“If we can nail Borshnik, have him implicate Gates, we’d have something else.”
“Or even Sharif,” Lauren said. “If Gates is that good, playing both of them-”
“He’s apparently that good,” Dave said.
“Officially, we don’t plea bargain with terrorists.”
“I don’t plan to,” O’Brien said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Abdul-Waahid backed the catering van up to loading docks at the rear entrance to the federal building. Drivers in two other vans did the same thing. They began unloading the large stainless steel containers filled with hot food. The caterers put the containers on rolling tables and waited for a deputy to electronically unlock the door. There was a loud click and a long buzz sound. The door opened and the catering team made its way slowly through the building labyrinth.
One man wore a white chef’s uniform and carried a clipboard in a meaty hand. He waddled with the gait of a weightlifter on steroids. No neck and a head like a fire plug on massive shoulders. He moved his Buddha body in a stiff, all shoulders march, barking orders at his cooking staff. Two women from prep joined them, pushing bowls of salad to go with the shiny, food-filled containers.
As they waited for a service elevator, the man in the chef’s outfit looked over at Waahid and asked, “You cold, guy?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing that windbreaker. At least it’s white. But when we start serving, lose it.”
“I understand,” Waahid said.
The two large service elevators opened, and the crew loaded the food inside. The chef said, “I appreciate you filling in so fast to cover for Bobby. It’d be like him to find help to take his place if he got sick. He knows this is a big account for us. As long as the hunt for these dudes continues, we’re serving three squares a day in here.”
The elevators opened, and they made their way down the long hallway.
Mike Gates, Eric Hunter, and Paul Thompson approached the table and sat near Lauren, opposite from O’Brien and Dave. Gates said, “Here’s the situation: our agents and the troopers were killed by men who follow a Russian who’s been going by the name of Yuri Volkow.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dave said.
Hunter said, “Volkow, no doubt, has more than one alias.”
“Who is he?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled. “He’s the kind of guy who can as easily slip radioactive thallium in your tea as he could drop the stuff on a major city. He was mid-level KGB before the name change. We strongly suspect he did contract killings for the Kremlin, could knock off an outspoken journalist, whatever was needed.”
“What’s the plan for getting Jason back alive?” O’Brien asked.
“You’re the plan, O’Brien,” said Gates. “They know you and Nick Cronus from all the insane media coverage. They know of your association with Jason Canfield. Probably know you’re ex-police. It would be a natural instinct for you, a man not connected officially with the government, to take off and look for your young friend.”
O’Brien said nothing.
Dave said, “Well, now, there’s an obvious change of plans. We had a deadline to find the remaining HEU and exchange it for Jason’s life. So, besides what we already know-Sean and Nick found the stuff, the Russians stole it and put it up on the web for auction-by now Jason’s lost value to them. And, if he’s seen their faces ….”
“What can I do?” O’Brien asked.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to be the highest bidders, under an assumed name that’s part of their member’s only club.”
“What name?”
“Zuhair-Rafi,” he was hand-picked by bin Laden before we took him out.”
Lauren said, “Could be a problem. How do we know that Mohammed Sharif isn’t next in line? What’s to keep him from protesting if he feels he’s being outspent by a fellow al Qaeda member?”
Hunter said, “Because the way the auction is set, in non-traceable IP addresses, each player is guaranteed anonymity. So none of the bidders will specifically know who has the highest bid. But they’ll be able to see the numbers-each successive high bid. If Mr. X is at two-mil, for example, the player who wants to push the envelope a few hundred-thou higher can type it in with his code, and it’s officially registered. Volkow will collect the twenty million or so for passing go. The other three or four in the auction, we don’t think it will be more than that, will either stay at the poker table or they’ll fold and get out of the game. They won’t leave a trace of their presence to us or anyone who can take a seat at their Tehran fold ‘em game.”
Gates said, “For a guy like Mohammed Sharif, this would be a supreme test. Score enriched uranium on American soil, package it for delivery and let her fall over someplace like Times Square or Independence Avenue. O’Brien, we need you to be one of the team members who infiltrates Volkow’s hideout right after Mohammed Sharif’s people enter the premises.”
“How do we know they’ll enter?” O’Brien asked.
“We don’t,” Hunter said. “We’ve learned that Mohammed has received information that can lead him to Volkow’s location. We think Mohammed is planning to hit Volkow before the auction, kill everyone, including Jason, and take the HEU.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” O’Brien asked. “We can’t sit in some car like detectives staking out a crack house. We need an idea of what, when, how, and where.”
“We can answer most of those,” Gates said. “We believe Volkow is hiding somewhere in Jacksonville. Their online site is routed to half dozen different IP’s. Some in Egypt. Our tech guys can say they’re somewhere in the Jacksonville area, we’re just not sure exactly. We think he’s holed up in there with at least half dozen men, maybe more, the HEU, and the kid.”
Lauren said, “And because we have no clue where Mohammed Sharif and his group are hiding, this is an opportunity to get two birds with one strike force.”
“Why do you want me part of it?” O’Brien asked.
Gates smiled and said, “Because we’ve read your profile. You’re an expert at finding people. We know you just might be the one to find Jason alive amongst all of this. And, with your background in hostage negotiations, should it get to that, you might be quite effective at getting the kid released.” Gates looked at the digital clock. “O’Brien, finder of lost souls … see if you can find Jason Canfield.”
“I found Robert Miller. He sends his regards, but not his regrets.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Andrei Keltzin smoked a cigarette outside the old warehouse, pacing nervously, glancing up at the second floor and wondering if Yuri Volkow was looking down at him beyond the glare and dirt on the glass. Keltzin propped his AK-47 against the building and dialed his cell. Mohammed Sharif answered. “Yes.”
“I will give you the location. The rest of the money when you arrive.”
Deputy Ronald Hobbs opened a door leading directly from the serving room to the command center. O’Brien looked up, seeing the movement of the caterers in the background, the smell of red pepper and Cajun sauces floating in the air. Over Gates’ shoulder, he saw a cook in a light white jacket.
Gates looked at O’Brien without any noticeable reaction and said, “Robert Miller, what a career. We could use his expertise today. If you see Bob, give him my regards.”
“When I see Boris Borshnik, a.k.a. Yuri Volkow, shall I tell him the same thing?”
Gates’ jaw muscles popped, his eyes had a snake-like coldness, no emotion beyond indifference and a
