NanoStrike (23 page)

Finally, Mason spoke. “Put plainly, Mr. Eudon,” the security chief said, “we don’t know how he made the change and we can’t reverse it. Our ability to generate nanobots, and consequently our ability to generate ethanol will cease at midnight on July 31
^st
. We don’t know why he picked that date.”

Nazar turned away, heart racing, temper teetered on the verge of exploding. He spat out his words, encapsulating the disgust he harbored for these incompetent, overpaid idiots. “Dawud’s religious fervor is well known to us, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Mason said.

Nazar spun and faced the group, fists clenched and face flushed with anger. Only Mason maintained eye contact; the others stared at the computer screen as if through pure willpower they could change the termination date. “July 31
^st
is the end of Ramadan,” Nazar spat out the words. “August 1
^st
, Eid-al-Fitr, is the day all Muslims feast after a month of fasting. These nanobots won’t be breaking their fast.” He couldn’t afford to unleash his fury on these scientists. Their lax protocols had placed in jeopardy two years of careful planning, his fortune, and his place in history. But if Abdul delivered new virginbots, he would need the professor and his staff.

Nazar stormed out of the lab. He needed fresh air.

Chapter 27

Firman looked up from the blackjack table while the dealer shuffled the deck. Again he spotted the woman, walking away from him this time: hourglass body, backless, black dress, and a single-string pearl choker. He tracked her with his eyes, a hunter savoring his prey. At the restaurant’s hostess station, across the gaming room floor from where he sat, she stopped to check the menu. The maitre d’ oozed over her for a few seconds before she slipped out of sight into the restaurant.

“Monsieur?” The dealer waited for his bet. Firman, playing in the private area reserved for high rollers, pushed his pile toward her.

“Color me up please, Marcella.”

She changed Firman’s chips for thousand-dollar markers and signaled the pit boss. Who, full of self-importance in a stiff dinner jacket, sauntered over to check her count. “Sixteen thousand two hundred,” the dealer said.

The pit boss glanced at the pile and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lechay. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I’d like to eat; could you check for a table?”

“Certainly, sir.” The suit waved to a uniformed guard who was positioned at the entrance to the playing area to keep tourists away from the high rollers; Firman’s table had a five-hundred-dollar minimum bet, and no maximum. The pit boss spoke in the guard’s ear and he set off toward the restaurant. “Jose will seat you, Mr. Lechay. Have a wonderful evening.”

Firman always came to Aruba after a job. However successful his assignment, he liked to lay low for a few weeks, check the news, in case the client broke any confidences and implicated him. The gambling was inconsequential; he played enough to be comped a suite.

Aruba had exceptional diving, warm weather, and clean beaches. An autonomous Dutch colony, if problems arose, a significant bribe could make extradition difficult, and the tiny island boasted direct flights to Europe, the US, and South America.

Jose, the maître d’, came out of the restaurant and looked over. Firman read the man’s nod, left the dealer two black chips, and went in search of the dress.

He spotted her sitting alone at a table for two. Instead of the place prepared for him, Firman pointed to a table that would allow him to observe her. She glanced in his direction—the way the staff fawned over him, he was difficult to miss. Dressed in chinos and a blue linen shirt, tailored to present his body well, Firman expected the woman to notice him. By the time two waiters had fussed him to his table, she was again staring out of the window.

He settled in, asked for a glass of Chablis, and followed her gaze. Below them, lights from the beachside bar made the breakers sparkle along the sand. A band played soft rock on the hotel’s boardwalk, and a crowd had gathered ready for the nighttime party. Every night was party night in Aruba.

He ordered foie-gras followed by lobster. The waiter brought a small plate of amuse-bouche with his wine.

The woman seemed intent on the scene outside. She had a classic profile. Yes, classic described her well; she was constructed like a pre-Raphaelite work of art: dark auburn hair pulled back tightly and held by a subtle, silver comb at the bun; tanned, flawless skin and a strong Spanish nose; ample breasts filled out the dress and offered an attractive cleavage, and her ramrod-straight posture accentuated the curve of her waist as it melted into her hip. A tingle of anticipation passed through him—the chase could be as exciting as the conquest.

