“Chlorine gas, Jack.”
Forty minutes later, wet and exhausted, they reached their car and headed back down Terminal Avenue. In the rearview mirror they could see clusters of flashing red and blue lights from one end of the terminal to the other. Knowing their presence would create more problems than it would solve, they’d gone over Losan’s side, stroked to shore a few hundred yards away, then picked their way back through the terminal, dodging fire trucks and cop cars until they reached the tank farm.
Clark got back on the 664 and headed northeast into Newport News, where they found an all-night diner. Jack dialed The Campus. Hendley answered. “This shit in Newport News ... That you?”
“It’s already on the news?”
“Every channel. What happened?”
Jack recounted the events, then asked, “How bad is it?”
“Could be worse. So far, only thirty or so terminal workers at the hospital. No deaths. What were they, what kind of tanks?”
“Propane, I think, about fifty of them. They only got off half a dozen pipe bombs, but we’re betting they had a lot more in their backpacks.”
“They’re both dead?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to head to the airport. We’ve got you booked on a three-thirty back here.”
“What’s going on?”
“We got word from Chavez and Caruso: They got Hadi, and he’s talking.”
84
HENDLEY AND GRANGER were waiting with a Suburban when they touched down at Dulles. “Where’re we heading?” Clark asked.
“Andrews. Gulfstream waiting,” Hendley replied. “We’ve got gear and clothes already aboard. First things first: the ship—Losan. You were right, Jack. The Salims had two dozen pipe bombs. On the manifest there were forty-six propane tanks listed, all defective and empty, and heading back from Senegal to the manufacturer, Tarquay Industries out of Smithfield.”
“Well, we know they weren’t empty,” Clark said.
“Right. They won’t be sure for a couple days, but the Hazmat teams out there are guessing there was a couple hundred gallons of ammonia or sodium hypochlorite in each tank.”
“Bleach,” Jack said.
“Yeah, looks like. Common everyday bleach. Mix them together and you get chlorine gas. You do the math and we’re talking about at least thirty-five tons of chlorine gas precursors. As it stands, only a couple hundred gallons got mixed. They’ve got it contained.”
“Holy shit,” Jack said. “Thirty-five tons. What kind of damage could that have done?”
Granger answered. “Depends a lot on wind, humidity, and temperature, but we could have been looking at thousands of dead. Thousands more with skin and mucosa burns, pulmonary edema, blindness ... It’s ugly shit.”
Hendley said, “Next piece of business. Chavez and Caruso grabbed Hadi.”
“What about the others in his group?” Clark asked.
“Dead in the Rocinha. That might have had something to do with it, but once Hadi started talking, he didn’t stop for a while.”
“We’ve got him?”
“No, they bundled him up like a Thanksgiving turkey and dropped him at a police station with a note attached. He’ll never see the outside of a Brazilian prison.”
“We were mostly right about Hadi. He was a longtime URC courier, and got tapped for the Paulinia operation at the last minute. His last courier job—Chicago to Vegas to San Francisco—he stopped on the way to visit an old friend.”
Hendley’s expression answered their next question before either Clark or Jack could ask it. “You’re shitting us?”
“No. The Emir came in on a Dassault Falcon from Sweden about a month ago. He’s been living outside Vegas ever since.”
“And Hadi knew where—”
“Yeah.”
“It’s bullshit,” Jack said. “He came here for a reason. The Paulinia thing, the Losan ... Ding is right. Shoes are starting to drop.”
“Agreed,” Granger said. “That’s why you’re going to go snatch him up. Chavez and Caruso are already in the air. They’ll touch down about an hour after you.”
“So we grab him and drop him on the FBI’s doorstep?” Clark said.
“Not right away, and not until we’ve had a chance to wring him out.”
“That could take some time.”
“We’ll see.”
This Hendley said with a smile that Jack could describe only as slightly evil.
