Game changer, p.38
Game Changer, page 38
Dmitri Kovonov waited calmly in the deep darkness of Cherokee National Forest. He was lurking just inside the tree line beside a narrow road, with a small rucksack resting on the ground near his feet. It was ten minutes until midnight and he knew that Colonel Stephen Hansen would take great care to arrive for their rendezvous precisely at the appointed time, parking a few minutes away, if necessary, to ensure he arrived not a minute too early or too late.
Earlier that day, just after Kovonov had left the Starbucks, he had sent Mizrahi to help his freelance communications expert ready the new home they had acquired nearby. When this was completed, Kovonov had sent his underling on another important mission, one designed to take advantage of a strategic opportunity he wanted to exploit.
Kovonov loved midnight. It held a unique place in the collective imagination, had become synonymous in literature and mythology with evil and dread. The stroke of midnight, the precise moment separating one day from another. In ancient times called the witching hour, when black magic was at its zenith and witches, demons, and ghosts roamed the Earth at their most powerful.
And in modern times, when experts wanted a way to represent their assessment of just how close humanity was to self-destruction, they settled on something they called the doomsday clock, with midnight representing the global apocalypse, of course. Currently, the clock was set to its latest point ever, 11:58, but Kovonov thought these so-called doomsday experts were idiots. In his opinion it was 11:59:59. And then some. If not for Israel’s efforts at thwarting the plans of Iran and North Korea, midnight might have already arrived.
But he was determined to usurp the witching hour. Instead of the global apocalypse Islamic extremists longed to bring about, he would use the stroke of midnight to mark the beginning of the end of this malignant threat. The precise moment that he had single-handedly begun to reverse the tide.
Several minutes later a pair of headlights lit the dark night, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. The headlights continued to work their way closer until the ten-foot truck to which they were attached pulled up to within yards of Kovonov’s position and stopped.
Right on schedule.
Kovonov noted the truck had U-Haul markings, as expected, although the telltale colors of orange and white were impossible to make out in the dim moonlight. He hadn’t seen another vehicle since he had arrived thirty minutes earlier and didn’t expect to see another one for at least as long.
He emerged from behind the tree line with his rucksack in hand and approached the driver, motioning for him to lower the window. “Glad to see you, Colonel,” he said by way of greeting. “I assume al-Bilawy is inside,” he added, nodding toward the back of the truck.
“That’s correct, ah . . . Daryl,” replied Hansen, rolling his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me your real name since we’re going to be working together.”
“Not yet,” said Kovonov.
He moved to the opposite side of the cab, pulled open the door, and seated himself. He directed Hansen to drive along a dirt road that twisted deeper through the woods, ensuring even greater seclusion and privacy.
After about ten minutes of this Kovonov called a halt. “Let’s get out,” he said, “and you can introduce me to our prisoner.”
“Right here and now?” said Hansen in disbelief. “Can’t this wait until we’re at our destination?”
“If I thought it could wait,” growled Kovonov, “it would wait! I don’t expect my orders to be questioned again!”
Hansen glared at his temporary superior. “Your show,” he said through clenched teeth, bristling at the entire bizarre situation he was now in and the need to answer to a stranger he knew nothing about.
Kovonov followed the colonel to the back of the truck through a blanket of darkness, taking a moment to gaze at the glorious star field above, which he rarely took time to appreciate.
Hansen opened the back of the truck and climbed inside, with Kovonov close behind.
The prisoner was restrained in one of four chairs bolted securely into the vehicle’s frame. His loathing of the two men who had entered was etched into every line in his face. He had all the markings of a zealot, a true believer, for whom the assertion that America was the Great Satan wasn’t just a rhetorical flourish.
“Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy,” said Kovonov in delight, still holding his ruck. “Am I ever glad to see you.”
Al-Bilawy glanced back and forth between Hansen and Kovonov. He looked confused by Kovonov’s obvious enthusiasm. Interrogators had often tried to establish rapport with him, but had never acted as though he were a long-lost uncle.
Hansen looked equally confused. More so when Kovonov removed a silenced pistol from his bag.
“What are you planning to do with that?” demanded the colonel.
“Shoot you dead,” said Kovonov calmly, raising the gun in one smooth motion and pulling the trigger. Hansen’s head exploded like a pumpkin dropped from a skyscraper. Blood and brains sprayed outward, splattering the prisoner and much of the inside of the truck.
Al-Bilawy’s eyes widened and he shouted into the duct tape covering his mouth, which muffled his words.
Kovonov ripped the duct tape free.
“What is going on?” demanded the prisoner, having no idea what to make of what he had just witnessed.
Kovonov didn’t reply. Instead, while al-Bilawy was pinned to his seat with no range of motion, he reached up and injected him in the neck with a microneedle array.
“Is that truth serum?” spat the terrorist in disdain. “If it is, it won’t work. Besides, you American pigs don’t believe in truth serum, or in torture.”
Al-Bilawy glanced at Hansen’s bloody corpse on the floor of the truck and his smug expression vanished. Americans didn’t believe in executions of this type, either. “What have you done to me?” he shouted in alarm.
