Countdown to Mecca (41 page)

Ana watched in confused wonder as Sammy typed and typed and typed. “Security,” he grunted, “on the larger IPS … stubborn. Credentials I used before not working … not offering me the choice of a new password.” He turned to smile at Ana. “Okay, they want to play it rough? Two can play at that game.”

He hunched over even farther, with his chin practically on the keyboard. “Don't look,” he joked. “I'm going to some notorious secret hacker sites. Need to find a nice RAT worm.”

“Rat worm?”

“Remote Access Trojan worm program,” he translated. “Pretty much been around since the dawn of the PC. They weren't always malicious; similar programs allowed techies to run diagnostics, and repair machines from afar. But even the crudest allowed a remote user to do things to a computer that users would never allow on their own.”

He typed some more, his face looking craftier and craftier in the glowing light of the screen. “Oh, no,” he said. “You're not getting away that easy. Come to papa!” He glanced at Ana. “I designed the RAT I'm inserting. It's considerably more sophisticated and completely nefarious.” He chuckled. “Originally designed by a Russian hacker to steal money from bank accounts, it has been tweaked by a dozen users, most recently by a black hat hacker known as Tex, who claimed it was immune to detection by the major antivirus programs.”

“So if Andrews is using the site,” Ana said, “he won't know that you're peeking in.”

“Exactly,” Sammy gloated. He looked at Ana while his fingers still typed—as if he were doing a cycle-riding trick. “Want some new dresses or shoes?” he asked. “I might even be able to access his credit card numbers.”

Ana slapped him playfully on the arm. “Pay attention.”

Sammy nodded, suddenly serious. “You're right. You're right, you're right, you're right. Any RAT was dangerous—it could easily be configured to turn on me so I had better pay attention all right!”

He clicked the
ENTER
button, and seemed to hold his breath. So Ana did, too. Just as it seemed that she had to let out her breath, scrolls and scrolls of information started sweeping down Sammy's computer screen.

“It's reading the directories as if it were at the computer itself!” he exulted, turning off the virus checker. “Downloading his drive onto one of mine … now!” He clicked on the
ENTER
key again, then stood, shooing Ana from Ric's seat. “Come on, come on,” he said. “While mine is downloading, I can check e-mails on his.”

Ana made way, but stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders as he typed even more. Within seconds he had not only accessed the accounts he'd already found, but two more Google accounts and a third from a private ISP.

“Anything?” Ana asked intently.

“Keep your expectations low,” he advised, eyes locked on the screen. “It's a slow job, but hopefully a beneficial one. There!” He suddenly pointed, straightening up.

“What is it?” Ana asked.

“An encryption program,” Sammy cheered. “That means they're trying to hide something.” He began typing more ferociously. The documents that the word processer generated were bland; two personal recommendations for men whom Brooks had served with, and a Christmas shopping list from two years before. But there were a dozen partly deleted files in the directory. Sammy chose one at random and ran the encryption program. Much of what it returned was nonsense; the program was confused by the missing data. But then he discovered two partial paragraphs, time stamped and dated earlier that day—after Brooks had died. He clicked the first one into view.

“Look,” he said, pointing again. The two read the message. It said that in order to minimize early detection and still do the most damage, the aircraft should be flown at precisely 18,500 feet on a precise course as delineated on the map insert. At detonation, the result would be doses of toxin in excess of survivable levels well beyond the five-mile radius of the population center.

They looked at each other. “They still plan to detonate a device,” he said.

“But where?” Ana wondered.

He turned and clicked the second message into view.

At first glance it looked like a dead end—a simple message from one friend to another, commending each other for jobs well done. It read as if it had been absently written simply to fill time—on a long flight perhaps? But then both Sammy and Ana read the last line at the same time. It was a postscript, a pun, a play on words, a variation of a famous song.

But instead of reading “hooray,” it read “Who Prays for Hollywood?”

The bellow Sammy let out woke everyone.

“What?” Anastasia cried, both frightened and excited by her love's exclamation. “Sammy, what is it?”

