Police cars poured through the opening in the fence. Their engines panted in the frigid air, swept in off the river. Steam rose, illuminated by bright blues and vibrant reds. The sirens faded. The police cars came to a stop at the very lip of the pier, their headlights lancing at the waves. Agents and policemen leapt out of their vehicles, amongst them Johnson and Warhaftig. They stepped up to the water’s edge. They looked out as the ambulance tipped over onto its side, illuminated by the helicopter spotlight. In seconds it had sailed a good ten yards downstream, then twenty. Then it began to slide, to slip under the water, and was gone. Nothing remained. No sign. No marker, even. The waves rolled back upon themselves, covered in snow, erasing everything.
Chapter 37
The airplane shimmied through the sky, buffeted by winds. The flight attendants were having a hard time serving drinks, including the sour old crone who had spilled half a virgin Bloody Mary over Decker’s shirt. Heads lolled from side to side, against innumerable headrests bobbing all about them. Decker ate another nut. And then another. He relocated his legs — once again. He stared at Emily beside him. Her eyes were closed. She was still awake; he could tell. But she was trying to sleep. I should do the same, he thought, but he knew it was impossible. Decker went back to reading the book by Jamal ben Saad about Islamic architecture and design. That’s when he felt a jolt of recollection, like an electric current, hit him. He reached into his jacket pocket. He was still carrying that list of prisoners Warhaftig had given him, the men with whom Miller had associated back at Ansar II in Gaza. He began to scan the pages. It took him only a few seconds to confirm Warhaftig’s story: El Aqrab’s real name — Mohammed Hussein — wasn’t on the list. But something else had caught his eye. He flipped back through the pages. There. On page sixteen. At the very bottom. The name Jamal ben Saad. He’d been arrested once, it seemed. He’d spent three days in Ansar II directly under Miller’s supervision. Three days in jail was like a lifetime to some men.
Decker checked the book on Islamic architecture. The biography of the author revealed Jamal ben Saad had died in 1982, during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon — the same year El Aqrab had gone to Kazakhstan for the first time. Decker laid the photographs of El Aqrab and Jamal ben Saad beside each other on his tray. They could be brothers, he thought. Isn’t that what Emily had said? He looked up and noticed her staring at the photographs. Then she glanced over at him, and caught herself, and blushed.
“Well, they do look alike,” she insisted with a shrug.
“More than alike,” he answered. “I agree with you. I think they’re the same man.”
“You do? Really? Why?”
“Well, look at the eyes. The eyes first. Then the mouth.”
“No! I mean, what made you change your mind?”
Decker caught himself. “The dates are compatible,” he said. “The men look strangely alike. They both share an intimate knowledge of Islamic architecture and design. It all seems too much of a coincidence. It isn’t… natural.” But Swenson was right, he thought. He didn’t have anything concrete to hold onto. It was all circumstantial evidence. It was he who was acting unnaturally.
Without warning, the air phone in the seat before him started ringing. Decker stared at it, wondering if he had heard correctly. He had never heard an air phone ring before. He didn’t know they did that. Then it rang again. They were about halfway through the flight and most of the passengers were asleep. The gentleman across the aisle from Swenson began to stare at him, then at the phone. Soon others turned and looked his way. Decker reached out and picked up the phone. He put it to his ear.
“You shouldn’t have run,” a voice said. It was Warhaftig. “I’m not your enemy,” he continued.
“You haven’t exactly been my friend,” said Decker, staring back at his nosy neighbors. They turned away.
“Sometimes, you’re better off not knowing things. For your own good, John.”
“Is that the paternal crap they’re teaching at Langley these days?”
“You were right, John. The bomb was a dud, another diversion, just like you predicted. New York is safe.”
“All that means is that we’re facing a bigger problem. If El Aqrab sets off that mega-tsunami, it won’t just be New York in trouble; it’ll be the whole damned world. Every financial system will go down — some temporarily, some permanently crippled. All industry on the eastern seaboard — gone. All the intellectual capital in New York, in Boston, Philly and D.C. — gone, washed literally away. Our countries oldest and most treasured universities. All of those global corporate headquarters in New York. The United Nations. Media networks. Museums and libraries too. All gone. Wiped out. Destroyed.”
“Look, John,” said Warhaftig. “We’re all working toward the same goal, aren’t we? We want to stop that bomb.” He sighed. “So why operate independently, at odds? I understand why you may not trust me, but I’m asking you to anyway. Take me on faith, John. Here, let me give you something. A token. Some beads. A peace offering.”
“I’m listening.”
“Gulzhan Baqrah — the guy whom El Aqrab trained with in Kazakhstan — had a young lieutenant named Uhud, wanted by the Israelis in connection with several suicide bombings in the West Bank. He was also suspected of executing a half dozen bombings in Iraq, primarily against Iraqi security forces using IEDs at M and Ms. You know: Mosques and markets. Police recruiting stations. That sort of thing.”
“And?”
“According to Egyptian Intelligence, Uhud was killed in the raid that Baqrah mounted when he stole the HEU. Seems he got a little greedy.”
“How so?”
“Well, after you told me about your mega-tsunami theory, I did some checking. According to Interpol, a number of bank accounts controlled by Uhud were recently used to initiate some significant stock transactions in the U.S., so-called ‘Puts’ on a whole series of companies. He shorted them. They only have one thing in common. I ran it through the Company computers.”
“Don’t tell me,” Decker said. “They’re all either in, or based on the East Coast.”
“Bingo,” said Warhaftig. “You are a fast study.”
Decker looked at the list of prisoners from Ansar II on his tray. “Do me a favor,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Run a background check on someone for me.”
“Who?”
“He was on that list of prisoners you gave me. His name is Jamal ben Saad. He was some sort of adjunct professor at the Arab University in Beirut in the early ‘80s, an expert on Islamic architecture and design. Find out whatever you can and fax it to me at Dr. White’s hotel on La Palma. It’s called the Parador, in Santa Cruz. I want to know if Jamal ben Saad and El Aqrab knew each other.”