Authors: Christopher Reich
It was then that he felt the icy breeze skirt his ankles and send an ache through his bad leg. He turned to find a trim, dark man standing ten feet away. The man wore a pea coat and a longshoreman’s cap, and he held a very large, very sharp carpet cutter in one hand.
“Hey, Frankie.”
A picture of Jim Malloy and his wife flashed through Connor’s mind. Fear gripped him. Still, he reacted as taught. Reaching into his pocket, he drew the compact Ruger .380 and unlocked the safety with a flick of his thumb. He raised the pistol and took aim. But suddenly his eyes wouldn’t focus. His arm began to waver as the pain in his chest worsened. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but his hand would not obey.
And then it was too late. The man was on him, knocking his arm away, flinging the pistol to the ground.
“Just you and me here, Frankie,” he said, his face inches away. “Time for a little fun.”
The intruder grabbed Connor’s arm and drew it toward him, ripping back the shirtsleeve. “Soft as a baby’s belly. We’re not going to have any problem at all.”
Connor tried to talk, but his breath wouldn’t come. His entire body felt as if it were being crushed inside a vise.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” said the intruder.
Connor watched the blade touch his wrist.
There was a sound like someone spitting and something tore into Connor’s shoulder and the man stopped what he was doing. His eyes widened, and he said, “What the …?” Connor looked down and saw that his own shoulder was bleeding, and he knew that somehow he had been shot. And then blood streamed from the man’s mouth and he fell to the floor and didn’t move.
Emma Ransom stood at the top of the hidden stairwell, a silenced pistol in her extended hand.
“Hello, Frank. How long have I been telling you to put a proper lock on that shed?”
“I didn’t betray you,” said Connor
.
“I know that now,” said Emma, hurrying forward and kneeling at his side. “Sit down. Take a deep breath.”
Connor collapsed into a chair. “How did you find out?”
“I’ve been a busy girl. All those dirty tricks you taught me came in handy.”
“What the hell’s going on? Did we get the bomb? Was Haq inside that goddamned hangar? Is Jonathan alive? They haven’t told me a thing.”
Emma opened his shirt and examined the wound. “Yes, Jonathan’s alive. He’s on a flight to New York right now.”
“What about the warhead and Haq?”
Her eyes rose to his for a second, no longer, then skipped back to his shoulder. “I’m sorry about this, Frank. I didn’t have any subsonic rounds. Usually I would have gone for a head shot, but I couldn’t afford a miss. One of the rounds went right through the bastard.” Emma pulled a wallet from the corpse’s back pocket. “Jacob Taylor,” she said, reading from his driver’s license. “Know him?”
Connor said that he didn’t, but he knew who had sent him.
Emma found the killer’s phone and scrolled through the numbers. “You’re right,” she said. “Goes to show you never can trust lawyers.”
She texted a short message and sent it.
“What did you do?” Connor asked.
“I told the bitch you were dead. Now stay put.” Rising, she went to the bathroom and came back with hand towels. She folded one
neatly and pressed it against the bullet wound. “You shouldn’t have used Jonathan.”
“He was the best choice.”
“Even so.”
“He did a good job.”
“He always does.”
Connor tried to sit up, but a wave of pain overwhelmed him. “Why are you here?”
Emma sat back and stared at him. Her cheeks were still wind-kissed from her trek in the mountains, and her eyes shone as if lit from within by an eerie green light. “Insurance,” she said finally.
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“You think saving my life is your ticket back?”
Emma shook her head, smiling earnestly. “It’s not about work. We both know I’m not coming back. I saved your life because I like you.”
“I can fix things.”
“Not this time, you can’t. Besides, I want out. I have to stop while part of my soul is still alive.” She stood, handing Connor a clean towel to hold against his shoulder. “You need to get to a hospital. I don’t know where that bullet went, and I think you’ve had a wee bit of a heart attack.”
Connor worked it all through in his mind, and a new and terrible knowledge imprinted itself on his features. If Emma was here, it could be for only one reason. “Haq,” he said. “God, no—you won’t let him do it. You’ll stop him?”
Emma leaned down and kissed Connor on the cheek. “I’ll always be your girl, Frank.”
