Terminal Rage (10 page)

“I
’
m lost for words. What a delightful idea, Omar!” Emery tried but failed to contain his excitement. The ultimate wet dream of any professor is to attract scholarship funding, and Seth was dangling not one, but five, wrapped in an endowment.

“The second matter is of a sensitive nature.” Seth leaned forward and lowered his voice. What I am about to reveal to you is for your ears only, Michael.”

“Absolutely, Omar.”

“Our friends in Egypt have been caught with their pants down since Mubarak
’
s fall. The army is in control. But they are faltering on their responsibilities to their allies and business partners.” Emery nodded and puffed as if he had reached the same damning assessment.

“In 2005, the Gulf Gold Consortium was granted a one-hundred-sixty-square-kilometer exploitation lease over the Sukari Gold Project in the eastern desert of Egypt. My family owns a majority stake in this Consortium. Our mines have been attacked four times since the revolution by unknown assailants. We can
’
t afford a fifth, Michael.”

Emery seemed to struggle to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. The lies Seth was spinning were sweet, complex and seductive. Tailored for Emery
’
s sensibilities.

“The Egyptians have agreed to allow us to position our private security at the mines so long as it
’
s confidential.” He glanced at his former professor and decided he was ready for the kill.

“We need to identify a trustworthy security contractor—our ownership of the mines is not publicly known, so we can
’
t go through the regular channels.”

“What would the regular channels be?”

“Long. Convoluted. Frustrating. And Untrustworthy.” Seth cackled loud with exaggerated cynicism.

“Like?” It wasn
’
t clear if Emery was curious or testing him.

“We
’
d reach out to our Minister of Defense, who would delegate the matter to our military attachés in London, Washington, and Paris. In turn, they would liaise with the ministries of defense in those countries. By the time we were in direct contact with the suppliers, there would be no secrets left to hide.”

“Confidentiality was a right once upon a time, not a luxury.”

“Exactly, Michael. That
’
s why I need you to introduce us to a reliable security contractor discreetly. In return for their services and confidentiality, the vendor in question will have the benefit of early access to Egypt and introduction to its new rulers through us.” Even though they were in a private room, Seth scanned around with cautious eyes, to show Emery he was about to reveal the sweetest part of his proposition.

“There is a storm of change coming to our part of the world, and only those who are ready and have paid their dues can reap its benefits. The Muslim Brotherhood will ascend to power in Egypt—mark my word, regardless of what the prognosticators say. But through our Saudi friends, the Brotherhood is nothing to worry about. When things settle down, everybody will be vying for a piece of Egypt. The Iranians, the Russians, the Brazilians, and the Chinese are already lining up, but we can serve up the fast track.”

He stopped and studied Emery
’
s face to estimate how much of the bait he had swallowed and then continued, “For your trouble, our Consortium will make a charitable donation to your Institute instead of a personal finder
’
s fee, which could be a thorny matter for you to justify. I would imagine.”

“A generous gesture on your part Omar, but really not at all necessary. What excites me is the scholarship endowment affair.”

Seth leaned forward. “So, do you think you can put me in contact with a reliable security firm?”

It was Emery
’
s turn to scan the room with moderated suspicion, before whispering, “The hottest ticket in town is the US Defense Attaché
’
s annual reception in a few weeks. I will have my office arrange to get you a formal invitation from the Americans. Once you are there, you can go shopping.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Michael.” Seth was glowing inside. Emery had tumbled. And he hadn
’
t even put up much of a fight.

While he waited for Emery
’
s office to procure his invitation to the reception, Seth was certain the Americans would run checks on him, at the very least to ensure there really was a Prince Omar Al Seraj with a residence in London. If the security clearance had happened, he hadn
’
t noticed it. His invitation arrived in the mail a week after his lunch with Emery.

On the day of the event, Seth stood by a tulip arrangement eating beluga caviar blinis and gazing around. His face was covered with aviator sunglasses. The only discernible feature was a fine-sculpted goatee. He wore a grey cloak, embroidered in golden silk. Underneath it, his body was draped from neck to ankle in a lavish pearl-colored gown. A white-and-red checkered
kufiya
wrapped around his head was held in place by a thick black band. His brown Italian shoes were made from slink, the soft skin of unborn calves.

