“Just because of that quote?” said Warhaftig “It could mean anything. Those ‘lofty sails’ could be Manhattan skyscrapers, for all you know. And if the bomb is here, like everyone believes — everyone except you, that is — won’t the collapse of all these buildings,” he said, pointing at the city, “won’t the explosion itself cause a tsunami?”
They continued to argue when Decker’s phone began to vibrate once again. It was Jerry Johnson. The SAC was sheepish but admitted that the Rêve de Chantal had passed through the Canary Islands.
“That’s where Hammel picked up the jukebox,” Johnson said. “Only three ships were docked in Arrecife at the same time: one, en route from New York to Lisbon; the Rêve de Chantal, from Marseilles to New York; and one from Algiers, the El Affroun, en route through the Canary and Cape Verde Islands, and eventually on to Rio in Brazil. The third mule — Hammel — was Algerian. He had himself transferred to the Liberian ship in Arrecife following an injury. We’re trying to pick up the Algerian captain now, but we feel confident that Arrecife is where the switch was made. You were right to call out the cavalry, Decker. I guess I owe you an apology.”
“No you don’t,” said Decker with frustration. “I was wrong. This has all been another diversion. The bomb’s in La Palma. In the Canaries, sir. I know it. I deciphered the last wallpaper. I know what it means. It’s another quote from the Qur’an. ‘He has put the two oceans in motion. They shall meet—’”
“Not that again,” said Johnson, interrupting him. “Jesus, you’re never satisfied. Look, I want you and Warhaftig back at the Empire State Building immediately, is that understood? That container you identified was hot. The NRC confirmed it. The signature was HEU, do you hear me? It was HEU, identical to the material stolen in Kazakhstan. Decker, can you hear me? Answer me, for Christ’s sake.”
Decker tapped the cell phone with his fingers. “Hello,” he said. “Hello? You’re breaking up, sir. The signal. Hello?” Then he hung up. Decker turned and looked at Warhaftig. He was shaking his head.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, John. Disobeying a direct order from the SAC… ”
“What order? I didn’t hear any order. The signal dropped.”
Warhaftig smiled. He unclipped his seatbelt and got out of the car. Then he leaned back through the open door and said, “You’re taking an awfully big risk, John, just on a hunch. There were three mules. Johnson’s right. And two were neutralized. That leaves Hammel.”
Decker slid into the driver’s seat. “That’s not the way I figure it. Three mules, perhaps. But El Aqrab himself makes four. Look, you guys can handle this,” he said. “If I’m wrong, my absence won’t be missed. But if I’m right… ” He paused and slipped the Land Rover into gear.
Warhaftig frowned. “Be gentle with my car,” he said. Then he patted Decker on the back and said, “I hope your hunch pays off, John. Or don’t bother coming home.”
As soon as he hit the FDR, Decker put in a call to Swenson. Her cell phone rang a good ten times before she finally picked up. “Hey, Emily,” he said. “How was your flight?” He tried to sound pacific, light. He tried to sound politely interested.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t go.”
“What! Why not? I thought I made it clear that—”
“I’ve booked myself on American Airlines flight 933 to Madrid via Miami, with a connecting flight to Santa Cruz. I’m going to the Canaries, Agent Decker. I’m going to find Dr. White. And don’t try and stop me.”
Decker laughed. “I’m sure I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m going with you.”
“You’re what? Do you really mean that, John?”
“What time is the flight?”
“Ten before two.”
“I can just make it,” he said, glancing at his watch. He had about an hour and a half. “Buy a ticket for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
As he hung up, Decker noticed a traffic jam coalescing up ahead. One car was actually backing up along the highway, trying to get off at the previous exit. Decker craned his neck out the window. It was an accident. He could see a clot of cars a few hundred yards ahead of him and to the left. It looked like someone had plowed into the center rail. The vehicle — a metallic green Volkswagen bug — was balanced on the rail, tipped over on its back like some gigantic insect. Decker cursed. He hit the breaks. As he hiccupped through the traffic, he couldn’t help rubbernecking at the twisted wreckage, the broken glass, at the rear doors of the ambulance. And suddenly he thought, What if I’m wrong? What if I have become too close? What if Johnson is right and I’m letting my feelings for Emily cloud my judgment?
A figure covered with a sheet was being lifted up into the ambulance. A siren wailed like a lovesick trumpet and he remembered the Qur’anic quote which Jusef had just told him: When that day comes We shall let some of them surge against the others like waves of the ocean, and the trumpet will be blown. He shuddered and kept driving.
Chapter 35
The Gambian, Momodou Marong, stood on the dock, pointing at the freighter at his side, trying to look authoritative and calm. He was wearing a pair of jeans and his orange goose-down jacket. New York Harbor stretched behind him.
“That’s it,” said WKXY-TV reporter Seamus Gallagher. “Now, turn this way. No, don’t smile, God dammit, Momodou. I want you to look serious. Worried. Fearful, even. Yeah, that’s better.”
Gallagher turned and looked back at his cameraman. “OK?” he said.
The cameraman, a slouching bear of a man with a great brown beard, gave him a thumbs-up and kept filming.
Gallagher was dressed in a black-and-white Armani herringbone, an off-white Hugo Boss dress shirt, and a golden Hermes tie. He had agonized over the outfit for twenty minutes. He took a deep breath and looked into the camera. “I’m standing beside Momodou Marong, a Gambian able-bodied seaman from the freighter, Rêve de Chantal, currently docked at the Brooklyn shipyards. Approximately an hour ago, Mr. Marong assisted federal agents in their search of a container unloaded from the Liberian-registered freighter earlier this morning. Tell us, in your own words, Mr. Marong, exactly what you saw.”
The Gambian cleared his throat. His eyes bulged in his head and he said, “The police and FBI came to the warehouse.” He pointed vaguely over his shoulder. “They looked inside the container that I showed them, the one we’d unloaded this morning. But the crate was gone. Then these astronauts came in.”
“You mean federal agents dressed in protective clothing.”
“Yes. They told me they were looking for drugs.” Momodou laughed. “I may be a Gambian. I am proud of that. I may not be well-educated, but I am not a fool. The men in the white suits,” he said. “They were carrying Geiger counters. I have seen them before, in the mines of Gambia. They were looking for something radioactive. I heard the boxes in their hands. They were clicking. And then one said, ‘It’s hot.’” He paused and looked into the camera. He smiled.
“Did they find what they were looking for?” asked Gallagher.
“No, it was gone. It was there before; I saw it. But now the crate is gone.”
“You mean it’s been unloaded? Right here? In New York City?”
“Yes.”