NanoStrike (21 page)

“Damnit, man!” he hissed, “what’s wrong with the virginbots!”

Nazar dug nails into his palm. He shook with anger. His empire could be crumbling and the person with the key information was incapable of speaking a sentence. The more he pressed the less likely the professor would get a word out. Nazar waited. The professor took a series of deep breaths then blurted his words in fast, short, spurts as he exhaled.

“David never returned from his vacation in February.”

Nazar was staggered by this news. Why hadn’t he been told? He suppressed the tempest of anger he felt toward this pompous idiot. More panting preceded the professor’s next block of speech.

“He’s contaminated our virginbots stock, so they will auto-destruct at midnight on July 31st.”

Nazar’s legs buckled, forcing him to perch on the edge of the desk and wait for the next stream of information.

“He stole one vial of virginbots.”

Nazar whispered into the mouthpiece. “So ethanol production will stop on July 31
^st
unless we get new virginbots.”

“Y . . . y . . . y . . .”

Nazar hung up and called Keisha.

“Send my car immediately.”

He composed himself, made his excuses to the bankers, and left the building. His driver was outside when he exited the lobby, and he called Keisha before they’d pulled into traffic.

“Who made the call?”

“Abdul, the journalist from the
Times
.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes, but he sounded under duress. I could tell he was reading the message. I tried to ask about his safety, but the line went dead.”

“Tell the pilot we’re returning to Phoenix. Call Senator Isley, make my apologies, we’ll call next week to re-schedule. When Abdul phones back, tell him we want to make a deal. Phone me immediately after you’ve spoken to him.” Nazar hung up and called his banker in Tel Aviv.

He would need to find a million dollars in cash overnight? It had to be done; Nazar needed to buy time.

Abdul sat on his bed with a cold cloth pressed against his throbbing cheek. Time dragged. Eventually, the older terrorist fetched him downstairs again and pointed to the desk. Abdul sat and waited. The room was silent except for the click of playing cards. Ghazi paced and checked his watch. Finally, he instructed the younger terrorist to make the call. Ghazi laid the phone on the desk in front of Abdul and turned on the speaker.

“Hello?” Keisha said.

He bent forward and spoke. “This is Abdul.”

“Abdul, Mr. Eudon wishes to receive the terms of sale.”

Ghazi, grim-faced, handed Abdul a note.

Abdul read, “In two days, on July 23rd, bring the money in US dollars to Tel Aviv. I will call this number with details for the exchange. Any deviation from our instructions and further shipments of virginbots will be compromised.”

“I understand,” she said, and Ghazi snatched the phone away.

Chapter 23

The morning after finding Lana, Quinn rose early. At the hotel’s front desk, he collected the package from Scott—a cell phone, a universal charger, and two thousand American dollars. Quinn left the hotel and headed toward the beach. Scott had programmed his cell number into the phone. Quinn hit speed-dial.

“Scott, the phone and the cash arrived, thanks again.”

“Has anyone caught up with you yet?”

“Anyone who?”

“Last night I had a visit from your superintendent and that prick, Frank Browning. They had two Americans with them—blue suits—and they want to speak to you in the worst possible way.”

Quinn rounded the corner of the building. In the hotel parking lot, three black SUVs blocked his tiny Fiat. He reversed course and slipped back behind the building.

“Looks like the blue suits are here,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. I need to reach my room before they do. Mom always told me to pack a clean pair of jockeys when I went on the lam!”

The lobby was deserted. Quinn took the elevator, crammed his toilet bag and clothes into his grip, but used the stairs on the way down. At lobby level, he opened the stairwell door a crack and peered out. Two stiff-looking men in dark suits stood with four uniformed Israeli police at the front desk. The receptionist called the bellhop over and handed him a key card. The six cops followed him to the elevators. Quinn knew where they were headed.

He slipped into the lobby and down a hallway where a few ground-floor rooms were reserved for smokers. The exit at the end brought him to the opposite side of the hotel, away from the parking lot. He walked briskly toward the beach, but not fast enough to attract attention. No one followed.

He called Scott back. “I’m not sure why I’m running from these guys; after all, we’re supposed to be on the same team.”

“They may not agree,” Scott said. “Think, Quinn: Abdul is the only person who has met Ghazi. Allah’s Revenge used Abdul’s e-mail to send their demands. Abdul gave you the slip in Jerusalem, and now you’ve gone missing instead of reporting in. What conclusion would you come to?”

“Damn it all, Scott, I’d think we were both guilty as sin. I’m worried for Abdul. Eventually they’ll believe me, but I’m not so sure about him.”

“According to the superintendent,” Scott said, “you and I are the only people in the universe not convinced that Abdul is an officer in Allah’s Revenge. Frankly, Quinn, they’ve assumed he
is
Ghazi, and they’ve been set up.”

“Yeah, makes sense. Did they mention Nazar Eudon?”

“No, why?”

“Well, he’s involved somehow. Adiba’s sister, Lana, flipped out last night at the hospital when she saw him on TV. At least I’m the only one working that angle. Maybe Eudon can lead me to Adiba. And wherever she is, that’s where we’ll find Abdul.”

