Armageddon Conspiracy (6 page)

Abu Sayeed climbed out of the van and began gesticulating excitedly. When the ambulance driver lowered his window to ask what the problem was, Abu Sayeed shot him through the forehead. He ran around, jerked open the rear doors then shot the nurse and an old woman who lay on the stretcher. He dragged the driver’s body around to the back, turned off the rear inside lights and flashers, and then followed Naif to a pull-off. There, leaving the dead policeman
in the van, they loaded their precious cargo into the ambulance, positioning the driver and attendant’s bodies to make it appear that the crates were a second stretcher. They covered the bodies with sheets and resumed their drive toward Le Havre.

Two hours later, on a dead-end road near the port, they pulled up before a crumbling stucco warehouse fronted by a pair of scarred wooden doors. Naif killed the headlights as the warehouse doors swung outward. They drove into the dark interior and heard the squeal of hinges as the doors closed behind them then the heavy thud of a bar being dropped into place. A second later someone flipped on overhead lights to reveal a vast space with a stained concrete floor.

Abu Sayeed shielded his eyes from the glare then climbed out. He came around the ambulance, clasped Naif by the arms, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Well done, my brother,” he said, feeling the reassuring strength in the young man’s biceps.

Naif smiled, his teeth flashing in his dark face. There was youth in his smile but also pain from the recent killing in his eyes, Abu Sayeed thought. Naif was an eager warrior, but his hardness was marred by the poetry in his soul.

“Praise be to Allah that we made it safely,” Naif said, his voice soft with relief. Abu Sayeed nodded, as he too felt an easing of the tension that had eaten his stomach.

Across the empty warehouse floor, the two Americans stood behind their bodyguards. They had trusted the protection of their God enough to risk coming here, and that in turn had triggered Abu Sayeed’s own demonstration of faith: accompanying their lethal cargo for the nearly twelve-hour trip from Marseilles.

The man who had locked the warehouse doors opened the rear
doors of the ambulance then dragged the two corpses crudely onto the warehouse floor. When he finished he came over to stand beside Abu Sayeed. Mohammed Al-Wahani, a stocky Egyptian with moody eyes and a bad temper, crossed his thick arms and glared across the room at the Americans and beyond them at the shipping container that waited on its pallet in the far corner.

“Patience and respect,” Abu Sayeed whispered, as he noted the hatred in Mohammed’s eyes. “Today our enemies are our friends.”

Mohammed took a deep breath, but he finally nodded. “If that is your wish,” he muttered.

Abu Sayeed walked toward the Americans. The bodyguards were staring at the corpses, and they edged reluctantly aside as he drew close. “Mr. Biddle,” he said.

“What happened?” Prescott Biddle asked as he eyed the bodies.

Abu Sayeed shrugged. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

Biddle stared for one more second then indicated his associate, “This is Mr. Wofford.”

Wofford tore his horrified eyes away from the bodies long enough to offer a sweaty hand. Abu Sayeed glanced at his swelling bag of a stomach and suppressed a scowl. He shook the hand briefly then quickly turned to examine what from the outside appeared to be a normal half-size container. It was metal, a weathered dark blue, similar to the thousands of others that were loaded onto ships and carried across the ocean every day. When he looked through the container’s open hatch, he suppressed a shudder.

A Bedouin with a two thousand year heritage of open space and arid sands, he could not imagine being locked in a tiny box and thrown into the sea, and he prayed Mohammed could survive the
ordeal. Perhaps he would emerge babbling on the other end, but it had to be risked. Mohammed’s face was too well known to the western authorities to get him into the United State any other way.

“Reinforced, absolutely guaranteed to float” Biddle said, running his hands over the seals around the container’s hatch. “Everything inside will be perfectly safe and dry.” He stepped in, stooping to avoid the low ceiling, and pointed to five large tanks strapped to the back wall. “Ten days’ worth of oxygen. Far more than your man will need.”

He clicked on a light above the built-in cot, indicated the row of batteries that provided power, pointed to several crates of health bars, dried fruit, nuts, and bottled water, even a small portable toilet. “All the comforts of home,” he said.

