The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (31 page)

“No worries, ma’am. Like to see it?”

“Of course.”

“Come back to my cube when you’ve got time.”

Jericho followed. He got her a chair, which she pulled close then crossed her legs—a brief but pleasing diversion.

“There were a trillion data points, but man…the server is fast!”

Keys clicked, the mouse moved. The caffeine had found his brain. He grinned his playful smile.

“I had backpacks from everywhere,” he exclaimed, displaying the entries. “So I added all the adjectives I could think to describe its functions and did what geeks do: surfed the web to find wilderness outfitting equipment. Check this out! The bag!”

He grinned again.

“Ballistic nylon…an inside volume of a carry-on suitcase
—
and…doesn’t sink!”

He turned toward her.

“Why this one, you ask? Because it has an inner bladder and double zipper! Completely waterproof!”

“Glen…” She tried to contain what little enthusiasm she had. There wasn’t much to the discovery. “Any ardent hiker could have that.”

“True. But this one fits the exact profile of the bag on your guy’s back. So I worked my sources…” He bit his lip. “Err…”

“Skip the details.”

“Thanks. Let’s just say I chewed through some serious electrons, looking at newspapers, news programs…boatload of bananas.” His fingers never stopped moving on the keys. “I boiled the hits to less than a hundred and sieved through each manually.”

Sorenson enlarged the grayscale picture showing the backside of a man with a baseball cap, short hair, and a backpack.

“This one fits the parameters, and…
this
dude’s boarding a bus on a route that goes to the port…in the correct time window.”

She shrugged and started to stand.

“I have more,” he added, holding her wrist. Immediately looking contrite, he pulled his hand back. “Sorry for touching you, ma’am.”

“Glen, lighten up.” A warm smile. “Tell me.”

“I reconstructed the image…more 3-D-like.” Triumphantly, Sorenson leaned back in his chair. “That backpack and the one on the freighter stern are identical.” He hadn’t quit until the job was done. “This bag was also photographed at a Bush airport bus stop with the same guy, shades and all.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “How was this taken?”

“From an uncovered parking lot security cam.”

Date, time, and a device number were displayed in the upper right corner as he beamed.

“Let me know whether you need anything else. Day’s young.”

Amazed, she said, “Glen, you do good work.” His efforts were faultless. “Very good work.” She stepped back to salute. “Thank you, Mr. Sorenson!”

“Here.” He handed her a jump drive.

“Glen…”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t keep any files.”

“Already taken care of.”

Sorenson’s passion for a challenge was impressive—his devotion to her equally so.

Jericho left his cubicle feeling ill. This surreptitious research had gone way past the purview of what she was entitled to request or do. Using domestic surveillance data to scrutinize the activities of people on American soil—gathered by an analyst under her tutelage—brought her close to a court-martial and prison. Sorenson could end up there too. That anxiety made her headache worse.

Aboard the
Khyber Mail Express
Mid-November 2003

T
he sudden pitch jarred Morgan awake, jerking his body back and forth. Wedged between the end of the upholstered bench and Omar, the last thing he remembered was the clickety-clack of the rails luring him to unconsciousness. Moments earlier, it seemed, the horizontal sunlight was streaming through the dirty window, illuminating a scene of upside-down automobiles, pale billboards, and long shadows. The blackness of the glass window reflected Nadia’s face gazing outward in her usual trance. Seductive Lahore belonged to his past, and now there was only countryside. Seconds passed before Morgan was oriented. He felt for the satchel.

The strap was still over his shoulder.

A prickle crawled up his back from the cold air. At Omar’s insistence Morgan was with them in first class, being ferried to Peshawar. Controlled by his host, who was really his custodian, the journey was Omar’s final gesture of largesse before Morgan was taken to the frontier as another fresh offering destined for martyrdom.

He looked at Omar in his black salwar kameez. His expensive watch and shoes were left at his home in Lahore.

“Best to be like a chameleon and not invite disapproving eyes of clerics,”
he’d said at the train station.

His muted attire clashed with Nadia, who stood beside him like a bright flower. The courtesan’s canary yellow sarong and red dupatta couldn’t temper the brilliance of her gold and diamond necklace, nor could it eclipse the tasseled saffron purse and Louis Vuitton suitcase.

Over the weeks Morgan’s fondness for the oddball human had grown, in contrast to her vain keeper, who, as the genial tour guide, had dragged him by day throughout Lahore to look at monuments and mosques, only to abandon him in the sitting room of his home to wait until his return from the theater, when they would indulge in another caloric meal and dessert. Morgan knew after his first evening that the red carpet would eventually be yanked away.

Seeing him stir on the bench, Omar leaned toward him with narrow eyes.

“Barif, you whisper the name
Cay
when you sleep.”

Morgan held a stone face as Omar’s cheeks inflated with his smile.

