Then Davis remembered the photo of the crash site he'd seen in Sparky s office. The debris had been strewn over a very large area, at least a mile. Which didn't fit. The airplane had fallen over six miles in two minutes. On a trajectory like that, it should have gone straight in and made a hole like a meteor crater. He'd seen it before. Deep impact, the densest parts burying themselves in fifty feet of earth. But that hadn't happened to World Express 801. It had been really moving, but the impact was low angle.
Once again, a lot of possibilities.
Chapter SIX
The black-clad figure was quick, skirting around the flood of a streetlight and edging up to a chain-link fence.
The fence marked the property line of the sole manufacturing site of Colson Industries. By Texas standards, it was a modest operation, one acre of land with a single large building situated at the center. Around the outside of the place, stacked against corrugated sidewalls, was a sea of pipes, casings, scaffolding, and machinery. Some of the equipment was nicely organized, while other parts lay in haphazard piles, discarded in the course of day-to-day operations and waiting for the annual scrap heap collection. The whole collection suffered from varying degrees of oxidation, the depth of red and brown measuring the length of time each component had been surrendered to the elements.
At two in the morning, the workers had long gone home. The man in black had been watching for two weeks, and so he knew there was no night shift. He had expected a longer window for his surveillance, at least another week. But the orders from Damascus had come early — tonight would be the beginning.
The lone night watchman was a man in his sixties. His presence, according to Caliph, was not intended to repel invasion, but a mere ploy by the owners to gain more favorable insurance premiums. There was little of true value in the place — lathes, casting dies, heavy machinery. Colson Industries' very specialized product weighed in at over nine tons per unit, so no common thief was going to break down a door and drag one off.
The man in black moved, pulling along a heavy canvas bag. His name was Moustafa, and until recently he would have been described as an unemployed Palestinian accountant. Four years out of Hebron University, his prospects had turned increasingly bleak. It was one thing for a country to educate a million doctors, lawyers, and professionals. Quite another to create a society, an economy that could put them to good use. Unemployed and frustrated, Moustafa, like so many of his friends, had heard the calling and turned to his faith. Turned hard.
Moustafa was glad he had encountered no one on the streets because his English was miserable. Since arriving in America two weeks ago, he had remained secluded in a safe house run by a Saudi, a student at one of the local colleges. Moustafa had only ventured from the house late at night in order to study his two targets. Other than that, he prayed, read the Koran, and watched the decadence of American television. And yesterday he had made his martyr's video. This night, in fact, would not be his time of glory. If everything went as planned, he would survive. But Moustafa's appointment with destiny was near.
At a shadowed section offence he brought his first tool to bear, a pair of heavy cable cutters. As he worked, Moustafa eyed the razor wire woven along the top of the barrier, twelve feet over his head. A dramatic selling point for the traders of security fence, he supposed, but quite useless. Like so much here, it was only for show. He made quick work of the fence, and once inside Moustafa pulled his heavy bag through the gap. He then pulled the silenced 9mm Beretta from his pocket. The gun felt awkward, unfamiliar in his hand. He was not an expert in handling weapons, yet Moustafa knew he did not need to be — the guard carried only a radio.
He pulled his heavy satchel to a spot outside the building's delivery entrance and left it there. Next to a pair of loading bays was a simple entry door. The guard had passed through earlier — he circled the grounds once or twice each night, always ending back at the front entrance where his podium, comfortable chair, and television were situated. Americans and their television, Moustafa thought.
The rear door was unlocked and Moustafa eased inside. As had been the case each night, certain lights inside the building were left on — not the full array, but enough to allow the guard to see clearly. Confirming that the man was not in sight, Moustafa pulled the heavy bag in behind him and closed the door. Leaving the bag, he began to move cautiously toward the front of the building. He saw machinery everywhere, a terrific assortment of metal pipes, hardware, and sheet metal. The smell of machine oil was thick. Moustafa did not know exactly how this place related to the strength of America. He could only trust in Caliph's vision. And in the blessed will of Allah.
The first thing that drew Moustafa's attention was not a sight, but a sound — the television. He heard thumping music and a woman's voice shouting strident commands. Moustafa raised his gun. As he rounded a huge wooden crate he saw the guard slumped in his chair. Moustafa's finger trembled on the trigger, but then, against the racket of the television, he heard the most amazing thing. Snoring. The guard was sound asleep. Allah is indeed merciful.
The man's back was to him, and as Moustafa closed in he saw the television. A group of women, wearing almost no clothing, were dancing in a line, gyrating to the beat of techno music. The women were very healthy, their tanned loins and large breasts straining against skintight coverings. A telephone number was posted at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Moustafa found he was transfixed, staring at the crazy women. But then he tore his eyes free. Such a strange challenge, a strange temptation. He would not fall prey.
Moustafa stepped softly toward the guard. He slowly arced his arm upward and aimed at the center of the gray-haired mass only a meter away. Phht. The gun kicked back in Moustafa's hand. He saw the gray head shudder from the bullet's impact. Then the guard slumped and Moustafa saw a hole where the bullet had hit its mark. Blood and tissue had sprayed beyond, splattering across the glowing image of dancing whores. How appropriate. Moustafa raised his arm again. Caliphs instructions were clear — always make sure. Phht.
Finished with the guard, Moustafa noticed a small security monitor that alternated views of the place from different cameras. There was also a telephone on a pedestal and a few buttons that might have been alarms. This too had been addressed in his orders. Leave it. It was too complex to deal with properly. And if the next part was done well, none of it would be of any use. Caliph had considered everything. Which was why he had so frustrated the Americans. Why he had become a legend.
Moustafa retrieved his satchel and went to stand in the middle of the place. He took a few moments to study things in the half light of the cavernous building, sorting through by the guidelines he had been given. Then he went to work.
Moustafa identified two fifty-five gallon drums marked diesel, and another marked waste oil. He found some empty cardboard boxes, a few pieces of upholstered furniture, and stacked these around the drums. He also found an assortment of small cans that contained — if the labels could be trusted — paints, solvents, acid, and machine oil. These went on top of the drums. He then found a hammer and used the claw end to breach each drum at the midpoint of height.
Fuel spilled out over the floor, the acrid stink tearing at Moustafa's nasal passages. He found a clean rag and held it over his nose and mouth. Next, he took the three packages from his satchel. He knew nothing of the formula that had been used, but Moustafa immediately recognized a smell similar to that of fireworks. The bundles were tightly wrapped in plastic, the simple fuses exposed. He placed them with care, one near each drum.