Abu Sayeed turned back to Naif and Mohammed and nodded. They went into the ambulance and emerged with the first crate, carrying it with care as if they feared waking whatever lay inside. They lowered it onto a hand truck and wheeled it toward the container. Then, neck veins bulging from the strain, they hoisted the crate inside, laying it crosswise in front of the oxygen tanks where they fastened it in place with metal brackets. A minute later, they returned with the second crate.

“Aren’t you going to give us a look?” Biddle asked.

“It is not safe,” Abu Sayeed replied.

“That’s eight hundred million of my dollars in there,” Biddle insisted. “I want to see it.”

Abu Sayeed shrugged. “Be my guest, but if you open the lid, the radiation signature may signal a satellite or one of the roving detection trucks. The French and the Americans are hunting for these.” Abu Sayeed nodded to Mohammed who scowled but opened a Swiss
Army Knife and started to remove the first of the screws that held the lid in place.

Biddle’s eyes flickered back to Abu Sayeed. “That won’t be necessary.”

As Mohammed stopped removing the screw and then helped Naif finish fastening the crate in place, Abu Sayeed experienced a momentary sense of wonder at what they were about to attempt, and he wondered what Allah could be planning. Success? Failure? Perhaps something that no one expected?

Biddle interrupted his thoughts. “Which one goes?” he demanded.

Abu Sayeed nodded toward Mohammed.

Biddle turned. “You understand English?”

“Of course,” Mohammed growled.

“You must remember two things,” Biddle said. “First, strap yourself into the cot before they shove the container off the freighter. Second, never open the hatch.” He turned back to Abu Sayeed. “When it goes in the water, the container will turn right side up and float, but it will be almost completely submerged. A locating device will signal my boat. We’ll pick it up within an hour or two.”

Abu Sayeed saw fear in Mohammed’s eyes as he stared into the suffocatingly small box. Abu Sayeed cleared his throat. “You are certain everything will work as you predict?”

Biddle nodded. “All the arrangements have been made. We are doing God’s work. He will not let us fail.”

Abu Sayeed bowed his head. “God is infinitely great,” he said quietly.

“He is,” Biddle agreed.

SATURDAY EVENING, BRENT GOT DRESSED
and drove out to Biddle’s estate for the firm’s annual black-tie party, even though on a list of things he hated, attending black tie soirees ranked just above bar fights.

He followed the directions to a secluded lane in Locust Valley and turned at a pair of tall stone gateposts. A security guard checked his invitation and identification then directed him down the winding drive through several hundred yards of manicured grounds, to a grand brick house set near the water. Brent relinquished his vintage BMW to a parking valet then followed other arriving guests through the house and onto the veranda at the rear.

He paused there to gaze at Biddle’s grounds, with formal gardens to the left and the cool lights of a swimming pool glimmering off to the right. Further to the left, across several acres of lawn, a tall
hedge outlined a tennis court, while directly behind the house a series of descending walkways led to a huge white tent. Beyond the tent the calm waters of Long Island Sound glittered like a field of gems, reflecting the lights of the party.

So this was how people lived when they had the
really
big bucks, he thought, in a house as big as a Marriott with a yard the size of a county park. He found it strangely disappointing and thought about Maggie, knowing her reactions would have been the same. He tried to ignore the sharp pang he felt.

After another moment he joined the flow of guests down the garden path beneath a broad stone and wood trellis thick with flowering vines. Time to get it over with, he thought. The only people he’d know would be the other GA people, so he planned to put in a brief showing then hurry back to Manhattan for a late movie.

He was nearing the tent when he heard his name and turned, surprised to see that the voice belonged to Prescott Biddle. Biddle detached himself from a cadaverous woman who lurched a little as he released her arm, until someone, maybe one of Biddle’s staff, swooped in and steadied her. Biddle appeared tanned and relaxed in a double-breasted tuxedo. He smiled broadly and gave Brent’s shoulder a warm squeeze.

“Delighted
you could make it,” Biddle said. He took Brent’s arm as though they were the oldest of friends and began to walk him into the tent. “Stay with me. There are a number of people I’d like you to meet.”

