Mohammed’s lack of control was the reason he’d had to send Naif on today’s mission, a silly errand that he knew was superfluous to Allah’s greater purpose. Only, it had been part of his agreement with Biddle and something he therefore could not avoid. The murder of Khaled Faisal was at best a gesture of vanity, and the killing of the other man was for Biddle’s benefit alone. What did any of that matter if they failed in their holy purpose?
Unable to stand his own anxiety and the imprisoning cottage walls, he opened the door and went out. The pounding rain wet his face and hair and soaked him to the skin almost at once. He glanced around, but Mohammed was invisible, concealed in the trees where he could watch the driveway for approaching vehicles and at the same time see anyone entering the courtyard from the other side.
Abu Sayeed walked to where the opening in the tall hedge gave a view of the water. Rain dripped from his nose and ran into his eyes as he searched for the outline of Biddle’s yacht. It was tied to the long dock only seventy-five yards away but nearly invisible in the mist.
He stared at its faint shape, filled with a sudden premonition that the winds of fortune were shifting ever so slightly and beginning to blow against him. Allah had blessed him to this point, but he sensed that sending Naif on a fool’s errand was an insult to God and meant there would be danger now where there had been none before. Because of it, once darkness fell, they would move the missiles back onto to Biddle’s yacht.
Over the past days Abu Sayeed and his men had crept over every inch of Biddle’s estate. They knew the schedules of the private security detail, when they changed shifts and went on their breaks. Moving the missiles would be riskless.
Biddle had purchased another, smaller boat for them to use in their attack. Of course, he assumed they would die on it like typical Arab suicide bombers. Amazingly, Biddle seemed to have no inkling that they might have another plan. The thought made Abu Sayeed smile. A month earlier he had leased a Hatteras 100’ in Beirut, and his team had trained on a yacht identical to Biddle’s. After all, Allah blessed the prepared and crafty warrior.
TWENTY-SIX
PROJECT SEAHAWK, NEWARK, NJ, JUNE 29
MAGGIE STIFLED A YAWN AS she pulled together her paperwork and sorted reports into a thick accordion file with a pocket for every agency that was part of Project Seahawk: the FBI; the CIA; the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement; the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection; the ATF; the Coast Guard; the New York/New Jersey Ports Authority Police; New Jersey State Police, New York State Police; New York City police; the U.S. Marshal Service; it went on and on.
Her assignment was to analyze the flow of information, particularly issues of compartmentalization and data processing incompatibilities. Often, different agencies possessed bits of information on the same situation, but the data was never combined. Because no one saw the big-picture potential, threats went undetected.
Maggie sighed as she looked at the bulging folder. The task was undeniably important, but she found the endless examination of procedural details and software protocols stultifying. Her background in computer science made her an excellent choice for the job, and her superiors in Morristown considered it a huge compliment to have one of their officers chosen for Project Seahawk. However, it was only her third day, and she already missed being a real cop, getting out on the streets and working cases.
With the file packed she stood and stretched, thinking at least tonight she would get in a good workout, something she’d missed since the weekend. Exercise relaxed her, blew the dust off her brain cells, and God knew between job tedium and thinking about Brent there’d been enough shit these past few days to gum up the works.
Brent had been on her mind entirely too much. She kept thinking about his phone call the other night, fantasizing that maybe he’d thought things over and wanted to get back together. Only, she hadn’t given him a chance to say it, and now maybe the moment had passed. She shook her head. Stop being pathetic, she told herself.
She was walking out of her cubicle when her cell phone rang. She stopped, pulled it off her belt, and glanced at the readout. The caller I.D. showed a New York City area code and a number she didn’t recognize. Her first instinct was to ignore it, let the caller leave a message, but after another second she answered.
“Maggie,” Brent said, his voice unmistakable.
Her pulse quickened. She heard horns and the rasp of a bus engine in the background.
“I need to talk to you,” Brent said. “I was hoping I could drive out tonight when you’re done with work.”
She heard it again, the same ragged tone as the other night, only worse. He sounded worried, which got her attention because Brent was one of the most self-confident people she’d ever met. Self-confident but mortally fearful of commitments, she reminded herself.
A glance at her watch showed it was already six forty-five. “I’ll be home around eight,” she said, deciding her workout could wait.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
Five minutes later she was waiting at the elevator when the Shift Commander flagged her. “Main conference room in ten minutes. Jenkins’ orders. Everybody.”
Maggie could tell from his face that something was up. She started to ask how long it might take, but he’d disappeared down the hall. She headed down to the meeting room, really more auditorium than conference room, with a big rectangular table in the middle and then forty or so theater style seats facing a wall that held several projection screens. She sat with the more junior people in the theater seats, while the honchos took their places around the table. She looked around at the puzzled expressions.
“Hope you didn’t have dinner plans,” said a voice beside her.
She turned to see Steve Kosinsky as he settled into the adjoining seat. He was a Lieutenant in the New York State Police, a nice looking guy with big shoulders, crunch-toned stomach, and an earnest face. She knew he was divorced with no kids because he’d asked her out to dinner twice. She’d turned him down, refusing to date people from work.
“The one night when I’m supposed to meet somebody,” she groaned.
“Word has it Jenkins has a major hard-on about something,” Steve said. “The last time this happened we didn’t get out of here for two days.”
“You’re not serious?”
He shrugged.
Maggie glanced at her watch and remembered Brent. He was probably on the road by now. She went to the last call on her cell phone and hit the callback button.
“Where are you?” she asked when he answered.
“Stuck in traffic on the West Side Highway.”
“Something’s come up,” she said. “A meeting. I don’t know how long it will last.”
“I can wait.”
Maggie glanced at Steve. “I’m told it may go very late,” she said.
“Right,” Brent said.
She heard the disappointment but also disbelief. He thought she was blowing him off.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Just then Ann Jenkins stepped to the podium and the overhead lights began to dim. “Gotta go,” Maggie whispered. “Maybe we can do it tomorrow night?”
“I can’t wait ‘til tomorrow night,” Brent said, cutting the connection.
Maggie sat there feeling helpless. There was nothing she could do.
“We’ve received a threat warning from CIA Europe that the Wahaddi Brotherhood may have gotten their hands on some dirty weapons,” Jenkins announced, causing the room to fall silent. “Previously, the CIA claimed these guys had no more money because their bank accounts were seized, but it looks like they might have missed a billion dollars or so. French police reported the disappearance of a motorcycle cop and an ambulance a couple hours outside of Paris, and a few hours ago they discovered the ambulance and some bodies in a warehouse outside Le Havre. They also picked up trace radioactive readings in the ambulance.