Hit Hard Page 22
He got Max on the wire. “Jesus, we damn near blew up the CIA station to find you.”
“You need to work on your investigating skills. If I had to wait for you…” He let that hang.
“We were playing with Semtex.”
Sam hailed a cab, glancing over the roof before he lowered himself inside. He was tempted to wave to the eyeball tailing him. The man needed to blend in better, he stood out like the last time.
Kashir hurried away from the train, glancing back to see if he was followed. He’d walked most of the journey from Chairyapham, slipping on the train when he got closer to Bangkok and changing lines twice.
He had to be certain the Chow did not follow him. He never was.
Kashir moved with the crowd, wanting to hurry, hoping they’d disperse, but knowing he was safer in the throngs of people. Outside the station area, he headed deeper into the city, passing a pay phone and wanting to make contact, but there was no time.
He’d had to leave his equipment behind, stashed in the jungle. If anyone found him with any of it, his cover would be blown and he’d be dead very quickly.
He crossed the street between high-rise buildings, pausing for cars and rickshaws, and tourists, and thinking he liked the peace of the jungle better. His clothing brought curious stares and he wished he’d had time to clean up. Hurrying, Kashir sensed rather than saw the small group of young men walking to his right. He looked ragged, an easy target, and when he turned sharply, the young men blocked his path.
“I am Chow.” He named his boss, the Jao Pho leader. “Go find someone else to taunt.” Worthless teens, he thought, then knew he was in trouble when one man sneered, whipping out a knife as he advanced.
Constantine twisted his ring, then reached for his coffee, smiling to himself. The assembly would be a fine moment, he thought, his gaze drifting to the locked box, the cache of diamonds that held his fortune.
The cell phone chimed, and he grabbed it, flipping it open and reading the text message. Finally. He set it and coffee aside to type it into the computer. He tapped the speaker. “Mr. Brandau, you have them.”
He knew he did. “I’ll load, but like I said, it won’t have the range.”
“Let’s prove its value.”
“You did that already. You know, too much of a good thing—”
“Do not think to advise me,” he cut in. “I will see you back in that dirty little cell.”
Constantine brought up the camera in time to see Brandau flip him off. He merely smiled. I will destroy that cockiness when I am done with you.
“Do you want to fire it?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll have to come get it.”
“Think outside the box, Winston.”
He cut the line and opened another. Zidane had the buyers online at remote locations, all to protect his identity. They had no real idea they were only a few floors below him, along with Brandau and his workshop. The squat, round face of a buyer came into view. The man looked impatiently at the webcam.
“What is your bid?”
The man offered seven million.
“A bit low, no thank you.”
The Indonesian quickly increased it to ten. “I want proof, now.”
“You shall have it when the other bidders have spoken. Is that your final offer?”
The man nodded. Constantine severed the connection.
His e-mail pinged, and he leaned over to open it, frowning. I have a prize for you, it read.
Constantine scrolled, then smiled at the still picture. He set a price, conditions, and a delivery, then hit send and sat back.
Like brokering commodities, he thought, then went on to weed out the low bidders.
Logan focused on the screen, impatient for the translation program to finish. It was like watching Wheel of Fortune, the letters turning to English, and yet, as they were literal translations, not making a whole lot of sense.
It finished and he read what he couldn’t understand beyond the obvious.
Then he ran the translated decryption. Viva, bless you for this idea, he thought. He prayed Ryzikov wasn’t up on the latest programs, nor had access. Logan had written his own. This had to work. He’d tried passwords in three languages and back doors, all with failures. Access denied was irritating him.
As decryption ran, Logan helped it along, sending the program to focus on the one group of files he couldn’t even access to know how big it was.
He leaned back in the chair, scrubbed his hands over his face and, as he lowered his hands, his attention fell on Ryzikov’s laptop. Logan had copied the hard drive because the Chechen’s computer was too slow for his tastes.
The bag of diamonds Viva had taken were beside it, and he remembered what she’d said about role-playing. Sheik, scimitar, harem, Sahara. Nothing worked. Ryzikov was twisted and extremely arrogant. He didn’t do more than handle money and weapons, but he considered himself the power of his faction. He’d stated it enough in videos after claiming responsibility for a bombing somewhere.
Logan typed in the first ruler of Islam, and the files opened.
It gave him a new set of problems.
Tashfin Rohki slowed his steps down the crowded avenue. Over the heads of the city dwellers, a familiar face grabbed his attention. Instinctively he felt for the small pistol tucked under his jacket. He kept walking, maneuvering between the throngs, and stopped before Zidane seated at an outside bistro.
“Sit, please.” He gestured to the opposing chair.
Rohki didn’t. “What do you want now?”
“Sit and we will discuss it.” Zidane gestured to a waiter inside the restaurant, holding up two fingers.
“I don’t deal with you, you’re just a gofer.”
Zidane arched a brow and waited. “If that is what you believe.”
Rohki flicked his hand, dismissing the matter, and sat.
