NanoStrike (26 page)

Commotion downstairs woke Abdul with a start. An explosion shook his bed, and he sprang to his feet. Ghazi’s gruff voice barked orders. Abdul grabbed his clothes and rushed across the landing to Adiba’s room. Since his return from Jaffa, the doors were no longer locked, although they were still prisoners. Adiba sat up in bed, eyes stretched wide.

“Get dressed,” he said as he pulled on his jeans. She jumped out of bed in her bra and panties and snatched up her clothes. Theirs were the only rooms on this floor. Nowhere to hide, and he didn’t dare go downstairs, so when they were dressed he sat on her cot and pulled her close. She shook so much her teeth chattered. “They’re not here for us. Just sit tight.” Abdul said. He hoped he was right.

By 4:03 a.m., a raging gunfight vibrated through the building. Adiba covered her ears. The noise was terrifying. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Abdul checked the time again: 4:05 a.m. Two minutes, it seemed longer.

When Adiba began to speak, Abdul put a hand over her mouth and signaled for silence with his finger to his lips. He crept to the door, and when he pressed his ear against the thin wood, he heard the stern voice of command.

“Dawson. Two wounded for extraction. You three, come with me.”

Abdul was shocked. He’d expected Hebrew not American.

Then, in passable Arabic this time, the same man shouted, “Stand and show yourself!”

Some of Ghazi’s people must be alive.

The American screamed, “Drop your weapon, now!” A moment’s silence preceded another short burst of automatic weapons fire. Then silence again. Blood pounded in Abdul’s ears.

A second American shouted, “Captain? Holy shit!”

An unnatural quiet descended for five beats of Abdul’s racing heart before being pierced by a series of high-pitched shrieks that sounded hardly human. Adiba scurried across and pressed herself to his body. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants. He put his arm around her without lifting his ear from the door.

Abdul checked the time, 4:10. He whispered, “We should wait. We don’t know who’s still downstairs.” Adiba nodded and squeezed his arm. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close. She tasted of salt. Silence enveloped the building. He checked his watch again. Time was standing still.

“Five minutes, let’s give it five minutes,” he whispered.

By 4:14, nothing had changed, and he began to breathe easier. Then he heard someone moving downstairs. Abdul’s heart sank. He had dared to hope the Americans had killed the terrorists, and he and Adiba would walk away from this terrible situation and go back to their lives.

Her eyes went wide. She heard it too.

Someone
was
downstairs.

“Abdul! Abdul!”

A man shouting; he thought he recognized the voice, but how?

“Abdul. Adiba!”

This time he was sure. “That’s Quinn,” he said.

“Quinn. How?” Adiba whispered.

“Dunno, but that’s him all right.”

Abdul opened the door, poked his head out.

“Quinn, is that you?” he shouted.

“Thank God. I thought you were dead for sure.” Quinn charged up the stairs, three at a time.

Abdul and Adiba stepped onto the landing.

“You okay?” Quinn asked, and he spanned his long arms around the two of them and pulled them into a bear hug.

When he released them, the big man said, “Hi, Adiba. I’m Quinn. Come on. We need to move. Someone’s bound to show after that racket.”

They followed him downstairs. Abdul scanned the office: papers scattered everywhere, walls ripped apart where rapid-fire weapons had strafed them. Abdul couldn’t believe guns created such havoc and destruction.

Abdul pointed to the large man spread-eagled over the side of his upturned metal desk, chest torn open and covered in blood; in his hand he held an aerosol can. “That’s Ghazi.”

Stinky slumped against a filing cabinet with part of his face missing and chunks of his flesh splattered over the filing cabinets behind him. The card players lay across each other on the ground, blood pooled around them. Two men in black combat gear, nigh-vision goggles still strapped to their faces, blocked the door leading to the hallway. Another, dressed the same, sprawled near the aerosol in Ghazi’s outstretched hand.

“Come on, let’s go.” Quinn stepped over the dead soldiers and stood in the hallway, waving impatiently.

Abdul turned to follow, but he heard a noise. “Wait, what was that?”

“Come on, Abdul. No time.”

“Listen.” Abdul held up his hand for silence. The sound was familiar to him. Maybe that’s why he had noticed, because his mind recognized the patterns, unmistakable to any Muslim.

Someone was saying morning prayers.