Seth kept an eye on Jennifer Willis, waiting for the right moment to lay himself at her feet like a vulnerable prey. Willis was in her early sixties and a native of Arkansas. She had snake eyes and a Botox-polished face to match her youthful-looking spa-toned body. Her silver-white hair was styled in an elaborate crown braid that must have taken a team to assemble.

A Polish NATO general wound up being Seth
’
s bait conversation partner. He had seen the general speaking to Jennifer earlier and figured he would be the right prop to draw her in.

Seth meandered to the general who was sipping on a glass of Scotch, and standing within earshot of Willis. He struck up a conversation with him, all the while keeping his eyes on Willis.

“Don
’
t take this the wrong way, General Prokop, but modern corporations can no longer rely on the protection and rule of law of the state. We must take matters into our own hands.”

“I fully agree you, Your Highness. The explosion of powerful non-state actors has overstretched the nation state. Private security can, and should fill the gap.”

“The problem is finding a security contractor with enough experience and accountability. My family has been walking that road now for many unfruitful months.” Seth glanced over and saw Jennifer Willis paying full attention now.

She extricated herself from an American naval officer she was chatting to and came towards them. Willis brushed her fingers against General Prokop
’
s arm, revealing a boulder of a diamond ring as she curtseyed to Seth, to acknowledge his royalty. She either knew her etiquette well, or Emery had briefed her about him.

“Jennifer Willis, Your Highness. I couldn
’
t help overhearing your conversation. I head the European regional office of Exertify—the leading private security contractor in the world.”

The Polish general nodded in approval.

There was a twinkle in her eyes. “General Prokop can attest to our work in his country. You could say we
’
re in the business of never disappointing our clients.” She sipped on her champagne flute with girlish innocence and then fixed her eyes on Seth with icy determination.

And the rest had been easy.

Seth observed Mark Price now cowering on the floor. He replayed in his mind the final chain of events that had enabled him to penetrate Exertify earlier this morning. Jennifer Willis had to coax him hard for many months to consider Exertify for the Egypt job. And the harder she had tried, the coyer he played. In the larger scheme of things, this contract was insignificant for Exertify. A spit in a waterfall. But the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he was promising—the early access to the Egyptian market the deal would provide—was irresistible for Mark Price.

The devil had come begging and allowed him with open arms inside the gates of hell.

If it wasn
’
t for the roomful of hostages he needed to keep intimidated, Seth would have cracked a huge, satisfied smile. But this was not the time to gloat. This was only the start of the long and harrowing journey ahead of him.

He picked up the phone to call Blackwell.

TEN

Saturday, November 5, 2011—8:58 p.m.
Manhattan, NY

S
eth
’
s voice had a business-like indifference. “My associates have confirmed the SWAT team has been removed from my building. As a result of your compliance, I can reveal to you the location of one of the four childcare centers we had wired with explosives, Mr. Blackwell. It
’
s located at 2700 Junction Street in Detroit.”

Vlasic jumped on the phone behind Blackwell to give orders to evacuate the Detroit facility Seth had just revealed. A bomb squad would follow to dismantle the explosives.

Blackwell sighed with moderated relief. “Are you ready to tell me what is it you want, Seth?”

“For now, I need supplies. Food and drink for the hostages and myself to last us for the next twenty-four hours.”

“I can get you what you need.”

“That
’
s not going to happen,
Mr. Blackwell. You
’
re a smart man and surely understand I will rely only on my own delivery. When I say supplies, I also mean reinforcements. More leverage.”

“You
’
re digging yourself deeper, Seth.”

He ignored him. “A silver Lexus is driving along Lexington as we speak. In about twelve minutes, it
’
ll reach the intersection of Fifty-third and Lex and will turn right. The FBI has blocked access to Park—I want the Lexus to clear the NYPD police checkpoint there and to proceed unhindered to the tower. Two of my associates will leave the vehicle at the entrance and come up to us with the supplies. The car will remain there and no one will tamper with it. It
’
s got sensors on it, so I
’
ll know.”

