NanoStrike (27 page)

“Hassan, I need to make a phone call,” Quinn said.

“Yes, of course.” He pointed to the corner of the room. Quinn waved for David to follow.

“Time to find out whether you’re right about Nazar Eudon, David.”

“I am,” he said, and smiled.

Quinn dialed Keisha’s number.

“Ah, Mr. Quinn. Thank you for the excellent work in retrieving our property. I trust the payment was satisfactory?”

Quinn touched his jacket pocket. He’d forgotten the packet Mufeed had handed him in Jaffa.

“Does Eudon know a young man named David?”

There was a pause.

“David Baker is an employee of ours. Do you know where he is?”

“Is your last name Baker?” Quinn asked. David nodded. “He’s with me, and he says he has something of value to Mr. Eudon. Does that make sense?”

“Perhaps.”

“Okay, well it seems we have the basics for a trade. I’m in Jaffa with Abdul, Adiba and David Baker.”

“I’m listening,” she said.

“We very much want to leave Israel.”

“And you say David has something for Mr. Eudon?”

Quinn nodded to David. “She wants to know what you’ve got.”

David slipped his backpack off his shoulder, took out a vacuum flask, and held it for Quinn to see.

“He’s got a thermos.” Quinn felt stupid saying that.

She responded immediately. “Give me thirty minutes, then call back.” And the line went dead.

“I’ll be damned,” Quinn said. “Come on, David, maybe Hassan can rustle up some food, I’m starving.” Quinn put his arm around David’s shoulders. The young man only came up to his chest. Quinn had no idea what was going on with the thermos, but with Eudon’s money on their side, their odds improved.

Quinn waited an hour before calling Keisha back.

“We must get you to Aqaba,” she said. “We can fly from there to Arizona. Will that satisfy you?”

“Yes.” Their chances of getting out of this mess alive were better in the US than in Israel.

“Do you have a vehicle?”

“Yes, but it’s old and unreliable.”

“Time is of the essence, Mr. Quinn. Do you believe the car will travel one hundred miles?”

“Yes, should be fine.”

“Very well. Please leave in the morning and drive south to Be’er Sheva. There’s a popular rest stop. You once called me from there.”

“Okay, I know it.”

“Be there by noon tomorrow. Wait in the café and Mufeed will fetch you.”

Chapter 35

They stayed the night at Hassan’s home. The men slept on the floor, Adiba with her aunt. In the morning, the women made breakfast; bread and cheese, and Quinn, for one, was grateful. He’d been on a forced diet these last few days, his stomach always grumbling.

Keisha’s phone call had reminded him of the money he got from Mufeed in Jaffa. Quinn turned his back on the room and pulled out the packet—a thick wad of crisp, hundred-dollar bills. He riffled the notes and slipped about fifty in his inside pocket. The rest he left in the package.

Quinn studied the three people for whom he was now responsible. A strange bunch: Adiba sat on the sofa, deep in conversation with her uncle, her brow wrinkled into a frown. He heard Lana’s name used, Hassan was probably describing her sister’s ordeal. Abdul leaned back on a brown beanbag, eyes closed. He’d lost weight; puppy fat no longer puffed his cheeks. Dark rings below his eyes illustrated the strain of little sleep and much worry. David, in a lotus position, straight-backed, rocking to-and-fro, lips moving as he mumbled his prayers.

“Okay, team.” Quinn forced levity into his voice. “We’re off on another road trip.” The room fell silent. Adiba, Abdul and David stared at him like children forced to visit the dentist. The weight of responsibility pressed down. This was his fault. He should never have let Abdul run. He had to make it right.

“Hassan, I need to borrow your car one more time.”

“Of course.”

Quinn suspected the man would answer the same if he told him he wanted his house. Family ran deep with these people, and, in Hassan’s mind, Quinn had saved both of his nieces.

“It’s safer if I don’t tell you where we’re headed.”

Hassan nodded.

The three fugitives stood beside Quinn, awaiting instructions.

“Let me check.” Quinn opened the door and peered out. At one end of the street, a group of children played a game with sticks and a ball. “Clear. Move ‘em out.”

Abdul took Adiba’s hand and pulled her along. After returning to her family, she was reluctant to leave. David followed, backpack slung over his shoulder. Quinn wondered whether he had the weapon in the flask. That would have to be faced—he didn’t want to be responsible for another mass murder.