At Andrews, the Gulfstream was prepped and ready, the door open and stairs extended for them. Jack and Clark collected their gear from the back of the Suburban, shook hands with Hendley and Granger, then boarded the plane. The copilot met them at the door. “Sit wherever you want.” He pulled up the stairs, swung the door shut, and locked it down. “We’re taxiing in five, wheels up in ten. Help yourself to the fridge and minibar.”
Jack and Clark made their way to the rear of the cabin. Sitting in the last row was a familiar face: Dr. Rich Pasternak.
“Gerry didn’t tell me much,” Pasternak said. “Please tell me I’m flying across the country in the dead of night for a good goddamned reason.”
Clark smiled. “Nothing’s written in stone, Doc, but I think it’ll be worth your time.”
With the four-time-zone difference and a four-hour-and-twenty-minute flight, they technically landed at North Las Vegas airport only twenty minutes after leaving Andrews. It was a phenomenon Jack understood, of course, but thinking too much about the surreal flexibility of the temporal world could give a man headaches.
Between catnaps he and Clark had dissected the Losan mission, talked baseball, and rummaged through the fridge and minibar. For his part, Pasternak sat in his seat, occasionally dozing but mostly staring into space. A lot on the doctor’s mind, Jack knew. The man had lost a brother on that ugly September morning, and now here he was eight years later, flying across the country to perhaps meet the man who’d planned it all. But then, “meet” wasn’t quite the right word, was it? What Pasternak had in store for the Emir was something Jack wouldn’t wish on anyone. Almost anyone.
The plane came to a stop, and the engines spooled down. Jack, Clark, and Pasternak collected their personal belongings and headed for the door. The copilot came out of the cockpit, opened the door, and unfurled the stairs. “Doctor, you want us to send your gear along to ground transportation?”
“No, we’ll wait for it.”
On the tarmac, Clark asked Pasternak, “What gear?”
“Tools of the trade, Mr. Clark.”
Pasternak said it without a hint of a smile.
Ashuttle bus dropped them at ground transportation, and ten minutes later they were in a Ford minivan heading south on Rancho Drive. They pulled into McCarran’s short-term parking and found a spot. Jack dialed Dominic’s cell; he answered on the second ring. Jack said, “You’re down?”
“Five minutes ago. Where you at?”
“We’ll pull up to arrivals.”
Chavez and Dominic threw their bags into the cargo area and climbed in. There were greetings all around. Chavez said, “Damn, John, never thought I’d see you behind the wheel of a soccer-mom mobile.”
“Smart-ass.”
Clark pulled out and headed for the highway.
It took only fifteen minutes, but soon enough they were entering the upmarket development. Following Chavez’s directions, Clark drove by the house without pausing, then turned the corner and headed back to the subdivision’s entrance. At the stop sign, he put the van in park and shut off his headlights.
“We got about two hours before sunrise and no intel on what’s inside, right, Ding?”
“Hadi saw the garage, the kitchen, and the living room. That was it.”
“Alarm systems?”
“He didn’t remember seeing any keypads. He knows for sure the Emir has one bodyguard, a guy named Tariq. Regular-looking guy, medium height, brown hair, but his hands are all burned. Hadi didn’t know anything about that.”
“So two ins
ide for sure,” Clark said. “It’s probably been a while since the Emir did any soldiering, but assume they’re both badasses. Questions?”
There were none.
“We’ll go quiet in the side garage door, then into the kitchen. Two teams. Anybody see any need to mix things up?”
Chavez said, “Nope.”
Jack noticed Dominic drop his head slightly and look out the side window. Clark asked, “Dom?”
“We did okay together. I kinda fucked up a bit, but we got it straightened out, right?”
Ding nodded. “Good to go.”
“Okay,” Clark said. “Two teams, standard house clearing. We need all the live bodies we can get our hands on, but the Emir’s our primary target. It’d be best if we don’t fire a shot. A neighborhood like this and we’d have cops in five minutes. Doc, I’m going to ask you to stay here and man the fort. We’ll call you when we’re done. If there’s room in the garage, pull right in. If not, in the driveway.”