“Quinn, I won’t call unless it’s an emergency, but keep me in the loop,” Scott said.

“I have to. You’re all I’ve got.” Quinn looked at the phone’s screen. It showed full battery. He powered off. No telling when he’d be able to recharge his link with Scott Shearer, the only person on Earth he could trust.

Scott stared out of his office window at the building across the street: vacant for years like most of Fleet Street’s old buildings, blinds shuttered and offices dark. In many ways, he was an old-fashioned dinosaur, stubbornly clinging to his journalistic heritage. Other newspapers had left central London for gray block buildings in cheaper, light-industrial locations. He closed his eyes, trying to put space between Abdul’s problems in Israel and the demands of the present in London. A dozen multicolored Post-its peppered the outside glass panel of his door. He’d told Amy not to disturb him; these were only the urgent messages.

The attack at the G20 had every country on high alert. The US Congress, the British Parliament, the French National Assembly, the German Bundestag. Governments across the globe were convened in emergency session. The moment everyone had feared was here. The terrorists had acquired a weapon of mass destruction, used it, and been wildly successful.

Every Western government had emergency plans ready to respond to a rogue nuclear device. But no one knew how to deal with this lethal technology. Although it beggared belief, the Koreans had spent one billion dollars on security for the G20 event. Allah’s Revenge had triggered the weapon inside the most secure room in the world.

Not since World War II had anyone seen this level of fear and uncertainty. Stock markets around the globe had plummeted. Central banks were printing money and pouring it into the banking system to prop up their currencies. As editor of one of the world’s most respected newspapers, he should be on top of the news, driving his editorial insight through the reporting, making value judgments about where to deploy his journalists.

Instead, all he could think of was his Junior Middle East correspondent. Where was Abdul? What was he doing? Was he safe?

After last night’s tense visit from Quinn’s boss, Scott felt certain if the authorities found Abdul, he would be shot on sight—the hawks were in the ascendancy. With a resigned sigh, he opened his door, pulled the notes off the glass, and called out. “I’m available, Amy!”

Behind drawn blinds on the sixth floor of the empty building across the street, two men wearing oversized headphones and off-white overalls crouched over a folding picnic table, staring at an open laptop. A black cable snaked across the room, connecting the computer to the center of a silvered umbrella whose concave face pointed at Scott Shearer’s office.

When he heard Scott call out for his secretary, one of the men straightened, removed his headset, and pressed a speed-dial on his phone.

After a few seconds, he spoke. “Quinn made contact. Yes, sir. Agent Martin is sending the phone number as I speak. The call originated in Israel.” He listened to a question, then replied: “Yes sir, both used cell phones . . . thank you sir . . . yes, sir, we’re on it.” He ended the call and waved to his partner, who pulled the headset an inch from his ear.

“Superintendent Porter commends us for a job well done.” The seated agent smiled and returned to his surveillance.

Chapter 24

Quinn pocketed the cell phone and took a cab to the hospital. The last time he’d seen Lana’s father, the man had been on his knees begging him to find his daughters.

Well, at least he’d found one of them
.

When Quinn reached Lana’s ward, the short, stocky man sat with his back to the door, holding his daughter’s hand. When Lana’s eyes widened, her father turned. Quinn came toward them, and the man sprang to his feet and met him at the foot of the bed. Again tears welled in the father’s eyes. Quinn offered his hand, but the man pushed it aside and gripped him in a fierce bear hug. He was chattering away in Arabic, a much happier person than the last time Quinn had seen him.

“My father says he is in your debt.” Lana’s English was heavily accented but clear—an unexpected benefit.

“How do you feel, Lana?” Quinn asked. Her father held on and began thumping Quinn on the back.

“I am still sore, but now my father is here—” she broke down; it took her a few seconds to regroup. “We are waiting for the doctor to discharge me.”

Lana’s father finally released Quinn. He nodded along with Lana’s words, although the man clearly had no idea what she was saying. The other three patients, glad of the distraction, watched until the woman in the next bed turned to the door. Quinn followed her gaze and the nurse entered, accompanied by a dark-skinned man with a heavy beard, dressed in a white lab coat. A stethoscope dangled from his neck.

Lana stiffened and gripped her father’s hand. He stroked her hair. The girl looked terrified. The doctor pulled the chart from the foot of the bed and spoke to Lana’s father for a few minutes. The father nodded his understanding, and the doctor left.

The nurse began to pull the privacy curtains. “Mr. Quinnborne, Lana needs to get dressed.”

He waited outside in the corridor with her father. The nurse reappeared, pushing Lana in a wheelchair. Quinn guessed the staff had contributed the clothes, because her cut-off jeans and white cotton top were two or three sizes too large. Lana’s face, drawn and thin, accentuated big doe-eyes framed with long, black lashes. With her neck, face, and left arm still bandaged she looked frail and defenseless. Why would someone hurt this little girl? The thought made Quinn’s blood boil.