“No,” Abdullah said, grabbing Darrell’s arm. “They already know about the truck.” He took the keys from Darrell and opened the truck’s topper. “Get those out,” he directed.
Ahmed and Darrell struggled to unload the two blue barrels from the truck while Abdullah opened the trunk of the Toyota Camry. When they had both barrels unloaded, Abdullah opened the tops and withdrew one of the stainless steel cylinders, like the metal thermos that he used for coffee when he lived in New York City. “Take these canisters and load them in the trunk. Put whatever remains in the back seat.”
He found a blanket in the back of the F-150 and within minutes they were pulling out of the junkyard and heading south, Darrell and Ahmed in the front and Abdullah in the backseat, the rough brown blanket covering the stacks of stainless steel containers next to him, the rest safely stored in the trunk.
He heard sirens in the distance as they took the on-ramp to the Lyndon Johnson freeway, and breathed easy. Allah truly was with them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eric knocked before entering Smith’s office. Smith sat at his desk, Eric knocked before entering Smith’s office. Smith sat at his desk, shuffling the worn playing cards.
“My daughter is safe,” Smith remarked, without looking up.
“Fire and Rescue finally cut her out. I think she was more angry than upset.”
Smith continued his game, his fingers surprisingly delicate as he shuffled through the cards. Eric noticed the many fine white scars, faded almost to invisibility, covering the old man’s knuckles. Smith glanced up, his pale blue eyes fixing intently on Eric. “Mr. Johnson’s death was unfortunate. How are the others?”
“Deion’s in rough shape,” Eric said, “but they stabilized him in Dallas. His vest took the brunt of it, but a round got inside, bounced around, and chewed up his liver and pancreas. Doc Elliot is consulting with the doctors in Dallas, he wants to move him here as soon as he’s safe to travel. Martin’s got multiple bullet wounds to his arms and legs, nothing serious, but one creased his skull. They think he’ll pull through, if they can relieve the pressure.”
Smith nodded. “Don’t blame yourself. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I should have been. They should have waited.”
“Mr. Freeman took a risk,” Smith said. “What about the caesium?”
Eric’s stomach knotted. “Gone. It was Abdullah, I’m sure of it. Now he’s in the US and we have no idea where he went.”
“Then find him,” Smith replied. “Have you given any further consideration to my offer?”
During the mission to Afghanistan, he had hardly thought of little else. Until the conversation with John. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for the position.”
Smith picked up the cards, shuffled them, and placed them in a neat stack on the desktop. “I was hoping you’d accept the position willingly.”
Willingly? “And if I don’t?”
“It’s who you are,” Smith said, eyes glinting in the reflected light. “I won’t insult your intelligence by calling on your patriotism or your sense of duty. The truth is, the world is a scary place and it’s getting scarier. The technology that Doctor Oshensker used to reprogram Mr. Frist’s brain has far-reaching implications. We are twenty years ahead of the best research, but make no mistake, that technology will become available. Can you imagine the implications? What if every soldier could be Implanted? What kind of power would an army of such men wield? The VISOR? The Weave? Imagine an army of nanobots programed to strip the flesh from bone, dropped in the heart of an enemy country. Or worse, a shopping mall. Things are spiraling out of control. I need someone who will never betray their country, or the Office.” Smith shook his head wearily. “Truman told me I was a man of high moral character. I’ve been tempted over the years. I am human, but I never crossed that line. I need the same in my successor. I need you.”
Eric digested that. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Smith bowed his head. “How is Mr. Frist?”
“Well above expectations,” Eric lied.
“This project is vital to national security. We need to get ahead of our enemies, Eric. We need an advantage. Mr. Frist served his purpose but we won’t have that advantage for long.”
That gave him pause. “Why is that?”
Smith sagged back in his chair. “Did you really think we could do those things to him without consequences? There’s been no long-term human trials studying the effects of nano-particles. The nanobots that performed the Weave? It’s never been tried in a human being. The process is killing him. Do you know what cancer is? Unregulated cell growth. The very drugs we used to heal him will eventually fill him with tumors.”
Eric felt sick. “You knew this from the start.”
“Oshensker’s frequent MRI’s aren’t evaluations, they’re diagnostics,” Smith said, eyes narrowing. “We can’t keep him alive forever.”
“I’ve been his mentor. His friend. You should have told me.”
“What would that have changed?” Smith asked. “His life ended when he bombed the Red Cross.”
“I’ve lied to him! I’ve looked him straight in the eye and told him that we would be there for him.”
“We will. He’s of no value to us dead. If the project fails, however, then all this must be shut down. Loose ends cleaned up.”
“You mean the people?”
“Yes,” Smith said. “The circle of trust must remain small. Too many know too much.”
Surely he misunderstood. “What about Nancy?”
Smith leaned forward, his palms on the table. “She will be looked after. The low-clearance employees will be shuffled back into the defense department. The rest? Oshensker and Elliot? Mr. Freeman? Or yourself?” He paused, watching Eric with hooded eyes. “You’re a bright young man, Eric. I need you. They need you.”
His stomach sank. “I can’t—”
“You have forty-eight hours.”
Abdullah followed Ahmed into the coffee shop and spotted Muhammad al-Hamid waiting for them. Abdullah smiled at the man’s neatly trimmed beard, black slacks and long-sleeved white dress shirt. Muhammad appeared as sophisticated and respectable as Abdullah remembered. He glanced around at the other patrons, men of varying ages with dark skin, black hair, and well-trimmed beards. The coffee shop was popular with the Islamic Brotherhood, but they all maintained a respectful distance from Muhammad.
Muhammad returned the warm smile. “I am glad to see you, dear friend.”
Abdullah hugged the man. “I have missed you, my friend.” They sat and Ahmed left to get them coffee. “You know my plans?”
“Yes, I know your plans,” Muhammad said, shaking his head. “I am sorry, Abdullah, but I cannot agree to this.”
Abdullah nodded. It was as he feared. Muhammad had grown soft. “I am sorry you feel that way, but it is the will of Allah.”
Muhammad frowned. “I know that losing your wife was a great blow, but the Islamic Brotherhood is moving in a different direction. We want to find a political solution to the problems facing Muslims around the world. Jihad still continues, but the fight will be political.” He shook his head sadly. “I remember when you first arrived in the city. You were so eager to learn. You loved it here. Then you met Diwi. You were so happy. You should not have left.”
Abdullah bristled. “She wanted to return home. What was I to do?”
Muhammad took Abdullah’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I know you wanted to make her happy. What you’ve faced is terrible, but you place all the blame on the Americans. Who betrayed you? It was not them.”