Jdey pondered the question, proud that someone of Akil’s status would ask for his opinion but embarrassed that he couldn’t respond.
Akil checked his watch. “The native tribes early in America couldn’t compete with their invaders because they lacked technological skills and abilities. And their culture died because of it. They couldn’t adapt and thus were conquered. The day will come when great numbers of Allah’s people will come to America. We are the new invaders, and we will learn and master technology. We will live among the infidels, we will conduct business with them, we will gain their trust, and then, if they still choose not to believe, we shall kill them wherever they are. It is written in our Holy book. Allah is great. He has designed our destiny.”
“Allah is great,” Jdey repeated.
“Take these,” Akil said, placing a key and a cell phone in Jdey’s hand. “My landlord lives next door. Don’t let her see your face. She’s harmless but nosey. If she bothers you, do what you have to without killing her. You must keep her alive.”
Akil reached in his pocket and fished out something the size of a pack of cards. It was tightly wrapped and addressed to Mrs. Timmons. “Place this in her mailbox. It’s a payment. In sixteen hours, if Allah is willing, another infidel plane will fall from the sky.”
“Sixteen hours,” Jdey confirmed.
“You’re a good man, and I trust you,” Akil said, squeezing Jdey’s hand. “Faiz Al-Aran mentioned that you have information about a cache of weapons?”
“Yes,” Jdey said excitedly, proud to have gained Akil’s confidence. “There is a man. His name is Denman. I work with his brother at Hunt’s. He is licensed in federal firearms and operates in a cabin behind his home less than a mile from here. He boasts of one weapon in particular that can burst concrete blocks at three hundred meters. I believe it is a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle complete with an optical ranging system that mounts right on the scope. It lets a shooter focus on the thrill of putting lead on a target. All you do is turn the elevation knob until the LCD displays the target’s range. Three internal sensors automatically calculate the ballistic solution. It compensates for temperature, changes in barometric pressure, even aiming at an upward angle. He also stocks shotguns, pistols, fully automatic machine guns, black powder, scopes, ammunition, accessories — supposedly more than three hundred pieces. The Barrett can fire tracers, incendiaries, and even exploding rounds with tungsten penetrators that can punch through armored vehicles and destroy anyone inside. If we can gain access to such a place and such weaponry, we can arm many soldiers inside the United States and also avoid the dangers of international imports.”
Akil leaned forward and kissed Jdey’s cheek. He glanced at the time. “Show me this cabin.”
Akil followed Jdey’s Taurus down County Highway W and onto a deserted access road. They parked. Akil fitted his Glock with a Silencero .40 Osprey silencer and gently closed the minivan’s door. He motioned for Jdey to wait. Akil carefully followed a tree line toward the back of the property. The cabin was off to one side at the end of a long driveway. A Chevrolet pickup truck was parked in front. The cabin’s windows were lined with steel bars. The heavy metal gate that usually protected the front door was unlocked and swung to one side. The interior lights were on. Someone was inside. Akil crouched low beside the porch railing. He peered through a crack in the window blinds at an obese, bearded man with a camouflaged Bass Pro cap sitting at a desk, eating something and tapping on a calculator. Akil waited and watched. After another minute, he twisted the door handle.
Denman froze.
Akil instinctively moved to a corner. He raised his pistol.
“Stand up and show me your hands.”
“Okay, sir, just relax. You can have anything you want. There’s no need to go crazy. I have the most expensive stuff in the back.”
“Don’t speak unless I ask,” Akil warned. “How many concealed weapons?”
“I have two on me, sir. One in my right pants pocket and another under my shirt on my belt. I have no intention of reaching for them, sir. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nothing behind your back?”
“No, sir. I never thought that was very comfort—”
“Be quiet,” Akil snapped. “The Barrett.”
Denman thought for a few seconds and then nodded to his left. “Brand-new in the case.”
“How does it assemble?”
“Umm… with two pins. A mid-lock and then the rear receiver.”
“Cartridges?”
“In the middle cabinet. I have two hundred standard rounds and—”
“No. Explosive armor piercing.”
“On the top shelf. The ones with green tips and gray rings. The boxes are marked with blue tape. You can have them all.”
“Is the weapon sighted?”
“Yes, sir. It’s dead-on at three hundred meters.”
“Who has access to this place?”
“No one but me. Keys are on the wall. Take my truck, wallet, anything you—”
One round pierced Denman’s forehead. His body collapsed behind the desk.
Akil collected the Barrett and the exploding ammunition. He had found his perfect, accurate weapon. His PAW. The perfect system for destroying a departing aircraft’s cockpit from inside a moving freight train car. He locked the cabin and flung the keys into heavy foliage. He calmly walked to Jdey’s vehicle and placed the weapon inside. He tapped the roof twice.
Jdey headed east.
Akil drove the minivan west. He typed into his portable GPS. A female voice responded, “Destination Lakeside Motel, 920 Jefferson Street, Burlington, Wisconsin 53105, 5.4 miles. Recalculating.”
Computer technologist Bruce Baltis was ensconced in a glass office in the FBI’s Information Technology Center. A hulking man with a baby’s face and an oversized head, Baltis had dainty fingers that were expertly now typing on three separate keyboards. He finished his input and then tilted one monitor. The screen showed a mass of numbers and cryptic program language.
Riley tapped the window and walked in. He extended his hand.
“Bruce? Jack Riley. I’ve heard a lot about you, pal. I’m glad you’re on our tea—”
“I’m running dual but parallel environments,” Baltis interrupted rudely. “Faiz Al-Aran’s laptop had an older version of Windows 7. I found retained dialogues in both the cache indexes and files. Whoever used it left a cyber-trail that a blind man could follow. There’s also a ton of cookie history. See for yourself.”
“The English version, mister. I’m not Bill Gates.”
“Sorry. Every email sent or received on this laptop is still identifiable. No data, no secret terror plans, no hidden files or evidence of hard drive erasure — just two people chatting. Someone calling himself Toothdoc2b, and the other one is PartyLuvr30308. That’s probably Al-Aran.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, the number sequence 3-0-3-0-8 is also the zip code for the Technology Square Research Building in Atlanta, so it’s a logical assumption. Other than that, there’s not much else — just partying, vacations, and shark fishing. I started wondering if you got the right people. But the more I reread the conversations, the more it seemed like the two parties were trying to sound like a couple of good ol’ boys. It was a labored deception, but not too labored. Do you get what I mean? And then there’s this squirrelly address one of them mentioned right here in New York City. That’s what my systems are chewing on.”