Whitewash (45 page)

Eric left the plastic bag down the street at the Santa Rosa Water Treatment Plant with a lab tech who only went by the name Bosco. A few weeks ago she had agreed to do some independent work for Eric in exchange for a chance to do a weekly standup-comedy gig at Howard’s place next door, Bobbye’s Oyster Bar.

The place was small—a roll-up garage-type door that revealed the bar and enough room on the other side for one bartender, usually Eric, sometimes Howard, to serve from the shelves behind and below. A half-dozen bistro tables and chairs spread out on the boardwalk in front were kept full from open to close. Small and intimate, but on Friday and Saturday nights, it could be standing room only.

At the time, Eric knew Howard would be okay with it. He wasn’t into making his place a trendy hangout, but he liked the idea of giving someone a shot at her dream. Thankfully for Eric’s sake, the fortysomething, nerdy butch lab tech was not just funny, she was hilarious. She had an animated comedic routine that left the patrons in tears and literally holding their stomachs from laughing so hard.

Before Eric went back up to his apartment he decided to drop by the shop. He waved at Howard’s crew already cleaning the boat in its slip. He noticed the cowboys’ Mercedes already gone from the parking lot. Not a good sign. Howard always invited his deep-sea fishing clients to stay for drinks and a gourmet feast he and Eric would whip up on the short-order flat grill. Instead, he found his boss behind the shop counter, opening the UPS shipments for the day with his cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder.

Eric was six foot and lean, probably in the best shape he had been in years. Howard, however, had what Eric would describe as a commanding presence at six foot five, a barrel chest and muscular arms, usually dressed in bright boat shirts—today’s an orange and blue marlin pattern—and white linen trousers, sometimes a white captain’s cap. Eric guessed Howard to be in his sixties, the thick white hair and mustache the only indicators. He had watched the man handle a five-hundred-pound marlin with little effort and watched him break up a brawl by grabbing unruly patrons by the scruff of their necks. He’d also seen Howard apply fine brushstrokes with a delicate touch to one of his model ships.

Howard gave Eric a nod, a familiar greeting when he was on the phone or with a customer. Something was different this time. Howard grabbed the phone, shoving aside a half-unpacked box and cutting short the conversation with a quick “Let me get back to you.”

Eric pretended not to notice his abruptness. Maybe he was being paranoid. And why not, after everything with Sabrina?

“The Texans left already?” Eric asked.

“No catch. And no one had much of an appetite,” Howard said, shaking his head, but he didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. “The one boy started retching up a storm before we even got settled.”

“Mr. Bring-on-the-girls? The guy with the cowboy boots?” Eric smiled. He couldn’t help it. He knew it as soon as he saw the guy.

“He’s just lucky I ended up feeling sorry for him,” Howard said, stroking his mustache out of habit. “We hadn’t left the slip and he was being an asshole to Wendi.”

Eric knew Howard was protective of his crew though he hired only the best. But Eric also knew Wendi could take care of herself. Without much effort she could probably make Mr. Cowboy Boots cry like a baby.

“Hopefully tomorrow’s group will do better.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Howard sounded confident. “They’re from Minnesota. They know a thing or two about fishing up there.” He went back to unpacking the boxes.

“I had to close up this morning for a few hours,” Eric told him, even though he knew Howard wouldn’t mind. And he was right. His boss only nodded, not even looking up for an explanation.

“A friend of mine showed up.”

Again he only nodded.

“She’s gonna stay with me for several days,” Eric added.

This, however, did get Howard’s attention. With anyone else Eric might have expected a wink along with some smart-ass comment like “Sure, she’s just a friend.” But Howard was a gentleman.

“Bring her on down later,” Howard invited, meaning the bar to hang out with the others. “I look forward to meeting her.”

Eric said he would and caught himself wishing that just once Howard wouldn’t be such a nice guy. It’d make what Eric was doing here on Pensacola Beach so much easier.

Eric left the plastic bag down the street at the Santa Rosa Water Treatment Plant with a lab tech who only went by the name Bosco. A few weeks ago she had agreed to do some independent work for Eric in exchange for a chance to do a weekly standup-comedy gig at Howard’s place next door, Bobbye’s Oyster Bar.

The place was small—a roll-up garage-type door that revealed the bar and enough room on the other side for one bartender, usually Eric, sometimes Howard, to serve from the shelves behind and below. A half-dozen bistro tables and chairs spread out on the boardwalk in front were kept full from open to close. Small and intimate, but on Friday and Saturday nights, it could be standing room only.

At the time, Eric knew Howard would be okay with it. He wasn’t into making his place a trendy hangout, but he liked the idea of giving someone a shot at her dream. Thankfully for Eric’s sake, the fortysomething, nerdy butch lab tech was not just funny, she was hilarious. She had an animated comedic routine that left the patrons in tears and literally holding their stomachs from laughing so hard.

