Dead or Alive

and looking for payback but still under control.

“Sure,” Chavez said. “If he’s up for it, I am. One question, though: What do we do when we get down there? It’s a big country, and Hadi and whoever he’s with probably already went to ground.”

“Or slipped out of the country,” Clark added.

“Let’s assume they’re still there,” Hendley replied. “Jack, let’s get back to Rick’s question: Assuming you’re onto something with this online file-storage stuff. What do we do with it?”

“We do an end run,” Jack replied. “Right now, Hadi’s the biggest URC player we’ve got a bead on, correct?”

“Yep,” Chavez said.

“And we know he went from Vegas to San Francisco before heading to Sao Paulo, probably to get his Qudus passport from Agong Nayoan, which means they were probably in direct contact-at the very least, so Nayoan could tell him to pick it up.”

“Go on,” Hendley said.

“Nayoan’s lazy. When we tossed his place, we found he never cleaned out his Web browser history.” Jack turned his laptop around so everyone could see it. The screen displayed a text file with hundreds of lines of website addresses. “While we’ve been talking, I’ve been sifting through these. Since the URC went radio-silent, Nayoan visited an online storage site every day, three times a day, and he rotated to a different site every second day.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Sam Granger. “That’s good work, Jack.”

“Thanks. So far, Nayoan’s rotated through thirteen storage sites. Ten to one we’d find the same ones on Hadi’s computer.”

“That only gets us part of the way there,” Bell said. “We’re going to need his user name and password.”

“Statistics,” Jack replied. “Eighty-five percent of surfers either use their e-mail as a user name or some variation of their e-mail prefix-the stuff before the ‘at’ sign. Let’s have Biery throw together a script-we’ll check each site and try different permutations of Hadi’s e-mail. When we find the right one, we do a brute-force crack of his password. Once we’re in, we use the OTPs Dom found at Almasi’s house and we start pulling Hadi’s strings.”

“One problem,” Hendley said. “The whole thing’s predicated on Hadi checking his online storage site.”

“Then let’s give him a reason,” John Clark said.

“What’re you thinking?”

“Spook him. We drop an anonymous tip with Record News. A vague description of Hadi and a few sketchy details. He sees it, panics, and checks in for new orders. We make sure something’s waiting for him.”

“There’s a downside,” Rick Bell said. “If the Brazilian cops get their hands on him before we do, we’re shit outta luck.”

Clark smiled. “No balls, no blue chips.”

Hendley was silent for a few moments. “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it. Jack, you get Biery rolling on this.”

Jack nodded. “How about the Norfolk Indonesians?”

“You and John.”

“Hate to jinx things, but I got a bad feeling about all this,” Chavez said.

“Like?” This from Granger.

“Like this refinery thing is just the first shoe.”

75

SHORTLY BEFORE NINE A.M., Musa passed through Yakima, Washington, and drove another few miles to Toppenish, where he got off the highway and drove into town. He found a restaurant, something called Pioneer Kitchen, and pulled in. The parking lot was only a quarter full. Americans, Musa had long ago learned, preferred everything quick and easy, especially their food. Though he hadn’t seen one, he assumed Toppenish had its fair share of McDonald’s and Burger Kings and Arby’s. Always on the move, going about their important business, Americans did not sit down and eat unless it was on their couch in front of a television. A pill for every ailment, and disorders for every character flaw.

He found a parking spot near the front door and walked in. The sign at the register counter told him to seat himself. He found a booth by the window so he could keep an eye on the Subaru, and sat down. A waitress in a mustard-yellow apron and white blouse walked up. “Morning; can I get you some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”

“No. Toast, no butter, and a fruit cup of some kind.”

“Sure, no problem. Be right back.” She returned with a cup and a coffee decanter and left.

Behind him he heard a voice ask, “Hey, is that your car?”

Musa turned. A uniformed police officer was standing there. He was in his mid-fifties, with a crew cut and paunch. He had sharp eyes, though. A cop’s eyes. Musa took a calming breath and said, “Pardon me?”

“That car. Is it yours?”

“Which one?”

“The hatchback there.”

“The Subaru? Yes.”

“Your dome light’s on. Noticed it as I was walking in.”

“Oh, thank you, I didn’t notice. I won’t be here long. I don’t think it will hurt the battery.”

“Probably not. Just out of curiosity, what’s that thing in the back? Looks like a big bait box.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses.”

The cop snorted. “Didn’t know there was such a thing. Where’re you headed?”

“School of vet medicine at UNLV-Las Vegas.”

“Long drive.”

“Paperwork got messed up; the airline wouldn’t put it in the cargo hold. I decided a little road trip wouldn’t hurt me. Plus, I’m getting fifty cents a mile.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The cop walked away and took a stool at the counter. A few minutes later, the waitress returned with Musa’s toast and fruit cup. “Willie gettin’ in your business?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

She jerked her thumb at the cop. “Willie’s the chief of police. He does a good job, but he’s nosy as hell. Last year I broke up with my boyfriend, and Willie knew about it before my mother did.”

Go away, woman. Musa shrugged. “Small towns.”

“I guess. Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll come check on you in a few.” She left.

Allah, give me patience, Musa thought. Truth be told, he usually found most Americans quite tolerable, if a tad garrulous. That probably wouldn’t be the case if his skin was a little darker or if he had an accent. Fate was a strange thing. Otherwise decent people blithely moving through life, worshipping a false god, trying to make sense of an existence that had no meaning outside of Islam. Americans loved their “comfort zones.” The vast majority of them had never and would never leave the confines of the United States, so sure the rest of the world had nothing to offer except for perhaps an intriguing vacation spot. Even the events of 9/11 had done little to open Americans’ eyes to the real world outside their bubble. Quite the contrary. Encouraged by their own government, many of them had withdrawn deeper into their shells, taking comfort in their labels and platitudes: Islamo-Fascist. Extremist. Evildoers who hate our freedom. Those that would see to destroy America.

America could not be destroyed from without, of that Musa was certain. In that, the Emir had been prescient.