Before Blackwell had a chance to oppose the request, Seth deterred it.

“Tell Monica Vlasic to check with Detroit police about the quality and power of our explosives when they get there. If she even toys with the idea of double-crossing me, it
’
s game over for one of the three remaining childcare centers. Twenty minutes is all you
’
ve got. Don
’
t waste them debating what you should do because you only have one option—the one I am giving you.” Seth hung up.

Monica was quick to express her frustration at the turn of events. “There was a time when a perp would extend you some fucking courtesy and lie about their intentions. Now they just say it to your face.”

Slant jumped in. “It
’
s a moot point, Monica. Whatever arms or explosives they deliver to him, it
’
s just another location he controls.”

Blackwell was glad it was Slant who attempted to lock horns with Monica on this one.

“The guy
’
s got three facilities he
’
s already wired. I
’
d give him his falafel boys and see what comes next.”

Blackwell agreed with Slant
’
s pragmatism, and judging by how frustrated Monica looked, she probably did too.

Two FBI agents were dispatched to the Fifty-third Street barricade, where they met up with the NYPD officers manning it. One of the federal agents had a concealed high-definition camera embedded in his Oakley shades, to allow Blackwell and the other agents to watch in real time from the command post. A silver Lexus SUV with dark windows pulled up and flashed its headlights. The NYPD officers who had been briefed by the federal agents only minutes before gave the all clear for the car to continue through.

The FBI agents followed on foot behind the car until it reached the building. Two men of average height and strong builds emerged. They wore black ski masks, sunglasses, and brown leather bomber jackets. They scanned around as if they were expecting the possibility a sniper would split their heads in two any second now. When that didn
’
t happen, the driver popped open the trunk with a remote control, removed two large courier satchels, and strapped them across his shoulders. The other guy retrieved two plump duffel bags, and the two men strode inside the tower until the spying eye of the FBI could no longer see them.

ELEVEN

Saturday, November 5, 2011—9:35 p.m.
Manhattan, NY

T
hree platters that had been piled with sushi rolls, subs, and cut-up vegetables lay empty on the conference table. The team had devoured every last morsel of food and all the coffee, juice, and diet soda in mere minutes after a catering agent had delivered them.

But Blackwell was still punching coffee pods in the Nespresso machine like candy and pacing around the room waiting for the next ten minutes before he would speak to Seth again.

Nishimura sat at the conference table and texted with feverish determination on both his iPhone and BlackBerry, and occasionally reaching out for his laptop as well.

Monica
’
s elbows were on the table, her hands supporting her head which probably had a million scenarios playing out in it.

Slant, Shaker and Grove had left the room to regroup with their respective departments for urgent counseling on the intel they
’
d gathered.

Blackwell sat down to write some more notes. He hated waiting around for the guy at the other end of the phone to make the next move.

“A few months after I moved to Italy, a local case caught my attention.” Vlasic was about to launch into a monologue. “A bank clerk a few weeks shy of retiring walked into the annual board meeting of his company in Milan, wearing nothing but explosives. He threatened to blow himself up and take everybody with him.”

She stopped and sipped on a cup of Earl Grey tea which she had sweetened earlier with Agave. Blackwell dropped his pencil and looked up. This wasn
’
t a monologue, this was a story. Monica was doing her famous time-out right before the shit hit the fan. Nishimura continued to text, his eyes sporadically fixing on Monica, which suggested he too was game for a bit of lore from the field. There was only so much analysis and strategizing a tired brain could endure before it ceased to operate effectively. The FBI
’
s time-out was loosely plagiarized from the medical profession, but it worked.

“He held the top executives of his company hostage for three days in the boardroom, making one outlandish request after the other, but not one demand. Italian police ran around in circles to keep him happy but no one could figure out what he wanted. The weirder his requests were, the more dangerous they believed him to be. Then on the third day, he walked out of the building and shot himself in the head in broad daylight.”

“Did he leave a note?”

