Days of Rage (36 page)

A
kinbo finished his prayers, took a shower, and packed his minimal amount of clothing into his carry-on. He didn’t bother to check out of the hotel, as he’d rented the room for two days. He didn’t want to raise any unnecessary signature by interacting with the staff, so he’d paid for an extra day. It was really irrelevant, as this building would be vaporized before his checkout time came.

He went down the back stairwell, exiting the hotel from the side and crossing the street to the parking garage. He traveled up to the third floor, popped the trunk, and saw the device. Next to it was a set of two-foot bolt cutters.

He glanced left and right, but nobody was about. He’d picked this corner spot precisely because it was out of view of the two cameras on the floor, allowing him to arm the weapon before taking it to the final destination.

He slid his hands into his jacket pocket and withdrew the keys. He laid them in the trunk, one beside the other.

He snipped the padlocks and released the four butterfly clips holding the device closed, a slight tremor forming in his hands. Lifting the lid, he glanced around once more, seeing nothing alarming.

He removed the two tongue depressors that had been left inside the device. He taped one, then the other to the heel of his hands, shifting the one to the left a smidgen.

He placed his hands on the two keyboards, levered the piece of wood on top of the shift key, and typed in the code. Midway through, his left hand slipped, causing a failure. He felt sweat bead on his forehead. He only had two more chances before the device locked out. He willed his hands still, positioned them over the keys, and proceeded, deliberately moving slower.

The screen flashed three times, telling him he was successful. He inserted the first key and twisted. A small light illuminated next to the keyhole. He inserted the second key and turned, getting a second light. A row of zeroes appeared on the screen, flashing three times. The weapon was armed. Yuri had told him to press the button at this stage, getting instant initiation, but he knew that there was no way the Soviets would have made a suicide device. No way Yuri had trained to kill himself. He wasn’t the
shahid
type, especially when it would be so easy to build in a timer.

From now on he would be working in a vacuum. If he was wrong, he’d end up as a
shahid
, and though he wasn’t afraid of that outcome, he saw no reason to hasten his death if it wasn’t necessary. Not when he could simply set a remote detonation.

The game started at three, and he wanted to make sure the stadium was full. With a forty-five-minute half, he would set it to go off at four
P
.
M
. He looked at his watch and computed the math.
Five hours and thirty minutes.

He placed an index finger over the five and tapped. Nothing happened. The zeros remained unchanged. He switched keypads, using the five on the second one. A red block five appeared as the last digit. He exhaled and typed in the remaining digits.

The timing complete, he placed the edge of his hand next to the keys, wondering how hard he should strike. He gave a small karate chop, sweeping his hand forward and snapping the keys off at the heads, the shafts breaking much easier than he expected. He leaned over and saw the key shafts inside the keyholes.

No turning back now.

He flipped open the metal plate protecting the arming button. According to Yuri, pushing this with the zeroes in the window caused immediate detonation. Akinbo would now learn if there was any correlation between the numbers and the button. It had crossed his mind that there might be a separate method for initiating a countdown, and that this button’s sole existence was for detonation. A fail-safe, emergency way to initiate the bomb regardless of where the countdown stood.

He closed his eyes, whispered, “Allahu Akbar,” and pressed the red button. Nothing happened. No explosion, no whirring or clacking of the machine, no sound at all. He opened his eyes and saw the seconds counting down. A relentless march to victory.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and closed the trunk, his hands trembling. He exited the garage to Buenos Aires Street. He was still three blocks away, but he could see the giant Arena da Baixada ahead. Constructed in the late nineties, it was one of twelve stadiums used for the World Cup, and one of the few that wasn’t built from the ground up to meet the requirements dictated by the World Cup governing body.

Two blocks from the stadium Akinbo noticed a large spike in police presence. They were everywhere, and the game was still five hours away. He reached within one block, the stadium straight ahead, and saw a checkpoint, the police searching every vehicle before allowing them to continue. He took a left, then a right, avoiding the checkpoint and driving aimlessly, thinking.

He had hoped to park next to the stadium and walk away. He wanted to put the weapon at ground zero and leave no doubt about the target, but that was no longer possible. He thought about it and realized that
ground zero
was a relative term. From what he had read online during his research, this device should eradicate a huge swath of the city in a giant ball of fire. All he needed to do was park close.

He found himself on Presidente Affonso Camargo Avenue, driving past a rail switchyard he had reconnoitered earlier. He saw his escape platform still parked in the switchyard, a freight train destined for São Paulo. He would be leaving his car here, and wanted a clean break out, so he had decided to hop a freightliner back to São Paulo. No tickets purchased, no rental agreements in a computer system, no identification shown, nothing to connect him to Curitiba.