Without the long hair and the Manchu beard, Rohki would look less dangerous, Zidane thought, his gaze skimming his dark suit and ice blue silk tie. Little of the man he’d brought from Sri Lanka remained.
“Why would the Pharaoh give all the details of the weapon to the Chechen, and not to you?” Zidane noticed Rohki’s eyes narrow, his hands clench.
“You’re prepared to tell me,” Rohki said.
“No, show you.” From inside his jacket, he removed a CD.
Rohki practically salivated and reached for it, then hesitated. “He didn’t send you.”
Zidane inclined his head to the CD.
“He’ll kill us both.”
Someone would die, Zidane thought, but it wouldn’t be him. “The large stone has surfaced. The one you lost.”
Rohki’s small eyes narrowed. They knew it existed because they’d seen a digital photo of it. Of all the stones. The Pharaoh had wanted proof before he allowed anyone into the bidding. Why he was obsessed with that particular diamond was a mystery, but then, eccentrics were as such. He said nothing till the waiter left the coffees. “Who has it?”
Slowly Zidane pulled a photo from inside his jacket and tossed it. It slid and spun across the small table.
Rohki didn’t pick it up and stared, his brows knit. “I’ve seen him before, I think. In Sri Lanka.” While the photo was clear, Rohki didn’t recall the man’s face well. He was nothing more than an armed guard. “The Irishman took the stone before the flood.”
“And the flood—was made with the weapon.” Rohki’s head snapped up and Zidane enjoyed the shock.
“That’s impossible. It’s just the plans.”
“It was created long ago.”
Rohki was silent, pieces falling into place. He exploded. “I lost my men! My countrymen!” Just because he fought for the Tigers didn’t mean he wanted to kill his people.
“He doesn’t care, he has no cause, no sympathies, but for the stones and the money the bidding war will bring him.” Zidane unfolded from the chair and stood. “What would you do to return the favor?”
“Kill hi
m.”
“Then prepare yourself.” Zidane stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. “A car will come for you.”
Rohki’s gaze drifted down to the CD. Having the design was useless, he needed the weapon.
The team entered to see Logan standing, working between the three keyboards.
“Now that’s an excited man,” Max said.
“I got past the encryption.”
“Outstanding,” Sam said.
“This guy has his whole life on here. Photos of targets, known and unknown associates, bank accounts, future targets. He was even writing his memoirs. It’s sick.”
“They’ll love you in Washington.”
“You have to see this, though. It’s the schematics for a weapon, I think.”
“You aren’t sure?” Sam said, moving to the screen. They were pretty much up on the latest warfare.
“Ever see anything like that?” Logan asked.
“It doesn’t look like a weapon,” Max said, hovering. “What’s that square silver plate on the top? And the housing is too wide to be loaded with bullets.” It would hold a .50 caliber, but the device itself would never hold up to the propulsion of it.
“Can you turn this view?” Sam asked.
Logan tapped keys.
“I’ve seen something like that before.” The men looked at him. “An article in Popular Mechanics. The inventor was in on the development of the first sonograms.”
“Woody somebody, he was a tech in the Air Force, I think, a radioman,” Max said.
“It’s HSS, hypersonic sound.” Sam straightened and looked at his buddies. “It pinpoints sound. Commercially, investors would use it to say, give the sound of a soda opening when you passed a vending machine. As weaponry, it can make your skeleton vibrate, and you can pick the illness. At two hundred yards.”
“And hear what’s not there. They used it on Viva,” Logan said with finality.
Sebastian entered, carrying a six-pack of beer, pulled four off the ring and handed them out. “Why this? If it’s patented, it’s for sale in the open market.”
“It barely resembles the one in the article, except for that plate,” Sam said. “This one is narrow and long. And what’s this?” He drew a line from the base to the bulbous end. The mechanism had the streamlines of a rocket launcher, yet the components on top, the grid plate that looked like silver material, obstructed. It wasn’t concealed or housed and very close to the end. The entire length of it wasn’t more than a yard.
Then he noticed the tripod stand, collapsible.
“It stands,” Sam said. “It’s stationary, the others were handheld.”
“That puts it pointing to the sky,” Logan put in.
Sebastian studied it. “Why, when direction would normally be horizontal?”
“Who knows?” Sam said. “The military bought thousands of the other versions. They’re using them in Afghanistan to empty the caves.”
“Well, hell,” Sebastian said, “that means it’s ours.” Stolen from a US project.
“We need more information. Someone’s got to know it’s missing. Load it up to the Pentagon, A-sap.”
“Was just about to.” Logan turned back to the computer. “Going to use up my favors on this one.”
National Military Command Center
Walker hovered over the desk, then looked at the white board. He’d been trying to find a connection between the theft and the sightings of terrorists in Thailand enroute to the area—beyond the obvious. Who had the capability to use such clandestine software? The Chinese, sure, but they had their own resources. National security, yes—he twisted, frowning at his board. Whose national security, he thought and went to town.
Zidane canvassed her moves. Noor did not blend easily in the city. She was graceful and beautiful, but while men looked, she didn’t notice, nor did she care. He advanced when she started to fade from his sight and he paused in a doorway. He should have given this job to one of his men, but needed no one to understand his motives. Noor hunted.