They parked the van at the end of the block and walked the remaining distance. The sky was clear, with a full moon; the air was cold, the kind of cold only a nighttime desert can produce.
Clark took the lead, walking up the driveway, through the side gate to the side door. The lock was a turn-knob, so he had it picked and open in forty seconds. They filed into the garage. Dominic, bringing up the rear, eased the door shut. The garage was empty. No car. They stood still for a full minute, listening and letting their eyes adjust to the relative darkness.
Clark walked to the kitchen door and tried the knob. He looked back at the others and nodded. Each of them drew his gun. Clark turned the knob, paused, listened, then swung the door open. He stood still on the threshold for twenty seconds and examined the doorjamb, listening for the telltale beeping of an alarm panel. The house was quiet. The kitchen and nook were to the right; to the left, through an arch, a living room.
Clark stepped through and to the right, followed by Jack, then Dominic and Chavez, then moved left up to the arch. At Clark’s nod they started moving through the house. On the other side of the kitchen was an open doorway, and beyond that a hall. Clark peeked around the corner. Ten feet to his left, Ding’s head appeared around another corner. The hall stretched to Clark’s right. Three doors, one on each side and one at the end of the hall. Clark gestured for Ding and Dominic to take the left-hand door. As they came up, Clark and Jack slid up to the right-hand door. Both teams went in at the same time and came out ten seconds later. Both were guest bedrooms, and both were empty.
They stacked up at the door at the end: Clark, Jack, Chavez, and Caruso. Clark gestured: Two by two, right and left. Everyone nodded. Clark tried the knob, then turned and nodded. They pushed through the door, stepping right and left, guns tracking. Clark held up his fist—hold—then pointed at the lump under the covers on the bed. He then pointed at Chavez, then the closet. Ding checked it, shook his head.
Clark padded up to the bed. Jack and Dominic took the end, and Ding the other side. All four trained their guns on the figure under the covers. Clark holstered his gun, then clicked on his LED penlight, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and jerked it back.
“Shit,” he said.
85
KERSEN KASEKE left his house at four a.m., drove two blocks to an all-night gas station, and bought a large cup of coffee. On whether coffee was in fact haraam—forbidden to Muslims—Kaseke had yet to find a definitive answer; until that time, he would allow himself the indulgence. It was his only, after all. He neither smoked nor drank nor let his eyes linger too long on the relative nakedness of the women here.
He got back into his car and drove to Open Heart Congregational Church. The streets of the city, rarely crowded anyway, were especially quiet. It had been raining since mid-afternoon, and now the only people moving about were those who had no choice in the matter: early-morning workers, delivery drivers, police ... Of the latter he saw no cars, a sign, he believed, that Allah was with him.
He circled the church once, then parked a couple of blocks north of the church in a video-store parking lot, then hefted his backpack over one shoulder and got out. Out of habit, he did not walk directly to the church but took a circuitous route. Finally satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Kaseke cut across the church’s front lawn to the hedges bordering the entrance steps, where he knelt down.
From his pack he withdrew the first mine. Officially known as the M18A1 and colloquially as a “Claymore,” it was designed for use as an antipersonnel/area denial weapon. Shaped like a convex rectangle, the Claymore’s guts were uncomplicated: a layer of C4 plastic explosive supporting a layer of seven hundred steel ball bearings, each the size of #4 buckshot, embedded in a layer of resin. Upon detonation, the C4 sprays the seven hundred fragments outward at four thousand feet per second. As instructed and as trained, Kaseke had the previous night removed the Claymore’s outer casing and carefully sprinkled six ounces of rat-poison pellets amid the ball bearings. The poison’s active ingredient, Difethialone, an anticoagulant, would with luck keep even the smallest of wounds from clotting. It was a tactic his Palestinian brothers had used to great effect in both the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. It hadn’t taken Israeli first responders long to catch on, but during that all-too-short grace period, many dozens had died, bleeding to death from what would have otherwise been minor lacerations. Having never seen such attacks before, paramedics here would face the same horror and confusion.
