Late in the evening, therefore, Farkas gathered his bomb-making equipment and boarded a chartered Citation III bound for Dallass Love Field. En route, he called his associates, who met American Airlines Flight number 1991. The suspected operatives were staying at the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport Marriott. Due to increased security at airports and airport hotels, it would be foolish to try anything at DFW. Although Farkas preferred not to conduct business in the light of day, he would have to terminate the Americans after they left their hotel.
With the air conditioner running at maximum capacity, Farkas waited for his unsuspecting prey to return to their car. He smoked another cigarette and then extinguished it in the overflowing ashtray. Growing impatient, he was relieved when he saw the couple emerge from the Sundance Square complex and approach their rented Lincoln Continental. Okay, stay relaxed. Wait until they're inside the car.
Dressed in navy-blue slacks and a camel-colored silk blouse, Jackie could pass for a top fashion model. As they made their way to the Lincoln, she shifted her purse to her right shoulder. "This time tomorrow we'll be en route to Hawaii."
Scott glanced at the clear Texas sky. "Actually, we'll be getting ready to land in Honolulu."
"Are you sure you don't want to get up before dawn, get an early start?"
"Positive," he said firmly. "Let's take it easy and relax. Remember, we don't have to rush to the airport."
"You're right, I'm still in airline mode."
Farkas rested his finger on the trigger of the remote-control unit and waited for the couple to enter the Lincoln. A faint smile crossed his ruddy face as Scott and Jackie neared their car. Look at them — not a care in the world.
Without warning, a police officer approached Farkas's car and tapped his knuckles on the driver's window. Startled, Farkas's right hand prematurely triggered the potent explosive. The shiny Lincoln was instantaneously engulfed in a huge fireball, at the same moment that Farkas reached for his Smith & Wesson.
He shot the stunned patrolman twice, shifted the Buick into gear, and floored the accelerator. Shards of the driver s window shattered along the street. He fishtailed around a corner, bounced off a parked car, and disappeared in heavy traffic.
Sonofabitch! He was furious, banging the steering wheel and cursing nonstop. The beginnings of fear crept into his mind. It was all he could do to force himself to slow down and blend in with the other cars. How can this be? Has Allah put a curse on me?
The thunderous, reverberating explosion lifted the heavy Lincoln three feet off the pavement, ripping it to pieces. Scott forced Jackie to the ground and sprawled on top of her, trying to protect her from the falling debris. Metal pans and glass flew in every direction, ricocheting off parked cars and raining down on the street. Even sheltered by other automobiles, Jackie and Scott could feel the heat from the blast thirty yards away.
His ears ringing, Scott automatically reached for his 9mm Sig Sauer; then, realizing the threat was gone, he shoved it back into its concealed holster. He helped Jackie to her feet, and they stared in silence at the demolished car. The main bulk of the Lincoln, frame, engine, transmission, and three wheels, was sitting at a 45-degree angle to the parking space. The pavement underneath was scorched a charcoal-brownish color. One tire was burning while the other three smoldered, sending a thick plume of black smoke billowing into the blue sky, which drifted away on the warm Texas wind.
Still shocked by the deafening explosion, Scott took Jackie by the shoulders and surveyed her from head to toe. "Are you okay?"
She swallowed once, looking dazed. "Yeah, I think so, but I cant hear." Jackie brushed herself off and wiped a trickle of blood from a superficial wound on her forearm.
Wide-eyed, Scott stared at the smoking wreckage for a few seconds, then turned to Jackie. "That was close — Sweet Jesus" He looked around the immediate area. "Any ideas?"
Still coming to grips, Jackie glanced at the wide pattern of smoking debris. "Zheng Yen-Tsung has to be involved."
"Yeah, he doesn't give up easily."
"Are you sure you didn't kill him?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I shot him in the leg."
She recalled an earlier encounter with Zheng Yen-Tsung. "Think about the — what did Hartwell call the bomb under our car in Pensacola?"
"A Wile E. Coyote bomb," he said, in a louder than normal voice. "It would have blown us into the Gulf of Mexico."
"Well, its certainly Zheng's MO."
They walked toward the bystanders gathering around the remains of their rental car. Jackie and Scott noticed another group of people hurrying to assist someone lying on the pavement. Scott glanced down the street. "There's an empty police car parked over there. Where's the cop who belongs to the car?"
"Good question."
A moment later, a young man yelled that a police officer was shot. A woman running toward the scene responded that she was a doctor.
Jackie looked at the downed patrolman. "I don't know how this went down, but he probably saved our lives."
"I'd bet on it." Scott watched while the physician worked to stem the bleeding from the policeman's wounds. "I hope he pulls through."
"Yeah, what a nightmare."
Scott saw another cruiser, lights flashing and siren screeching, pull up behind the empty patrol car. The officer jumped out and ran toward his fallen colleague. Behind the cruiser, a Fox News television van came to an abrupt stop.
Scott turned to Jackie and lowered his voice. "The last thing we need is national news exposure."
"That's exactly what we don't need."
They watched an ambulance race toward the chaotic scene, followed by two fire trucks. The firefighters carefully approached the smoldering car and began extinguishing the blaze. A muffled explosion from the Lincoln startled the bystanders and the firemen.
Jackie opened her handbag and retrieved her satellite phone. "We better let Prost know what happened. The FBI needs to jump on this as quickly as possible, put a lid on it before it goes national."
"You're right." Scott watched the ambulance drive away, lights flashing and siren emitting a piercing warning signal. "Zheng isn't going to give up. He'll try again."
Jackie nodded. "We have to be prepared for him day and night, never let our guard down."
"We better focus on tracking him: get on the offense and stay focused."
"I agree," she said evenly. "We have to take the fight directly to him, keep him guessing and under pressure, force him to make a mistake."
Scott gave her a puzzled look. "Something seems strange, out of focus."
"I'm not following you."
"Why would Zheng risk entering this country again? He knows the FBI and many other jurisdictions are waiting to pounce on him."
"Maybe the guy isn't firing on all cylinders," Jackie offered, handing Scott the satellite phone. "He's like a hubristic little poltergeist, a shadowy ghost we can't seem to shake." She opened her handbag and retrieved a small package of tissues. "Try Prost while I go brush the glass out of my hair."
"What if it wasn't Zheng?"
"Then we have a huge problem." She motioned toward their smoldering car. "That wasn't a coincidence."
Chapter 3
The sprawling European-style mansion in Maryland was home to Hartwell Huntington Prost IV, the presidents renowned national security adviser and close friend for many years. The manicured grounds and immaculate residence reflected the comfortable lifestyle of the owner, one that included Harvard Law, triannual vacations to exotic destinations, and a pristine 82-foot Hatteras motor yacht moored next to a palatial second home in Palm Beach, Florida. Prost s family heritage of wealth and privilege dated back to the early 1800s, when Earl Digby Gardiner Prost founded a banking and investment empire in Boston.