She turned and caught him staring. He smiled, and she held his eye for a fraction before signaling the waiter. Although she made a point of not looking over again, as she returned to her study of the beach, he noticed a sly smile on her lips.

Firman finished his meal by sipping and swirling a two-hundred-dollar brandy in an oversized snifter. The woman was ready for her check. Three further occurrences of eye contact during dinner led him to believe it might be an interesting night. She called the waiter, gave him her key card, and he waltzed off to close out her tab.

Then, for the first time, she looked directly at Firman. The effect startled him: her finely balanced features were dark, tempting, and sensuous; burned-chocolate eyes seemed filled with mischief, and her mouth hinted at a half-smile. The waiter returned with her key and broke the spell. She signed and stood.

Warmed by the brandy and the inviting last look, Firman drank her in as she walked toward him. A full woman, unlike those rake-thin New York models, her hips swayed as she stepped out: a magnificent specimen, curved and tight at the same time. She smiled openly now, and he was uncertain what she planned to do. As she reached his table, she brushed his arm with her left hand, and with her right, dropped her dinner receipt in his glass. The contact lasted under a second.

Firman could not have been more surprised if she had smacked him across the face and admonished him for staring. The floating receipt, unlike the plastic room key, had her room number printed at the top. After signaling for his bill, he fished out her invitation, and savored the last few drops of brandy.

Give her a few minutes—mustn’t seem like a hasty teenager.

On the same floor as his, her room was a one-thousand-dollar-a-night executive suite: impressive. Firman strode past his door and rapped on hers, tingling with anticipation. A meticulous planner, he rarely experienced the unknown, and she intrigued him.

A few seconds passed, and then a brief shadow as she checked the spyhole. Opening the door wide, one hand on the frame and the other on the doorknob, she showed herself to him. The bathrobe she’d changed into yawned open, and her olive skin glowed against the fluffy white material. As her arms stretched around his neck, he received a tantalizing glimpse of dark nipples. She pulled him into the room, and kicked the door shut behind them.

He buried his face in her hair and breathed in her perfume: subtle, musky, but feminine. Inside the robe, his hands traced the curve of her waist and slid around to cup her butt cheeks: smooth, and taut. He felt a scratch on his neck, from her nail perhaps, then another, sharper this time, like an insect bite. His hand went up to swat away the pain.

Then he collapsed in a pile at her feet.

When Firman woke, he felt constrained, as though he had twisted in his sleep and gotten caught up in the sheets. Unable to untangle himself, he opened his eyes. He was in a travel-trailer, or RV. Curtains covered the windows. A canvas straitjacket encased his upper body, its sleeves attached to the bunk bed he lay on. Naked from the waist down, his legs were spread wide and strapped to rails that ran along the sides of the bed. He tested the bonds but couldn’t move any limb more than an inch. To his right, a half-full saline bag dripped through an IV into a shunt in his groin. He was alone.

He shouted, so his captors would come. “Hey, let me up!” No point in delaying the inevitable; better to understand with whom he was dealing. A door opened behind him, and a tall, well-built man with a shaved head and a chiseled face—mid forties—moved into his range of vision and stood over him.

“Good morning, Mr. Lechay. I trust you slept well?”

“Sure, I had a wonderful night. Now what?”

The man smiled, a warm smile, the smile of someone in control and in no hurry. The man picked an eight-by-ten photograph off a small table to his right, turned it over and held it so Firman could see a blown-up image of himself, face and torso. Firman recognized the “Mind The Gap” T-shirt he had bought in London after the Oxford Circus transaction. He still had the shirt at home; a souvenir of what, until this moment, he had thought of as a perfectly executed job. The man, smiling, showed a second photo: Firman again, this time entering the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Seoul holding Kimberly Stevens’ hand; she had on her cute black dress.

“What’s your point?” he said.

“May I call you, Firman, Mr. Lechay?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The smile didn’t change. Firman understood he was in deep trouble with this man.

