Pandora's Legion

a red flag, too. If he pours something or drops a liquid, notice where. HazMat teams are standing by. They can handle just about anything from a bite to decontaminating a bus.” He paused for emphasis, then added, “I just pray they don’t have to decontaminate an airport.”

Mannock spoke for the first time. “When do we start?” Leopole checked his watch. “First shift hits the airport in twenty mikes.”

MARICOPA COUNTY

“Stop at once!” Hazrat Sial shouted to the driver.

The limousine urgently braked to a stop along 1-17, and Imam Taamir guessed the reason. He was quickly proven right. Sial had barely opened the rear door before voiding his stomach onto the ground. He dry heaved several times, emitting gagging and retching sounds that caused the cleric to turn his head.

When the Pakistani recovered his composure, he sat upright again. “Water,” he croaked. “Mohammed” passed a bottle to the jihadist, who rinsed his mouth and spat out the remnants of his previous meal. From ingrained habit, the youngster replaced the cap and offered the plastic container back to his accomplice. The man in the front seat waved a hand. “You may keep it.”

Sial grasped the meaning. The response had far less to do with manners than with the donor’s welfare.

The biowarrior shut the heavy door and laid his head back on the upholstered seat.

Taamir nodded to the driver and the Mercedes pulled away.

35

PHOENIX, ARIZONA

Terminal One at Sky Harbor Airport was typically bustling. Departing passengers unloaded on the north side while most arrivals awaited transportation on the south. Among the former were three SSI operators: Breezy Bosco, and Delmore. Each went to his assigned sector, knowing that the other on-duty teams were deploying in the other terminals.

Breezy took in the semi-modern ambience: Southwestern murals, bright lights, and industrial grade carpeting. The irony struck him: presumably the terrorist plan was designed to avoid heightened airport security but now the confrontation — if it came — would occur in an airport. He walked to a remote area and opened his innocuous- appearing suitcase. At the appointed time he made the comm check with his handset and received “up” responses from his partners and Leopole. He sat down, produced last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and began his surveillance. The gorgeous mannequins’ forms had long since been etched in his memory.

Across the concourse, Bosco established his own routine. He took care to place his ticket folder in his front pocket, ensuring that his airline matched the appropriate gate. Two lines of travelers were queuing up at the security gate, indulging in the routine of removing shoes, emptying pockets, and placing their possessions in gray plastic trays for examination by TSA screeners. No Middle Eastern passengers were visible yet.

Bosco gave Delmore a subtle nod, releasing the body builder to patronize one of the fast food emporiums.

It looked like a long night.

* * *

“There, to the right.”

Jim Mannock nudged Sherree Kim, who looked out the window of the shuttle bus. She saw two targets among the throng of travelers entering Terminal Three: apparently Muslim males, one young and one mid to late thirties.

After five hours on their shift, the investigators faced a quick decision: should they make the call and continue riding the bus? Send one inside, retaining the other as the rover? Or should both disembark and tail the two suspects?

Mannock glanced around. No likely Muslims rode the inter-terminal shuttle. As the senior partner it was his call. “I’ll bail out, Sherree. Call Team Three and tell them what you saw. But watch for other suspects, too.” With that he unlimbered his six-one frame and stepped off the bus moments before it resumed its route.

Sial and Mohammed walked into the building from the north side and skirted the baggage claim area. With his long legs, Mannock had little trouble catching up. He noted that the two were together but trying to appear apart. The taller, older man stayed eight to ten steps behind the other. The youngster was focused on getting through the building; he exhibited no tradecraft. Mannock assessed the other as an escort: not terribly well trained, but possessing rudimentary skills. The man avoided obvious turning of his head, likely using his peripheral vision, and occasionally stopping to tie a shoe or check his ticket to look around him.

Mannock stepped to a phone bank and pulled out his radio. “Frank, this is Jim.”

“Copy, Jim.” Leopole’s voice snapped back from his command post in Terminal One.

“I’m in Three, looking at two suspects. Sherree is talking to Team Three from the bus. Our items of interest headed straight through, north to south. Looks like they’re trying to shake any tail.”

“Stand by, One.” Mannock suspected that Leopole was contacting Team Three in case Kim was unable to reach them. The gangly ex-cop scanned the area, looking for Ashcroft or Green, but did not see them.

Moments later Leopole was back on the air. “Jim, Frank.”

“Jim here. Go.”

“Three is on ‘em, Jim. They split up. Green’s tailing the older guy and Ashcroft is waiting to see what the other one does.”

“Where are they?”

“Stand by. We’ll go common in ten seconds.”

Mannock switched to the common frequency that placed Leopole, himself, and Team Three on the same channel.

“Green’s up.”

“Ashcroft here.”

“Mannock here.”

“Frank’s up. Bob, where’s your target?”

Ashcroft’s drawl came across the circuit. “He left the restroom, then went to baggage claim. He’s got a valise in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. Looks like he’s wiped it on some doors. Right now he’s on the shuttle island.”

“Roger that. Mark the spots for HazMat. Break-break. Phil, what about your guy?”

“He’s just walking around,” Green replied. “Looks like no threat.”

“All right. Stay on him. Jim, tail the primary and let me know where he goes.”

Mannock acknowledged, stowed his radio, and walked to the back of the line at the shuttle stop. From twenty feet away, he assessed the young foreigner. The skin had taken on a pallorous sheen, as if the man was perspiring from a temperature. Occasionally the target raised his handkerchief to his mouth, either to wet it or to keep down something that wanted to rise above the tongue.

While boarding, Mannock went to the rear of the bus and took an aisle seat. Discreetly, he tugged on a pair of latex gloves and watched his mark, seated three rows forward. The young Muslim kept his hankie in hand but did not seem to wipe it on the seats or rails. Too many people nearby Mannock thought. We’ll see what he does at the next stop. The jihadist did nothing for the next twenty minutes. He rode the shuttle, clutching his handkerchief in his right hand with his valise in his lap. Once he stood up as if to leave, but merely changed seats. Mannock stayed put, unwilling to commit to a move until certain of his mark’s intention.

Hazrat Sial turned in his seat and looked at James Mannock. Busted, the copper thought. It was bound to happen.

At the next stop the Pakistani exited the bus. Mannock resisted the impulse to chase his prey, instead calling Leopole with an update. “Frank, Jim. He’s just gone into Terminal One.”

* * *

With little else to do, Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh arrived early to relieve Team One and received a radio