Moustafa sat very still in the driver's seat of his rented car.
No more than a hundred meters in front of him was a huge industrial complex. Unlike his haphazard destruction of the place owned by Colson Industries, this target would be addressed very specifically. Of course, he did not really think of it as a target. For Moustafa it was a destination. His final point of passage from this world.
It was 1:57 in the morning, or at least that was what the green lights on the dashboard displayed. The numbers glowed incredibly bright, one of so many gadgets on this massive car. Moustafa had asked for the largest rental available, and the American clerk had not disappointed, offering up a behemoth. How fitting, he thought.
He tried not to look at the car's clock, knowing it better to use the wristwatch he had so carefully synchronized before leaving the safe house. It was quite impossible. The green numbers were surreal, almost like his own personal line of communication with Allah.
1:58.
Moustafa took a deep breath to calm his nerves. This was not an easy thing. The others at the safe house had told him he would feel a sense of calm, an overwhelming tranquility as he undertook his fate. Of course, none of them had fulfilled their own destinies. Then Moustafa remembered the words of Caliph, received only yesterday in a personal e-mail — Every faith has its soldiers. The victorious are those with the greatest conviction.
He picked out an aim point on the fence, stared at his objective just beyond. There were no guards in sight. Moustafa knew there were typically twelve on duty. If this was Cairo, he might have been tempted to bribe one or two ahead of time, try to arrange their absence. But Caliph had warned against this. Things were different here. And if all went as planned, the guards would be helpless anyway.
He turned his thoughts to his family, envisioned how proud his mother would be. She would weep, of course, but she would understand. Moustafa's mother and sister would watch his video, and on seeing it pray for Allah's mercy, pray for His guidance. They would be alone now, but Caliph had promised to care for them. Caliph had given his solemn word.
1:59.
He started the car and gripped the steering wheel firmly. Moustafa felt a tear run down his cheek, but he wiped it away with a sleeve. / weep for joy, he told himself, I weep for the glory I will now bestow upon Allah. This gave him strength. His grip on the wheel might have cracked it.
2:00.
Moustafa stomped on the accelerator and the big car lunged forward. Building speed rapidly, it hit the curb and careened upward. Moustafa was thrown out of his seat, his head striking the ceiling, as two tons of metal ricocheted airborne and smashed through the perimeter fence. There was a terrible grating noise, metal on metal, as the car lurched out of control and slid sideways. With a jolting crunch, everything came to a stop.
Moustafa moved his hands, moved his feet to scramble out the door. His balance suffered under the heavy backpack and he stumbled to the ground. For a moment he lost his bearings — the car had kicked up a massive cloud of dust, something he had not anticipated. But then Moustafa spotted his target looming high, fifty meters away. It was an ordinary thing, a rectangular iron box the size of a small delivery truck. Bathed in the yellow sulfur glow, it seemed insignificant against the towering array of stacks and pipes and holding tanks. Yet Moustafa knew the importance it held.
He scrambled to his feet and ran, felt glory surging through his body. Someone in the distance shouted. It meant nothing. With only meters to go, Moustafa's destiny was all but complete.
He heard the noise first, a thumping pulse like a massive heartbeat — which it very nearly was. Next he felt the heat, radiating strong and constant, increasing as he closed in. An arm's length away, Moustafa stopped, turned and positioned his backpack firmly against the rectangular side. The heat was very strong now, and searing waves blistered his exposed skin. Moustafa welcomed the pain, imagining it to be the warmth of heaven, the embrace of an eternal sun. His hands fumbled to find the trigger taped to his chest.
Allah Ahkbar!"
The primary explosion had the desired effect. A shaped charge blew a tremendous hole in the containment wall and superheated crude oil burst in all directions. Heating elements fractured, and another blast fueled by natural gas sent shrapnel into adjacent pipelines and equipment. This secondary blast was even more spectacular than the first, as separated butane, naphtha, and jet fuel exploded, the only limitation being the speed at which air could rush inward from the perimeter to feed the conflagration. Nearby holding tanks were breeched and a slurry of volatile chemicals erupted into the chaos, adding a toxic element to compound the disaster.
In the control room at one corner of the facility, the three engineers tasked to operate the place faced an array of warnings. They barely noticed, having already been distracted by the initial explosion that peppered the walls of their small building with fiery debris. This was all the warning they needed. The men set off their alarms and ran.
Inside fifteen minutes, over an acre of the RNP Number 2 oil refinery in Port Arthur, Texas, was glowing like a massive torch.
Chapter TWELVE
It was called L'Hotel Continental Lyon. A mile from Building Sixty-two, it had been virtually taken over by the investigation s contingent. Davis thought it was a nice enough place, comfortable but not self-absorbed with the likes of high thread-count Egyptian sheets or matching terrycloth bathrobes. His room was on the third floor, with a tree-scraping view of the Lyon airport in the distance.
His first real night's sleep had gone well, his body now fully adapted to the time shift. Davis hit the restaurant for breakfast at eight. He occupied half a table for two, ordered eggs, toast, and coffee. Service was fast, and he polished off the meal before tipping the coffeepot. It was good stuff, better than what he brewed at home. Not that that was saying much. Halfway through the first cup, he spotted Sorensen.
She was smartly dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. She looked fresh, well rested. But then, women like Sorensen always did. She was attractive — not like a fashion model, but in a more basic sense. Sorensen could wake up first thing in the morning, run a quick hand through her hair, and she'd be nice to look at.
She smiled on making eye contact, and Davis nodded her over.
"Buy a girl a drink?" she asked, pointing to the spare coffee cup.
"You bet, Honeywell. Have a seat." Davis did the honors.
"Honeywell? Is that my new call sign?"
"I like it."
She let it go, and asked, "Did you sleep well?"
"Always do."
"That's the sign of a clear conscience."
"Or no conscience at all."
Sorensen smiled a morning smile, bright and cheerful. The waiter came and she ordered fruit and a pastry. As soon as he was gone, she went to her handbag and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. She set it on the table and pointed to the headline.
Davis ignored the print, found himself looking at her finger. It was long and slender. No fake nails or stylish colors. Just a basic manicure, maybe a coat of clear. A woman who kept herself up, but didn't have time for the works.
She said, "Have you read this article?"
"No, but let me guess — Suicide suspected in air crash."
"That's pretty much it. Bastien has to prove it now, doesn't he?"
"Not much choice."
"And what about you? Are you going to try and disprove it?"
He paused for a long moment. "I will be a pattern of all patience."
Her gaze grew pensive. "That's Shakespeare. King Lear."
"Is it? Damn. Thought I had it first." The phone in his pocket vibrated. Davis said, "Excuse me."