At the doorway, as the others climbed into the Datsun, Hassan gave Quinn a plastic carrier bag. “Some of my wife’s cake and a flask of coffee for the journey, my friend.”

His wife bowed deeply and spoke in broken English. “Much thanks for Lana, Mr. Quinnborne.”

Quinn smiled and handed Hassan the packet of money he’d got from Mufeed. These people needed it more than he did. “Give this to your brother-in-law to help with Lana’s medical bills.”

Hassan took the package without questioning. With tears in his eyes, he nodded toward Adiba. “Look after her.”

Quinn smiled. As he opened the driver’s door, he pointed to the bundle in Hassan’s hand. “If there’s any of that left, you might want to consider a better car.”

Hassan looked puzzled, and Quinn drove off, smiling to himself as he thought how Hassan would react when he counted out ten thousand dollars in cash.

He drove, stop-start, through busy Tel Aviv. Once they hit the freeway, traffic cleared and they made the speed limit.

Five miles out of the city, two police cars sped by on the opposite side of the four-lane. As they passed, they turned on their sirens. Quinn checked the rear-view mirror. The police vehicles crossed the median and started after them, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

“Shit, here we go, boys and girls,” Quinn said.

No use trying to outrun them in the Datsun, so Quinn slowed and eased to the edge of the road. The police reached them in thirty seconds.

Adiba tapped his shoulder. “What will we do, Mr. Quinn?”

“Let me do the talking,” he said. As soon as the words left his lips, he realized how ridiculous that was; he didn’t even speak Hebrew.

The police tore past and roared down the freeway. Quinn’s heart was racing, but at least he knew they weren’t looking for the Datsun. A glance in the mirror showed Abdul and Adiba glued together in the back seat—Abdul, face pale and strained, and Adiba, wide-eyed like a trapped animal. David rocked and muttered as usual; Quinn wondered whether he’d even noticed the incident. Maybe there was something to this religion stuff after all.

For the next ten minutes, Quinn struggled with how to broach the subject of the weapon. Finally, he decided head-on was best. “David,” Quinn said. “The soldiers who died at the door of your lab, what killed them?”

“Imam Ghazi sprayed them with the nanoweapon.”

Quinn remembered seeing an aerosol in the dead terrorist’s hand.

“The stuff he sprayed on them, was that used on the London Tube train and in Seoul?” When David didn’t answer, Quinn glanced across, but he hadn’t started mumbling again. He appeared to be considering the question.

“Mr. Quinn, I do not know Imam Ghazi’s plans. My allegiance is to Allah. Allah spoke to me. He told me to help Imam Ghazi.”

“So you don’t care about all the innocent people Allah’s Revenge has killed?”

“In Allah’s plan, our time on Earth is but a precursor to our lives after, with Him.”

“Whatever. So, is the same stuff in your flask?”

“In the flask, I have virginbots. They may be used to create or to destroy.”

Quinn took a deep breath; the kid spoke in riddles. “So how is Nazar Eudon connected to Allah’s Revenge?”

“He never could be. Nazar worships money, not Allah. He keeps a harlot. He is not pure of heart.”

“So why does he want the flask so badly?”

“Nazar uses the virginbots to create money.”

“Abdul, you understanding any of this?” Quinn asked.

“Do the virginbots have something to do with Eudon Alternative Energy?” Abdul asked.

“He programs them to create ethanol,” David said.

“So what’s in the flask can’t kill people, like at the medical center?” Quinn asked.

“The virginbots are inert; programming dictates their actions.”

“Holy shit,” Abdul said.

“Well, I’m sure glad you understand this, Abdul. How about helping a poor, dumb policeman?”

“The virginbots are building-blocks. Ghazi used them to create a weapon. Eudon programs them to create ethanol.”

“So, without what’s in the flask, his billion-dollar refinery in the desert is useless?” Quinn asked.

“Useless,” David echoed.

“Okay, we have a serious leverage,” Quinn said. He rubbed his forehead trying to make his brow relax.

They arrived at the service station, the one Quinn had stopped at on his way to Jaffa three days earlier with Lana and her father.

“Go ahead and eat. I’ll fill the tank so Hassan won’t be stuck when he collects the car. I’ll meet you inside.”

David held his seat forward while Abdul and Adiba squeezed out of the back. When David grabbed his backpack, Quinn held the strap. “Why not let me take care of that?”

