“He should be stopping them a hell of a lot farther away. If that pack had contained a bomb, it would have taken out the front entrance,” Beckmann said.
Smith swept his eyes over the area, getting the lay of the land and counting security and riot control personnel. He shifted the car into gear and pulled from the spot.
“Let’s head to the rear. This much heat almost guarantees that these guys aren’t going to waltz into the front door.” He drove around the building, pulling the vehicle close to its far end. Steel tracks snaked in all directions. Smith watched as a train car appeared, slowly making its way out of the railway terminal. A lone officer stood at the corner, keeping vigil. He eyed the town car with great interest.
“Keep moving. That guy is looking like he wants to stop us,” Beckmann said.
He kept going, driving past the officer, whose head moved in tandem with them as they passed, and turned onto a narrow cobblestone lane. Parked cars lined the road, one set of wheels on the sidewalk, the other on the street, their mirrors folded. Even so, the sedan was a tight fit. Smith kept his eyes in front of him, keeping the car in the center with a few feet of clearance on each side.
Two masked men burst around the corner. They ran flat-out, their arms pumping, pistols in their hands flashing; the lead man had a backpack that banged against his shoulder blades with each footfall.
“I’m on it.” Beckmann rolled out the passenger door, smacking it against a metal mesh garbage can before slamming it closed. He raised his rifle in a fluid motion and squeezed off a shot, hitting the following man in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the right. The terrorist stumbled and went down between two vehicles, dropping out of Smith’s sight.
The lead man didn’t hesitate or even flinch at the sound of the gunshot. He sprinted straight at the car, never slowing. Smith kept the car moving as well. They were ten feet apart and on a collision course when the attacker’s legs crumpled. One second he was standing, the next he wasn’t. He smacked, face first, onto the stones and lay in the harsh pool of light thrown by the town car’s headlamps. Smith hit the brakes, skidding to within two feet of the fallen man. He threw the transmission into park and watched as Beckmann flitted past, running toward the man he’d shot and ignoring the body on the ground.
Smith flung open his door and made his way to the fallen man, keeping his gun aimed, but only from an abundance of caution. He had an idea that this terrorist, like all the others, was dead. At three feet away he saw the wires extending from the backpack up and around to the man’s collar, disappearing down into his jacket. He smelled the acrid scent of burning Lycra and nylon as the jacket smoldered. Just the sight of it sent a shock of adrenaline through him.
“Run like hell — he’s wired,” Smith yelled. He leaped over the body and sprinted down the cobblestone lane, Beckmann pounding right behind him. After ten seconds, the explosive pack blew. Smith felt the force of the blast hammer his back, and he flew forward onto the street. When he landed, he curled into a ball, covering his head with his hands. Heat washed over him along with bits of something that he hoped was not pieces of the terrorist’s body. The hail of debris ended and he lowered his arms to look back.
The main force of the blast centered on the town car’s engine block. The grille was a tangled mass of metal and the hood was bent. Smoke poured from the front, sides, and top of it and the windshield was a crazy kaleidoscope of cracked glass. Smith sat up, his hands hanging over his knees and his right still holding his gun. He watched the smoke billow out into the air. Beckmann rose to a sitting position next to him and gazed at the smoldering vehicle in silence.
“That car’s totaled,” Smith said.
Beckmann nodded. “I must have been wrong about it being armored. No armored car would sustain that much damage from one small backpack bomb.”
“Hard to believe it wasn’t, though. Handled like a tank,” Smith said. The up-and-down wail of an ambulance Klaxon started howling in the distance. He rose, dusting bits of ash and other matter that he did his best not to look at from his shoulders. Lights had sprung on in the windows around them, and he glanced up to see several people standing on the balconies of the apartments on the third and fourth floors above the ground-floor shops.
“Let’s get out of here. The other guy dead?”
“He is. I found this in his pocket.” Beckmann handed him an airline folder. “It’s a flight to Washington. Leaves tomorrow. This one expected to survive.”
“A logical expectation, given the fact that his buddy was wearing the bomb. I wish I knew why the other guys are dying.” The disabled car belched out some more smoke.
“Our fingerprints are all over that car,” Beckmann said. “The North Koreans are going to be furious.”
Smith hesitated. Beckmann had a point. For a brief moment he considered braving the smoke cloud and using his shirt to wipe down the dashboard, but a flicker of flame started to rise from the engine’s interior.
“Ahh, perfect. It’s going to combust,” Smith said.
Beckmann slid his rifle back under his coat, once again hiding it from view. “Good, because I do not want to report this to Russell. I don’t know her well enough to predict what the repercussions would be.”
Smith pocketed his gun and waved Beckmann away from the car. “Don’t worry about Russell. She’s blown up more cars than you and I combined, not to mention the time she shot up an entire warehouse filled with Plastique.”
Beckmann whistled. “Who was she after?”
“A band of Russian killers out to use it on civilian targets.” The wailing sirens were getting closer. Smith turned another corner, putting more distance between them and the burning car.
“What’s next?” Beckmann said.
Smith held up the airline envelope. “I’m going to Washington.”
10
Dattar slid out of the SUV onto the dock’s parking lot. He heard the creaking of metal and wood as the buoys rocked from side to side. The air smelled like engine oil and rotting fish, and one of the sodium lights on the dock fizzed in response to a failing ballast. Dattar stared at the light for a moment, thinking about the mass of electrical power that ran through even such a small device.
“The captain’s been paid. He knows to stay on the bridge and not look below,” Rajiid said.
“And the coolers?”
“Already on the airplane. I have a sample here, as well.”
One of his lieutenants, a man without a history or background known to the authorities, was transporting the coolers via a previously arranged private jet. Dattar wished that he could fly in quick and easy comfort to his destination, but the risk was far too high. He stepped off the planks onto a waiting boat that was to take him to the freighter. The man at the wheel never looked his way. Rajiid untied the ropes that kept the craft in place, tossing them onto the deck before climbing on board. The engine engaged and the cruiser began a slow turn away from the dock.
Dattar felt the muscles in his neck relax as they headed out to sea. He’d contact Khalil from the freighter and impress upon the man the need for quick action, especially regarding the additional assignment. The cargo ship loomed over them when they pulled alongside. Dattar crawled up the metal ladder, stepping over onto the deck. He looked back at the boat and saw the wheel man preparing to return to the dock. The man’s head was lowered, so he didn’t see Rajiid pointing a gun at him. There was the sound of a compressed bullet, and the man crumpled. Rajiid shoved the gun in his waistband and reached down to grab the body. He hauled it to the boat’s side and threw it overboard. Rajiid stepped across to the ladder, releasing the ropes that bound the boat to the larger ship. He used his foot to push the smaller craft free, and it began a slow turn away.