Sure enough, his truck rounded the corner as she locked up her car. She flagged him down, jumped in the passenger seat, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, handsome.”
“So, where we going?”
“Gotta map?”
“Sure, why?”
“I think we need to get on 85, then from there, we can find Sanford.”
“Your dad’s house?”
CHAPTER 20
The Scientist’s two messengers, Mansur and Kamil, took extra precaution in Peshawar and linked up with their pilot who flew them to Karachi. There wasn’t much to worry about, but the two men loved their families and they knew that Mullah Rahman would absolutely follow through on his promise to kill them if they weren’t back in a week.
Once in Karachi, they maneuvered through the chaotic port and linked up with a contact who demanded double the payment. “ISI is turning up the heat, my friend.” Mansur, who carried the money, paid the man, who led them to a rusty merchant ship headed for Fujairah, an Emirate on the Gulf of Oman and geographically opposite the seven others on the Persian Gulf. Their barely seaworthy vessel had moved quickly though and magically weathered the seas. By docking in Fujairah they had avoided the contentious Straights of Hormuz. Sometimes the Iranian patrol boats sank merchant ships, sometimes they just shot at them, and other times, rarely, they let them pass unmolested.
In Fujairah, they picked up an old Chevy Blazer with tinted windows and drove across the peninsula toward Dubai, but stopped short in Al Dhaid, an Emirate capital town about 30 miles from Fujairah and 30 miles from Dubai, perfectly centered in obscurity.
Pulling up to the compound, Kamil slowed the Blazer and flicked the headlights twice. Night had fallen but it was still over 100 degrees outside. They had kept the air conditioner blasting during the short trip, as the ship’s engine had been overheating and the sun had beat upon them without mercy.
“Gate is opening,” Mansur said to Kamil. The two Pakistanis talked about how this was the time when they both got nervous. The information controller for Al Qaeda lived inside the compound. When there was word of a high priority piece of usable information, the Technician, as he called himself, required personal delivery. Certainly Mullah Rahman could have fired the digits over satellite and the Technician could have downloaded them. There would have been no certainty, though, that he was the only one with the information.
Thus, the need for Mansur and Kamil, who had proven very reliable so far. They pulled into the circular drive beneath video cameras and floodlights brighter than a Friday night football game in Texas. The two messengers stepped from the vehicle, knowing the drill, held up the DVD for the camera to see, and, presumably for the Technician’s recognition software to do its magic, confirming their identities.
Soon, two guards with Uzis came out and whisked them inside through the stucco façade of the house and all the way into a secure chamber in the basement where the technician was waiting.
“What do you have for me, boys?”
“Sir,” Mansur said. “We have a special video from Mullah Rahman who reports that progress is going very well.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the Technician said. “How much is he asking for?”
Mansur and Kamil exchanged glances, a bad move they knew.
“How much?” This was another voice, from the recesses. Mansur knew this was the voice of the man who handled the finances. He was rarely seen in public and even Mansur and Kamil had only seen the back of his head in the dark. He was even now seated in a high back chair facing away from them apparently staring at a bookcase full of bound volumes.
“Two million,” Mansur said. He choked out the words though, as if he couldn’t even believe them.
The Technician laughed.
“Really?” It came out more as a sneer. “And what might Rahman have captured for two million?”
Mansur felt a flash of anger, as he knew that at least Mullah Rahman fought for the cause while these men lived in plush homes like this one, sending young Muslims from around the world to their deaths.
“I will let you be the judge, sir. Mullah Rahman believes you will be fully satisfied, in shallah.”
The Technician snatched the DVD from Mansur’s hand and said, “You are dismissed for now.”
Mansur and Kamil were escorted by the Uzi carrying bouncers into an anteroom filled with a fully stocked bar, a large cigar humidor, and a large screen television. They waited fifteen tense minutes, wondering if they were going to be shot. The Uzi men reappeared, not that they had gone far, and brought the two men back into the basement library, as Mansur called it.
“Here is one million,” the Technician said, handing a bag of U.S. dollars to Mansur. “Is this the only copy?”
Mansur grasped the bag, feeling the heft of one million dollars.
“The only DVD. Of course, Mullah Rahman has the original.”
“Of course. Tell Mullah Rahman he did well and that while the video may well be worth two million, all we had available for now is one million and we will take the second million under advisement.”
Mansur knew that this meant Rahman would not get the second million, but one million was twice as much as they had ever carried, so this was new territory for them.
“I will pass the message.”
The Uzis escorted Mansur and Kamil back to their Chevy Blazer where they would reverse their route.
Then Mansur spoke.
“I have a better idea.”
CHAPTER 21
“Your plan might work, but you better watch your ass,” Nina Hastings spat. She was walking now, bright yellow blouse shifting against the white clam diggers, sounding like the rustle of insects on a tile floor. “You let this get away from you, it will all be for naught.”
“I’m already ahead of you on this, Mama.” Melanie Garrett stood her ground, perhaps out of pure exhaustion. There was the possibility that she was afraid to back down. Her mother was a violent person, though not physically so. Mental torture and gamesmanship were her areas of expertise. And while Melanie had willingly been the alternate cop to whatever her mother had chosen with respect to Amanda, eighteen years of shifting personalities and roles had taken their toll. She was, in fact, tired of the game, though still in it, still alive with the passion for making money the easy way.
“How so?”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Melanie smoothed her pink jumpsuit; had it been orange she may have been mistaken for an escaped convict. The white coral necklace hanging loose around her neck accented the outfit.
Opening the door, Melanie saw a tall, handsome man with blond hair, a strikingly pretty woman with hair the color of a setting sun, and two children who appeared to be twins.
“Hey, y’all, come on in.” Melanie was cheerful. “I’m glad you could see the place before it goes on the market tomorrow.”
“Hi, I’m John and this is Laura. This is Sam and Sally.” Nina watched the husband speak and then look at his wife, who spoke next.
“Well, we have the same agent, it appears. Tad Johnson gave us a heads-up you might be selling. We are interested in a premarket viewing.”