that would snag the kid. When he finally gave up, he had an impossible time getting a taxi and ended up walking nearly three miles back to the hotel.
Worn out, Dean collapsed on his bed as soon he got into the room. Within moments, he was sound asleep.
He woke at three A.M. the next day. Dim yellow light filled the room, as if it were encased in amber. Smog had descended on the city, filtering the bright lights of the hotel and nearby buildings. Outside, the city was cast in a sinister sepia, the color something stolen from a 1930s gangster movie. It would be the scene right before the good guy was shot, thought Dean, the setup for the big tearjerker at the end.
He closed the curtains and went back to the bed, but couldn’t sleep. He thought of Kenan Conkel and then his parents, clueless and confused back home.
Dean thought of his own father, stubborn — twenty times more stubborn than Kenan’s for sure — and ornery. He’d have come after Dean if he heard he’d been mixed up in something like this.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’d been in denial as well. Dean had expected him to make trouble with the marines, but he hadn’t. He’d just treated Dean as if he didn’t exist, which at the time was all right with Dean.
If he saw Conkel now, Dean wasn’t going to bother shadowing him. He’d grab the kid and get him locked up. It was the best thing for him, and his family, to say nothing of the innocent people he might end up helping to murder.
Assuming Dean caught up with him.
Dean closed his eyes, but he couldn’t turn off his brain. After an hour more of fitful tossing and turning, he got up and took a shower, then went to look for something to eat.
CHAPTER 117
“It’s a chemical plant in Galveston, not Houston,” said Johnny Bib, pointing at the diagram. “Not Houston. Close, but no banana.”
Rubens ignored the non sequitur, looking over to the analyst he’d brought along with him, Mark Nemo.
“So it’s legitimate?” Rubens asked.
“Yes, but.” Nemo opened the folder on his lap and slipped out a piece of paper with a photo on it; it was an exterior shot of the site. “This file is based on the company’s own website. Someone cut and pasted a few bits into the file.”
Lahore Two, the CIA source purporting to know al-Qaeda’s U.S. target, had finally delivered his promised information. The file consisted of several bills of sale concerning the purchase of explosives from a Chinese company, supposedly for resale, by a commercial supplier in Turkey. Normally used in construction, the explosives totaled several tons. The Turkish company did exist, but the computer geeks working for Desk Three could find no trace of the purchases in the company’s records — which might or might not prove that they were diverted to al- Qaeda. The Chinese company’s records were in such disorder that anything was possible.
The file also contained a diagram of a chemical plant, along with a crude map of the area showing the nearby Houston Ship Canal, which connected the two cities. The diagram didn’t show where a bomb would be detonated, but any reasonably intelligent psychopath would be able to pick out half a dozen places where the explosion would do decent damage.
Rubens put the printouts of the file and the website side by side on his desk. The similarities were obvious; whoever had put the file together had used the website to gather data.
“What’s the ‘but’?” asked Rubens.
“Well, the thing is — someone from Pakistani intelligence accessed that website the same day this file was created,” said Nemo. “They have a pretty good system for checking page downloads and hits. And, this is a chemical company. They go weeks without anyone looking at their pages.”
The file could be a preliminary mission brief, rough instructions delivered to a field commander, who would then conduct an on-site reconnaissance before formulating the real plan. Or it could be something someone put together to justify a decent payday from the CIA.
Rubens leafed through the web pages of the real plant. According to the information, Galveston PC was the biggest maker of plastics on the Gulf Coast.
A decent target, but big enough? Asad’s other targets had been larger.
If it were one of several targets, it would certainly be big enough. Disrupt the plastics industry, and the effects would be far reaching. Asad had made it clear that the aim of his campaign was economic damage.
Even so…
“You did good work,” said Rubens, handing back the files. “Keep at it.”
“So you think Lahore Two’s information is bad?” said Collins when Rubens told her what they had found. She had only the slightest defensiveness in her voice, and Rubens couldn’t decide whether she was sincere or had simply become better at hiding her animosity.
“It’s really something you will have to make the call on,” Rubens said. “The file with the diagram could have been put together in about ten minutes by anyone with access to a computer. And if your source is in Pakistani intelligence, the timing seems provocative at best.”
Collins would not identify her source, and Rubens didn’t expect her to. But her silence tended to confirm that he was, in fact, with Pakistani intelligence.
“Are you going to bring this up at the conference call this morning?”
“I thought it would be proper for you to do so,” said Rubens. “Unless you want me to.”
“Thanks.” Collin’s relief was obvious. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 118
On his way over to interview the owner of the Mexico City restaurant where Kenan had apparently eaten during his first visit, a thug sidled up next to Charlie Dean and tried to steal his wallet. The would-be thief made the mistake of grabbing Dean’s arm and twisting it behind him; Dean promptly threw the man to the ground, then swung back in time to land a hay-maker on the jaw of an accomplice. The plainclothes Mexican detective accompanying Dean grabbed both, offering Dean a chance at “instant justice” as he called it: five minutes in the alley with each of them, and they’d call it even. Dean passed.
It was the highlight of his day. The restaurant owner didn’t remember Kenan, nor did any of the staff; they seemed so harried that Dean didn’t doubt they wouldn’t remember his face in five minutes. Everything the Mexican police knew about al-Qaeda came from reports Dean had read on the way down. Though the deputy chief in charge of terrorism matters was exceedingly polite, Dean could tell that looking for Kenan would have about the same priority for the overworked department as rescuing a cat stuck in a tree.
As for the CIA — the officer who was supposed to pick up Dean at the hotel got stuck in traffic and never showed up. Dean finally found his own ride to the embassy, where he got a half-hour lecture on the problems of dealing with the Mexican authorities from the deputy station chief.
The FBI agents assigned to the city to assist in terrorism investigations were more receptive — not to mention punctual — but they didn’t have much useful information either. Most of what they knew about related to guerilla groups and drug smugglers far outside the city; Kenan’s name and face drew shrugs. But at least they offered to take him to dinner.
“Try Veracruz tomorrow,” Telach told Dean when he checked in. “If we come up with anything for you to check out in the meantime, we’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER 119