Once satisfied the pellets were evenly distributed, Kaseke sealed the poison in place with a thin layer of candle wax, let it harden, then reassembled the Claymore’s outer shell. The manual had recommended tissue paper coated in a sheer layer of spray-on fabric adhesive, but the wax would work just as well, he knew. Next he checked each screw in turn, then the gapping, to ensure the shells were properly fitted. The manual had been explicit about that, too: If the outer casings were misaligned, the explosive force may be diverted. This instruction he followed to the letter.
Now Kaseke extended the mine’s scissor legs. He then made sure the label—front toward enemy—was pointing toward the entrance of that church that would in a few hours be bustling with activity, then jammed the legs into the soft earth inside the hedges. He got down on his belly, crawled through the hedges, then turned around and peered through the open sight affixed to the top of the mine.
Good. He’d chosen the perfect location. The blast would encompass not only the entrance and the steps but part of the sidewalk as well.
He checked the mine’s clock against his own watch. They were synchronized. He set the countdown timer, pressed start, and watched a few seconds tick off before getting up and walking away.
As was their custom on weekends, Hank Alvey woke up early on Sunday morning and quietly got their three kids out of bed, fed them oatmeal and blueberry waffles, then got them settled in front of the TV—the volume turned way down—for cartoons. The previous night’s rain clouds had moved on, leaving behind bright blue skies. Sunlight streamed through the living room windows and across the hardwood floors on which the kids now sat, entranced by the TV.
Shortly before seven, he made Katie her sourdough toast and coffee, and woke her up with breakfast in bed. The tire shop he managed was closed on Sunday, so this was the only day he could relieve his wife of what would otherwise be a seven-day-a-week job. Taking care of the kids so she could sleep in an hour was, she frequently assured him, so romantic, and so sexy—and on most Sunday nights after the kids went to bed, she showed him exactly how much she appreciated the gesture.
But that was for later, Hank reminded himself, pouring the coffee, which went on the tray next to the freshly buttered bread. Most mornings he was able to almost reach their bed before Katie rolled over and gave him a sleepy smile. This she did now.
“What’s for breakfast?” she asked, smiling.
“Take a guess.”
“Ah, my favorite.” She sat up and shoved pillows behind her back. “What’d you do with the kids, lock them in the c
loset?”
“They’re watching Yo Gabba Gabba! I think Jeremy’s got a crush on Foofa.”
Katie took a bite of toast. “Which one’s that?”
“The pink flower bubble thing.”
“Right. Are we going to church?”
“We’d better. We missed the last two Sundays. We can hit the nine o’clock, then take the kids to the park afterward.”
“Okay, I’ll make myself pretty.”
“Done,” Hank said, and headed for the door. “I’m going to let them out of the closet now.”
Katie was down the stairs, dressed, her hair and makeup done, even before Hank was ready for shoes. Their oldest, Josh, could tie his own, but not so with Amanda and Jeremy, so Hank took one and Katie took the other, and then they were up and moving, looking for their coats and car keys, making sure the back door was locked....
“We’re going to be late,” Katie called.
Hank checked his watch. “Not quite a quarter till. We’ll be there in five minutes. Okay, kids, let’s get a move on. ...”
Then they were out the door.
Half a block north and west of the church, Kaseke was sitting on a bus bench, sipping his third cup of coffee of the day. From this angle he had a perfect vantage point of the front steps. There. The front doors opened, and people began emerging. Kaseke checked his watch: 8:48. Now from the path leading around the church to the rear parking lot came a line of nine a.m. worshippers. Leading the group was a young couple with three children, two boys and a girl, all three holding hands as they skipped ahead of their parents. Kaseke squeezed his eyes shut and asked Allah for strength. This was necessary. And the children, small as they were, would be killed instantly, so quickly that the pain wouldn’t have time to register in their minds.