“Yeah,” said Connor. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Emma headed to the concealed stairwell. “You’ll give me a few minutes?”
Connor nodded. He wanted to say “Good luck” or “Godspeed” or even just “Thanks,” but he knew that something had changed. Emma was no longer a prize to be fought over, an asset coveted by every side.
She had broken too many rules to go back. She knew that, and her actions said she no longer gave a damn. She had turned her back on all of it. From here on out, Emma Ransom was on her own.
A rogue.
And this, Connor realized with a chill, made her more dangerous than ever before.
The information passed to the
air force attaché at the United States Embassy in Jerusalem originated from a small but respected department within Mossad. An agent had knowledge that a certain wanted terrorist, currently the target of a top secret operation run out of the U.S. Department of Defense, had boarded an aircraft in Islamabad belonging to the United States Army Materiel Command inbound to Ramstein AFB, Germany. Tail number N14997. Said terrorist was reported to be in possession of a small-yield nuclear warhead. The information was graded high: actionable.
From Jerusalem, the information was forwarded to the commander of United States Air Forces in Europe, and then on to USAF intelligence at Headquarters Air Force, Washington, D.C., the Central Intelligence Agency, the Office of Nuclear Energy of the U.S. Department of Energy, and the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna. Four hours elapsed before the information reached the hands of the commander of Ramstein AFB, Germany. By then it was almost too late.
Ten vehicles swarmed the C-141 Starlifter as it began its takeoff at the head of runway 29. The condor-winged aircraft braked violently, smoke billowing from its tires. Military police hit the ground with weapons raised, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. A mobile staircase was pushed against the fuselage. The forward door opened, and the police rushed inside.
All this Sultan Haq watched with tense detachment from a separate aircraft parked a good distance across the tarmac. Sitting back in the plush seats, he sipped from his glass of ice-cold Coca-Cola and swallowed another painkiller.
“How is your injury?” asked the handsome, elegantly dressed man seated across the cabin.
“I’ve had worse,” said Haq. “It will not affect me.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Prince Rashid. “I imagine there will be a delay until we are allowed to take off. Get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be an eventful day.”
Pakistan International Airlines Flight 333
outbound from Islamabad and Karachi to New York City cruised at an air speed of 590 knots at 39,000 feet over the snow-covered plains of central Europe. Arrival was foreseen at seven a.m. Eastern Standard Time, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, with weather in New York forecast to be in the mid-thirties with snow flurries.
Seated in row 22, Jonathan relaxed with a Dr Pepper. PIA was a Muslim airline and carried no alcohol on board.
“Where do you think he was going?” he asked Danni, his head lolling against the seat.
“Haq? It’s always New York City. They all want to top 9/11. Did he give you any clue as to his final target?”
“None.” Jonathan sipped his lukewarm soft drink. Not only was there no alcohol, but there was no ice either. “Who gets custody of him?”
“It’s your cruise missile he stole. I imagine he’s in the hands of the military right now. I hope they put him in a black hole and let him rot.”
“Amen,” said Jonathan, a little frightened by the depth of his conviction. “All my life I’ve tried to keep out of politics. My dad was a bean counter for the General Accounting Office—those are the guys who figure out how much money the boys in Washington are really spending—and he was always complaining about the government. But for all his arguing, he never did anything about it. He just bellyached. He used to say that you couldn’t do a darned thing to change Washington. I chose to study medicine for exactly that reason. I wanted to do something where I could make a difference. For a long
time it’s made me happy. Maybe it’s made me feel important, too. But now, working with you, with Connor, I feel differently. It’s like I was dodging my responsibility.” Jonathan frowned, contemplating the bullet the world had dodged. “It’s scary to think what one determined man can do.”
Danni nodded in agreement. “I don’t know Haq or his politics. I don’t blame him for hating the West, though. It’s his country. He wants you out. Just like the Palestinians want us out. After a while, you see both sides of the story.”
“But that’s no excuse for getting hold of a bomb,” Jonathan protested.
Danni smiled wryly. “My, but you’re sounding very political.”
“I’ve changed. Or maybe the world has.”
