Just as the Man from Munich was about to say something, there was an audible click on the other end. The Bangladeshi had hung up.
With the burner still in his hand, the Man from Munich watched as Marine One lifted, banked, then started its westward journey with the president of the United States.
* * *
The Bangladeshi was sitting along the edge of the bed watching TV with the burner still in his hand. As he was talking to the Man from Munich, the news was airing recent concerns that provided theories as to why Vatican City had suddenly closed its borders. Everything listed as the causal reasons behind the closure had ranged from illness to terrorism, but nothing that could be pinned down as fact.
We’ve been compromised, the Bangladeshi considered. Without a doubt.
Then a realization came over him. Burner cellphones were intended to be untraceable so its owner could remain anonymous. But the Bangladeshi also knew that there were circumstances that pushed aside that veil of anonymity to reveal a breadcrumb trail that led directly to the burner’s owner. The Man from Paris had been caught and mined for details, which in turn prompted the targeted areas to become saturated with overwhelming numbers of security. It also meant that the cellphone from the Man from Paris had been confiscated and employed for triangulation. Though the purpose behind the use of a burner was to maintain anonymity, the Bangladeshi knew that his team had been exposed by the Man from Paris.
Looking at his phone as though it was something mysterious, he weighed the fact that burners emitted the IMEI number as well as the SIM’s serial number to a nearby cell tower. The phones were no longer a means of remaining nameless and faceless during times of communication. They were now tracking devices, or the breadcrumb trail.
The Bangladeshi snapped the cellphone in half. Then he removed the SIM card and snapped it like a wafer before he tossed the burner into a nearby trash container.
Realizing that time was limited, the Bangladeshi grabbed his hat, his sunglasses, an overly sized coat to hide his frame, and did whatever he could to mask his identity from CCTV cameras.
Moving with urgency, he opened the louvered doors to his closet. Inside was the aluminum suitcase with the emblem of Satan emblazoned upon its dull shell in bright red. Grabbing the case, the Bangladeshi laid it on top of the bed. Opening its lid, he exposed the keypad that needed two sets of codes, the enabling sequence and the timer, in order to empower it.
Slowly, he traced the tips of his fingers over the keypad. He was too far from Vatican City for the device to have any true effect, this he knew. He also knew that in order to achieve the effectiveness necessary for the city-state to succumb to the full effect of the blast, he would need to get closer.
Closing the lid, the Bangladeshi now considered himself as a separate entity who worked independently from the Man from Munich, with the two now branching off in different directions to achieve their goals. Once the Man from Munich set his device, the Bangladeshi knew that he would not have enough time to draw distance and would get caught in the blast radius. But this mattered little to the Bangladeshi who would have hunted him down to secure the secrecy of his involvement, anyway. But the hunt was a moot point now that his identity had been uncovered.
With the nuke suitcase in his grasp and its heft appearing to weigh down his shoulder, the Bangladeshi looked out the window and surveyed the streets of Rome. In minutes, he knew, the Polizia di Stato would be infiltrating the area to canvas the surrounding streets.
I’m so close, he thought. He looked at the suitcase. But I will not be denied, either.
Leaving the room, the Bangladeshi exited the hostel through the rear entryway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Washington, D.C.
The Man from Munich saw nothing but dollar signs as he headed to his five-star hotel. All he had to do to earn his prize was to place the suitcase at a location close to the primary target of the White House, set the timer for three minutes, then hasten from the area. Once the unit detonated and the statement made by the blast—whether it be political or a simple act of terrorism—was something the Man from Munich cared little about, as long as the numbers in his bank account grew. All he knew was that he would never have to commit another atrocity ever again. Instead, he would be sitting along the shores of Belize sipping Pina Coladas from a coconut-shaped cup. Beautiful women would serve him. His estate would be luxurious. And he would have the sleekest and fastest cars on the road.
Reaching his hotel, the Man from Munich took the glass elevator to the sixteenth floor. His movement was fast and with purpose, the man understanding that time was now critical for a successful outcome of the operation.
After sliding his card through the card reader there was a click of the lock opening. Pushing the door aside, the Man from Munich went immediately to the closet, opened the door, dragged the unit out from within, then placed it on the bed. Opening the lid, he noted the keypad and remembered what he had to do in order to power up the device. Everything appeared to be intact. Closing the lid and then snapping the clasps in place, the Man from Munich quickly sensed that he was not alone.
As the animal drive of instinct that had been imbedded into the human condition a warning mechanism, The Man from Munich could sense a threat looming close by. At first it was vague, something that made him unsure if the threat was real or imagined. But then it nurtured into something quite real, and something that filled him with heart-pounding dread.
The Man from Munich reached inside his suit jacket and quietly