Before Eric went back up to his apartment he decided to drop by the shop. He waved at Howard’s crew already cleaning the boat in its slip. He noticed the cowboys’ Mercedes already gone from the parking lot. Not a good sign. Howard always invited his deep-sea fishing clients to stay for drinks and a gourmet feast he and Eric would whip up on the short-order flat grill. Instead, he found his boss behind the shop counter, opening the UPS shipments for the day with his cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder.

Eric was six foot and lean, probably in the best shape he had been in years. Howard, however, had what Eric would describe as a commanding presence at six foot five, a barrel chest and muscular arms, usually dressed in bright boat shirts—today’s an orange and blue marlin pattern—and white linen trousers, sometimes a white captain’s cap. Eric guessed Howard to be in his sixties, the thick white hair and mustache the only indicators. He had watched the man handle a five-hundred-pound marlin with little effort and watched him break up a brawl by grabbing unruly patrons by the scruff of their necks. He’d also seen Howard apply fine brushstrokes with a delicate touch to one of his model ships.

Howard gave Eric a nod, a familiar greeting when he was on the phone or with a customer. Something was different this time. Howard grabbed the phone, shoving aside a half-unpacked box and cutting short the conversation with a quick “Let me get back to you.”

Eric pretended not to notice his abruptness. Maybe he was being paranoid. And why not, after everything with Sabrina?

“The Texans left already?” Eric asked.

“No catch. And no one had much of an appetite,” Howard said, shaking his head, but he didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. “The one boy started retching up a storm before we even got settled.”

“Mr. Bring-on-the-girls? The guy with the cowboy boots?” Eric smiled. He couldn’t help it. He knew it as soon as he saw the guy.

“He’s just lucky I ended up feeling sorry for him,” Howard said, stroking his mustache out of habit. “We hadn’t left the slip and he was being an asshole to Wendi.”

Eric knew Howard was protective of his crew though he hired only the best. But Eric also knew Wendi could take care of herself. Without much effort she could probably make Mr. Cowboy Boots cry like a baby.

“Hopefully tomorrow’s group will do better.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Howard sounded confident. “They’re from Minnesota. They know a thing or two about fishing up there.” He went back to unpacking the boxes.

“I had to close up this morning for a few hours,” Eric told him, even though he knew Howard wouldn’t mind. And he was right. His boss only nodded, not even looking up for an explanation.

“A friend of mine showed up.”

Again he only nodded.

“She’s gonna stay with me for several days,” Eric added.

This, however, did get Howard’s attention. With anyone else Eric might have expected a wink along with some smart-ass comment like “Sure, she’s just a friend.” But Howard was a gentleman.

“Bring her on down later,” Howard invited, meaning the bar to hang out with the others. “I look forward to meeting her.”

Eric said he would and caught himself wishing that just once Howard wouldn’t be such a nice guy. It’d make what Eric was doing here on Pensacola Beach so much easier.

Tallahassee, Florida

Abda Hassar had spent the day in his hotel room. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as soon as room service delivered his breakfast. Then he connected his laptop to the hotel’s wireless network. Qasim and Khaled had checked into the same hotel, only at different times. Each had his own room on different floors. Later they would meet at a coffee shop across the street and pretend to study Qasim’s textbooks like university students, not tourists.

Abda had left e-mails at various Web sites. Throughout the day he would pick up the responses and piece together their message. So far they were telling him nothing new. From every indication the plan was still on. Unless something dramatic happened in the next several days, EchoEnergy would grab up contracts that for years had gone to Middle Eastern oil companies. The contracts were small in the scope of business dealings. Their absence would not threaten to bankrupt or even create a ripple of economic harm to any one of these companies. But the contracts were not about money, nor were they about oil, but instead, goodwill and influence.

For years the contracts had been rewards to Abda’s countrymen for standing firm with the United States against other Arab states, indifferent to America’s fight against terrorism. Taking away these contracts was nothing less than a slap in the face. The current president did not understand this despite its being spoken about over and over in plain diplomatic language, and so perhaps he would understand it in the only language his administration appeared to take notice of.

They had worked hard, or rather Khaled had, for months, creating a plan that would have the greatest impact, but also one that would be undetectable by the hordes of security the president surrounded himself with. At first Khaled thought he had done just that—an explosive device made from purely harmless liquids that separately would draw no attention.

Brilliantly, Khaled contained each liquid in a small plastic bottle that looked no different from an ordinary bottle of water with a pull-top, the type that allowed a drink without twisting off the lid. But Khaled’s pull-top included a sharp plastic point, sharp enough to pierce and attach to the bottom of another bottle. It took three bottles, three ordinary bottles of what would appear to be clear water. When the third, the last, pierced the middle bottle, it took but seconds for the liquids to mix, to seep into each other.