Zidane tracked her.
She searched for the American. For the stone so she would return to favor. It troubled her—probably the only thing that had in a while—that she had been lowered in the Pharaoh’s eyes.
Zidane was surprised she didn’t just fuck him again. Sex was the most lethal weapon in her arsenal. Even he had wanted to try the beauty, but not anymore. He’d seen enough.
Noor slipped into a skyscraper and Zidane proceeded, frowning at the address.
Noor didn’t stop at the desk and when the receptionist tried to block her path, Noor shoved her aside. The woman sank into her chair, and quickly made a call. Noor kept walking, turning to a NO ADMITTANCE hall and stopping at a door. She knocked when she wanted to break it in. The door slipped open, the pretty face peered, first seductively, then with utter shock.
“You swore never to come here, ever.”
“I need something from you.” Noor pushed her way in, looked around the flat and smirked. “You can do better than this, Mali.”
“And you have? Get out, I want nothing of you, you will destroy my business. They have not forgotten.”
Noor’s gaze slashed to Mali’s. “I didn’t want them to. Your lover, Dahl, who was his friend?” Mali would give up her own mother to save her precious porcelain skin, Noor thought.
Mali frowned. “I don’t know, an American, a cowboy.”
“A name.” Noor slipped out a knife.
Mali backed up and reached for the phone. A kick and Noor sent it flying across the room.
“I beg you, do not hurt me.”
Noor sneered. “You’re pathetic, stand up.”
Mali rose gingerly.
“A name, I know he told you.”
“Wyatt, that’s all I heard. Wyatt.”
Noor didn’t say another word and spun on her heels, leaving the room. Mali immediately grabbed the phone to warn Russell.
Zidane’s gaze followed her as she left the building. She was so intent on her progress she did not see him standing near the bank of phones. He left the newspaper and the building, popping a lozenge in his mouth. He could easily learn what she had on the sixteenth floor. But trailing her would be much simpler—and beneficial.
Logan called his pal, Deets, at NSA. “I’ve got something you should see.”
“How much?”
“About ten gig.”
Deets whistled softly. “Let her rip.”
“You aren’t the only one getting it. I’ve sent this to the Pentagon.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then, “What the hell is it, Chambliss?”
“Andrei Ryzikov’s computer hard drive.”
“Holy shit.”
Logan could just barely hear him speaking to others.
“How did you get it?” Deets asked.
Everyone in there just went on fast alert, he knew. “Long story, but it involved Ryzikov’s little death’s-door fetish.” He heard more muttered sounds and instantly knew they had intel on this. “You know something.”
There was silence, no confirmation, no denial.
“What’s your mission and for who?” Deets asked.
“I’ve got a sworn duty, too. No.”
“Money making the decisions?”
“You know better than to ask that, God dammit. I was hoping you could shed some light on this.”
“Logan, that’s a flash.”
Flash, flash, flash was the term used in emergencies by the higher ranking, old-school military. It cut all communications and allowed the info to travel to the right sources lightning fast, chain of command be dammed.
But NSA had their own priorities, and Logan needed to understand this machine better.
Sam prowled the house, unable to sleep. Even when she wasn’t here, Viva kept him awake. She should have landed by now. He dropped onto the sofa and reached for the phone to call his buddy in the RAF. He was about to dial when a soft ping made him twist, his gaze searching the room for the sound.
He straightened slowly and turned toward Ryzikov’s laptop sitting at the end of the table, away from the rest of the equipment. Scowling, he went to it. Any associate had to know by now that Ryz was dead. He hit the key and the dormant screen blinked up. He checked the e-mail and found a new one.
He switched on a lamp and brought the computer close. It was wireless, he realized. He opened the e-mail account; glad it was converted to English.
One new mail.
It was a video stream of someone with a black hood. One of Ryzikov’s pals? Al Qaeda? The guy sure looked the part. The stream was erratic, and not all that clear. He unplugged a cable and inserted it into the back, then sent the stream to the larger screen.
It played for ten seconds.
Small shoulders, thin neck. A horrible, cold feeling slipped through him. His heartbeat slowed and his stomach instantly sank.
Sam woke everyone up. Logan was there first.
“Check Viva’s marker.”
“At this hour?”
“Check it, dammit.”
Sam pointed to the screen. Logan didn’t bother to sit and bent to work the keyboard. “The range isn’t that far. Shit.” He looked at him. “She’s still in Thailand.”
“She’s right there!” He lashed a hand at the LCD.
The bronze cuff showed clearly in the picture.
Logan looked from the feed to Ryzikov’s laptop. “I can trace it.”
“That means they can, too!”
Sam caught sight of a series of black dots at the bottom and scrolled the message a fraction.
A single word was typed on the bottom.
Trade?
Fifteen
Sam stared at the screen, trying to see if she was injured.
“Man, this Pharaoh really wants that diamond bad, doesn’t he?” Max said, pulling on a T-shirt. “Pharaoh” was the only reference they’d found in the laptop.