Lopez smiled and folded her arms.
Nicco expertly followed the path of the two suspects as they made their way from Port Terminal and followed a side walk. The recent upgrading by New York City to the Domain Awareness System Nicco named ‘the dashboard’ and its now greater than four thousand surveillance cameras made the tracking of persons or vehicles a relatively easy matter. A faded red sedan traveling towards the terrorists pulled up in the first lane next to them, holding up traffic behind. The two bearded men could be seen running to the car and wasted no time in opening the doors and getting in. If the camera had been equipped with sound, the viewers watching at Homeland would have heard the honking of horns and the abuse thrown at the driver of the red sedan before it took off and caught up with the mainstream traffic.
“Follow that car. And for chrissakes don’t lose it.”
Nicco was the bloodhound and his handler was Hall.
“Someone get me the New York Police Commissioner on the phone, pronto,” Hall screamed out. Turning to his right, he started to talk to Director Lopez. “Suzanna, I want you… Where the fuck did she go? Anyone see her leave?”
“I just saw her go out the door, sir,” replied a man two desks away.
Dr. Evangeline Crawston stood over the sink of the restroom down the corridor from the ops room. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she thought over the last few days. A short while ago she was in London giving an address at King’s College then out of the blue a handsome stranger whisked her to America and an important role in combating a bioterrorism threat she had just been lecturing about. Where would she be tomorrow? Life, she pondered, could be so adventurous. Especially with a man like Matt Lilburn. She screwed up her face. Pity he didn’t seem to have a romantic bone in his gorgeous body. Oh well, you can’t have everything. Evangeline gave a wry smile, as she splashed refreshing water over her face.
Pulling the door of the restroom open to leave, Evangeline was startled as she and Director Lopez came face to face, bumping awkwardly into each other. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry,” she gasped.
Lopez had her mobile to her ear and let out an expletive, then brushed past without as so much as an excuse me. With a raised eyebrow, Evangeline continued on back to the ops room mulling over the way in which the director handled the awkward situation. Stress or rudeness? A bit of the former and a lot of the latter, she decided.
A staffer approached Director Hall and handed him a note. “Sir, report from Plum Island on the samples supplied this morning.”
Hall took in the contents of the note. After a brief pause as he took in the implications, he violently crumpled the paper before flinging the ball to the floor.
“Commissioner, line two, sir.”
Hall picked up the nearest phone. “Denby, Allan Hall. I think it’s time I brought you up to speed on a situation we have…”
Chapter Fifteen
“Is the virus secure?”
“The spray cans are in our backpacks,” Bashir answered.
“Good, very good.” The driver, Egyptian by birth, the heavy weathered lines on his dark chiseled face mostly hidden by a trimmed black beard, peered through his sunglasses at the young man sitting in the front passenger seat to his right. Behind him he could see the other one, al-Nasseri, leaning forward in his seat, one arm resting on his friend’s headrest. Akins Bomani saw that both had a wide-eyed, excited expression, even through the false beards. They would need firm restraint.
“Put your seatbelts on, we do not want to attract attention from the infidels. Take off those beards and place them out of sight.”
“What do you think, Yusuf? They make me look older. I think I’ll keep mine on.”
Bomani wasn’t about to play games with these soft Americans. He was brought up on the streets in his homeland — and he was hard, tough and self-reliant. He could still remember the first man he killed when he was twelve years old. His father had placed the gun in his hand, the victim, a kafir, a Muslim unbeliever who rejected the truth of Islam, sat bound and gagged having been beaten by his father and uncle in the man’s own home. Bomani’s father told him to place the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes and pull the trigger. That was forty years ago and even now he could feel the gun go off, bucking in his small hand, the blood and brain matter splattering his face and white robes. It was red and white and when some of it landed in his open mouth, warm and sticky. Bomani had lost count since then of the men and women he had killed. Now he kept his mouth closed, whether he used a gun, a knife or a club.
Bashir Zuabi ran a hand through his stuck-on beard, while trying to find a reflection of himself in one of the car windows. He felt a hard jab in his side; when he looked down he saw the barrel of a pistol pointing at his kidneys.
“I will not say it again.”
The two young men were left in no doubt who was in charge. The older man, the one wearing Western jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt — the one with the real beard. They immediately pulled the whiskers off and buckled their seatbelts. Though neither knew what the other was thinking, both began to realize they were puppets — who had just met one of the puppeteers. The sounds of New York traffic surrounded them. Soon they would be leaving them behind for the quiet of the vast and sprawling countryside. Suddenly they became comforting, familiar. Gingerly, without moving his head, Bashir let his eyes move across to the driver. Bomani reached for his sunglasses and took them off, then turned his head towards his passenger. Their eyes met and Bashir felt himself start to tremble, as those incredibly dark, mesmerizing eyes bored through his head. He tried to look away but he couldn’t — it was Yusuf, in the back seat, who broke the spell.
“My name is Yusuf and this is Bashir — who are you?”
“I know who you are,” was the terse response.
“We did as we were instructed at the bus station, we’ve been told you’ll take us to our destination — but no one’s told us where yet.”
“You will know when we will get there.”
Yusuf al-Nasseri wiped his now sweaty palms on his trousers. “So what do we call you?” A reflection in the rear window driver mirror caught his attention and he saw the same cold eyes that had mesmerized his friend. The short conversation was over, without another word.
The red sedan maneuvered in and out of the busy streets, carefully avoiding any undue attention. A mobile phone call broke the silence. Bomani reached forward and picked up the phone from the dash.
“Yes…” He hung up. A few seconds went by. Without warning, Bomani suddenly lifted both hands off the steering wheel and slammed them back down, swearing. “Xara! The infidels are on to us, they know who you are and your mission.”
“Wha…What?” Bashir was confused. “How could they? It’s not possible.”
“We are at war,” Bomani replied with the benefit of experience. “Anything is possible.”
Yusuf shuffled in his seat, searching the surrounding buildings, vehicles, pedestrians, his eyes going from one perceived threat to another. Winding down his window he put his head out and looked upwards, searching the sky between skyscrapers for helicopters.
“Wind up that window and sit still, you fool. You do not panic or feel afraid when you are with me. If you do you will be of no further use to our cause.”
Catching his breath, Yusuf leaned hard back in his seat, his head pressed against the headrest. Within a few moments he regained composure and then wound up the window.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise, I just…”
“Do not be sorry,” snapped Bomani. “Be brave. You are Takfir wal-Hijra, you live for the cause, you must be prepared to die for the cause — become a shahid, a martyr. There is no turning back, you must leave your past behind and prepare yourself to meet Allah and be honored for all eternity by your brotherhood. Takfir is forever. Allahu akbar.”