He’d hopped freight trains plenty of times in Nigeria, as it was one of the few ways available to travel long distances, and in truth he felt more comfortable stowing away than he did trying to decipher the mass transit system or brave the five-hour drive back to São Paulo with the lunatics on the streets around here.

He would watch the detonation in real time from São Paulo, access Twitter, post the video, and then fly back to Nigeria using his original passport.

But where to park the car?
The stadium was out since he couldn’t get past the police. Parking on the street was out. Too much chance of getting towed or broken into. He considered. Why not just return to the parking garage? It was three blocks away, but that distance was negligible, and he’d paid for the spot. He could park in the same location, free from interference.

He turned the car around, heading back the way he’d come, humming a mindless tune.

W
e were on short approach to the São José dos Pinhais International Airport in downtown Curitiba when the little blue marble began to move. Unfortunately it was going outside of town, which left the unsettling thought that he’d hidden the nuclear needle in the haystack of the city and was now fleeing.

Choices, choices. Focus on finding the bomb, or focus on capturing Chiclet?

I said, “Doc, given the soccer stadium, how quickly can you locate the radioactive material?” I pointed at his boxes in the plane. “I mean, will this stuff start pinging a mile away, or do you need to walk right up on the bomb?”

Shortly before taking off, Jennifer and Shoshana had come back with our NEST expert, a thin bespeckled man with a thatch of red hair. He’d brought all sorts of detection equipment with him, so I was hoping we could solve the problem fairly quickly.

He said, “That all depends. Is the material highly enriched uranium or plutonium? Is it shielded? If so, with what? How much material is there? Is it—”

I cut him off. “Jesus Christ, give me an answer. It’s a nuclear bomb. Can you fucking find it?”

“I don’t know.”

Looks like it’s Chiclet.

I turned to Brett. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s on a highway headed north toward São Paulo, but not moving too fast. About fifty miles an hour.”

“Can we catch him, or should we go to São Paulo and interdict him coming south?”

“We don’t have time to do that. It’s a five-hour drive from São Paulo to Curitiba alone. The game’s in four and a half hours.”

I turned to Jennifer. “Tell the pilot to get us down, now. Declare an emergency and cut in line.” To Aaron: “Figure out the rental companies on the ground. Get us two vehicles.”

I started to ask Brett a question when he said, “He’s not on the highway anymore.”

“So he’s not headed to São Paulo?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know. He’s still headed north, but according to this map, he’s running right through the woods.”

“On a dirt road? An unmarked road?”

“Not at that speed.”

Shoshana leaned in and said, “He’s on a train.”

She’s right.
I said, “Get on that other laptop. Figure out the trains to São Paulo. See where that thing is going to stop.”

The plane started a steep descent and Aaron said, “Got two vehicles lined up. One SUV and one sedan.”

“Perfect.”

Much too quickly Shoshana came back. “There are no passenger trains to São Paulo. In fact, there aren’t very many passenger trains in the country of Brazil. Lots of metro inner-city, but no long-haul between cities.”

“So it’s not a train?”

Brett said, “No, it’s a train all right. It’s on the map now. The other imagery must be from before they completed the tracks.”

“So he’s acting like a hobo? Hopping a freight train?”

“I guess.”

The wheels touched down and I said, “Figure out where the next switchyard is.”

 • • • 

Twenty minutes later Aaron, Brett, and I were hauling ass out of Curitiba headed toward a town called Campina Grande, about forty-five minutes away. We weren’t sure the train would stop, but satellite imagery showed that the tracks led to a switchyard there. Given that Akinbo had at least a half-hour head start, all we could do was pray the train spent some time doing whatever it is that trains do at switchyards.

I’d tasked Jennifer and Shoshana with running the doc to the soccer stadium to see if they could find anything. If they did, it would be up to them to render the bomb safe. I wasn’t holding my breath that it would do any good, but it was better than all of us chasing after Chiclet like the gang from
Scooby-Doo
. Although I wouldn’t mind it if Chiclet ended up saying,
And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for those meddling commandos
.

Luckily, the airport was in the southeastern section of the city, so we didn’t have to fight our way through a bunch of inner-city gridlock and could hit a ring highway right off the bat. We’d reached the north edge of the city and joined another highway, with me driving and Brett watching the ball. He said, “Target stationary in Campina.”

“Good deal.”