The explosion that followed would be massive. It would kill everyone at the reception banquet, including the martyr who stayed behind to combine the bottles.

Khaled had even volunteered to be the martyr. But Abda was the leader. And Abda rejected the idea. He believed an explosion of that magnitude would be dismissed as just another brutal terrorist attack. He believed they needed something as deadly but targeted, so there could be no mistake as to what and for whom their message was meant.

Khaled complied and went back to his test tubes and vials and computer formulas. And again, he delivered a brilliant and deadly solution.

Abda pulled out the innocuous prescription bottle, the capsules inside simple blood pressure medicine. All but one. He knew it from a dimpled marking on the end that he could detect by touch. Instead of medicine, the grains inside were fatal, a concoction Khaled had perfected. More deadly than anthrax, the white, grainy powder had no taste or smell. When applied to food it would not even be noticed. Within seconds the recipient’s throat would begin to swell, choking off all breath. There would be no rescue and best of all there would be no indication of what had caused the suffocation.

To Abda, Khaled’s potion was brilliant. Its properties were undetectable and fatal, and it allowed them to choose exactly who would die. They would use science to teach this administration a costly lesson. This administration thought they could walk away from promises made only because they thought they had found a scientific freedom with EchoEnergy. And in that sense, Abda believed it was not only a lesson but a sort of poetic justice they were about to serve up.

Tallahassee, Florida

Abda Hassar had spent the day in his hotel room. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as soon as room service delivered his breakfast. Then he connected his laptop to the hotel’s wireless network. Qasim and Khaled had checked into the same hotel, only at different times. Each had his own room on different floors. Later they would meet at a coffee shop across the street and pretend to study Qasim’s textbooks like university students, not tourists.

Abda had left e-mails at various Web sites. Throughout the day he would pick up the responses and piece together their message. So far they were telling him nothing new. From every indication the plan was still on. Unless something dramatic happened in the next several days, EchoEnergy would grab up contracts that for years had gone to Middle Eastern oil companies. The contracts were small in the scope of business dealings. Their absence would not threaten to bankrupt or even create a ripple of economic harm to any one of these companies. But the contracts were not about money, nor were they about oil, but instead, goodwill and influence.

For years the contracts had been rewards to Abda’s countrymen for standing firm with the United States against other Arab states, indifferent to America’s fight against terrorism. Taking away these contracts was nothing less than a slap in the face. The current president did not understand this despite its being spoken about over and over in plain diplomatic language, and so perhaps he would understand it in the only language his administration appeared to take notice of.

They had worked hard, or rather Khaled had, for months, creating a plan that would have the greatest impact, but also one that would be undetectable by the hordes of security the president surrounded himself with. At first Khaled thought he had done just that—an explosive device made from purely harmless liquids that separately would draw no attention.

Brilliantly, Khaled contained each liquid in a small plastic bottle that looked no different from an ordinary bottle of water with a pull-top, the type that allowed a drink without twisting off the lid. But Khaled’s pull-top included a sharp plastic point, sharp enough to pierce and attach to the bottom of another bottle. It took three bottles, three ordinary bottles of what would appear to be clear water. When the third, the last, pierced the middle bottle, it took but seconds for the liquids to mix, to seep into each other.

The explosion that followed would be massive. It would kill everyone at the reception banquet, including the martyr who stayed behind to combine the bottles.

Khaled had even volunteered to be the martyr. But Abda was the leader. And Abda rejected the idea. He believed an explosion of that magnitude would be dismissed as just another brutal terrorist attack. He believed they needed something as deadly but targeted, so there could be no mistake as to what and for whom their message was meant.

Khaled complied and went back to his test tubes and vials and computer formulas. And again, he delivered a brilliant and deadly solution.

Abda pulled out the innocuous prescription bottle, the capsules inside simple blood pressure medicine. All but one. He knew it from a dimpled marking on the end that he could detect by touch. Instead of medicine, the grains inside were fatal, a concoction Khaled had perfected. More deadly than anthrax, the white, grainy powder had no taste or smell. When applied to food it would not even be noticed. Within seconds the recipient’s throat would begin to swell, choking off all breath. There would be no rescue and best of all there would be no indication of what had caused the suffocation.

To Abda, Khaled’s potion was brilliant. Its properties were undetectable and fatal, and it allowed them to choose exactly who would die. They would use science to teach this administration a costly lesson. This administration thought they could walk away from promises made only because they thought they had found a scientific freedom with EchoEnergy. And in that sense, Abda believed it was not only a lesson but a sort of poetic justice they were about to serve up.