“El Aqrab and his father did work for a guy named Hanid ben Saad, some wealthy real estate developer. Of course, ben Saad may be a common name. Is it important?” Warhaftig asked.
“It may be.”
“You got it. By the way,” Warhaftig continued, “you won’t be alone on this. I sent a couple of agents along to La Palma two days ago: Nick Thompson and Colin Strand.”
Decker smiled. “Otto, you surprise me,” he said. “I thought you didn’t have any faith.”
“Never hurts to hedge your bets,” Warhaftig answered blithely. “Look, I’ve gotta go. My station chief put in a call to Assistant Director Gammon. That may be him right now, on the other line. Director Kennick has a meeting scheduled with the President tomorrow morning. I wish it could be earlier but, frankly, no one believes you, John.”
“If the bomb’s not in New York or Israel, where do they think it is? What about the missing HEU?”
“The consensus is that Gulzhan Baqrah sold it. He’s a mercenary, after all. Most people think it’s in Iran. The Iranians have been trying to get their hands on a nuke for years. Or in Iraq, God help us. Or hidden in some cave deep in Afghanistan.” He sighed. “I mean, this whole volcano thing is a little crazy. The President’s science advisors don’t believe a tsunami can be manufactured. They conferred with some famous oceanographer named Dubinsky. A real star. Anyway, Dubinsky said it couldn’t be done.”
“Mega-tsunami,” Decker said. “And I wouldn’t necessarily believe what E.J. Dubinsky says. She and Emily know each other. They have a history.”
“Regardless, John. Everyone thinks the crisis is over, at least temporarily. All three of El Aqrab’s mules are dead. And we’re getting intelligence reports that El Aqrab himself is still in Lebanon.”
“He’s not,” said Decker. “He’s on La Palma. I know he is.”
“You may be right. And if you are, Thompson and Strand will find him.”
Decker shook his head. “Will the Director tell the President about my theory?”
“I think he will. With any luck, we’ll get permission to mobilize a team of Rangers. Be on La Palma by sunset, maybe earlier. I’m sorry, John. I wish I had better news for you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Look, I’ve got to go. Be careful.”
“Thanks, Otto,” Decker said. Then Warhaftig was gone.
Decker turned and looked at Swenson. He took her by the hand. “I’m glad we have this time together,” he said, trying to smile. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
She squeezed his hand back, saying, “You have? What?”
“This is just between the two of us, at least for now. You have to promise me.”
“I promise. Go on, tell me.”
He began to speak with her in low and measured tones, his mouth only a few inches from her ear. Voices carried unpredictably on airplanes. She slumped down in her chair, leaning further into him. He told her everything: about the suspects they’d been watching in Queens; about the wallpapers; the bombs in Israel; about Moussa and Ali Hammel; about El Aqrab and what probably awaited them on the island of La Palma.
When he was done, Swenson did not speak for a long time. She simply sat there, sipping her water directly out of the bottle.
“I’ll completely understand if you want to stay in Madrid instead of flying on to Santa Cruz,” continued Decker. “In fact, it’s what I would advise.”
“What if we’re too late?” she finally offered up, in a whisper, almost at no one in particular. “What if you’re right and El Aqrab is there, and he sets off that nuclear device?”
Decker shook his head. “Then the world will never be the same. There’s no way to stop a mega-tsunami once it starts, right?”
Swenson looked out the window. “Not according to Newton. I don’t see how. How do you dissipate five thousand trillion joules of kinetic energy? Unless… ” Her voice trailed off.
“Unless what?”
She shook her head, continuing to stare at the glistening sea below. “No,” she said. “There is no way.”
SECTION IV
Hajj
Chapter 38
Decker and Swenson arrived in La Palma via Madrid in the late morning. A local policeman named Juan-Antonio de la Rama met them at the airport in Santa Cruz. A willowy dark man with a drooping mustache and agreeable face, de la Rama informed them, in a thick Spanish accent, that Otto Warhaftig’s fellow operatives — Thompson and Strand — would be rendezvousing with them later on that afternoon. They had been called away at the last moment.
Decker and Swenson rented a silver Citroën Saxo and followed de la Rama into Santa Cruz. With only eighteen thousand inhabitants, the city lay on the east coast of the island, on the slope of a mountain, within the amphitheater of a long-extinct volcanic crater called La Cadereta. The road from the airport skirted the sea and there were modern buildings alongside large old houses with massive covered wooden balconies jutting from their sides. Decker and Swenson were both flabbergasted by the height of the volcanic ridge that ran the length of the island, north to south. La Palma seemed to be rushing upwards toward the sky. Banana plantations, many surrounded by wind walls, covered every inch of the steep slopes.
The Parador Hotel was only a few hundred yards from the sea. It seemed oppressively dark inside the lobby; but, perhaps, that was just in contrast to the brilliant sun outside. A solitary clerk stood behind the front desk. He was no more than a boy, really, barely a teenager, and wore an ill-fitting forest green uniform with oversized epaulettes. Decker inquired politely about the missing Doctor White in Spanish but the pimply youth did little more than shrug. He was too busy sorting mail with his long fingernails. He shrugged and shrugged, and moaned about the Doctor’s unpaid bill, his overbearing friends, and how — in accordance with posted policy, no matter how regrettable — they’d soon be forced to give away his room. Swenson whipped out a credit card.
Decker continued to pepper the clerk with questions as the boy ran the card. When exactly had the scientist disappeared? Had he been seen with anyone during his stay? Had he given them his own credit card, or had someone else pre-paid? The boy didn’t seem to know very much until Decker handed him a twenty Euro bill. Then he perked up. He passed the credit card back to Swenson and vanished through a small door in the back. A moment later, he returned with a large envelope and handed it to Decker.
Decker tore it open. It was the fax from Warhaftig. It had come in an hour earlier. The document featured background information on Jamal ben Saad. Apparently, the man sent to Ansar II and the author of the book on Arabic architecture were indeed one and the same. Or had been. Jamal had disappeared soon after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in ’82. According to the fax, his father — the wealthy entrepreneur Hanid ben Saad — and younger brother Ibrahim had collaborated with the Israelis; they’d handed over information about Amal and Syrian installations prior to the invasion. Hanid ben Saad, his wife and son Ibrahim were subsequently killed by Amal in a car bombing. Jamal ben Saad was later arrested by the Israelis but he only spent three days at the Ansar II prison. Then he was released. No charges were filed against him. The Mosad suspected he was killed by Amal like his father and mother and brother. No, that was wrong. Hanid ben Saad’s wife, A’isha, was not Jamal’s biological mother. His natural mother, Rabi’a, had drowned when he was ten — a suicide. Although no note was found, they did discover a bottle of sleeping pills inside her purse. Apparently she’d been depressed for months. The fact that Jamal had only spent three days in Ansar II undoubtedly marked him as a collaborator like his father and brother. But his body was never found. Of course, Lebanon had been in chaos in those days. A missing corpse was hardly unusual.