Terminal Rage (12 page)

“Air France Flight 447 from Rio to Paris. It plunged into the southern Atlantic in 2009. All two-hundred-and-twenty-eight people on that flight perished.”

Monica
’
s eyes darted from the screen to Nishimura. “How
’
s this relevant?”

“MI5 just informed us that French authorities believe Mehmet Ozal was one of the people who died in that crash. He was traveling under an alias, Hector Cesar. That
’
s why it wasn
’
t registering. Wanted in Turkey for domestic violence and unpaid child support. He
’
s not our guy.”

“So one down, two to go from the MI5 list, right?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Blackwell. The second guy, Hasib Khan, has also shown up. He changed his name to Harry Perez seven years ago and lives in San Francisco. He runs a health food store and a yoga center with his wife, Ava Perez. Our field office guys in San Francisco will speak to him shortly, but he
’
s not our guy.”

“So we
’
re left with the Iraqi.”

“We are indeed. Iyad Malki. Who knows, maybe he
’
s the guy you
’
ve been talking to all night, Mr. Blackwell.”

Slant slipped his glasses back on and began typing an email. “I
’
ll ask Amman to send us whatever they have on Nabulsi and Madi. And to find out if the two had links with any Iraqis.”

A catering operator walked in with a big tray of succulent fruit and placed it on the conference table. Nishimura grabbed a skewer of plump mangos and started munching on them.

Eddie Grove was typing something on his iPad when Blackwell glanced at him.

“Eddie, you know how these guys think. Here
’
s what I don
’
t understand. If Seth knew we
’
d eventually find out the Jordanians are guilty, why didn
’
t he just say it flat out? Why the pretense when he could
’
ve just said,
‘
These are my guys, I want them freed, so fuck you all
’
?”

Grove blushed a little, revealing an underlying shyness. Blackwell figured he must have been the sort of guy who became self-conscious when someone singled him out in a group for an opinion based on his line of expertise. The awkward type who preferred to work behind the scenes to draft incisive psych profiles. The kind of man who preferred to put extremely dangerous people behind bars, rather than take the spotlight.

“Things like culpability and justice work different in the terrorist mind. Even if he knows they committed the crimes, it doesn
’
t mean he holds them morally responsible. There are many shades of justification and the most common is
‘
They were working for a greater cause,
’
or
‘
the victims of the bombings were collateral damage in the greater jihad.
’
”

Slant joined in. “Another common excuse is the social pressure one. Seth could be telling himself Nabulsi and Madi were coerced into the crime because they were desperate, or because they were easy targets. They were manipulated by a more powerful, more sinister force. So it could be that he is not disputing their actions, he just doesn
’
t hold them accountable for them.”

Eddie Grove smiled at Slant, approving of the finishing touch he had placed on his line of thought. Grove paused, then continued. “From his point of view, securing their release could be the fulfillment of the justice he keeps talking about. Not justice as we know it, but a bastardized form in his head.”

Blackwell could see the merit of this analysis.

“Of course, the problem with an altered state of morality like that is there
’
s little we can do to influence his actions—we
’
re speaking two different languages.”

“So how do we trip him?” Nishimura asked.

“There is one thing that can set him off course—but it
’
s the one thing we don
’
t have. Not even close,” Blackwell responded, his long years of experience kicking in.

“What is it, Alex?”

“Knowledge of his true identity.”

TWELVE

Saturday, November 5, 2011—10:03 p.m.
Manhattan, NY

B
lackwell must have dozed off in his chair. His eyes were pried open by Monica
’
s screeching voice as she stormed into the room.

“We lost contact with Voss and his men on the roof. They haven
’
t checked in for fifteen minutes. And their radios are silent.”

Slant and Grove were a few steps behind her, each holding an oversized coffee mug. It smelled like a Starbucks, and the image of a young, stylish Asian guy like Nishimura sucked into his laptop gave further credence to that image.

“Maybe they
’
re getting some shut-eye?” Blackwell
’
s mind hadn
’
t yet fully booted and the subject of sleep was all he could think of. He sensed immediately the absurdity of his suggestion the Hostage Rescue Team men were dozing off, and followed up with a more lucid question. “How about their tracking units?”

Nishimura shook his head. “Out of range—or disabled.” It looked like he was scanning the tracking server on his laptop, mirroring what the communication people were seeing. “They were last on line about twenty minutes ago.”

Blackwell got up and punched another coffee pod and loaded up his cup with sugar. “Get me Seth on the line.” He slurped the deep brown liquid with golden foam quicker than it had oozed out of the machine.

