THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (35 page)

Decker and Warhaftig thanked the owners of the jukebox dealership and dashed outside. A meter maid was standing in front of Warhaftig’s black Discovery. She was writing out a ticket. Warhaftig stripped it from her hand, tore it up, and leapt into the driver’s seat. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said as he gunned the engine. With almost exuberant joy, he shot down Broadway and skidded left on Tenth. Decker reached down for the cherry. He clipped it to the roof and a moment later the siren began to wail. Cars moved lethargically aside. Warhaftig cursed. “Move out of the fucking way,” he screamed, at one point climbing the curb. Then they were on the West Side Highway, charging downtown toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

It took them over twenty agonizing minutes to make it into Brooklyn. But the traffic eased as soon as they crossed the bridge, and in another ten they were entering the shipyards. Decker could hear the cry of other sirens. A pair of blue-and-whites was already on the scene. They pulled up beside a rather nondescript brick warehouse – the office of the shipping line. Decker looked through the open doors of the warehouse and noticed Johnson and Kazinski running down the waterfront on the other side of the building. Williams and a host of uniformed policemen trailed them. A moment later, they had disappeared around the corner.

Decker and Warhaftig gave chase. They ran through the warehouse toward the river, then left along the waterfront. Williams and the policemen were disappearing into another warehouse down the dock. Decker and Warhaftig followed. As they neared the warehouse, an armored vehicle appeared just up the dock. It was the New York City Police Department’s Bomb Squad. The car was followed by a dark gray van with tinted windows. NRC, most probably, thought Decker. Experts from the Office of Nuclear Security and Incident Response.

Decker and Warhaftig flashed their badges at a policeman by the warehouse armed with an M-16. He waved them through the entrance. The warehouse was crawling with police. Johnson was standing by a large metal container. The container was open. A large black man dressed in jeans and an orange goose-down parka was standing by the SAC. He was pointing at something inside.

Decker sprinted past a forklift, through the revolving crowd, and stopped just short of the cavernous entrance to the container. It was already half empty. Wooden crates were stacked up in the back, but the whole front end had been unloaded.

“It was here,” said the large black man. He had the thick accent of the African.

For the first time, Johnson noticed Decker and Warhaftig. He nodded curtly at them and replied, “Just where exactly?”

“Right there,” said the African, pointing at the bare container wall. “I tell you, that Ali Hammel was a crafty one. He told me he was smuggling opium, that he would offer me the hoof if I cooperated.”

“Yeah, yeah, you said that,” Johnson moaned. “The hoof.” He began to stare at something over Decker’s shoulder. “Not now,” he added with frustration.

Decker followed his gaze. A pair of men dressed in white body suits with helmets approached the container carrying some kind of metal instruments. They looked like astronauts in their insulated gear. He couldn’t even see their eyes through the reflective glass.

Johnson took the African by the arm. “Thank you, Mr. Marong. You’ve been very helpful.” He began to usher him away. “Special Agent Warhaftig here will take down your particulars. I’m sure the Mayor’s Office will want to contact you. I hear there’s a sizeable reward, assuming we recover all the drugs.”

The African perked up. Warhaftig snagged him by the elbow and began to lead him toward the warehouse door. “I knew he was a bad man from the very start,” Momodou continued. “You could tell. You could just feel it.”

The African hadn’t even made it to the door when the men in the insulated body suits began to sweep the walls and floor of the container. Their instruments began to chirp, to click and stutter, and Decker knew immediately that they were carrying Geiger counters. One of the men began to nod. “It’s hot,” his helmet crackled. His voice sounded metallic, as if he were a robot, or some alien creature from another world. The entire landscape seemed surreal to Decker, as though he were on some movie set instead of at the Brooklyn docks, and he began to move away, backing up at first, and then turned to follow Warhaftig. The African was staring back at the container. He was following the actions of the two men wearing body suits.

“What are they doing?” he asked Decker.

“Checking for drugs,” Warhaftig said. He pushed the African out the door.

