She slipped into the front seat and checked herself in the mirror, put on dark red lipstick, her sunglasses, put the key in the ignition.
The red Mazda Miata MX-5 came to life. The engine quietly hummed as she lowered the convertible top and secured it. She unclipped her hair and shook her head, then pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slipped on her baseball cap. After a few more seconds, she gave herself one final primp check in the rearview mirror, pursing her lips.
She pulled away from the tower, out the gate and onto Gulfstream Road. She accelerated the car, her auburn ponytail whipping in the air. A hundred thoughts invaded her mind, from Kaplan’s disheveled appearance this morning to the items on her day’s “to do” list.
Distracted, she suddenly realized she was about to miss her exit, she swerved across two lanes of traffic amid the blaring horns of angry motorists and down the off ramp. Her house was only five more minutes away.
She pulled into the alley behind her home on Oglethorpe Street, across from Colonial Park Cemetery in the historic district. She opened the rear gate and drove into the garage, leaving the garage door open for Kaplan. She climbed the stairs to the door that let her directly into the kitchen.
Scout, her overweight tortoiseshell cat greeted her, rubbing against Annie’s legs before walking over to her food dish. “Okay, I know, it’s time to eat,” Annie said as she reached down to pet her.
She tossed her car keys on the counter next to her mail basket. Her day had started without her normal regimen of fifty sit-ups followed by forty-five minutes on her StairMaster. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and headed upstairs. Annie took off her work clothes, slipped into her workout clothes, and walked into her exercise room on the third floor.
Twenty minutes later she abandoned her workout. Something wasn’t right. She just couldn’t get into it. She stripped off her workout clothes, tossed them into the hamper and turned on the hot water in the shower.
After showering, she wrapped a towel around her wet hair like a turban. She dried off with another towel and then draped it over the glass shower enclosure hanging it equal lengths from the top on both sides. She needed to hurry — Kaplan was probably already on his way to her house.
CHAPTER 11
“Son of a bitch!” The Persian grabbed the metal statue from the table and hurled it at the television. The statue smashed through the screen, sending glass shards onto the floor. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, sparks flew.
His two children, a girl and a boy, ran into the room. “Father!”
His wife followed them and saw the television. “Farid Nasiri— the children. What have you done?”
The Persian, born in Tehran, Iran, in 1975, was the son of a wealthy businessman. He inherited the business when his father was killed in a tunnel bombing in Afghanistan after the United States retaliated from the Al Qaeda attacks of September 11, 2001. He had a ruthless business style and was known for his foul temper and unscrupulous dealings. On more than one occasion he had doublecrossed his contacts, keeping both the money and the merchandise. His contacts were reluctant to do business with him, mostly out of fear. And he’d just learned that Laurence O’Rourke’s chartered jet had crashed in Savannah, Georgia.
He turned to his wife and glared. His hard black eyes cut at her from underneath his traditional headwear.
She lowered her eyes, looking at the floor. “I beg your forgiveness.”
He motioned with his hand, muttering, “Leave me.” She ran to the kitchen, hurrying the children to their bedrooms.
How could this have happened? Who would want O’Rourke dead? A question he knew didn’t need answering.
While in Dallas, O’Rourke first made contact with the Persian through an Iranian singles web site, the Persian’s usual method of conducting business.
He had contacted O’Rourke yesterday to confirm the offshore account number. The money had been raised and a substantial deposit made in O’Rourke’s Cayman bank account.
The disappointing news of Laurence O’Rourke’s death could have a devastating impact on the plans of the terrorist cells.
How would the news be taken by the leader?
Even more troubling, how would the Pakistani take the news? Salim Malik, Bin Laden’s number-two man, was known for his barbaric methods of punishment.
No sooner had the disturbing thought passed through the Persian’s mind when his cell phone rang. Malik.
“Hello?”
“Your failure is not looked upon favorably by our leader, Farid.”
“How could this be my failure? These are not circumstances I have control over.”
“You should have planned better. You should have realized the dynamics surrounding this man O’Rourke and planned accordingly. These things should have been taken into consideration before you disclosed your intentions to our leader.”
“But the situation—”
“Enough,” Malik said. “He will give you one more chance. Another failure on your part and you will never see paradise. Is that clear, Farid?”
Before the Persian could answer, Salim Malik hung up.
CHAPTER 12
Ian Collins yawned as he rode down the escalator at the Jacksonville International Airport, his overnight bag slung over his left shoulder.
He had tried to sleep on the airplane but the woman in the seat next to him was a talker. A baby two rows back cried half way to Jacksonville. And there was the nine-year-old kid in the seat behind him who got bored and started kicking the back of his seat. Collins had stopped that quickly. He removed a contact, leaned around the seat and gave the kid an evil look. “Don’t do it again.”
The petrified boy didn’t move the remainder of the flight to Jacksonville.
He held his Blackberry in his right hand, reading his new messages. The first of the four messages was from Savannah:
Call me when you arrive JAX — Jillian
He remembered how anxious she sounded on the phone the night before about her part of the operation — he shook his head. He advanced his Blackberry to the second message. Message number two was from Belfast:
Request immediate update on O’Rourke.
The third message was also from Belfast, although from a different sender. This sender had an opposite agenda from the others.
Word is phase one of Savannah Project complete. Please confirm.
The fourth message was a follow-up message from Jillian.
LO crashed the party about twenty minutes late. Surprise party was a success.
He walked across several lanes of traffic in front of the baggage claim area to the area designated for courtesy vans. Several passengers were taking advantage of this first opportunity to smoke a cigarette since leaving their departure points. Annoyed by the smoke, Collins moved to an isolated section of the waiting area. He placed his bag on the concrete and leaned back against the metal rail separating the waiting areas from the lanes of traffic.
While waiting for the courtesy van to pick him up, he typed out replies to some of his messages. First, he responded to Jillian’s:
Happy to hear party went as planned. We must still monitor the situation closely and keep away uninvited guests. Find Sullivan location. Will call when arrive SAV.