Abdul moved toward the open door at the rear of the office. He had never been through this way. Stepping around the dead soldiers, he stopped at the threshold of a large laboratory, one hundred feet square with dozens of equipment-covered worktables and computer stations. Five feet inside the room, another man in black combat gear knelt with his back to them. Abdul wasn’t sure whether he was alive, but he didn’t see any blood. He prodded the soldier’s shoulder with his foot and shouted. “Oi!”

The man toppled, slowly, like a vase tumbling from a shelf. His body remained rigid, locked in the kneeling position. When he hit the ground his neck twisted around. Abdul stared but couldn’t fathom what he saw. Where the soldier’s face should have been was a mass of black foam. Abdul checked a second soldier, a few feet farther into the room and flat on his back. A black block of charcoal, bigger than a basketball, protruded from his flak jacket in place of his head. Two more of the invading soldiers lay dead beyond him with heads and faces distorted and disfigured by the same black compound.

A hand slammed onto Abdul’s shoulder, and he jumped a mile.

“Come on. These soldiers will be missed. The Israelis have plenty more where they came from,” Quinn said.

“I heard them talking, Quinn. They weren’t Israeli. They were American,” Abdul said.

“What? Well, whoever. Let’s go.” Quinn stared past Abdul at the four bodies and the black charcoal and muttered, “I’ve seen this movie before.”

“What about him?” Abdul pointed across the room. Past a line of flip-charts covered in math symbols and diagrams. Past a glove box. Past a row of tables crammed with computer equipment. On the far side of the lab, one hundred feet from the door, a solitary figure knelt on a prayer mat with his back to them, bobbing up and down in supplication and singing in a low, rhythmic voice.

“It’s a kid,” Quinn said. He shouted. “Hey! Are you okay?” The child ignored him. “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”

“We can’t leave him,” Abdul said.

Quinn sighed and pushed past Abdul. “Come on then.” He jogged across the lab. Abdul followed.

Adiba appeared in the doorway behind them. “What’s happening?”

Abdul shouted over his shoulder. “There’s a child over here. We have to help him.”

Adiba stayed where she was, staring at the fallen soldiers and their ravaged faces.

Quinn reached him first. He banged the boy on the back and shouted. “Hey! Kid!”

The kid jumped and turned to face them. But this was no child; he had a heavy beard and dark caterpillar eyebrows. Lost in his prayers, he’d apparently been unaware of their presence. Abdul spoke to the man in Arabic.

“The Israeli police will be here soon. We are going to get out before they arrive. You should come.”

“
Allahu Akbar
.”

“
Allahu Akbar
,” Abdul replied.

“I am Dawud.”

Quinn shouted. “Abdul. Now! Come on!” He shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the door.

David stood and rolled up his prayer mat.

“Tell your buddy to move his ass.” Quinn grabbed Abdul by the shirt and dragged him across the room.

Abdul shouted to David. “We must hurry.”

David slung a backpack over his shoulder and followed Quinn and Abdul. Adiba joined them at the door, and Quinn led them outside. The white van was parked with its engine running. Quinn checked inside—empty.

The Yanks were going to have some explaining to do.

They hurried to the Datsun.

“Uncle Hassan’s car,” Adiba said.

Abdul smiled. He had fond memories of the Datsun from their trip to Eilat.

“A piece of shit is what it is,” Quinn said. “I hope the engine will pull four people. Come on. Climb in.”

Abdul pushed Adiba into the backseat and squeezed in next to her. David rode shotgun. Quinn slammed the gas pedal to the floor and the car squealed in protest.

“I hope one of you knows the way to Hassan’s from here.” Quinn pulled onto a main road. At the first intersection, Adiba read the signs and directed him. The morning commute had begun, and Quinn merged with the workaday traffic—hiding in plain sight.

“Hey, you! Put your seat belt on.” When David didn’t respond, Quinn punched David’s arm. “Abdul, tell him. I don’t want any undue attention from the cops.”

Abdul spoke in Arabic to David. When he didn’t react, Abdul leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Dawud, put on your seat belt, please.” David still didn’t move.

“Nice job bringing that along,” Quinn said.

“Quiet,” Abdul said. He knelt on the floor and squeezed between the front seats, so he could look at David’s face.

“Now what?”

“Please, Quinn, be quiet. I’ll fix the belt.” Abdul reached around and clipped the safety harness in place. He stayed on his knees, staring at David and listening.

