There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, a deep voice spoke.
“John? This is Husaam. Please, you must listen to me.”
59
Savas's mind morphed from crazed anger to confusion. Slowly he sat down and stared forward blankly. “Husaam?”
Miller raced over to another desk and picked up the phone. “Agent Jordan? This is Frank Miller with the FBI. John Savas is also on the line.”
“Is John OK?”
“We've had a shock. Rebecca Cohen has been kidnapped, her car found incinerated by a bomb. There has been no contact with her or her bodyguards.”
Savas interrupted, his mind raw but focusing. Hearing the Muslim's voice had brought him back. “Husaam, Mjolnir contacted us by phone — they say they have Rebecca. I haven't spoken to her to…confirm, but I believe them. They have her, and they want to shut me and my investigation down. If I don't, they will kill her.”
Jordan rumbled on the other end. “You can't do that.”
“I'm in a pretty tough place right now, Husaam. I can't let them kill her.”
“John, I have to tell you something,” Jordan began.
“Wait,” interrupted Savas. “It can wait. You need to hear this. Things are far worse than we ever feared.” He sat up straight in the chair. There was no way to explain the insanity. He would just say it. “Tonight we learned from the air force representatives that Mjolnir has acquired a nuclear weapon.”
The silence lasted nearly ten seconds. “Husaam?”
“How did they get this? How does the air force know?”
Savas nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. “It's one of ours. One of our own damned weapons. Somehow the air force screwed up and didn't secure some cruise missiles.”
“Cruise missiles?”
“Yes, only one was lost in the end but with a payload of ten times the bomb that hit Hiroshima. I suppose that's enough,” Savas continued. “They've buried this from everyone, if you can believe it.”
Jordan practically growled. “I can. How did they find it?”
“They didn't. Some kid, a former US Army soldier, sent in photos with the serial number. He joined Mjolnir several years ago, but I guess this caper was more than he could stomach. But he hasn't returned any attempts at contact. We know the missile is out there, that it's ours, that it's real. We know Mjolnir has it. But we have no idea where or what they are planning and when.”
Jordan grunted. “Well, I can't answer the last two, but I know where they are, John. That's why I'm calling. Check your e-mail. You'll find the location. Bit south of the border.”
Savas checked e-mail on his cell. “Tampico, Mexico? What the hell is there?”
“Humid summers, petroleum, and General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport, or, more relevantly, some of the subsidiary airfields for cargo planes. Most importantly, that is where William Gunn is right now.”
Savas looked over at Frank Miller and shook his head, perplexed. “Husaam, how do you know this?”
The Muslim laughed deeply. “Broke into his office, John. Copied his hard drive. Gunn left that security hole, although I can't blame him for missing it.” His voice turned serious. “From what you've told me, something terrible is being planned there. We have to act, and act soon.”
“I can sound the alarm and bring in the Feds. Now we know where they are. They wouldn't act on Gunn before, but with the lost nuke, you can be sure as hell they will now.”
“Not fast enough. If I had waited for the bureaucracy to function, I wouldn't have the information I have now. And I'm not waiting anymore. I board a flight to Tampico tonight. I'm heading to that airfield.”
Miller cut in. “Husaam, if you are right and Mjolnir is there, that is suicide. And you're likely to be thrown in jail for this if you survive it.”
“Too much is riding on this, my friends. I can't stay put, waiting until the signal is given. Besides, as you tell me, the call you got said Rebecca is on her way to Gunn.”
“That's what I understood,” said Savas, the pain returning in full force.
“What do you think will be done once the location of the nuke is made known to the military?”
Savas was silent a moment. “What do you mean?”
Jordan sighed. “Once they finally get the machine moving, it's a potent one. They won't risk that bird getting loose. They're going to rain fire down on the whole area. Massively, even before they send in troops to make sure they recover the missile. No one will survive that assault, John. No one.”
60
The private plane taxied from the runway. Cohen sat in the back, her hands no longer tied, her face and lips still raw from the removal of the duct tape. Two men had been assigned to her, meeting her captors at the airport in New York, loading her onto the private plane, and flying with her over the last five hours. They said nothing to her, and she kept to herself. Only her thoughts spoke, constantly, oscillating between panic and complete depression. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She had determined over the last few hours that she was being used against John and the FBI, that her life was in exchange for his stepping back in some way from the investigation. It was the only possible explanation for the fact that she was still alive. Her lease on life was good for as long as she was useful in this way.
She had to smile in spite of her circumstances. We've rattled them. She took some comfort in the thought that they had succeeded — to drive them to this. Of course, it had also driven them to murder — horrible murders of people she cared deeply for. That was something that destroyed any satisfaction, and an anger and hatred for these killers, like she had never known, began to boil within her. She had been horrified by the deaths around the world perpetrated by Mjolnir, but it had been far away, images on television, abstract in a way Matt, Larry, Manuel, and Mira were not. They were forces of personality, links in the web of her life. Now they were gone, the men responsible now holding her life in their hands.
The plane taxied to a stop, and the two men onboard stood, bending sharply from the low ceiling. They nodded to her. She understood and got up from her seat and walked to the front of the plane just as the doors opened. She stepped down several short steps onto the tarmac. A moist and slightly cool breeze blew across her, and she squinted in the bright sunlight. The air smelled like a disorienting mixture of kerosene and jungle, and she wondered where on earth they had taken her. Somewhere south, warmer, and wet. As if reading her thoughts, a voice proclaimed the answer.
“Welcome to Mexico, Agent Cohen.”
She turned to her right, shielding her eyes from the sun. But she didn't need to see the well-dressed, lithe, and gray-topped form of the panther. She would never forget his voice, a voice full of intelligence, nuance, and ice.
William Gunn walked forward and motioned her toward a set of black town cars parked beside the airplane. He wore expensively crafted aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses, the cold gray eyes hidden behind them. He acted friendly, almost charming. Like a snake before the strike.
“Please, won't you step into the vehicle? We have only a short journey yet to go, but you must be tired from your trip.” The two men stood on either side of them. Of course the invitation was a farce. She knew she had no choice in the matter. She wondered why he even maintained this pretense.
A man she presumed to be the chauffeur held a car door open for her. She stepped forward and ducked into the backseat, sliding to the far end against the door. The interior was cream leather, detailed wood paneling trimming the sides. To her dismay, Gunn entered as well and sat beside her. The door was shut from the outside, and the driver got in and started the engine.