State of Emergency (20 page)

 

L
ourdes made it abundantly clear to Marie that the focus of her wrath was baby Simon. Hardly a moment went by that the horrible woman didn't make a threat or voice some horrific plan as to the particular harm she hoped to do to the helpless child. If Marie wasn't standing to work the kinks out of her sore back, she kept herself glued to the lumpy mattress, guarding her little boy as he cooed or played or slept. Even when she went to the bathroom she took Simon with her, unwilling to let him out of her sight even for a moment.

By the second day she realized Jorge, the man with the injured leg, was an ally of sorts. Simon was getting restless from being cooped up without fresh stimulation and was beginning to fuss.

They were alone when Jorge limped in from the kitchen and handed Marie a cup of chocolate milk. He wore a dish towel tucked in his belt that was filthy from his dirty hands and constant kitchen duty, but Marie didn't care.

“Don't tell Lourdes I'm doing this,” he said. “My sister, Irene, she has a son about this age. Heaven knows they can't keep quiet this long. It is not the little one's fault.” He stood and watched as Simon drank the bulk of the chocolate milk, then grinned at him with a frothy brown mustache.

Jorge rubbed the little boy's head. “
Pobrecito
,” he whispered, sighing.
Poor thing.
He leaned in to Marie as if with a secret. “I will tell you thi—”

Footfalls in the hallway made Jorge snatch up the glass and limp back to the kitchen.

Pete came slouching into the room with his hat on crooked and flopped down in the recliner with his cell phone. Lourdes followed, sliding along on the tile floor in stocking feet as if she was actually happy about something. She held an open laptop in her hand.

Marie's heart jumped at the sight of the computer. She lived for the few moments each day that she could talk to Matt, see his face, and know that he was still alive. The cruel woman hardly let them speak for more than a few seconds, but those were the best seconds in Marie's day. As long as Matt was alive, there was hope—she clung to that single thought more than any other, whispering it to herself as she drifted in and out of her fitful sleeps.

She pulled herself up straighter in anticipation of seeing her husband. Instead, Lourdes walked right up on the mattress beside her, shoving the baby aside with a rough nudge of her foot. Marie recoiled, pulling Simon into her lap as the awful woman flopped down beside them.

“I found a few news articles for us to read together,” Lourdes said. “I think you might find them interesting.”

Marie clutched the baby to her chest, reading over the top of his head.

R
ANSOM
P
AID
. C
OUPLE
F
OUND
M
URDERED
IN
C
ALIFORNIA
CABIN
A
NYWAY
, the headline read.

Lourdes tapped the screen with her finger. “This couple, they have a lot in common with you,” she sneered. “Held captive for a week in the woods. . . .” Her voice trailed as she looked over at Marie. She smiled an overly sweet smile that had no kindness in it. “They must have held out hope, don't you think?”

“Stop it!” Marie begged, covering Simon's ears though there was no way he was old enough to understand.

Pete smirked behind the game on his cell phone. Jorge stood stoically at the kitchen door.

Lourdes pressed closer, her head almost on Marie's shoulder. “Everyone has hope,” she said. “Just like you. These people sat alone in that cabin and hoped that someone would come and rescue them—as you, no doubt, hope someone will come and rescue you.”

“I said stop it!” Marie screamed. She struggled to catch her breath. “Stop talking to me.”

Lourdes pressed on. “Certainly they made absurd demands, just as you do now.” She snapped her fingers, causing Marie to jump, startling the baby and making him wail as if he'd been pinched. “Quiet the worm,” she spat, getting to her feet. “Anyway, I thought you'd like to see this. Very soon you will have much, much more in common.” She turned to glare at Jorge, who still watched from the kitchen door. “No matter who brings you chocolate milk. Now, shall we call your sniveling husband and let him know you are still alive . . . for the moment?”

 

M
att Pollard felt like he was in a sauna. Sweat stung his eyes and ran in rivers down his back. Someone had tacked tattered pieces of mosquito netting to the windows and makeshift screen door of the raised wooden hut, but the effort was rude at best. Wind and heat and, Pollard thought, the persistence of the insects themselves left the screens filled with dozens of ways inside. In between bouts of swatting all sorts of biting bugs, he sat on the edge of his cot, chin in his hands, and tried to decide where to start. There were layers of issues he'd have to deal with to make the thing work—if he decided that was what he would do.

Zamora seemed to think that it was all about defeating the locking mechanism, but that was just part of the story. Nuclear devices needed a high-voltage current for detonation. They got this from a series of capacitors, which were charged by a battery. In some units, these capacitors were part of a safety, if not a security mechanism. It was called “Weak Link, Strong Link.” Every other capacitor might be made of a material that melted at low temperatures, or broke under severe shock or trauma, rendering the device inoperable when subjected to unintended stress.