“First, I’m not an American,” replied Kovonov, reverting back to his Russian accent. “Second, have you ever considered that if America truly were the Great Satan, it would revel in torture, not outlaw its use? Or is Satan a pacifist in your religion?”
“What?”
“I’m saying, shit-for-brains, that you possess a psychotic ideology that is as stupid as it is evil. But I’m not here to debate theology. In answer to your question, I injected you with many billions of nano scale electronic devices. They are already making themselves at home in your brain.”
Al-Bilawy shrank back in horror.
“This nanite infestation won’t hurt you,” continued Kovonov. “But it will allow me to implant complex memories, and perform other manipulations. This will take some doing, since the memories I plan to implant are fairly extensive. But the bottom line is this: I’m going to turn you into a puppet. Into my bitch as the Americans would say. You’re going to do exactly what I want you to do, and you’ll think you’re carrying out orders from your own leaders.”
“I will never do anything for you!”
“Were you not listening? It won’t be for me. It will be for your superiors. You’ll think the orders came directly from that psychopathic asshole, Walid Abousamra.”
“Do your worst!” bellowed al-Bilawy. “I am a loyal servant of Allah. He will either protect me or I will be happy to become a martyr in his service.”
He shook his head and his eyes burned into Kovonov’s. “And very soon Allah will help his pious followers smite you dead, along with all other infidels on Earth.”
“Yeah, yeah . . . smite us dead. I get it.”
Kovonov pulled a standard syringe from his bag and injected al-Bilawy in the arm. “You really need to relax,” he said. “This will help. In fact, you’ll be going to sleep now. For a long time. It’s easier to manipulate you with the proper precision when you’re unconscious, and I don’t need you just yet.”
“I’m going to kill you,” whispered the prisoner, already fading away.
“No you’re not,” said Kovonov, looking amused. “Because when you awaken, you won’t remember that we ever met, and none of what I’ve told you.”
The Israeli smiled. “Sweet dreams, you demented piece of shit!”
64
McLeod’s call the night before had brought great news, but had spoiled the mood Quinn and Rachel had been in. Once the call had ended they both managed to find their restraint once again and Quinn had retired to his own apartment next door. Alone.
The next day was all about work. Rachel bent herself to the various tasks she was pursuing with her usual insight and stamina, most of the time in close consultation with Karen Black. Quinn joined them for dinner and Captain Brian Stagemeyer also dropped by to provide an update.
According to the captain, McLeod and the two others with him, Lieutenants Bowen and Zerkle, had found the man they were after and had run an exhaustive facial recognition search. And they had located an exact match.
His name was Yosef Mizrahi and he was known to have worked extensively with the Mossad, but was thought to have been killed in action a month earlier. This made sense. The Israeli intelligence agency was trying desperately to conceal how many of their men had left with Kovonov, even from its own government.
But the fact that Mizrahi was almost certainly in league with Kovonov was a lucky break. Whether or not this was a voluntary association was unclear. Rachel and Quinn both suspected the man was unaware that microscopic guests had set up shop in his head. Regardless, the chances that he would lead them to Kovonov were excellent.
McLeod and his fellow soldiers had been following this Mizrahi for an entire day, but they had yet to see any sign of the Russian-born Israeli. Still, Quinn was as optimistic as he had been in a long time.
Later, when he retired for the night, he rolled onto his back in bed to consider all that had transpired since the fateful day in Princeton when he had tried to kill Davinroy, and examine events from as many angles as he could.
But try as he might, all he could think about was the woman who was in the bed next door.
And how irresistible the impulse to join her there had become.
65
Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy could barely contain his excitement. His blood felt like rocket fuel coursing through his veins, energizing him like never before. Allah had blessed him like few others in history, had chosen to turn him into an instrument of destruction, who would deal the Great Satan a devastating blow.
He stroked his thick, billowy black beard absently as he considered the glorious afternoon and night to come. The fruition of planning and sacrifice that had taken years to accomplish. While he was to be the designated face of ISIS in America, others had performed brilliantly to make sure everything was in place.
His excitement was so great that everything that had come before this day now seemed like a fading dream. Being summoned by the esteemed leader of ISIS, Walid Jassim Abousamra, and told of the glorious task he had been chosen to perform. Working out the details and the scripts he would use, planning for every contingency. And coming here, to a house that had been set up for him an hour outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. It had all been a whirlwind that was now nothing more than a blur.
But while he could recall almost nothing of the last few months of his life, he could recall every detail of the plan in nearly photographic detail. His preparations and rehearsals for this day must have been all-consuming, so much so that they ran together in his mind in such a way that he couldn’t remember a single one. But the results spoke for themselves, and he had never been more prepared, more ready, for anything.
He picked up the phone that had been left for him and dialed the number of the Secretary of Homeland Security. The call was answered on the third ring.
“Who is this?” demanded Greg Henry, obviously miffed at his phone’s inability to identify the caller. Al-Bilawy had been assured that all the phone numbers he had memorized were up to date, and no communication from his phone, or from the video hookup in this home, could be traced or identified.