Without hesitation, David released the bag and followed the others.

Quinn shouted after them. “Hey, Abdul, order me a double cheeseburger, large fries, large coke . . . and Texas toast. I’m buying.” Who knew when he’d get the next meal?

Quinn gassed up the Datsun then parked in the center of the lot. Somehow, he’d contact Hassan and tell him where to find the vehicle. In the restaurant, he handed David his backpack, and tore into his cheeseburger. They didn’t understand Texas toast in Israel, so he closed out with a slab of honey cake; he saved the piece from Hassan’s wife—homemade was always better.

“Not as good as your mom’s,” he said to Adiba with his mouth full of the sticky dessert.

Before they’d finished their coffees, the Mercedes rolled into the parking lot. Mufeed got out and stood beside his vehicle. Quinn paid, and they headed for the car.

“Hi, Mufeed. Got room for four more?”

“Please, get in, hurry.” Mufeed’s eyes kept darting toward a parked police cruiser.

They drove for two hours, following signs for the Jordanian border. Closer to Eilat, they passed through small towns, then they hit a stretch of road bordered on either side by desert, no houses and few vehicles.

Mufeed pulled over. “I have to smuggle you over the border,” he said.

Quinn wondered how.

“I’m sorry. It will be uncomfortable. Come.”

Mufeed got out. When they followed, Quinn caught the driver staring at David’s backpack. It put him on alert. Mufeed popped the trunk, dragged out two heavy suitcases, and pulled a lever. The back seat slid forward, and a false floor lifted to reveal a large empty cavity.

“You must climb in here.”

The space didn’t appear big enough.

“Quickly.”

“You’re biggest, Quinn. Climb in, and we’ll position around you,” Abdul said.

Quinn squeezed in, his back pressed against the passenger side. The storage area was deeper than he expected. The rear seats of the car had been hollowed out to make more space.

Mufeed’s taken people over the border before.
The thought gave Quinn some confidence, and at the same time sounded alarm bells.

David climbed in with his backpack and curled his body so Quinn spooned him, then Abdul and Adiba joined them—sardines in a can. Mufeed closed the lid. A light came on, and Quinn heard a hiss of gas.

Oxygen, quite a setup.

The car set off. He felt every bump, and even with the pumped air, the confined space became stuffy.

The car stopped.

Must be the Israeli border.
Quinn started counting out time.

None of them spoke, but Quinn could hear the tension in their breathing. The car remained stationary for a count of one-hundred-eighty then stopping again.

Jordanian border.

A metallic click above them, then voices; Quinn knew by their tone that the border guard was asking Mufeed questions.

They must be checking the trunk
.

Heart pounding, Quinn tried not to focus on what would happen if they were caught sneaking a weapon of mass destruction into Jordan.

Two more clicks preceded the noise of something being moved on the partition above their heads.

They’re opening the suitcases
.

Quinn recognized Mufeed’s voice, then a loud bang, and a firm thump as the trunk lock engaged. Sweat ran down his chest. Adiba stifled a sob. Abdul shushed her gently.

As they pulled away, he stopped counting—seven minutes to clear the Jordanian border. It had seemed longer.

They drove on. The Mercedes took sharp turns. Quinn visualized the route out of Aqaba as the road climbed the hills to Nazar’s home. The car stopped again, and Mufeed opened the partition. Daylight dazzled Quinn’s eyes.

“Quickly, get in the car.”

Mufeed had pulled over on a quiet stretch of road. Adiba was upset, sobbing and muttering. Abdul wiped her tears with his handkerchief and whispered into her ear. Quinn didn’t know what was said, but he understood her fear: she’d just spent thirty frightening minutes trapped in a trunk.

Unlike on his previous visit, the security guard waved them straight through the open gates to Nazar’s home: they were expected. When the car pulled up to the house, Keisha waited for them, dressed in a black jumpsuit, sloppy and asexual compared with the last time he’d seen her. He still remembered following those legs up the stairs.

“Welcome. I hope the journey wasn’t too terrible for you. You are safe now. Please come in. Let me show you to your rooms; I’m sure you want to freshen up.” They followed her into the main hallway. “David, you’re in the downstairs guest room. Mufeed will take you.”

David, stooped and tiny, backpack hooked over his shoulders, followed the driver. Keisha led the rest of them upstairs. Adiba and Abdul were shown to separate rooms. She put Quinn in the room next to Abdul’s.