Monica ran her hands through her hair and stopped in front of Blackwell
’
s chair. “Let
’
s think about this, Alex. What if Voss and the men are fine and there is a perfectly good reason why they
’
re off the grid? We could blow their cover.”

“It
’
s not like I am gonna ask him if he
’
s seen a couple of hostage rescue operatives loitering around the building. I just want to feel him out, Monica—that
’
s all.”

Nishimura sprang to his feet. “Voss is a veteran—men like him don
’
t go offline for no good reason. Something
’
s outta whack here.”

Before Nishimura could explore his suspicions further, the voice of a communication agent rattled through the loudspeaker.

“Mr. Blackwell, you have an incoming.”

“Hang on a second.”

The coffee had gotten him to first gear, but Blackwell knew it wouldn
’
t cut it for the long haul. He
’
d been awake for more than seventeen hours and needed something stronger to stay alert. He grabbed a cold Red Bull, popped it open and gulped it, then donned his Clupster headset just in time to hear Seth speak.

“
Why
’
d
you quit the FBI, Mr. Blackwell? Did a terrorist like me spook you? Isn
’
t that what you guys are calling me—a terrorist?”

Blackwell wanted to focus on what Seth was saying but was distracted by trying to stay alert. The words just danced around aimlessly in his head without registering. He wanted to think deeper about what they meant but the clicking keyboards of the other agents taking notes was throwing him off. He was about to turn around and hush them but the transient loss of his train of thought and his failing faculties made him panic. The only thing he could think of was why he continued to feel so exhausted despite a long espresso and a Red Bull. He breathed in from his nostrils, filtered everything out of his mind, and then managed a response.

“Threatening to kill innocents, including children? I can
’
t think of another name for it.” Blackwell paused for a beat to allow Seth to absorb this, but knew he couldn
’
t leave it at that conclusion. He had to soften it up a little bit now with some improvised indifference. “Frankly, Seth, I don
’
t give a damn if you are a terrorist or a yoga master—the only thing I care about is that you and a lot of innocent people come out alive at the end of this.”

“So now you care about me?”

“I do.”

“Save your sentimental foreplay for a two-bit criminal on his first score, Blackwell. If the FBI could kill me without harming your precious hostages, you
’
d do it in a heartbeat. Have some respect and don
’
t tell me lies. If you
’
d walked in my shoes, you
’
d think twice before judging me.”

The Red Bull was kicking in now and Blackwell raised his voice. “What do you want from me, Seth? Sympathy? Respect? You want the damn truth? Then let
’
s start by explaining to us why you told me Nabulsi and Madi were innocent—they
’
re guilty as fuck and you know it.”

“Whoa. Easy does it, Mr. Blackwell. Did you ever ask yourself
who
said they
’
re guilty? The whores who run the Egyptian courts, or their CIA masters who pulled their strings? They
’
re innocent and I have no reason to lie.”

Blackwell tried to hide the anger seething inside of him. Seth had gotten under his skin with his self-righteousness and arrogance. And he was right too—Blackwell would strangle the life out of him with his bare hands if only he could. But right now from the negotiating room, he had to keep his emotions at bay. He was allowed to draw on complex negotiating tactics gleaned from years of experience, but the one thing he couldn
’
t submit to, was his natural instinct to hate the guy at the other end of the line. And show it.

Seth cut into his thoughts. “Tell me, Mr. Blackwell. What do you think is the first thing that goes through your mind when you hold your dead infant
’
s body in your hands?”

Now where did that come from?
“I
’
m listening.”

“You look at his tiny frame riddled with bullets or dismembered by shrapnel and realize his short life was all you
’
ll ever have with him. You
’
ll only talk about him in the past tense, never in the present, never in the future. Never feel his small hands covering your eyes when he tries to surprise you from behind. Or smell the innocence of childhood when he snuggles up to kiss you goodnight. His tiny voice has been silenced forever.”

Blackwell shivered from head to toe. He and Melanie had lost their first child. Shane they
’
d called him. Stillborn, strangled by the umbilical cord. He
’
d been working a case in Colorado when Melanie was rushed to hospital. Shane was in distress one week before his due date. He was born without a pulse and pronounced dead on the spot. Blackwell had just gotten into bed in a small hotel in Boulder when he
’
d gotten the call. It was Melanie. Shane was born, he
’
d thought. But he knew what had happened just by the tone of her voice, even before she uttered the devastating words.

