She crossed her arms, and her dark eyes sparkled. “You look good in civilian clothes. Nice new suit, comfortable shoes, expensive tie. No longer like an astronaut at all.”
“Thanks. I feel really different, like reborn. This has been a rush, Linda.” A mild look of concern crossed his face. “Be glad when it’s all done, though.”
Linda reached across the table, put her hand on his, and gave it a squeeze. “I know. Just think of the future, Buck. All that money stored in Switzerland, and a lifetime to spend it any way you want. That’s a dream come true, isn’t it? Now, let’s get out of here, grab one more drink in a nice place, then get you on that last plane to Nassau, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” he said. The good spirits came surging back, and he looked at his watch, a sleek JeanRichard model with a black face and slim leather band that had replaced his enormous fighter-pilot watch. Seven o’clock. Fifteen hours before liftoff.
STEVE LONGSTREET OF THE CIA was sweating in the tight room that was eight feet long by eight feet wide and eight feet high, but Chief Engineer Mohammad al-Attas was wide-eyed in exhaustion and stank of fear. The CIA interrogator had pushed the young engineer hard for hours, waiting out the pauses when the Djinn personality arose, and fighting to keep al-Attas going in the right direction. The lights were bright, and the air-conditioning was off, so the two of them sat stinking in the box.
The news that Curtis had gone on the run, was wanted for murder, and would not be speaking in behalf of al-Attas had shocked the engineer, who picked at his fingernails as his face twisted in confusion.
“Give me something, Mohammad,” Longstreet nudged, keeping a command edge on his voice. “Think hard about all of the traffic you saw exchanged between Bill Curtis and Commander Kahn. Try to visualize it. Think of where you were when you read it; pretend that you’re there right now, reading those messages you were never supposed to see.”
“I have given you everything I know, sir. Everything. I need rest and sleep, and medication. Let me have a pill to sleep, and maybe I can remember something tomorrow.”
Longstreet slapped his palm on the tabletop, and al-Attas jumped. “There may be no tomorrow for you, Mohammad. There is only
“I will then die as a martyr?” The proud Djinn voice. Crazy eyes. He jerked at the restraints but could not move.
“You will not die at all, boy. You will live a long life in our version of a dungeon. Twenty-three hours a day in a room smaller than this, no computers or books to distract your mind, blistering heat or freezing cold, and surrounded by the worst criminals in America. You are not strong enough for that, and you will go mad within a month. Talk to me.”
Al-Attas squinted his eyes hard, picturing the scrolling screens of communications that he had intercepted and read. “New Muslim Order. Commander Kahn. Undersecretary Curtis. The bridge,” he murmured. “Something about Columbus and America.”
“Whoa.” Longstreet stopped the thought. “Columbus and America? That’s good, Mohammad. You’re doing good. That is new. Think hard now. Keep going.” Christopher Columbus discovering America? That made no sense.
“No. No.” The engineer was trying to find a single piece of information that was itching in his brain. “Not Columbus. Columbia?” A smile creased the sweaty face. “Yes. Something about Columbia and America.”
Longstreet got up and leaned over the table on stiff arms, but trying to look peaceful and put al-Attas at ease. “And Challenger. Did they mention the word ‘Challenger’?”
A long moment passed before al-Attas nodded and spoke almost obediently, as if wanting to please his teacher. “Yes. I think so. Challenger, Columbia, America.”
Both
The Parramore section of Orlando was a distressed area that was as far as the imagination could reach from the magic of the frolicking Disney characters and the glitter of Universal Studios. Police patrol units cruising the alleys and checking the dark corners were constantly alert, particularly in the wee hours when the night creatures were out and fights, dope, and whores were a normal morning menu.
“Over there,” said Officer Brandi Sharpe, and her partner, Jake Young, yanked the patrol car to the curb where a disheveled man was waving at them at the mouth of an alley on Church Street. Young flicked on the blinking lights, painting the area with flashes of blue and white. Sharpe got out first, followed by Young. “What’s the problem, dude?”
“I found a dead man!” The wrinkled old wino pointed at a Dumpster. “He’s in there.”
As Young pulled his pistol to cover her, Sharpe slid her hands into rubber gloves. She hated Dumpster diving, but if the victim was truly dead, she could leave that for the crime scene techs.
The victim was a white man in a dark suit, with two gunshots in his forehead. “I don’t think he’s from around here,” he said, as Brandi called in the apparent homicide. Jake Young told the wino to sit down and stay put.
Technicians hauled the body onto the cracked concrete of the alley, took some pictures, and looked for ID but found no wallet, although an expensive watch was still strapped to the left wrist. Deep in the right front pants pocket, a tech discovered an unusual small gold pin, a star above three columns rising inside a circle, with a name etched on the reverse.
A detective at the scene was connected by phone to the security office at the Kennedy Space Center over at the Cape. “I think we’ve found one of your people over here, dead in a Dumpster,” the detective said, looking at his notebook. “Gunshots to the head. No positive identification yet, but there’s a name on an astronaut lapel pin we found on him. Guy named Buck Gardener. Ring a bell?”
The duty officer in the security office sat up straighter. The alert status was already at the top of the scale because of the threat picked up in Pakistan, and now an astronaut on the closeout crew had left the base the evening before launch and had been murdered? Not just anyone, but Gardener, whose wife was to fly on
33
KYLE SWANSON HAD NOT heard from Beth Ledford for twelve hours, which indicated that she had also been taken by Curtis and wasn’t allowed to communicate. That had not particularly bothered him, for it had been anticipated in some form, ever since her mother was captured. Curtis used Margaret as bait to get Beth, and intended to use both of them to get to him. Beth’s job was to stay cool, stay focused, and keep Curtis from doing something in panic.
The silence had allowed Swanson some unexpected time in which to prepare for the unknown, and with the assistance of the Lizard and Sybelle from Washington, the giant Marine base at 29 Palms geared up to offer Gunny Swanson whatever and whoever was needed to take down this new terrorist. A major from the base commandant’s staff, a light colonel from the Marine Special Operations Command, and a master gunnery sergeant had been on deck with him since late afternoon, prepared to expedite matters. Sybelle and the Lizard were ready to work in Washington. All they needed was a time and a place.
“You still awake back there?” he asked the Lizard via the live video hookup, as he took a seat before the