These safety systems, as well as electronic circuitry for signal control and detonation timing, had to be checked and possibly repaired. Wires were generally unmarked and a single color to make bypassing next to impossible for someone without a manual. On newer bombs, all this would be buried deep within the bomb beneath a tamperproof membrane. Even for someone as intelligent as Pollard, it would take a great deal of time to figure this thing out—if it was even possible—and time was a luxury Marie and Simon did not have.

The seventeen-year-old Guarani Indian girl Zamora had left in charge tapped gently at the threshold of the hut. For a guard, she was extremely polite.

“I have come for the computer,” she said.

“This is wrong, you know,” Pollard said, passing her the laptop. The server, wherever it was, only allowed incoming messages. “Zamora said I could speak to my family every day and make sure they are all right.”

The girl looked at him as if she'd been slapped. “I am sorry, señor. I thought that is what you were doing.”

Her oval face was smudged with soot from the cook fire and a chicory brown complexion set off the perfect whiteness of her teeth. Just over five feet tall, she was solidly built with a tattered green army uniform hanging from square shoulders that were accustomed to hard, load-bearing work. The military blouse looked three sizes too large, and she kept it unbuttoned to reveal a pink tank top underneath. Pollard guessed it was a reminder to herself as much as anyone else that beyond being a soldier, she was also a young woman.

“That woman hardly allows us two words.” Pollard took a deep breath, fighting the desire to smash something. “I don't expect you to understand.”

“Lourdes Lopez.” The girl gave an understanding nod. “I will ask Señor Zamora if you might not have another moment or two with your wife the next time I speak to him.”

“Thank you,” Pollard said. He couldn't bring himself to be too nice to someone who was supposed to be his guard. “But why would you care?”

“Because I know Lourdes.” The girl shivered. “And . . . other reasons.”

Her name was Yesenia and she was surprisingly pleasant for a teenage girl with crossed bandoliers of ammunition and a Kalashnikov slung over her shoulder. The smell of wood smoke and cooked fish clung to her in the muggy heat.

She traded him the computer for a cup of what looked like ropey potato water. Clutching the laptop in one hand and the sling of her rifle with the other, she stood for a moment as if she wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how. He'd seen the look a hundred times from students who wanted to discuss their grades. At length she only smiled and nodded at the cup.

“
Somo
,” she said as she left. “Sweet corn drink. It will cool you and keep you healthy.”

Pollard took a drink and set the cup on the floor. It was actually pretty good—and he didn't deserve good. Collapsing onto the stiff mattress of his cot, he slouched against the wall. The girl's gun probably wasn't even loaded. Zamora knew all too well he didn't have the stomach for killing teenage girls. He stared at the oblong green case in front of him. He didn't have the stomach for killing thousands of strangers either—but this lunatic had his family. Did the value of a hundred human lives outweigh the worth of one or two?

Pollard rubbed his face with an open hand. It sounded like something he would ask his class—stupid, worthless questions that meant little outside the theoretical world. In theory, theory should mirror reality, he often told his classes.

In reality, he knew that theory was bullshit.

 

T
he oppressive tension and never-ending hours of the Dakar tended to stack up, making mundane tasks like filling up with fuel require intense concentration. Quinn's triple duty of watching Zamora and trying to locate the bomb during the most dangerous race in the world was beginning to take its toll. Mile ran into grueling mile. By the fifth day he wondered if the Chechens would ever make their move.

Staying behind while keeping Zamora in sight proved to be more difficult than simply outracing the Venezuelan. Quinn was an expert rider and still took two tumbles over the first three days while trying to ride aggressively with one eye on the trail and one eye on Zamora—who seemed to ride with the reckless abandon of a teenage boy who thought he could live forever.

The falls had cost Quinn a sprained shoulder and torn a bit of cowling off the bike, but he pushed on anyway. In truth, he hadn't gone more than a couple of consecutive weeks out of the past fifteen years without some sort of tear, sprain, or bone bruise to let him know he was still alive.

The pace of the rally itself was bone numbing.

Quinn rose at 5
A.M.
each morning to drink his protein shake, wolf down a quick breakfast, and shrug on more than twenty-five pounds of protective gear. With breakfast still sloshing in his gut, he picked up the KTM from Bo, who'd spent much of the night changing oil, assessing tires, and fixing the inevitable mechanical issues that crept into a highly tuned machine when it was rattled and jumped and run at high speeds over rock and sand and gravel.

After loading the scrolled road book that would give him the day's route, he'd grabbed the Waypoint GPS codes from the boards then raced across the bivouac where he got his time card and prepared for a 6
A.M.
start. Battling crowds at gas stations during the Liaison runs, waving at fans, and being manhandled by adoring children at every stop became second nature.

