“So what’s in the flask can’t kill people, like at the medical center?” Quinn asked.
“The virginbots are inert; programming dictates their actions.”
“Holy shit,” Abdul said.
“Well, I’m sure glad you understand this, Abdul. How about helping a poor, dumb policeman?”
“The virginbots are building-blocks. Ghazi used them to create a weapon. Eudon programs them to create ethanol.”
“So, without what’s in the flask, his billion-dollar refinery in the desert is useless?” Quinn asked.
“Useless,” David echoed.
“Okay, we have a serious leverage,” Quinn said. He rubbed his forehead trying to make his brow relax.
They arrived at the service station, the one Quinn had stopped at on his way to Jaffa three days earlier with Lana and her father.
“Go ahead and eat. I’ll fill the tank so Hassan won’t be stuck when he collects the car. I’ll meet you inside.”
David held his seat forward while Abdul and Adiba squeezed out of the back. When David grabbed his backpack, Quinn held the strap. “Why not let me take care of that?”
Without hesitation, David released the bag and followed the others.
Quinn shouted after them. “Hey, Abdul, order me a double cheeseburger, large fries, large coke… and Texas toast. I’m buying.” Who knew when he’d get the next meal?
Quinn gassed up the Datsun then parked in the center of the lot. Somehow, he’d contact Hassan and tell him where to find the vehicle. In the restaurant, he handed David his backpack, and tore into his cheeseburger. They didn’t understand Texas toast in Israel, so he closed out with a slab of honey cake; he saved the piece from Hassan’s wife — homemade was always better.
“Not as good as your mom’s,” he said to Adiba with his mouth full of the sticky dessert.
Before they’d finished their coffees, the Mercedes rolled into the parking lot. Mufeed got out and stood beside his vehicle. Quinn paid, and they headed for the car.
“Hi, Mufeed. Got room for four more?”
“Please, get in, hurry.” Mufeed’s eyes kept darting toward a parked police cruiser.
They drove for two hours, following signs for the Jordanian border. Closer to Eilat, they passed through small towns, then they hit a stretch of road bordered on either side by desert, no houses and few vehicles.
Mufeed pulled over. “I have to smuggle you over the border,” he said.
Quinn wondered how.
“I’m sorry. It will be uncomfortable. Come.”
Mufeed got out. When they followed, Quinn caught the driver staring at David’s backpack. It put him on alert. Mufeed popped the trunk, dragged out two heavy suitcases, and pulled a lever. The back seat slid forward, and a false floor lifted to reveal a large empty cavity.
“You must climb in here.”
The space didn’t appear big enough.
“Quickly.”
“You’re biggest, Quinn. Climb in, and we’ll position around you,” Abdul said.
Quinn squeezed in, his back pressed against the passenger side. The storage area was deeper than he expected. The rear seats of the car had been hollowed out to make more space.
Mufeed’s taken people over the border before. The thought gave Quinn some confidence, and at the same time sounded alarm bells.
David climbed in with his backpack and curled his body so Quinn spooned him, then Abdul and Adiba joined them — sardines in a can. Mufeed closed the lid. A light came on, and Quinn heard a hiss of gas.
Oxygen, quite a setup.
The car set off. He felt every bump, and even with the pumped air, the confined space became stuffy.
The car stopped.
Must be the Israeli border. Quinn started counting out time.
None of them spoke, but Quinn could hear the tension in their breathing. The car remained stationary for a count of one-hundred-eighty then stopping again.
Jordanian border.
A metallic click above them, then voices; Quinn knew by their tone that the border guard was asking Mufeed questions.
They must be checking the trunk.
Heart pounding, Quinn tried not to focus on what would happen if they were caught sneaking a weapon of mass destruction into Jordan.
Two more clicks preceded the noise of something being moved on the partition above their heads.
They’re opening the suitcases.
Quinn recognized Mufeed’s voice, then a loud bang, and a firm thump as the trunk lock engaged. Sweat ran down his chest. Adiba stifled a sob. Abdul shushed her gently.
As they pulled away, he stopped counting — seven minutes to clear the Jordanian border. It had seemed longer.
They drove on. The Mercedes took sharp turns. Quinn visualized the route out of Aqaba as the road climbed the hills to Nazar’s home. The car stopped again, and Mufeed opened the partition. Daylight dazzled Quinn’s eyes.
“Quickly, get in the car.”
Mufeed had pulled over on a quiet stretch of road. Adiba was upset, sobbing and muttering. Abdul wiped her tears with his handkerchief and whispered into her ear. Quinn didn’t know what was said, but he understood her fear: she’d just spent thirty frightening minutes trapped in a trunk.
Unlike on his previous visit, the security guard waved them straight through the open gates to Nazar’s home: they were expected. When the car pulled up to the house, Keisha waited for them, dressed in a black jumpsuit, sloppy and asexual compared with the last time he’d seen her. He still remembered following those legs up the stairs.
“Welcome. I hope the journey wasn’t too terrible for you. You are safe now. Please come in. Let me show you to your rooms; I’m sure you want to freshen up.” They followed her into the main hallway. “David, you’re in the downstairs guest room. Mufeed will take you.”
David, stooped and tiny, backpack hooked over his shoulders, followed the driver. Keisha led the rest of them upstairs. Adiba and Abdul were shown to separate rooms. She put Quinn in the room next to Abdul’s.
After he dropped Hassan’s plastic carrier bag on his bed, Quinn went along the hall and knocked on Abdul’s door. Abdul didn’t answer; instead, he poked his head out from Adiba’s room and waved Quinn over. Adiba was slumped in a chair, her body wracked with deep sobs.
“What’s wrong?”
Abdul handed him a crumpled photograph. He recognized Adiba, Lana and two young boys, bracketed by Adiba’s parents.
“She found it in the trunk of the Mercedes. It’s Lana’s,” Abdul said.
“Son of a bitch.”
He recalled Lana’s reaction when she saw Nazar on the TV at the hospital — no wonder. He must have snatched her then smuggled her across the border.
“She blames herself,” Abdul said.
“Don’t be silly, Adiba. This has nothing to do with you.”
“When I came here with Abdul, Nazar asked me her name; I showed him the picture; we each have one.” Her voice cracked and she began to sob again.
Abdul raked his fingers through his hair and gave Quinn a look that said — she’s right. “When we visited, Nazar did show a lot of interest in Lana. He even asked where she went to school.”
Quinn stood over Adiba and placed a hand on her shoulder. This made a terrible situation worse. “Adiba,” he said.
She looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears. Quinn struggled to keep the fury out of his voice. The thought of Nazar hurting Lana, that frail little girl he’d seen in the hospital, pushed him to the limit. “This isn’t your fault. The guy’s a fuckin’ creep.”
But right now, every gun-toting law-enforcer had him, Abdul, and Adiba in their sights. They were marked: the Israelis, the British, and the Americans believed the easiest way to stop Allah’s Revenge was to kill the three of them. Nazar Eudon offered a way out of Jordan, their only way. In the US, given some breathing space, he could maybe get their death sentence lifted. Although even with Nazar’s help, it was a long shot. Without him… “Listen, guys, we need Nazar,” Quinn said.