Kamil said, “We do need explosives. And a way to get them into America.”
Draco said nothing for a moment, his eyes closed. He allowed the girl to work for a moment longer before stopping her.
“I can get all the explosives you may need, thanks to the Serbian pigs that were stupid enough to try to fight us. Artillery rounds, detonation cord, you name it. Getting it in to the United States is a different matter, though. The KLA used to be loved, but now, thanks to you and your brethren, not so much.”
“We can’t use improvised explosives like those pried out of an artillery round. We need plastique. Composition C-4. Can you get that?”
“No. No way. Maybe eight years ago, when America still had a large presence in Kosovo, but not now. I can get SEMTEX, however. It’s the same thing as C-4, with the same burn rate and initiation methods. Will that work?”
Kamil thought about it. The demolition kit was made for use with C-4, the American plastic explosive, but SEMTEX should work. He didn’t know enough about explosives to be sure, but the man he had brought with him did. He decided to agree to the SEMTEX, then talk to Adnan, the explosives expert, to see if it would work with the EFPs.
“Yes, that will be fine. How will we get it?”
“You’ll have to pick it up in Budapest. How you get it out is up to you.”
“Budapest? Can’t you bring it here? I don’t have a visa for Hungary.”
“No problem. Take the train. Your visa for here will carry you through any EU country. You won’t have an issue, and I’m not bringing the explosives here. Others in my organization have it. They’re willing to sell, but don’t push your luck. You want it, go get it.”
“I was told you could prepare it for shipping in a manner that would fool immigrations and customs. Complete with all the forms we would need. Is that not so?”
“Yes, yes, I can do that, and I will for an additional charge. But not for here. You know the saying ‘Don’t shit where you eat’? And not for America. I can get it into Canada, and that’s all.”
Rafik had told him that Montreal was as close as they would get, and had prepared other methods for onward travel of the explosives to the United States, so Kamil didn’t push the issue.
Draco patted the girl on the head, drawing her down again, then said, “The explosives are located at a house in the countryside. Much like this place. Do you know Hungary?”
Kamil found it hard to listen, even as Draco recited an address. As he finished with the directions, Draco’s face clenched up. He grunted twice, then allowed the girl to rise to her feet. She kept her eyes downcast and scurried from the room. Kamil’s revulsion was palpable, a physical thing he had to fight to contain.
Draco rose, zipping up his pants. He extended his hand, the same one that had held the head of the girl.
“
He shook Draco’s hand, looking the man in the eye but seeing the face of the child. The expression of fear and shame burning into Kamil’s soul. He said a silent prayer.
42
The chirp of the keylogger brought me out of my doze. I rubbed my eyes and focused on the laptop in front of me. The image on the screen woke me up like a shot of cold water. Whoever was on the computer was finally typing something we could use.
After the fiasco at Old Town, we’d repeated the operation from Indonesia by breaking into Noordin’s office, only with much less drama. We’d found next to nothing, either in the office itself or in the aircraft with his company name. The office wasn’t really designed for commercial business at all. Just a two-room suite located at the general aviation section of the Prague Airport. Apparently, its only use was to give the pilots some rest between flights. It held a single computer, and although it was on a network, the fifty-pound heads at Taskforce headquarters could glean absolutely nothing suspicious from the hard drive.
When they came up empty, we’d gone back in and placed a wireless keylogger on the system. A simple device that was inserted between the USB port and the USB plug of the keyboard, it would transmit everything that someone typed on the keyboard, along with a screen shot of what he or she was looking at, to a collection device just outside the office. We’d dialed into the collection device through the cell network, allowing us to see the activity in real time.
It was a lot of effort for potentially very little payback, but we were out of options and grasping at straws. Until now, because it looked like it might have worked.
“Retro. Get in here.”
I leaned the monitor back so he could see it. “Looks like someone’s filing a flight plan.”
“Where to?”
“Budapest, supposedly. Wonder if that’s where he’s really going?”
“We could slap a beacon on it.”
I tried to see the downside, but short of never seeing the beacon again, I couldn’t find one. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Give Buckshot a call. Tell him to get his ass out to the tarmac.”
“How much time’s he got?”
“Hang on, the time of departure and tail number’s coming up.”
Thirty seconds later, the information appeared on our screen, scrolling across letter by letter, eerily looking like a ghost was typing.
“Damn,” I said. “He’s leaving in the next three hours. With preflight, Buckshot’s got about thirty to forty-five minutes. Get him moving.”
Retro relayed the information, while whoever was at the computer submitted the flight plan and began typing a short e-mail. It was random bullshit, with nothing that raised my eyebrows. Eventually, he closed out of that as well, leaving us nothing to do but wait. Twenty-two minutes later, my phone rang.
“Pike, it’s Jennifer. Buckshot’s prepping the Diamondback down on the tarmac, but we’ve got a little problem. There are two planes with the tail number you sent.”
“Two? Of the same kind?”
“Nope. One’s a Casa 212, the other’s a Twin Otter.”
The duplicate numbers were going to force me to make a choice, but at least now we knew something shady was going on. We were on to something.
“Take the Twin Otter. It’s got better range. If they’re transporting our cargo, that’s what they’ll use.”
“Okay. Just so I’m sure — you want Buckshot to diamond the Twin Otter?”
I went back and forth in my mind, knowing if I was wrong, there was no way to correct it once the pilot showed up. I looked at Retro. He was a big help. He shrugged with his hands in the air.
I said, “Yeah. That’s it.”
Jennifer called back a short time later telling me the beacon was emplaced and that they were going to hang around to see which plane left. Minutes after that, she called to kick me in the gut.
“Pike, the Casa’s rolling toward the runway.”
“All right… wait until he’s airborne, then retrieve the beacon.”
As soon as I hung up, Retro said, “Wrong plane?”
“Yeah. Story of my life. Is there anything else on that e-mail he sent?”
“Not really. It’s a bunch of ‘how’s it going’ stuff. The only thing mentioned is something called the Drenica Group.”
“Get it to the Taskforce, along with the e-mail addresses. Hopefully, it ends up being some sort of front