Of course Blackwell knew the answer to Seth
’
s question. When you lose a child, for whatever reason, something inside you is extinguished. Permanently. After they
’
d buried Shane, everyone around them was supportive, but no one could possibly understand what they felt inside. No one could comprehend how they could be attached to a baby who had never lived, never took a breath, and never let out a cry from its lungs. In time the stabbing pain subsided, and they went on to have Milo and Calista. But the emptiness carved inside their hearts by Shane
’
s loss would never again be replenished.

“You feel dead inside, that
’
s what you feel.”

Seth didn
’
t respond immediately, as if he hadn
’
t expected Blackwell
’
s answer to ring so true. For a few short seconds they shared a silence more akin to a conversation between two equals, rather than a negotiation between a criminal and a hostage negotiator.

“Mothers and fathers across the Middle East lose their children every single day to conflicts they never bargained for, or to make someone else fatter and richer.”

Blackwell realized he wasn
’
t speaking to a lowly foot soldier in a terrorist cell. This level of inflammatory discourse was typical of the ideological training curriculum the leaders of these groups use to brainwash fresh jihadists. He
’
d heard it all before, and it hadn
’
t changed.
But if Seth is high up in his group, why would he lead an attack and risk dying?
It didn
’
t make sense they
’
d send in a CEO to free two insignificant “janitors” in the organization like Nabulsi and Madi. They
’
d left them to rot in the first place, according to Slant
’
s theory of the orgy of evidence against the two Jordanians.

Something about the tone of his voice, though, told Blackwell this was personal for Seth. Did he lose a child in a US military attack in one of its many wars in the region? And how was that connected to Nabulsi and Madi who were obviously important to him?

“Your country disregards the sanctity of human life like it was a national sport. A few hundred American live
s—
children or not
—
is trivial considering how our women and children are massacred every day in cold blood. So if people have to die today, let
’
s call it what it is, Mr. Blackwell—collateral damage. Let
’
s call it even.”

Blackwell had accepted early in his career that even the though world was neither a fair nor perfect place, he would nevertheless adhere to his own moral compass while he did his job. His role was to apprehend criminals, protect the national interest, and as a negotiator, minimize the loss of life. And just like he wasn
’
t in a position to justify the abhorrent actions of the criminals he was fighting, he didn
’
t have the luxury to judge the covert activities of his own government.

“Mr. Blackwell?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know what a division bell is?”

Blackwell had no idea, but Seth didn
’
t wait for an answer.

“It
’
s used near the British Parliament to indicate a division is occurring. When it rings, the MPs know they only have eight minutes to get to their lobbies to vote for or against a resolution. Only those who make it inside before the entrances are bolted can vote.”

“And the point being?”

Seth didn
’
t answer directly and continued. “One simple bell that has conditioned grown men to behave like well-trained dogs. Then, when they vote, they instinctively toe the party line without questioning their decision on its merits or consulting their conscience. They just do what
’
s expected of them. That
’
s how wars start and innocent blood is spilled.”

Blackwell was at a loss as to where Seth could be taking this.

“I ask you this, Mr. Blackwell: Do you have the moral strength to ignore the division bells that separate us and to
think
for yourself? Judge me truly on my actions, rather than who you think
I am? Or are you just another well-trained federal dog?”

“I only judge you on your actions, Seth.”

“Good. Then it would only be fair for me to judge you back on
your
actions, wouldn
’
t you say?”

Blackwell remembered Voss and the missing hostage rescue operators. His breathing sped up and his heart pounded faster.

“Yes.”

“I am curious, Mr. Blackwell. What exactly did I do to suggest I came here half-prepared for this mission? Just some dumb-fuck rag-head who would stumble halfway.”

“We
’
re not underestimating your threats, Seth.” His insides were quivering now at the imminence of the worst possible scenario showing its ugly head.

“Then I take it leaving behind those four SWAT operators we found was not the FBI
’
s idea? Whose was it? NYPD? Homeland?”

Blackwell was silent. He tried to articulate something but a thick blob of nerves in his throat blocked him. He darted a gaze at Monica, regretting their decision to leave Voss and his men up there. Vulnerable, with no cover.

“Your silence says it all. My request was simple enough, but the FBI chose
to ignore me. Whatever happens in the next few minutes is something you
’
ll all be held accountable for—I want you to remember that.”

Blackwell heard a door opening and shutting in the background. Seth was moving from one room to another. The other agents behind Blackwell got up from their seats and huddled around him, generating enough hot electricity for Blackwell to feel on his skin.