For the next twenty minutes, Biddle kept his grip on Brent’s arm, introducing him to the quarterback for the New York Jets, the Yankees’ new first baseman, a lead tenor for the Metropolitan Opera, and
several Fortune 500 CEOs. During one lull in the conversation, Brent caught sight of Owen Smythe beside a pretty blonde woman. He started to go move in their direction, but Biddle grabbed him again.

“This way. I’ll introduce you to your largest account,” Biddle said as he towed him toward an elderly man with olive skin and an eagle’s beak for a nose.

“Khaled,” Biddle said. “This is Brent Lucas, the young man I told you about. He’s our new young star, who now has day-to-day responsibility for your account.” Biddle gave Brent a wink. “Why don’t you get to know each other for a few minutes.”

As Biddle spun away and disappeared into the throng, Dr. Faisal turned to inspect Brent with a pair of deep-set eyes. His baldhead and concave cheeks gave great prominence to his bone structure, making him appear both gauntly ascetic and immeasurably wise. Brent might have found his gaze unnerving if not for the laugh lines that crinkled at the corner of his eyes. “Mr. Lucas,” he said in a warm voice. “My new financial oracle.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Brent said with a laugh. He tried to hide his nervousness at meeting the man who was entrusting him with over three quarters of a billion dollars.

Dr. Faisal gave him a wry smile. “Such a young man. You have a grave responsibility managing so large an account.”

Brent nodded uncertainly and tensed for the admonition that seemed likely to follow.

“The better you do,” Dr. Faisal continued, “the more money we will have for great purposes.”

“Yessir,” Brent replied, recalling the correspondence file, all the distributions for human need or world peace.

Dr. Faisal turned to several young women standing behind him. “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Amina, and her two friends from Princeton, Margot and Elizabeth. Ladies, this is Mr. Brent Lucas.”

Brent nodded hello to the three young women. Dr. Faisal’s granddaughter was unmistakable, tall and thin with her grandfather’s prominent nose. She seemed shy as she shook Brent’s hand. But then she held his gaze, and he realized that she had inherited her grandfather’s quiet dignity. He chatted with Dr. Faisal and the three young women until the girls moved off toward the buffet table. Dr. Faisal moved to follow, but before he did, he turned to Brent. “I will invite you to stop by my home in Manhattan where we may speak at greater length.”

Brent promised to call and set up a time then watched the old man hurry protectively after the three young women. He checked his watch. Time to hit the road if he was going to make his movie.

“That
is
a grave responsibility.”

He turned and found himself confronting a pair of rich blue eyes set into a stunning face. A longer look revealed remarkably high cheekbones and ripe lips that seemed to pout and smile at the same time. This woman, whoever she was, emanated a sensual energy that caught him off guard and made the air around him seem to hum. Her hair was blonde, pulled close around the scalp, and a choker hung at her throat with a red gem the size of his thumbnail. A quick glance at her left hand showed no ring, and he wracked his brain for a name, thinking she had to be famous, certainly a model or movie star.

“What responsibility is that?” he asked, trying to recapture his bearings.

“Running Dr. Faisal’s account,” she said.

Her accent was English with a hint of German or Dutch. Her floor length black dress was cut low, and he struggled to keep his eyes from the swell of tanned cleavage and the puckered nipples outlined against the sheer fabric. “I guess,” he said.

“You must think you’re up to it,” she said, sounding a challenging note.

“I’ll just do my best and hope it’s good enough,” he countered, wondering again who she was, how she knew so much, and where she’d come from.

“Now you’re being falsely humble.” She smiled. “Dr. Faisal wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t very good.”

“I’m very new,” Brent said.

She held out her hand and laughed, the sound melodic in his ears. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Very New. I’m Simone Hearkins.”

“Brent Lucas.” Her hand was dry and firm, her fingers strong. She held his gaze and let her hand rest in his a second longer than necessary.

“Um, I’m kind of dry from talking. Can I get you something from the bar?”

“That would be lovely. White wine, please.”

Brent hurried away and returned a moment later, half expecting Simone to have changed her mind and disappeared. To his surprise, she was where he’d left her, beside one of the tent supports watching the band.

She turned, smiling, her eyes dancing with a light that seemed to suggest wild thoughts. “There you are,” she said as she took the wineglass. Something in her manner suggested she’d missed him. Her
voice was low and warm with an aura of restrained sexuality that made his breath catch.