“Nothing, Alex. And the explosives on his body were the real deal. Expensive, too. The negotiator and the lead investigator were left scratching their heads for months after the incident as they tried to decipher his motives. Organized crime? Political terrorism? Maybe even Al Qaeda? But he was clean, not even a traffic ticket.”

Nishimura stopped texting. “Hey, I
’
ve been to Italy. A dude with no traffic violations there should have been flagged as odd much earlier.”

Blackwell glanced away from Nishimura and fixed on Monica. He needed to know more. “And the conclusion?”

“After they
’
d exhausted all possible grand plots and complex motives, they went back to the simplest explanation.” Monica sipped at her cup again, even though it was now empty.

“Here was a guy who
’
d spent his life being pushed around. He had spent his life savings to source the explosives. What if he had just wanted to sit on top for once and dangle his legs? You know—snap his fingers and boss people around for a change. And to have the top executives of the bank begging for their lives must have been the sweetest bonus.”

“He did it for the
ride
, not for the destination.” Blackwell thought about Vlasic
’
s story and wondered if it had any bearing on their current case or even their extended history. There was a solid sense of resolve in Seth
’
s voice to suggest a greater purpose. His demands would no doubt come soon.

“That
’
s right. And when he had enjoyed every last bit of it, he figured he was going to prison for a long time, where things would only get worse for him. He looked at his odds and decided to off himself. A purely statistical decision.” The melancholic quiver in Monica
’
s voice was one Blackwell hadn
’
t expected.

Even though Nishimura
’
s fingers and eyes were possessed by a higher digital calling, he
’
d been paying attention. “How shitty does your life have to be before you take drastic measures to be heard?”

Monica nodded. “Pretty fucking shitty. That case made me think, though. They condition us to believe every criminal has a material need.”

Nishimura put both his phones down. “And when you do this job long enough, you start believing it.”

“And that
’
s dangerous. We lose sight of simple truths. Like how some people commit horrific crimes with no specific end goal or cause. And it
’
s these guys who scare the shit out of me. They
’
re the ones we have to work twice as hard to stop from pulling the trigger for as long as they
’
re holding the damn gun.”

Blackwell considered the possibility Monica was being disingenuous with this story. The notion of preventing psychopathic criminals from taking innocent lives at any cost, would have served her well during the Hermosa Beach standoff. But back then, she had ignored the threat of one such criminal until it was too late.

Is she saying this for appeasement?
Or trying to mess with my head?
But her moist eyes suggested an alternative explanation. Maybe this was her way of taking some responsibility for Hermosa Beach. For years, Blackwell had been obsessed with how his own life was derailed by the incident and never once contemplated what it had done to her.

Blackwell decided against prying Monica open and pointing out her double standards. He stood up to stretch his legs just as Robert Slant, Natasha Shaker, and Eddie Grove walked back in the room.

The three of them stopped in their tracks, as if they had sensed something profound had been exchanged while they were away. But before any of them could ask what they had missed, the voice of a communication agent in another room boomed on the loudspeaker.

“Mr. Blackwell, I have a call for you.”

He raced back to his chair and yanked the headset from the table in time to hear Seth
’
s voice saying something he didn
’
t catch. So he launched into a well-rehearsed line.

“Give me something back for what I just gave you, Seth. How about the address of another one of those centers in exchange for your men and the supplies?” There was a short silence followed by a muted chuckle.

“What did I do to give you the impression this was going to be an equitable arrangement? That
’
s it, Mr. Blackwell—we are done with the exchange of gifts.”

The cold decisiveness of Seth
’
s voice triggered something in Blackwell
’
s mind. He now understood why Seth had revealed the location of the Detroit center. It wasn
’
t a sign of goodwill to pave the way for his real demands. Seth wanted the FBI to see his work in practice, and in doing so to demonstrate the seriousness of his intent.

Blackwell was getting tired of being reactive and wanted to turn the heat up a little on Seth.

“You
’
d better start telling us what it is you want. You
’
re facing criminal charges one way or the other, but the outcome for you doesn
’
t have to be all bleak. There could be more tolerable shades of gray in between if you release Julia Price now, let the hostages go, and surrender.”

