“Sorry, but they were in the chopper with the rotor blades on.”
Frankie’s phone rang again. The second purchase had just been made. US Airways Flight 705 to Charlotte, North Carolina, departing 12:0 p.m. It had been made on another card, which had been purchased 1,500 miles away from where the first card was purchased. The chances of an innocent having purchased two cards at the locations Nick had withdrawn funds from the Jacques Guillon account were so close to nil they were inconceivable. Both flight purchases had been made on the same computer IP address, the Sheraton Hotel at Frankfurt Airport. The name was once again James Smith.
“That’s definitely him!”
“Or at least someone with one of his cards,” corrected Reid.
Frankie didn’t want to say it but she just knew it was him. She felt it. The fact that they were business tickets just added to her intuition. Nick wouldn’t fly first class, no matter how much money he had at his disposal. She had found him.
Flynn looked at Turner, who was still soaking in the relief that they had found him or least someone linked to him. However, he was of the same opinion as Frankie, something was telling him it was Nick Geller.
“What?” he asked the staring Flynn.
“The Marines?”
“Send the Marines.”
Chapter 71
Omar woke up for prayers just before dawn. It had been a terrible night’s sleep. More accustomed to the North African desert, the sound of the air conditioner chilling his room, much like the clear desert skies, was unbearable. The unit rattled and dripped with such irregularity that it wasn’t even possible to follow its rhythm. With the air off and the window open, there was nothing more than the noise of passing traffic and the temperature building relentlessly to the point that it, impossibly, was far hotter than the day had ever been. Even without the heat, it seemed that every other person in the hotel had taken turns to bang a door in the hall or stroll along the corridors talking excessively loudly.
Whether he would have slept anyway was another matter. The excitement about what was in store for him would surely have kept him awake. He had been chosen to fight for Allah against the infidel. His courage, bravery and fighting skills had been rewarded, as had his faith in Allah. He was one of the select group that had proven their faith to Allah beyond all others. Only the truly faithful and willing to die for Allah without a moment’s hesitation had been chosen and Omar was one of them.
He walked down to the hotel lobby and entered the small business center where a number of computers were provided for customers. It was 6:30 a.m. UK time, 7:30 a.m. CET. He checked his email. He stopped himself jumping for joy when he found that he had been selected to take the fight to America. He was a Fighter not a Protector. His job was to take the battle to America and show the Americans the strength of Allah and the jihad. He wondered how we would have felt had he been a Protector, ensuring the Caliphate was created and protected after the fall of America. He would have been disappointed but still proud. He checked the screen again, the booking was there, he was definitely going to America. United Airlines flight UA35, departing at 10:45 a.m. for Los Angeles, the home of Hollywood, the home of the Muslim haters. Their portrayal of Muslims was abhorrent. He smiled. They didn’t know what was about to hit them.
He hurried back to his room and dressed in the Chinos and polo shirt that had been waiting for him on arrival the day before. The socks and boating shoes completed the look and Omar stared into the full-length mirror at a stranger. His beard had been removed two weeks earlier for his passport image. The whiteness of the skin underneath the beard had initially been covered with make up for the photo but after two weeks, the skin had blended to hide any evidence of a beard. Omar stared back at an infidel, not a proud Arab warrior, but not for long. The pretense would soon be over and, armed with his trusty Kalashnikov and as many explosives as he could carry, he would be taking the war, at last, to the streets of America.
It was now all about timing. His instructions were clear. He should remain in his room for as long as possible, minimizing his contact with the outside world. If he were to leave the room, it was only to be for a few minutes after 7:30 a.m. CET to pick up his travel details. Once at the airport, he was to proceed directly to his gate, keep to himself and not talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary. Once on board the plane, he was to take his seat, strap himself in and close his eyes as though he were sleeping. Sleeping, it was advised, was the best thing to do. Whatever the case, he should avoid interactions with other passengers wherever possible and under no circumstance should he acknowledge any other jihadist that may be sharing the same flight.
At 7:05 a.m. (8:05 a.m. CET), Omar found out why he needed to remain in his room. A knock on the door initially panicked him but when it was announced in hushed Arabic that there was a parcel to sign for, Omar opened the door. Omar accepted the parcel and opened it carefully. A small vial sat protected in a stainless steel case. Omar couldn’t have been prouder, he had not been chosen as a Fighter, he was an Infector. He was going to kill millions of infidels, not just a few hundred. He jumped about the room as though he had just discovered the last golden ticket and then remembered how fragile the vial was.
A small note described in detail how he was to administer the injection and when — the when being the most important. It was imperative for the safety of Islam that the injection be administered as near to his departure time as possible. He would be contagious within four hours of injection. The contagious stage must happen while airborne. Otherwise, the disease could spread across Europe and the Middle East and beyond. The details even described what he should do if his flight were delayed to the point that he would still be in Europe at the point of contagion. He read the detail but was sure that Allah would ensure it was not needed. Omar had a destiny that Allah had pre-ordained along with forty-eight other lucky jihadists who would share his honor in taking the virus into the heart of America.
Across Europe, the other ten thousand jihadists who would take the fight to the streets of America were discovering their fates, unknown to each other that they were all selected as Fighters or Infectors. Nick was leaving nothing to chance. He was taking every man who met his criteria into the battle. In hotels in Paris, Amsterdam, Zurich, Rome, Madrid, Barcelona among many others, those same ten thousand jihadists were preparing for their flights and a day that would see them immortalized in the history of Islam.
Chapter 72
The UH-72 helicopter touched down as close to the terminal as possible while remaining out of sight of the public windows. It was on the ground for less than six seconds while the eight-man Defense Clandestine team disembarked. The UH-72, although slower and smaller than the UH-60 Black Hawk, was far less recognizable as a military helicopter. Based on the extremely popular Eurocopter EC145, the UH-72 would not raise any concerns from its shape in the sky.
Dressed casually to blend in with the passengers in the terminal, the team members were armed with MP7A1 submachine guns hidden under their jackets, along with their side arms. Silencers were available for both should the opportunity for a quiet takedown occur. The Team Leader signaled for the men to speed up; it had only been fifty minutes since the transactions had occurred and there was still a chance to take Nick down in the hotel that was located directly across from the terminal building.
The security door opened as they approached the terminal building and the head of Airport Security introduced himself. He was a former commander in the German Federal Police Service and was very accustomed to dealing with Special Forces. He kept his information short and to the point, talking while he walked.