Today, after nine years of lying in wait, he would do more than talk. While the leaders of the Western world and the traitorous President of Iran met in Finland to sign their meaningless documents, he would turn this place to ash.
And the beauty of his plan is that they would never catch him. Even if they captured Hashem and tortured him, his brother had no inkling of his plan. He smiled at the Vikings logo on the side of the stadium; there was a certain fated symmetry to striking a symbolic Norseman in lieu of an actual Nordic country.
The atmosphere in the van started to get stuffy in the afternoon heat. Rafiq picked his way into the rear of the vehicle and cracked open the packing case. The long gray tube, the size of a fire hydrant, gleamed dully in the light that came through the windshield. He paused. When he considered all the sacrifices that had gone into making this moment possible, the surge of emotion formed a lump in his throat.
To work.
Rafiq fished two prepaid mobile phones out of his pocket. He checked that both were fully charged, and receiving a good signal. He used one to call the other. The phone gave a shrill ring before he silenced it. He stored the outgoing number in memory and slipped that phone back in his pocket. For all its destructive potential, the nuclear weapon was remarkably simple: an explosive charge fires one piece of subcritical fissile material into another, forming a supercritical mass. Although inefficient by modern standards, the bomb had more than enough power to level the stadium and all of downtown Minneapolis.
Rafiq had modified the triggering device so he could explode it using a mobile phone, technology that had barely existed when the Iraqis built this bomb. The small black box he’d glued to the side of the packing case appeared modern and out of place next to the industrial-looking nuclear weapon. He set the counter on the black box to four; an incoming phone call would trigger the device after four rings. Then he attached the remaining phone to the detonator device with a simple connector.
The nuclear bomb was armed.
Rafiq sat back on his heels, tears stinging his eyes.
Oh, my brother, wherever you are, this is a day of days.
One final touch remained. Rafiq hefted the shotgun and loaded a single shell into the chamber. He clamped the weapon into a portable vise and aimed it at the back door. Then he ran a length of wire from the trigger to a large rattrap he had scrounged from Chas’s garage. He set the trap and, holding the hammer down with his foot, wedged a corner of the bar under the back door of the van. He duct-taped the entire assembly to the floor and carefully secured the shotgun trigger wire to the hammer of the trap. Then he covered the shotgun with a light blanket.
He smiled grimly. Hashem, his ever-cautious brother, would approve.
Rafiq exited the driver’s side door and paused to pull a Vikings jersey over his head. Number 22, a player named Smith. A Vikings ball cap and a pair of dark glasses he’d taken from Chas’s closet completed the outfit. He made his way to the street level, joining the pregame throng.
A few blocks away, Rafiq boarded the light rail bound for the Mall of America.
CHAPTER 57
Liz watched Brendan’s Subaru Outback pull into the visitor’s spot in front of the FBI field office. He stepped out of the car and stretched.
Her gut clenched. She never intended their dinner last week to be the spectacular ultimatum she’d turned it into. All she’d wanted was a nice let’s-get-reacquainted meal. There was no rush, no need to lay it all out there on their first date in years. For God’s sake, the guy had taken three weeks just to call her!
But that look in his eyes when Tony had shown up… part jealousy, part confusion, part doubt. After all she’d done to be with him, that look was like a knife in the belly. She needed him to know that — despite whatever she’d said before — he was the one for her.
So she did it. Loud, proud, and in your face. And she scared him. The look on his face at the end of her tirade said it alclass="underline" pure terror.
When he’d called her this afternoon, her heart beat faster at the sound of his voice. What followed was a cockamamie story about a rogue Hezbollah terrorist in Minneapolis with a nuclear device. She half-expected him to say “gotcha!” It sounded too far-fetched to be believed, but when she found out Don was involved she’d called Tom Trask, her SAC, immediately.
Liz pushed open the door to the security building and waved at Brendan to hurry. He jogged across the parking lot, favoring his injured leg. He was dressed in an open-necked sport shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” he said, meeting her gaze for a second before brushing past her.
“Hi.”
She’d already cleared him into the building. He signed the log and clipped a visitor badge to his shirt pocket. Without waiting for him, Liz started down the long walkway toward the main building.
Brendan caught up with her. “Listen, Liz, about the other night, I—”
“Brendan, I’m only going to say this once. This is where I work. Whatever this thing is between us”—she waved her finger between them—“is between us. It has nothing to do with this place. So — so just focus.”
He held the door for her. There was an open elevator waiting for them. She pushed the button for the top floor, level five. She met his gaze as the door closed. “Look, Tom Trask is a good man, I trust him. Just give him the facts, and he’ll make the right call.”
Special Agent in Charge Thomas Trask had a corner office on the fifth floor with an attached conference room. Liz’s gaze traveled over the familiar pictures on his walclass="underline" a younger Trask in a Marine Corps officer’s uniform, Georgetown Law School diploma, a family photo with his wife and two kids, one in a midshipman’s uniform. The man himself was a compact, fifty-something guy with an iron-gray crew cut and a more-than-firm handshake. He nodded as Liz made the introductions and he shook Brendan’s hand.
“McHugh, Tom Trask. Good to meet you. Liz has told me all about you.”
“She has?”
Liz closed her eyes. She had told Trask about Brendan. He was a fellow Marine and he kind of reminded her of her father. Trask winked at her and jerked his head toward the attached conference room. “Let’s get started,” he said.
Two other agents were already in the room: Kamen and Adams, known in the office as Cain and Abel. The light on the speaker phone was blinking red, indicating someone on hold. Liz punched the blinking button on the phone. “Don, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Putting you on the screen now.” Don Riley’s round face popped up on the wall monitor.
Trask placed his hands flat on the table. “Alright, McHugh, the floor is yours. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
Brendan took a deep breath. “A few months ago, I was part of an operation to take down an Iranian nuclear weapons site. They had three nuclear-tipped missiles on launchers, ready to strike at Israel during the Tel Aviv nuclear accord meeting.”
“Holy shit,” muttered one of the FBI agents. Trask’s jaw tightened.
“The operation was run by an Iranian Quds officer named Hashem Aboud. I’ve run into him a few times over the years. Nasty character, but very well connected in the region. He was mortally wounded during the takedown; I was there when he died. He threatened me — in Farsi — but the deathbed confession never matched with any other intel. I think it’s best if Mr. Riley takes it from here.”