“Clearly,” the man placed the photos back on the table, “you have been careless. However, I have no personal interest in your business. No vendetta inspires me to bring you to justice or have you punished for your crimes. What I need is information. If you furnish what I desire, I will have no qualms about releasing you. Although, I recommend you refrain from entering the USA, or Canada. Oh, or Britain. A shame to be limited, but that still leaves most of the world for you to enjoy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“What if I don’t have this information?”

“But you do.” The man nodded toward the IV stand. “You understand the options available to me to help you remember?”

“What do you need?” Firman owed allegiance to no one except himself. If he didn’t give the information willingly, they’d use drugs or torture to take it. Although he had little faith in the man’s promise to release him, in a zero-sum game, Firman saw no advantage in holding back—he was screwed no matter what he did. If he complied and made life easy for his captor, then some outside factor, something unknown to him, some subtle benefit might accrue if Firman were allowed to live.

“We want to contact your paymaster for these transactions.”

“I’ll give you everything I know, but first, take this contraption off me, and let me put on pants,” Firman said.

“I’m sorry, that’s not appropriate at this stage.”

 The man waited. Firman hadn’t expected a positive response, but he had nothing to lose by asking, so why not? “Both transactions were initiated from the same source—Allah’s Revenge, although the M.O. differed in each case. I had only one face-to-face meeting, before the first contract, where I received the weapon and instructions from a man named Ghazi.” Firman waited to be sure this was what the man expected.

“Thank you, Firman. That information correlates. I need a location.”

“Israel. He operated out of a medical facility in the West Bank. I met him and a technician named Dawud. The weapon for the second transaction was shipped to me in Seoul.”

“How did you arrive at the location?”

“I drove: 245 Mozel Street. I used the rear goods entrance. Ghazi has an office halfway along the main hallway.”

The man moved out of Firman’s sight line. The door closed. He heard voices in the next room.

Firman took two deep breaths, tensed his muscles, and jerked his body from side to side, using every fiber of his being to tip over the bed. It didn’t move, but the trailer began to rock; the bunk was secured to the floor. Next, he strained his legs, first left, then right, then together. He pushed so hard that he pissed himself. The straps didn’t give an inch. The bars held, solid and unyielding. Focusing on his right arm, the stronger one, he pulled, trying to slide his hand up into the sleeve of the straitjacket to gain a purchase. When the cramping pain in his shoulder became unbearable, he was forced to quit. Never before had he been in this situation, been under someone else’s control. He had been lax. Caught by the most ancient folly of man: he’d let his cock rule his head.

The door opened. The man came into view, accompanied by the woman from the restaurant, dressed in jeans and a roll-neck sweater. When she smiled at him—her face impassive and unfeeling—fear trickled down his back like ice water. She was a killer. She was like him.

The bald man spoke in his calm, measured voice. “Thank you, Firman. You have been most cooperative. Just one further question: how come the gas didn’t affect you?”

 “Ghazi supplied me with an inhaler. The weapon was airborne. I used the inhaler to coat my airways, and it made me immune.”

The woman spoke, her voice flat and cold. “Fascinating. Mr. Lechay, I have to put you out while we move you. I apologize, but be assured, when the drug wears off you will have your pants on.”

She glanced at his groin, and a smile flickered across her lips. A strange thought passed through Firman’s mind: his penis would be tiny, flaccid and withdrawn, like a turtle hiding in its shell. Fear does that; the body instinctively protects the reproductive organs. The woman picked a small glass vial from the table. The smile remained on her lips as she used a hypodermic to transfer about twenty CCs of clear liquid into the plug at the top of his IV.

“What is that?” he asked.

“As I said, something to put you out while we move you, Mr. Lechay.”

“It’s not necessary, I’ll—”

Damn, that was fast.

It was Firman’s last thought.

Chapter 28

When they arrived at Lana’s home in Jerusalem, Quinn followed her and her father in. Ten people stood clustered in a living room no more than fifteen feet by twelve. Large, colorful cushions were scattered around the floor. A small, stooped woman in a black dress and
hijab
held Lana at arm’s length. Tears poured down her face as she studied her bandaged daughter, and Lana shook with sobs. The other women surrounded mother and daughter with their hands held high, wailing and crying, their voices melded together, like a chorus of alley cats.