“I know the real target!” he exclaimed as the others came running over.

“What is it?” Ric asked grimly.

“L.A.,” Sammy instantly retorted. “Hollywood, Tinseltown, the Dream Factory, La La Land. Brooks hated it, the extremists hated it, so that has to be it. That's where they plan to detonate the bomb.”

Ric looked convinced, but his expression also communicated that he wasn't sure the people who could also help stop it would be convinced as well. They had already denied more compelling evidence. “I don't know if that's going to be an easy sell.…”

“It doesn't have to be,” said a certain, somber voice behind them. Anastasia, Miwa, Ritu, Sammy, and Ric turned to see Sol standing there. “No more waiting for others to do the right thing. If we're certain, we can do something about it.”

 

53

Dover waited until she saw Montgomery Morton leave the house. He may have been going to the mailbox, he may have been going to sit by the pool, he may have just been going for a walk. It didn't matter. She had been waiting quite some time, and she didn't have a lot of time to spare. If their fears were true, no one had a lot of time to spare.

She left her car at the curb and moved quickly across the lawn. She rang the doorbell even before she had made it up all the steps. When no one answered for a few seconds, she rang it again, trying to keep from holding it down. She wanted it to sound as normal and benign as possible.

In the strict sense, Dover knew what she was doing was neither illegal nor unethical. She was following up on an active investigation, albeit on her own initiative, and acting not only in the best interests of the Bureau and the United States, but also in the best interests of the Morton family.

She was about to press the bell a third time when the door opened. Mrs. Morton wore an apron over her jeans and casual sweater. Her face was drawn, and lacked makeup. It was obvious that she hadn't had much sleep over the past several days.

“Hi,” Dover said. “I'm Dover Griffith, and I work for the FBI.” She held up her credentials. “I really need to talk to you about something very important.”

“My husband isn't here,” Cynthia Morton said absently, vaguely looking around to see if she could spot where he went.

“That's okay,” Dover assured her. “I really wanted to talk to you.”

“Me? Why me? I don't know anything.” Mrs. Morton winced, then stepped back. Dover could see that she had been living on pins and needles ever since her son's birthday party. “Yes, I know. That's okay. I don't want you to tell me anything. I want to tell you something.”

“I see. Then—won't you come in?”

“Thanks,” Dover said, and followed her to the kitchen, watching silently as the woman went to the oven to check on a batch of cookies she was making. Dover looked around. The entire room was filled with fresh cookies, and cakes, and even pies. Apparently baking was Cynthia Morton's escape, and she had needed her escape in spades for the last few days.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Morton asked.

“Sure,” said Dover. “That would be very nice. I am sorry to bother you. I know all of this is a horrible strain.”

Mrs. Morton's hands trembled as she measured the grounds. Dover went over and took the carafe to fill it. “I can help,” she said.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Morton gave her a weak smile. “Does it get easier?”

“Eventually,” said Dover, knowing that was what she needed to hear.

“He saw prostitutes, you know.” Mrs. Morton's lower lip quivered. “I always knew he did something—I suspected. I guess I didn't honestly know the entire story. I didn't want to know. But I thought it happened far away, when he traveled. Overseas, you know. Deployments and temporary assignments. When he missed me. Not here. Not in San Francisco.”

She suddenly erupted into tears. Dover folded her into her arms.

“I'm sure he loves you and your children very much,” she said. “That's why he needs to tell you everything.”

Cynthia Morton looked at Dover with dread. “More prostitutes?”

“No, no,” said Dover. “Worse. Much worse.”

Both women looked up and over as they heard someone else speak. Montgomery Morton was standing in the open door to the backyard.

“What are you doing in my house?” he snapped at Dover. “How dare you. You have no right!”

But Dover's presence had the effect she had wanted on Cynthia Morton. Like a hostage suddenly set free, Mrs. Morton's head rose and her voice, when it came, had an accusatory strength even Dover wasn't expecting.

