had been abandoned and was ironically scheduled for demolition. Though the spotlights had been taken out in the blast patches of fire were rising from the building and the shop beside it, lighting the night. A water main had ruptured in the center of the street and was spitting an ineffectual fountain toward the crater. Rivulets followed cracks in the asphalt, creating an odd, shimmering effect.
There was no sign of Drabinsky, his suit, or the robot.
Feeling dread, Jack scanned the perimeter, searching for Maxine. With relief that brought tears to his eyes, he saw her climbing to her feet, staring down at her battered video camera in limp shock.
As if suddenly remembering she had a coworker, she froze halfway to her feet, turned suddenly, and peered along the street. She made eye contact with Jack and, as though she had completed a minichecklist-camera, partner-she collapsed.
Dodging flaming pieces of fabric and paper that were floating carelessly from above, Jack made his way toward ground zero.
3
The line was picked up after three rings. The cell phones were encrypted using a Twofish algorithm and a 4096-bit Diffie-Hellman key exchange.
No one would be listening in.
“We have a problem,” the caller said. “There was an incident downtown.”
A pause. “The carjacking?”
“You heard about it.”
“It’s all over the news. Don’t tell me that was us.”
“The car was stolen from one of our assets, Abdal al-Fida. He decided to take a little trip off the reservation.”
“What’s our exposure?”
“He’s alive but he isn’t in custody, so I think we’re in the clear. He outsourced the supplies he used, but that’ll be taken care of by morning.”
“Where is he?”
“Still in the city. He’s been in contact and, to his credit, he seems remorseful. What would you like me to do with him?”
“What I’d like and what’s prudent are very different things. Can we rely on his cooperation?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I’d rather we not do this here. Wipe all trace of him and send him home. We’ll deal with him later.”
“Why not deal with him now?”
“He’s one of Zuabi’s recruits. Things could get sticky.”
“What about the investigation? The scrutiny could compromise our operation.”
“I’m aware of that, but it’s too late to pull the plug. Point Justice in another direction and hand them someone of interest. Make sure it’s homegrown. The White House will jump all over that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s good PR. Better a few local crazies than some Islamic bogeyman.” A pause. “Maybe we can even work this to our advantage.”
“How?”
“Use it to tie up FBI resources while we do what has to be done. Zuabi says his man is already headed to Bulgaria to secure delivery.”
“Who did he send?”
“The one I told you about, Hassan Haddad. The imam says he’s his best soldier. Loyal, efficient, and deadly.”
“He better be right. We can’t afford any more mistakes.”
“I’m with you. If anything goes wrong, we’ll cut our losses and call it a day. Otherwise, we continue full steam and let the imam worry about this idiot al-Fida.”
“Can Zuabi be trusted?”
“A little late to be asking that question, isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t worried till now. You realize however we distract them, the feds will heighten security across the board.”
“They can trot out all the security they want,” the voice said. “They still won’t see us coming. No one will.”
The woman in the security uniform smiled at him, but Abdal al-Fida had to wonder-was her smile genuine or was there something unspoken behind it? Something dangerous? Had someone at the terminal identified him, found something at the car, dug up a picture of him and sent it to every police department, every transportation center, every 7-Eleven?
He hadn’t expected this, the paranoia. And perhaps he wouldn’t feel it so strongly if the car hadn’t sat there so long, if he hadn’t screwed up. If he’d just done as he’d been instructed No, he admonished himself. It was a good plan.
He had intended to park the Land Rover in the underground lot of that absurd monstrosity of a federal building downtown, then wait for morning, when the place would be filled with enough infidels to send this fat, lazy nation a resounding message from Allah.
The afternoon before, Abdal had followed one of the blind fools who worked there to an apartment near Fisherman’s Wharf-an elderly woman who wore the beleaguered look of a capitalist slave. Breaking into her car had taken him no time at all, and he’d found her electronic key card tucked into a pocket of the visor above the driver’s seat. Stupid, trusting, and careless. It’s a miracle the nation functioned at all.
In a way, this theft was an act of mercy. If she could not gain access to the parking lot the following day, her life might be spared.
Of course, in the end they were all spared, weren’t they?
The black with the gun had seen to that.
Abdal cursed himself for allowing such an insignificant piece of trash to so easily take control of him. Finding the muzzle of a gun in his face as he waited for the light to change had been so unexpected that reason had fled. Ironically, his training had taken hold then: blend in. Don’t create a scene. It took time for him to get to the rooftop of an unguarded building within a thousand feet of the target, to obtain an unobstructed transmit line from his phone to the one strapped to the primer bomb.
Allah had spared him, and for that he was grateful, but he had to wonder why. He’d never had any interest in martyrdom, but the shame he felt for this failure was worse than any form of death. He knew that those he worked for, those who at this very moment were probably shocked by his impulsiveness, his impatience-his foolishness — would kill him. The methods were still too horrible to contemplate. Yet he resisted the impulse to disappear. He also resisted the urge to rally his wits, to take his own life in an improvised act of terror. Allah did not smile upon cowards, and willful suicide with a tacked-on purpose was still first and foremost a means to escape punishment.
Besides, if he were meant to die Abdal preferred to do it in London, where he had lived for nearly twenty of his twenty-two years, in the comfort of his own home.
Within an hour of the disaster, he sent his primary contact an encrypted text message confessing his sin and begging understanding, if not forgiveness. Several minutes later he received a reply, instructing him to fly home via Los Angeles, where a reservation had already been made in his name. He knew full well that they would consult with Hassan before deciding what to do with him. That was something, at least. Hassan might choose to spare his life so he could surrender it with dignity.
Whatever the decision, Abdal would use the time he had left to make peace with his God.