Decker swept in from behind. The dock was crowded now with other agents and policemen. It was a sea of blue. He looked up beyond the lilting freighters. Despite the clouds, the New York skyline shimmered in the distance, just across the Hudson River. The buildings glimmered as if glazed with ice. To the north, he saw the Empire State Building. It rose above the rest, a marvelous apparition, iconic and yet real, a symbol of the pulsing hearts of millions of New Yorkers. Decker turned away and wondered, even as he drowned the thought, if this would be the last time he would see it.

Wednesday, February 2 – 12:14 PM

As soon as Warhaftig had unburdened himself of the Gambian, he and Decker headed back across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. Traffic had eased slightly by this time. They were more than halfway across the bridge when Decker’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He plucked it out. It was Hassan. The Professor started to say something but the signal kept breaking up, and Decker had a hard time hearing him. He was obviously excited.

“I thought you said we shouldn’t use the phone,” said Decker. “It’s not secure. What? What did you say?” He could barely make him out when, suddenly, the signal cleared.

“Forget about that. There’s no time,” Hassan said. “I’ve identified the quote from the fourth wallpaper. It’s from
Al-Rahman
. It says, ‘He has put the two oceans in motion; they will meet. Just now there is a barrier between them; they cannot encourage one upon the other. Pearls and coral are taken out of both. His are the vessels with lofty sails raised high on the ocean like mountains. All that is on the earth will perish and only that will survive which is under the care of the Lord, Master of Glory and Honor . . . You will be afflicted with smokeless fire, and with smoke without flame, and you will not be able to help yourselves. When the heaven is rent asunder, and assumes a rosy hue like red leather . . . When the earth is shaken violently, and the mountains are crumbled into dust and become like motes floating in the air.’”

Decker felt cold fingers grab his balls. He looked up at the Empire State Building. The top was still hidden by clouds. “What do you think it means, Jusef?” he asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

Hassan said, “It’s another prophecy, like the one from
Al-Takwir
, the first wallpaper you showed me. And just like in that Sura, some people say the ‘vessels with lofty sails raised high’ refer to future means of transportation, and the ‘oceans meeting’ to canals. You know: the Suez and the Panama. That sort of thing. The darker passages refer to Armageddon, the Qur’anic equivalent of the Apocrypha. The
Kahf
Sura describes it thus: ‘When that day comes We shall let some of them surge against the others like waves of the ocean, and the trumpet will be blown, and We shall gather them all together. On that day We shall present hell, face to face, to the disbelievers whose eyes were veiled against My Reminder.’ There’s a similar reference in the
Ta Ha
. ‘On that day We shall gather the sinful ones together, blue-eyed. They will commiserate with each other in low tones.’ That’s it. John? John, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” said Decker. “Look, I’ll have to call you later. And Jusef?”

“What?”

“If I were you, I’d grab your wife and kids and take a trip somewhere. Today. Somewhere out west. Just in case.” He hung up and swiveled toward Warhaftig. “It’s not here,” he said. “Pull over.”

Warhaftig looked horrified. “Excuse me?”

“I said pull over, dammit!”

They had just descended the ramp into Manhattan. Warhaftig swung over to the side of the road and parked. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Decker informed him what Hassan had told him.

“I don’t get it,” said Warhaftig

“What do you mean, you don’t get it?
The earth will shake and the mountains will crumble into dust, and become like motes floating in the air
. . .
The heavens will assume a rosy hue
. That’s the bomb and subsequent eruption, the volcanic ash.
Lofty sails on the ocean like mountains
. The mega-tsunami.
All will perish
. . .
And the two oceans will meet
. What do you think will happen when that mega-tsunami hits the Panama Canal? Those dykes and locks won’t mean a thing. The Atlantic and Pacific will unite.”

“The airport! Are you nuts? You saw what happened at the dock. That jukebox is here, somewhere in the city, probably on its way to the ESB as we speak. And it’s radioactive.”

“I don’t care,” Decker said. “I’m telling you. It’s just another ruse. Just like those bombs in Israel. It’s El Aqrab’s way of throwing us off the scent. I know it now. I’m sure.”

