s nine o’clock, breakfast time.”

“Be right in.”

He threw on his clothes from the previous night and splashed his face before going into Quinn’s room.

Quinn had food laid out on the desk. “I ordered enough for three,” Quinn said, grinning at Abdul. “Damn, boy, for someone who slept ten hours you look like shit.”

Abdul produced a wan smile. “I had an upset stomach. I didn’t get much sleep.”

“Thought I heard you revisiting your dinner last night.”

Abdul ate and spoke little. He hoped the policeman would assume he was ill, or nervous about the phone call with Ghazi. Quinn made up for him on the eating front.

“I think I’ll try a nap, nothing else to do, and I’m still tired,” Abdul said.

“Go ahead. I’ll order lunch about noon.” Quinn sounded as if he could hardly wait.

Back in his room, Abdul laid a hand towel over the pillow. He pulled the note out, covered by the towel, and headed to the bathroom, something he’d planned while lying awake the previous night. He sat on the toilet and reread the words. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at Adiba. Her sweet face masked with tape, and that look of terror in her eyes. This was his fault. They’d taken her because of him.

For the rest of the day, he kept his time spent with Quinn to a minimum. He made it clear he was suffering from horrible diarrhea.

Six o’clock came slowly. Quinn joined him in his room ten minutes before the call. “Try to remember what you said last time. Keep it similar. The most important thing is to believe you are going to meet him, even though you’re not.”

At 6:00 p.m., the room phone rang.

“This is Ghazi.” Abdul recognized the gruff, thick-accented voice.

“Hello, Ghazi, this is Abdul-Haqq.”

“Abdul-Haqq, please bring your offer to me. A car will stop outside the hotel in fifteen minutes. The signal will be the same.”

Ghazi hung up.

Quinn’s cell phone rang. He listened to the caller for a few seconds before speaking. “I understand. Thanks.” Quinn ended the call.

Abdul still held the phone to his ear. Quinn waved his hand to tell him to hang up and signaled for Abdul to follow.