“Our beloved Canada, you mean,” Zimmermann said with a sarcastic smile.
“Of course.”
The others were approaching, led by Mr. Choi, and so the pretty young woman named Hea displayed the wares of her kiosk with a graceful wave of her hand. “Your friends, they would like a pin? A soda?”
Mr. Choi was eyeing Sandor with more than his usual level of anxiety. Sandor smiled at the girl and shook his head. “No, I believe it’s time for us to go.”
As their small group began to walk away, Sandor stayed back long enough to hear the girl whisper, “Look for this design at Arirang.” When he turned to her she mouthed the words, “I will see you there.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hicham was seated comfortably in his first-class seat on the large jet that would carry him from St. Maarten to New York. He had made the connection from St. Barth’s without incident, and was now working on his cocktail and gazing out the oval window at the blue sky, wondering for a moment if perhaps Cardona was right. Hicham mused over the sins he had committed against his religion, both in the name of pleasure and in the service of his people, and wanted to believe that Allah would forgive him these transgressions. After all, he assured himself, he was a soldier in the war against the Western infidels, and that should be enough.
As he took another drink he didn’t feel the first explosion, coming as it did from deep within the cargo hold, a small charge that an instant later ignited the larger blast. Everyone felt that one, as the device detonated several pounds of augmented C-4 plastique, blowing a hole in the side of the plane, rocking it off course as the entire belly of the aircraft suddenly caught fire below them.
Passengers began to scream as their oxygen masks were released, hanging before them from their clear plastic tubes, impotent symbols of the horror they were about to endure.
Inside the cockpit the crew struggled to level out the airliner as their emergency panels lit up with an array of emergency warnings. The navigator was already on his radio, calling for help, as the captain initiated rescue sequences, turned on the manual sprinkler systems, and ordered the first officer to assemble the staff, telling them to gather every fire extinguisher on board and take them below.
But it was too late. When Adina’s men wired the C-4 into Hicham’s luggage, they also rigged lines that appeared on the scanning machine as the spine of the suitcase, but were actually tied to a second round of devastation — a highly combustible plastique that now exploded upward in another blast, tearing through the floor and followed by a flash of fire that began to engulf the passenger cabin.
The screams were deafening as Hicham looked around him, feeling a mix of both terror and rage. He damned Adina and cursed his own stupidity. Then he realized in a final moment of awareness that this would be his last memory, the earsplitting screams of all these people with whom he was about to die.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bill Sternlich was in his small, postmodern office in the new headquarters of the Times, standing high above Eighth Avenue. He was editing a magazine piece about celebrities in Southern California who were promoting solar energy, hybrid cars, and other environmentally fashionable options. He stopped, removed his glasses, and took a moment to consider how these pampered children of Hollywood could possibly reconcile their endorsement of a green lifestyle with their private jets, fur coats, and cocaine snorting. Then he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, replaying for the hundredth time his last conversation with Sandor.
He did the checking Sandor requested and, as instructed, sent him a text twenty-four hours later, letting him know that he had not turned up anything new on the death of Ahmad Jaber. But since then he had heard a rumor that Jaber was not dead, that he was in the hands of United States intelligence.
Sternlich was considering the consequences of that information, how he might get word of it to Sandor, and whether Sandor already knew.
Just then Frank Donaldson barged into the room.
Donaldson was in his late twenties, a graduate of Avon and Yale. Square-jawed and blond-haired, he was a go-getter from a wealthy family that subsidized his nascent career as a political reporter, not only because they could, but because they assumed it was the start of an ascending path that would ultimately lead him to the anchor desk of some network’s evening news program. Sternlich was alternately amused and bewildered by the fact that, given the young man’s privileged background, Donaldson’s views were even further to the left than his own.
“Heard about the plane in St. Maarten?”
Sternlich responded with a blank stare.
“Get this,” Donaldson said, then shared the sketchy information that had just come through about the crash.
“Any survivors?”
“Doesn’t look good. Navy, Coast Guard and Air Force are on their way.”
“Was it mechanical?”
“Planes don’t just blow up in midair, Bill.”
Sternlich nodded but said nothing.
“What about that friend of yours?” Donaldson asked.
Sternlich blinked.
“Come on, you know who I mean, that guy from Washington. He seems pretty wired into what’s happening, right?”
“And?”
“And how about we give him a call? See if he can clue us in, get us a little advance info.”
Sternlich shook his head slowly. “He’s unavailable right now.”
“That so?” Donaldson planted himself in the chair opposite his editor. “He wouldn’t already be on his way there, would he?”
“You have an overactive imagination, Frank.”
“Hey, you’re the one who told me to follow my nose, right?”
Sternlich leaned back and had a look at the young reporter. “If you follow it too closely you’ll get cross-eyed.”
“Come on,” Donaldson said, “for the team.”
Sternlich had never much liked that ex-jock chatter. “My friend is out of town,” he said.
“So was this airline crash.”
“He’s nowhere near the Caribbean, Frank.”
“Okay, but there are some stories flying around; he might help us piece things together.”
Sternlich waited.
Donaldson pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward. “You remember that story about the explosion in Tehran a week or so ago?”
Sternlich nodded.
“A source I have in D.C. says there may be more to it than Al Jazeera is letting on.”
“That would certainly be a shocker.”
“Right. Well get this — there’s a rumor that Ahmad Jaber isn’t dead, that it wasn’t his body they recovered.”
“I heard that rumor too.”
“Did you also hear that Mr. Jaber might actually be a guest of our government at the moment? Right now, here in the States. At the Langley Hilton.”
Sternlich did well to hide his surprise. “I’m listening.”
“What if this plane crash is somehow connected to Jaber? What if it’s retaliation for his capture?”
“That’s quite a stretch, Frank. What have you got, other than a wild guess?”
“Nothing,” the young man admitted, sitting back as if deflated by the notion. Then he perked up again and said, “Unless maybe your pal can give us something to run with.”
“My friend is in the Far East at the moment,” Sternlich told him, regretting the statement as soon as he uttered the words. “At least he was, as far as I know.”
“The Far East?”
“As far as I know.”
“Can you check? I mean, this could be huge, Bill.”
“I don’t know what you expect him to be able to tell me.”