“What’s wrong with him?” Quinn asked.

“It’s extraordinary. He’s reciting passages from the Koran, whole passages. I don’t think he can hear us. He’s in a trance,” Abdul said.

“Great, now we’ve got a Jesus freak on board.”

“Wrong prophet, Quinn.”

“Huh? Whatever.”

Remaining between the front seats, Abdul turned to Quinn and laid a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I ran out on you at the hotel. Thanks for rescuing us.”

“Sure, anytime,” Quinn said. “I got you. Problem is I don’t know what the hell to do next.”

“Why don’t we just go home?” Abdul said as he flopped back into the seat next to Adiba. She squeezed his arm and beamed at him.

Quinn laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Shit, boy. They’d shoot you on sight. The world and its sister think you did the G20 attack,” Quinn said.

“What?” Abdul asked.

“Oh, brother. I guess that solves the problem of what to talk about for the next hour.” Quinn caught Abdul and Adiba up on the terrorist attack in Seoul.

“They think my Abdul did that?” Adiba said.

Abdul squeezed her hand. His heart skipped when she called him ‘my Abdul’. He liked how it sounded.

Quinn said, “You too, missy. According to the authorities, you two are the new Bonnie and Clyde. No one believes Abdul ran off to rescue you.”

Adiba frowned. “But—”

“And they have me pegged as an accomplice. Seriously guys, I wouldn’t believe us if I didn’t know Abdul. At one stage, even I began to doubt.”

Abdul checked Quinn’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He was serious.

“Scott Shearer’s the only friend we’ve got. But he’s in London, and I can’t call him on my cell because it’s being traced. Anyway, I’m not sure even he can help; we’re pretty deep in the shit pile. Excuse my language, Adiba.”

Then David spoke. “Nazar Eudon will help you.”

Abdul looked in astonishment at David. Firstly, because he had been listening, and Abdul had assumed he was off in another world. But more surprising, he spoke English with an American accent.

Quinn glanced at Abdul in the driver’s mirror, eyebrows raised. Abdul shrugged.

“Come again?” Quinn said.

“I have something of great value to Nazar Eudon. He will take any risk to obtain it.”

“Now you’ve deigned to talk to us, what’s your part in this, David?” Quinn asked.

“I am following Allah’s plan. I may not question the part I play.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got a direct line upstairs, because we sure could use His help to get out of this mess.”

“Have faith, Mr. Quinn. These events have divine purpose. Never try and second-guess Allah.”

They arrived at Uncle Hassan’s on the outskirts of Jaffa at 6:15 a.m. Quinn drove past the house and circled the block.

“You went past,” Adiba said.

“Just making sure we’re the only ones visiting your uncle. The police may be watching your family in case you show up.”

Nothing seemed suspicious, so he pulled up in front. Automatically, he touched his Glock; it was snug in its holder inside his jacket.

“Let me go first,” Quinn said.

Abdul watched the big man’s back as he knocked. Quinn had risked a lot to find him and Adiba. He wished now he’d taken the policeman into his confidence when he’d received the note at the hotel. Could that really be less than two weeks ago? So much had happened. He squeezed Adiba’s hand, and she responded. He gazed into her eyes. They were dark-brown pools. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

Yes. It had been worth it.

Quinn signaled them, and disappeared into the house. They followed.

Inside, Hassan grabbed Adiba and rocked and cried with her in his arms. He was chattering at her when something he said made her pull away.

“You found Lana?”

“Yes . . . yes. Mr. Quinn, he found her.”

Abdul and Adiba turned to Quinn.

“What? It’s not as if I rescued her from slave traders. I found her in a hospital.”

“Is she all right?” Adiba asked.

Hassan said, “The young heal fast. She’ll be okay in time.”

“I must go to her,” Adiba said.

Quinn looked at Abdul and gave a shake of the head.

Abdul took her hand. “Adiba, that’s going to have to wait. Quinn thinks the police will be watching your home.”

“But we haven’t done anything bad. I was kidnapped; you came to rescue me. I don’t understand. Why can’t I go home?”

Hassan touched a hand to her cheek. “The police visited your parents. They say you are a terrorist.”

“A terrorist!”

“Of course we didn’t believe them, but I think Mr. Quinn is right. If they find you, it will not go well.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Abdul wrapped his arm around her.