As soon as Quinn started out for the day, Thibodaux, Bo, and Aleksandra struck the tents, packed the support truck, and entered a race of their own to cover as much as eight hundred kilometers over highway and back road—presumably following the speed limit—to reach the next bivouac and set up camp ahead of Jericho. Bo, who had usually worked all night on the bike, slept in the backseat while Thibodaux and Aleksandra took turns driving and keeping tabs on Zamora and Quinn on their smartphones.

Somewhere along the route each day, the Liaison ended for Quinn and he came to a point known as DSS—Departure Special Stage. Ranging from a just a few to hundreds of kilometers in length, there was no speed limit during the special stages. The fastest time—absent any penalties—was the day's winner. Once the special was over, there was often another section of Liaison back to the bivouac where he would arrive around 6
P.M.
, make his camp in the blowing dust, grab a quick meal at the catering tent, debrief Bo about the bike's mechanical issues, take a quick shower, study his road book for the following day, eat a quick second dinner to top off on calories, then stagger into bed by eleven. Even then sleep was hard to come by with the constant hubbub, light, and engine noise of the bivouac.

Some racers resorted to sleep aids, but Quinn had to keep an eye on Zamora. He couldn't afford to be groggy if woken in the middle of the night, so he accepted a reduced level of awareness throughout the entire day.

The nights were short and the Liaisons were long, but the remote Special Stages were where the Dakar was won or lost. They were also where Quinn expected the Chechens would make their move.

Now he stood on the pegs of his bike, thirty kilometers into the fifth Special. Zamora was ahead, popping in and out of view along with three other riders as they dipped and climbed the rolling camel-colored dunes. His GPS had easily registered the last Waypoint and the road book showed a fairly straight course to the next. One of the media helicopters hovered overhead, getting official video. Their presence set Quinn's nerves at ease. The Chechens, however desperate, wouldn't do anything with such an eye in the sky. It was midday. Quinn felt connected with the bike and in the groove of the race. For the first time in five days, he began to enjoy the Dakar.

Without warning, the helicopter banked hard to the left, and flew south, accelerating en route.

Quinn topped the next two dunes with no sign of Zamora. He rolled on more throttle, throwing up a rooster tail of sand, but thought little of the bird's departure until the speaker in his helmet squawked.

“You there, Chair Force?” Thibodaux's voice startled him out of riding nirvana.

Quinn coughed, clearing his throat of dust before answering. “Go ahead.”

“Eyes wide,
l'ami
,” the Cajun said. “I lost Zamora and Blessington's GPS signals about ten minute ago. It's been fading in and out, so I didn't worry until we drove up on this. We got the mother of all wrecks along the Liaison route. Argentine cops are saying a private truck lost control at a crossing, slammed into a crowd of fans and three riders.”

“A private truck?” Quinn dodged a series of hard ruts and worked to get his head wrapped around that kind of an accident. He could hear the sound of car horns blaring in his earphone.

“They're talking multiple fatalities,” Thibodaux said. “It's gridlock here and we're stuck behind a mess. I'm betting every emergency vehicle and helicopter is responding this way. Hear what I'm sayin'?”

“I do,” Quinn said.

“It's about to get awful lonely out there.”

The Liaisons were crowded with onlookers, and even the more remote Special Sections were generally peppered with fans, some huddled under the shade of a single lonely tree, others lined up with coolers and straw hats, braving the sun in order to catch a glimpse of their favorite riders.

Between the three medical helicopters and assorted media birds, not two minutes went by that there wasn't some eye in the sky keeping everyone honest and safe.

Until the accident.

Ahead of Quinn, the dunes gave way to hard-packed dirt and gravel washes. He topped the next ridge in time to see Zamora's bike dart to the right and disappear behind a rock outcrop into a dry riverbed.

The hot dry wind suddenly took on a metallic smell. This was all wrong. He glanced over the handlebars at his road book. As he suspected, the route went straight ahead for another three kilometers.

“Zamora's decided to leave the course,” Quinn said.

“Watch yourself,” Thibodaux said. “I got your signal on the GPS but still no joy on Zamora. Something's wrong.”

Quinn watched the two riders who'd been with Zamora pop over a hill to continue straight on the prescribed course. Wherever Zamora was going, he was going it alone.

Quinn slowed to follow Zamora's tracks at the dry riverbed. There was no sign of the Venezuelan, but he could hear the whine of his bike around the next bend.

Standing in the pegs, Quinn poured on the throttle, wanting to catch up before Zamora lost him altogether. If Thibodaux couldn't track him, Quinn had no choice but to speed up and keep him in sight.

He caught sight of the bike the moment he rounded the next corner. It was close—and something was extremely wrong. Quinn tried to process the new images at the same moment the front tire of his KTM seemed to fold in on itself, throwing him violently over the handlebars. A cloud of fesh fesh blossomed into the air like gray talc, blinding him as he and his bike slammed into the unforgiving ground.