“You are speaking with Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy,” he said proudly. “Calling on behalf of Walid Jassim Abousamra and the glorious members of what you call ISIS. And in service to the almighty Allah.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” said Henry, unimpressed. “How did you get this number?”
“Not a joke,” said al-Bilawy. “Retribution for your sins. Punishment for your evil.”
“Al-Bilawy has been captured and is in a detention facility. Who is this?”
“You mean the detention facility in Knoxville?” said al-Bilawy smugly. “You’d better check again. But first put this call on video so we can see each other. That way you can run my image through your facial recognition software.”
A moment later virtual images of both men were staring at each other. Al-Bilawy grinned fiercely upon seeing Henry’s face. He was clearly shaken from the mention of Knoxville.
“What’s this all about?” said Henry uneasily.
“First verify my identity,” said al-Bilawy. “I’ll call you back in five minutes,” he added, ending the connection.
Five minutes later Henry’s image floated once again before the ISIS soldier, his face now ashen. “I’ve confirmed that you’re al-Bilawy. How did you get my personal number? And what do you want?”
“What I want is for every non-believer to die a horrible death!” snapped al-Bilawy. “But for now I’ll settle for the seven or eight million people living in the Bay Area of California.”
He shot Henry a cruel smile. “Although living will soon be the wrong word to use.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that there is a nuclear device embedded in the foundation of a building in downtown San Francisco. There are additional devices in other major cities, but let’s begin with San Francisco.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“And you are all too predictable. Do you think we are children? Calling you with idle threats we can’t make good on. Of course we’re prepared to demonstrate our claims.”
The terrorist paused. “I’m sending a file to your phone now,” he said. “It’s locked, but it will open for you on its own at four p.m. It provides the name of the building and instructions for how to verify the existence of the device. This includes drilling into the foundation. It specifies precisely where to do this. You can then snake a detector down to get clear video of the device and measure its telltale radiation signature. The file will also detail the various booby traps that surround the device. Any attempt to remove the bomb, disarm it, remove any surveillance sensors, or remove any wireless signal sensors will cause it to detonate.”
“Why not let us access the file now?”
“We want to give you time to verify what you’re up against. But not too much time.”
“The Bay Area has one of the highest Muslim populations in America. You expect me to believe you’d kill hundreds of thousands of your own?”
Al-Bilawy laughed. “I envy them,” he said passionately. “They are the lucky ones who will get to die gloriously in service to Allah.”
Henry swallowed hard. “Assuming this isn’t a bluff,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Oh, there will be plenty of time for further discussion. For now, just wait until four and then verify there is a nuclear device where I say it is. I’ll call you again at seven. This will give you three hours to confirm it’s real. Did you get the file yet?”
Henry glanced down for several seconds and then nodded. “I did.”
“Good. When I call back, you had better accept it as a video call. And your despicable President Davinroy had better be on the call, as well. Do I make myself clear?”
“You know you’re signing your death warrant.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up,” said al-Bilawy. “Unfortunately, I am not in the Bay Area myself, so I will be denied the honor and the glory of becoming a martyr for Allah in this attack. But after this is over, I plan to gun down as many people as I can in a crowded movie theater. So rest assured, I will still soon be able to join Allah and thank him personally for allowing me to be his trigger.”
66
Rachel was taking a break for a late lunch and Quinn decided to join her in her apartment. She was having an especially productive day in the lab and the lunch was even more lively, and more fun, than usual. She told Quinn that she and Karen had been working with Carmilla Acosta, who had been more helpful than they had expected. Carmilla was still deeply scarred by what had been done to her, but Rachel was convinced that in a few weeks’ time she could cut back on some of Carmilla’s meds without fear she would take her own life.
Once again Quinn found himself pulled irresistibly to the Harvard Professor, but once again the mood was spoiled, this time by an incoming call from Brian Stagemeyer.
A moment later his virtual presence was with them in Rachel’s apartment.
“I’m really beginning to hate you guys,” mumbled Quinn under his breath.
“What was that?” said Stagemeyer.
“Nothing,” said Quinn with a sigh. “So what’s up, Brian?”
“Lieutenant Bowen just contacted me.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Bowen?” he said worriedly. “Is the major okay?”
“He’s fine. Just preoccupied. But I have some great news.”
“They found Kovonov, didn’t they?” said Rachel excitedly.
“They did. He’s holed up at a farm about an hour out of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The major is busy staking him out and setting up an attack plan, so he sent Bowen to relay some orders to me. Namely, he wants the rest of the Prep H team on-site as soon as possible. He doesn’t think we’ll be necessary, but Kovonov is a high-value target and not someone who should be underestimated.”
“Amen to that,” said Quinn. “Glad to hear it. I’d love to come along also, but Rachel would kill me before I got on the chopper.”
The captain laughed. “We won’t need you. Bowen says Kovonov looks like a squirrel settling in for a long winter. He’ll be a sitting duck. But the major will wait until we arrive to strike. By then he’ll have studied the survey of the property, the electronic blueprints to the farmhouse, and observed our target for an extended period.”
