Don leaned closer to the screen. “This afternoon, an Iranian agent I’ve known for some time contacted me. He divulged that the Iranians believe there is a fourth nuke. The weapon was passed to Hashem Aboud’s half brother, a Hezbollah agent named Rafiq Roshed, and placed with a sleeper cell in South America. The Iranians have been pursuing this angle on their own and tracked the weapon to a Malaysian freighter that was docking in Helsinki today.
“The Finns raided the freighter this morning outside of Helsinki Harbor. The ship was clean, but it made a port call in the Canary Islands two weeks ago. After some persuasion, the captain acknowledged that one of his crew departed in Tenerife. We’re coordinating with the Spanish authorities for more details on where our suspect may have gone, but if he had prearranged transport, he could be anywhere by now.
“At first blush, the Helsinki connection made perfect sense. The translation of Aboud’s threat referred to activity in the north, and we know their goal was to disrupt the Tel Aviv nuclear agreement. Obviously, we were fooled.” Don’s voice took on an apologetic tone. “We now think the Helsinki freighter was a red herring and the real nuke is… somewhere else. The Vikings angle came from a side conversation with Brendan earlier today.”
Trask blew out his breath. “Wow, that’s pretty thin.” He looked at Liz. “You’ve verified the translation?”
Liz avoided Trask’s gaze. “I’m working from a phonetic recollection of a deathbed confession that happened months ago. Is ‘vikings’ a possible translation of what this Hashem character said? Yes, one of about a dozen potential meanings.”
Trask scrubbed his crew cut with his short fingers. “Okay, what do we have on this Hezbollah brother and why the hell would he choose Minneapolis?”
Cain and Abel perked up. Cain pulled the keyboard close and punched some keys. The picture of Rafiq filled the split screen next to Don. Abel did the talking.
“Mr. Riley sent over Roshed’s file via JWICS. This is the only picture we have of Rafiq Roshed, and it’s old. Using facial recognition software and screening for gender and age, I’ve run a comp against all entries into the US in the last two weeks. Nothing. I also searched for a match against active US passports in the last ten years, and got no hits. But, when I ran the software on the database for student visas, I found something.” He struck a key and a passport picture page appeared on the screen next to Rafiq’s photo. Liz studied the photos. Side by side she could see some resemblance, but nothing conclusive by a long shot.
“Meet Ralf Faber, student at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, from 1999 to 2004. Graduated with a degree in international relations. No problems with the law, didn’t overstay his visa.”
Trask pulled a face. “What’s the degree of confidence on the match?”
“Seventy-nine percent.”
“So if this is our guy and we think he’s here, how did he get into the US?” Trask asked.
Cain and Abel exchanged glances. “We might have a possible lead, sir,” said Abel. “When Faber renewed his visa, he put an emergency contact as Charles Whitworth, home address in Bayfield, Wisconsin. I pulled it up on the map. It’s a mansion, with a big boathouse attached.”
“People, this is weak stuff, barely circumstantial.” Trask pressed his lips together. “That said, the possibility of a rogue nuke on US soil, the Vikings stadium grand opening… I guess if a terrorist wanted to make a statement, this would be a pretty good place. Washington wants us to check it out, but let’s keep this out of the news.”
He pointed to Cain and Abel. “Contact local PD in Bayfield. Have them get someone up to the Whitworth mansion to interview Mr. Whitworth about Roshed. Tell them we need this info yesterday. Put out an APB for Roshed to all locals and stadium security. I’ll be in the ops center bringing the governor and the city officials up to speed.”
Trask looked over at Liz. “Liz, this is one time that I hope you’re wrong.”
Brendan stood. “What can I do to help, sir?”
Trask pointed out the window to the empty parking lot. A UH-60 Black Hawk helo was setting down.
“McHugh, you and Agent Soroush are going fishing.”
CHAPTER 58
The car he’d stolen from the Mall of America parking lot was a 2007 Ford Taurus, silver, with 98,173 miles on it. The previous owner had been a smoker and a slob.
Rafiq headed south on Route 77 until it hooked up to I-35. He rolled down the windows to let the wind clear away the smell of cigarette smoke from the car interior. The weather was one of those perfect Minnesota days: eighty degrees, low humidity, and not a cloud in the sky. Everywhere he looked, the trees, the buildings, everything looked etched against the perfect blue of the sky.
These were the Minnesota afternoons when he and Chas would go to the lake… what was the name of it? A passing road sign reminded him: Prior Lake. Chas would rent them the fastest motorboat he could find and they’d race across the water, the spray and the wind whipping their faces.
The exit for Northfield appeared and he took it. County Road 19 was a rolling two-lane country road that wound east. He passed St. Olaf College, and then picked up the distinctive smell of the Malt-O-Meal factory on the breeze that blew in the window. He crossed the Cannon River, turning left onto Division Street, and drove slowly by Hogan Brothers’ Acoustic Café, a favorite haunt for he and Chas.
He parked his car off campus and walked toward Skinner Chapel carrying only a knapsack containing money, two more fake passports, binoculars, and a smartphone. Anything else he needed, he could buy.
The critical phone, the one that would trigger the bomb, was in his hip pocket.
Rafiq took a seat on a shaded park bench outside the chapel. From here he could see the dorm room where he and Chas had spent their first year together. So many memories, good ones. Chas had been his first recruit. He alone had identified him and groomed him for the day when he would be needed.
But it was more than that. Chas had been his friend, too, and they’d had some good times. His nostalgic mood softened when he thought of his friend’s bloated body lying in his bed with his brains painting the wall. What a waste; Rafiq had done his friend a favor.
He dozed in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Since classes at Carleton wouldn’t start for another week, the campus was deserted. Anyone else was probably indoors watching the Vikings game. He smiled to himself; he hoped they were all watching. Rafiq rose slowly, stiff from the hard surface of the bench. He was too old for this. After this one last job for Hashem, he was finished with the Iranian side of his family. Nadine, Consie, and Javi were his family now — the rest of them could go to hell.
Nadine. He closed his eyes, trying to picture what she and the children would be doing right now. They’d be at dinner. Rafiq could almost taste the wine on his palate, a bite of steak on his tongue. Javi would be holding court with mother and little sister about his latest riding adventure. Rafiq fished the smartphone out of his knapsack. A short call, just enough to hear Nadine’s voice, that’s all he wanted.
No. It was little moments of weakness that destroyed great operations. He would not allow an instant of homesickness to compromise nine years of waiting and planning. His family was safe. He would be with them soon.
The sun, a beautiful globe of yellow-orange, was just touching the horizon. Rafiq checked his watch: 1915. The game had started. He opened the NFL Live smartphone app. The Vikings were already ahead by a score of 7—0. The commentators gushed about the new stadium, and nearly every commercial break featured a shot of the stadium exterior soaring into the flawless blue sky like the prow of some long-ago warship.