Jonathan looked toward the head of the aircraft and saw the captain advancing down the aisle. He walked purposefully, his eye on the row numbers, and stopped beside Jonathan.
“You are Ms. Pine?” he asked, kneeling and speaking in a low, confidential tone.
Danni returned her seat to the upright position. “Yes.”
“I’ve been asked to pass along a message to you.” The pilot looked at Jonathan, then back at her. “Would you prefer to accompany me to the rear of the aircraft?”
“No. You can talk freely.”
The pilot leaned closer. “The message is from a Colonel Yaz with my country’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence. He says to tell you first that he is a friend of Benny’s.”
Danni nodded, indicating that she understood.
“He said that there seems to have been a miscommunication. The party you wanted met in Germany was not on board the plane. Nor was his luggage. He asked if you had any idea where your friend might be heading, and if so, that you tell me, so I may forward it along.”
Jonathan looked at Danni as all his muscles tensed. “My God,” he said. “It can’t be.”
The Gulfstream G-V landed at
Westchester County Airport, thirty miles northeast of Manhattan, at six-thirty in the morning. There were no customs formalities to attend to. The pilot had killed his primary transponder shortly after takeoff. Nearing the tower, he’d turned an alternate on and identified himself as a private jet incoming from Boston, Massachusetts. The air traffic controller was curious about the sudden appearance on his radar, but not enough to cause a problem. He had a student pilot veering into commercial airspace to deal with. Permission to land was given without further questions.
Prince Rashid’s Maybach limousine waited on the tarmac. Sultan Haq slid into the backseat, clutching his black leather overnight case to his chest. Rashid sat next to him.
“The train is ready?” the prince asked his chauffeur.
“Yessir. At North White Plains Station.”
The Maybach drove five miles to the North White Plains Station, a sprawling rail yard. Prince Rashid’s train sat on a remote siding, lost among strings of cars waiting for repair and service. The train numbered four cars: a locomotive followed by storage car, galley, and the passenger car. The cars appeared like any others, silver with blue-and-red striping running below the roof. On closer examination, the words “HRH Prince Rashid al-Zayed” could be seen in ornate gold script written in the blue striping.
A steward ushered the men inside. The interior did not look like any other passenger car. In place of torn leatherette seats and sticky linoleum floors were plush couches, sleek chairs, coffee tables, and wool carpeting. Haq sat in an overstuffed recliner, the leather bag in
his lap. Two beefy, well-dressed men stood at the opposite end of the car: Rashid’s praetorian guard.
The train began to move, and the steward brought a platter of steaming eggs, croissants, jams, and fruit. Rashid poured two flutes of orange juice.
“To us,” he said, toasting. “We shall be more famous than Muhammad.”
Sultan Haq raised the glass.
No drink had ever tasted sweeter.
Jonathan stepped off the aircraft
and walked briskly up the skyway into the terminal at JFK International Airport in New York City. He was happy to be back on solid ground. The remaining hours of the flight had passed with maddening slowness. He’d had too much time to question what steps he might take to find Sultan Haq and precious little success in coming up with the answers. The fact was, there was little he could do. He was traveling on a false passport. He was wanted for questioning by U.S. intelligence. He could hardly approach the first policeman and say, “Hello, I’m an operative working for Division and I believe that someone is trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into the United States.” Without Frank Connor to vouch for him, he could count on his warnings being met with arrest and incarceration.
Danni walked beside him. She had her cell phone out and was checking her voicemail. She pulled at his elbow and mouthed for him to wait while she listened to a message. Immediately her eyes narrowed and her shoulders tightened. “Here,” she said after what seemed like a while. “It’s Frank.”
“Connor? What did he say?”
“Listen for yourself.”
Jonathan raised the phone to his ear. “Hello, Danni. You know who this is.” Connor’s voice sounded thin, unsteady. It was obvious the man was in pain. “Haq got away. He’s here in the States, or will be soon. My guess is his target is on the eastern seaboard, probably Washington or New York. Prince Rashid is helping him. I don’t know how or why or anything else, just that Haq is on his way. I talked to Benny. He’s setting something up. That’s all I know for now. I’ve got some
issues of my own. Oh, and be careful, both of you. Emma’s here, and she’s after Haq, too.”