“What does she mean, Monty?” She all but swung at her husband. “What have you done?”

“Cynthia, we'll talk about this in private.” He stepped forward, his hand out imploringly, but his wife was having none of it.

“No!” she exploded, swatting his hand away. “We'll talk about it now. I will no longer just stand here—a captive in my own home—as you eat away at yourself from the inside.”

“Cynthia, please, you wouldn't understand.”

Dover kept a grimace from her face with great willpower. It was the worst thing he could have said to her.

“Oh, I understand plenty!” she exclaimed. “I've understood so much from the moment you started working with Brooks. I've understood more than you!'” She whirled back to Dover. “What has he done? What has my husband and Brooks done?”

“General Brooks is dead,” Dover reported somberly. She was surprised by Morton's aghast reaction. “You didn't know?”

“No,” he said. “I've heard nothing of his trip to the Middle East.”

Dover saw a world of distress in his denial. He had to know by now that the plan he had helped nurture was lost.

“He's been walking around this place like a zombie ever since General Brooks left,” Mrs. Morton told Dover. “Something's eating away at him.”

“How did he die?” Morton suddenly blurted.

“We're not sure,” Dover admitted. “It appeared to be a heart attack, but—”

“But what?” The vehemence of his interjection took even Dover aback.

“The man who was with him at the time disappeared for several hours, so anything is possible.”

“Who was this man?” Morton snapped, becoming more and more sure of himself.

“His aide, Peter Andrews.”

The name had a telling effect on his expression. “Andrews killed him,” Morton said flatly. “I knew there was something wrong with that bastard.”

“Are you sure?” Dover asked.

Morton nodded once.

“He's accompanying Brooks's body back to the States,” Dover informed him. This time his expression fluctuated between deep concern and sudden panic.

“General Morton,” Dover said. “I know everything you've done was out of a patriotic love for this country. But I know, and I think you know, that now it is this very country that is in danger.”

Morton's eyes were hollow when he searched Dover's face with them. “What do you want of me?”

Dover thought carefully about her next words. If she revealed that her superiors still wanted to believe that the threat had died with Brooks, Morton might think that he could get away with all his collaboration if he just stayed silent. “Come with me now,” she said. “Help us stop Andrews.”

Morton took one step back. Dover silently cursed the luck. “N-no,” he stammered. “I-I've got to think…!”

“What is she talking about, Monty?” Cynthia demanded. “What are you not telling me?”

He answered by backing away, waving his hands in a futile effort to wipe out the last year. “Just leave me alone!” He staggered back into his study, and slammed the door. Dover immediately pressed her business card into Cynthia's hand. “I'm sorry, but I've got to go. If I'm right, we're all in terrible danger, and I've got to try to stop it.” She pressed her hands on Cynthia Morton's shoulders and looked deeply into her frightened, shaken eyes.

“Go to your husband, Mrs. Morton. Make sure he doesn't kill himself.”

 

54

Baja, California

Pyotr never ceased to be disgusted at the casual wealth of America, and how it was expressed in so many thoughtless ways. It was a sign of extreme decadence, a complete loss of values. But it was also an opportunity for him, and in using it he was surely fulfilling the intentions of Allah that decadence seeds its own destruction.

He could depend on Americans for three things: a pathetic appreciation of sob stories, a begrudging following of orders, and their worship of the all-mighty dollar. So getting the pilots to make an unscheduled landing had not been as difficult as anyone else might have supposed.

After all, he told them, he was not a military man, nor a member of Brooks's family. Let them claim his body without him, an interloper, nearby. Besides, Colonel Ashlock needed him to disembark with their ordnance at a completely different airport.

The pilots had checked their schedule, and, after pocketing the hundred-dollar bills the event coordinator had slipped them, found the stop workable. Peter Andrews smiled at their cooperation while thinking,
The Americans are sleepwalking toward their destiny
. But that had been true from the very start. Even Brooks, who, in some ways, was the only person Pyotr encountered fully aware of Allah's intentions, was blind to the threats within his conspiracy.