We drove on, getting into some hill country, and I saw the tracks off to my left, running parallel to the highway. I passed a few houses, then more and more structures as we entered the town. Brett said, “Switchyard is a half mile ahead.”

“Vector me in.”

He did, getting me off the highway and giving me left and rights through the poor village. Eventually, we were on a dirt road paralleling a chain-link fence littered with paper and plastic bags. On the other side was a two-track switchyard and a lone freight train.

I drove forward until the chain link went to the right and our road entered a wood line. I threw the car in park and said, “Status?”

“He’s still there. From the overhead it looks like the fourth or fifth car from the end.”

I studied the train, seeing most of the cars were open bay coal containers. He wouldn’t be hiding there. The last seven cars were enclosed and appeared to be for cattle, and from this distance, they looked empty.

“Okay. Let’s go. We’ll enter where the tracks exit the switchyard. Move straight to the rear of the train. I’ll take the first cattle car on the train. Brett, you take the last. We’ll work our way toward each other. Aaron, you stay outside in the grass for squirter control. You see him break free, give us a call.”

Aaron, looking over my shoulder, said, “Pike, the train is starting to move.”

I whipped around and saw the wheels slowly turning, the train jerking forward.

Shit
.

“Change of plan. Aaron, you got the SUV. Parallel the train. Brett, let’s go.”

I tossed Aaron the keys before he could protest and Brett and I sprinted toward the gap in the chain link, the train picking up speed with each passing step. Brett, being something of a freak when it came to running, pulled away from me like I was wearing cement shoes.

He reached the train and began looking for something to mount. Behind him, at the end of the first cattle car, was a ladder rising to the roof. He slowed down, letting it catch him, then jumped up. By that time I’d made it to the tracks and was huffing to catch up, the train inexorably going faster and faster. Brett leaned out and I put on a burst of speed, leaping up and grabbing his arm. He jerked me higher and I grabbed the ladder, slamming into the wood slats of the car.

I peeked between the gaps of the second carriage, seeing an empty space, the floor filled with manure from its previous occupants. Brett tapped my arm. The train was now moving close to thirty miles an hour, and picking up speed with each passing foot, the wind and the clanking of the wheels making it impossible to talk without shouting.

He pointed into the first car in line, his hand in the shape of a gun, index finger out and thumb extended, only it was inverted, with the thumb aimed at the ground. The hand and arm signal for enemy.

I leaned forward and saw a lump balled up at the far end, a small carry-on bag next to it. I studied the car for egress points. Apparently, the sides flipped down, turning into ramps for loading the cattle, but once on the move they were locked in place as walls. On either end were ladders leading to the roof, which looked like the only way in or out.

I pulled back and pointed up. Brett nodded, and we climbed to the roof, with me in the lead. I broke the shelter between the cars and the wind punched me in the chest, threatening to throw me off. I collapsed to my hands and knees and scuttled forward, giving Brett room. I don’t know what I was expecting, but in the movies guys run back and forth over trains as if they were on a rubber track.
Another myth blown.

Brett reached the top and went through the same realization, getting down low to avoid the wind. I pointed at him, then to the near ladder hole. He nodded, and I pointed to myself and the far ladder hole at the end of the car. He nodded again and held out a fist. I bumped it and started crawling. I glanced back once, seeing him disappear down the ladder.

Moving forward on my hands and knees, advancing toward the ladder at the end of the car, I saw the locomotive at the front travel under some sort of light pole or switch control, a metal rod that crossed over the top of the train at about knee level from the roof. I needed to get to the ladder before it reached me, or end up trying to jump over while the train continued on.

The pole came inexorably toward me, but the train was long and I had plenty of time to evade. I thought I heard a shout, torn away by the wind. I crawled toward the ladder hole, and Chiclet appeared at the top. He saw me and leapt out, standing on the roof of the train. I did the same, risking the stability for the extra speed.

For a moment I thought he was going to fight me, but he turned and jumped over the gap to the next car in the chain, landing on his knees. He stood and saw the pole for the first time, too late to avoid it. He screamed and it caught him right above the knees going sixty miles an hour. He was flipped halfway over the top, then dragged backward. The pole reached the gap between the cars and I saw him fall.

Worrying about my own life, I judged my timing, then jumped in the air, playing a deadly game of Wipeout. The pole passed underneath me and I slammed back into the roof. I scuttled forward just as Brett appeared.

I shouted, “He went down between the cars.”

We both leaned over, but saw nothing but the clacking wheels of the train. Akinbo was gone.