“Just because of that quote?” said Warhaftig “It could mean anything. Those ‘lofty sails’ could be Manhattan skyscrapers, for all you know. And if the bomb is here, like everyone believes – everyone except you, that is – won’t the collapse of all these buildings,” he said, pointing at the city, “won’t the explosion itself cause a tsunami?”

They continued to argue when Decker’s phone began to vibrate once again. It was Jerry Johnson. The SAC was sheepish but admitted that the
Rêve de Chantal
had passed through the Canary Islands.

“That’s where Hammel picked up the jukebox,” Johnson said. “Only three ships were docked in Arrecife at the same time: one, en route from New York to Lisbon; the
Rêve de Chantal
, from Marseilles to New York; and one from Algiers, the
El Affroun
, en route through the Canary and Cape Verde Islands, and eventually on to Rio in Brazil. The third mule – Hammel – was Algerian. He had himself transferred to the Liberian ship in Arrecife following an injury. We’re trying to pick up the Algerian captain now, but we feel confident that Arrecife is where the switch was made. You were right to call out the cavalry, Decker. I guess I owe you an apology.”

“No you don’t,” said Decker with frustration. “I was wrong. This has all been another diversion. The bomb’s in La Palma. In the Canaries, sir. I know it. I deciphered the last wallpaper. I know what it means. It’s another quote from the Qur’an. ‘He has put the two oceans in motion. They shall meet–’”

“Not that again,” said Johnson, interrupting him. “Jesus, you’re never satisfied. Look, I want you and Warhaftig back at the Empire State Building immediately, is that understood? That container you identified was hot. The NRC confirmed it. The signature was HEU, do you hear me? It was HEU, identical to the material stolen in Kazakhstan. Decker, can you hear me? Answer me, for Christ’s sake.”

Decker tapped the cell phone with his fingers. “Hello,” he said. “Hello? You’re breaking up, sir. The signal. Hello?” Then he hung up. Decker turned and looked at Warhaftig. He was shaking his head.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, John. Disobeying a direct order from the SAC . . . ”

“What order? I didn’t hear any order. The signal dropped.”

Warhaftig smiled. He unclipped his seatbelt and got out of the car. Then he leaned back through the open door and said, “You’re taking an awfully big risk, John, just on a hunch. There were three mules. Johnson’s right. And two were neutralized. That leaves Hammel.”

Decker slid into the driver’s seat. “That’s not the way I figure it. Three mules, perhaps. But El Aqrab himself makes four. Look, you guys can handle this,” he said. “If I’m wrong, my absence won’t be missed. But if I’m right . . . ” He paused and slipped the Land Rover into gear.

Warhaftig frowned. “Be gentle with my car,” he said. Then he patted Decker on the back and said, “I hope your hunch pays off, John. Or don’t bother coming home.”

As soon as he hit the FDR, Decker put in a call to Swenson. Her cell phone rang a good ten times before she finally picked up. “Hey, Emily,” he said. “How was your flight?” He tried to sound pacific, light. He tried to sound politely interested.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t go.”

“What! Why not? I thought I made it clear that–”

“I’ve booked myself on American Airlines flight 933 to Madrid via Miami, with a connecting flight to Santa Cruz. I’m going to the Canaries, Agent Decker. I’m going to find Dr. White. And don’t try and stop me.”

“I can just make it,” he said, glancing at his watch. He had about an hour and a half. “Buy a ticket for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

As he hung up, Decker noticed a traffic jam coalescing up ahead. One car was actually backing up along the highway, trying to get off at the previous exit. Decker craned his neck out the window. It was an accident. He could see a clot of cars a few hundred yards ahead of him and to the left. It looked like someone had plowed into the center rail. The vehicle – a metallic green Volkswagen bug – was balanced on the rail, tipped over on its back like some gigantic insect. Decker cursed. He hit the breaks. As he hiccupped through the traffic, he couldn’t help rubbernecking at the twisted wreckage, the broken glass, at the rear doors of the ambulance. And suddenly he thought,
What if I’m wrong? What if I have become too close? What if Johnson is right and I’m letting my feelings for Emily cloud my judgment?