Seth chuckled louder. “You still don
’
t get it, Blackwell. When I woke up this morning, I wasn
’
t thinking about what deal I
’
d strike if my plan faltered. I woke up knowing I only had two options—I am either going to get the justice I seek, or I
’
ll die trying. Spare me your negotiating tactics—please. You think you can convince me I
’
ll be just fine if I surrender. Hate to disappoint you, but I too read that book.”

Let
’
s try something different then.
“And it
’
s okay to kill children to settle your personal scores? That
’
s how it works with you people?”

“Us brown
‘
people
’
aren
’
t capable of innovating any grand ideas of our own. We learn from our white masters and just recycle history.”

“How about your moral compass and religious beliefs? You can
’
t pin that on the white man. Does your religion—supposedly that of peace—grant you the right to sacrifice innocent lives?”

Seth stopped laughing and there was a cold silence. “Don
’
t you
dare
speak of my religion, or try to use it against me. I wish I had the strength to live by my faith. If I die today, I know I am going straight to hell, but it
’
s a bargain price for justice.”

“And what
is
this damn justice that
’
s worth so many lives?”

Seth cleared his throat. Blackwell sensed he was about to come clean.

“In 2005, there was an attack on the resort city of Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt. All evidence pointed to this being the work of a foreign intelligence agency. But two young Jordanian men were arrested and wrongfully convicted after a sham trial. These men, Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi, did
not
commit any of the crimes attributed to them. They were only sacrificed to conceal the failure of Egyptian law enforcement. They
’
ve been rotting since in a maximum security prison in Upper Egypt called
Zor el Shaytan
—the Devil
’
s Throat.”

Nishimura let out an inadvertent, “Oh shit,” when it became clear what the demand would be. The frenzied clicking on laptops behind Blackwell was distracting. The other agents and analysts hadn
’
t wasted a breath to start Googling the life out of the event and the characters behind it.

“This is what I want, Mr. Blackwell: The US government will negotiate the immediate release of Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi and transport them to Naples, Italy where a prisoner exchange will take place—my men for your senator
’
s daughter. My men for your hostages. Give me my men, and I will spare the lives of the children in the daycare centers.”

“What you
’
re asking for is out of the question.” Blackwell tried to dent his ambitions. But Seth was of a higher caliber than the other criminals he had used this tactic on in the past with some measure of success.

“The exchange will happen at eleven o
’
clock tomorrow morning, Central European Time, which is five o
’
clock in the morning our time. Deliver the men at the northwest end of the Scampia Park in Naples, off Viale della Resistenza. All in all, that gives you a whole seven hours to meet my demands. I am being very generous.”

Blackwell rolled his eyes up to access the part of this brain trained to lie. “The US government does
not
yield to the demands of criminal or terrorist groups. These men you want released have been incarcerated by a foreign government for acts of terrorism.” Just stale rhetoric but it had to be said.

“Like your country plays by the rules and keeps its nose out of everyone else
’
s business? No assassinations of foreign leaders, no incitement of civil unrest, no covert acts of terrorism against innocent civilians, no violent invasions inspired by hateful lies—and God forbid, no torture, or outsourcing of torture.”

“And if your demands are not met?” Blackwell had to drag out the actual threat of violence from Seth as material evidence. Yet another canned question required for procedural purposes.

“Isn
’
t it obvious?” Seth
’
s words reminded Blackwell of the grim future awaiting Julia Price and the children in the daycares.

“And we
’
ve also wired the entire thirty-ninth floor with explosives.”

A female hostage in the background screamed before a loud thud silenced her, likely from one of the two men who had joined Seth in the tower. “As you can hear—not the most popular itinerary with this crowd. I
’
ll call you at midnight to wish you goodnight.”

As soon as Seth hung up, the FBI communication agent patched in the Detroit police bomb squad for an update on the situation at the daycare. They
’
d found RDX plastic explosives connected to an adapted cellular phone for remote detonation—without doubt a professional job. Blackwell
’
s intuition was right. Seth had let them have the Detroit daycare as a show of power.