“To dream of lying with virgins in Paradise…”

With drawn eyelids Omar took a deep breath. Pretending to be enthralled by the scent of perfume, his chest and head slowly rose together and he said, “You will have a full stomach too. The champli kabobs
in Peshawar are world renowned. We will have them this evening—”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Their heads shot forward as the air brakes crushed against the wheels. A piercing screech enveloped them as metal ground to metal.

Just as suddenly, their bodies pushed back into the upholstery. The train shuddered, slid, and stopped.

Blasting caps
, Morgan knew.
Three in a row…

It was the universal railroad warning. A problem lay ahead—unusual for a well-traveled rail line, even at night.

Morgan listened, trying to hear through the porters’ clamor as they leaned out the open platform doors to look.

The hammering volley swept from the engine to the last car. Part of their glass window shattered, showering glass throughout the compartment. When the spew of bullets paused so the users could load new magazines, anguished screams came from the porters dying on the ground. Shrieks swelled from every car.

Fresh clatter silenced the engineers in the front.

“Dacoits,” Omar whispered.

Morgan knew bandits robbed even the
Khyber Mail
. They’d start in first class with the wealthy passengers, move toward the rear, then escape. Anyone resisting along the way would be shot without hesitation. The entire affair would last only minutes.

Morgan heard radio chatter outside and tried to count the number of voices.

Four?

From a different angle a machine gun shattered another window.

No. Maybe six.

Omar reached above and removed Nadia’s suitcase from the rack. He handed it to Morgan.

“Open it,” he said, “quickly.”

Wrapped in the linen napkin, it felt familiar. Morgan loaded the revolver just as the lights went out. Rough voices entered the front of the train car.

Morgan dropped the suitcase next to the floor and pushed it closer to Omar with his foot. Neither Omar nor Nadia saw Morgan’s left arm, hand, and gun retract inside his kameez. The sleeve hung limp, like an amputee. Sucking saliva, he let it drool out his mouth and started to spastically convulse his torso.

Omar reached down for the suitcase.

A violent kick pushed open the compartment door. Two masked men dressed in black crowded inside, both gripping Russian Makarovs. The reliable nine-millimeter pistols were cocked. The second man used a flashlight to study Morgan’s contorting wet face then looked at Nadia. Omar remained bent over.

With the gun pressed into Omar’s neck the first dacoit said into a radio, “Almost done in this car.”

A coarse voice responded. “We’re moving back.”

The second dacoit barked at Nadia. “Get up.”

Trembling with fear, she stood up. The necklace sparkled.

“Give it to me,” he ordered.

She raised a hand to curse him.

The side of the flashlight smashed her face. She collapsed, coughing weakly. The clasp broke as she fell away.

“Nadia!” cried Omar, moving toward her.

Bang!

The Makarov fired, splattering most of Omar’s neck to the floor. With his head dangling by a few remnants of muscle, the caged blast startled both robbers. They stared at the spurting blood as the body tumbled over.

Morgan trained the barrel of the cocked .357 at an upward angle and pulled the trigger.

The high-velocity bullet entered the flank of the closer dacoit. Still accelerating, the jacketed mass of energy exited unabated and tore through the heart of the other man. The lead-and-copper fragment finally stopped in the wood panel near the window.

Both men crumpled onto Omar, making the floor a heap of bloody bodies.

A hail of bullets pulverized what remained of the window. Morgan covered Nadia from the flying glass shards, grabbed one of the Makarovs, and dropped the revolver into the satchel.

Over the radio the same voice asked, “Are you okay, Shabir?”

Morgan shouted with a garbled voice, “Found much money!”

He shoved the bodies aside to get the suitcase, opened it quickly, and felt around inside. There was clothing but not his passport.

Waving the flashlight for an instant outside the smashed window, Morgan shouted, “Come! Get the case! I’ll throw it to you.”

Morgan peeked out the frame at the approaching man.

“Here!” Morgan shouted, heaving the suitcase toward him. As the man bent to pick it up, two rounds from Morgan’s Makarov found their target.

Morgan took the radio then padded down the dead dacoits. Each man carried a grenade and a second magazine. After checking the pins, Morgan put the grenades in his satchel. He swapped the used magazine for a fresh one and crammed the other full one in his waistband.

Morgan rifled through Omar’s pockets, searching again for his passport. Unsuccessful, he handed Omar’s wallet to Nadia. The lack of identification on the body might slow the search for Nadia and, in turn, him.

A flash caught his attention. He grabbed the necklace.

“Come,” he ordered in Pashto.

She tried dragging Omar by his ponytail, unable to comprehend he was dead.

“Nadia! Come!”

Morgan pulled her away while she grabbed her purse.

He glanced both ways down the corridor then led her by the hand to the next coupling platform.

“Going to car four,” said the radio.

“Meet at car five,” answered Morgan.

Morgan and Nadia jumped to the rail bed and ran along the train until she tripped on her dress hem. He reached into the satchel and handed her his kameez.

The tunic top ended above her ankles, exposing only her painted toenails and sandals. Using her teeth, she tore a strip of cloth from the bloodied yellow dress and tied back her hair. Morgan balled up the remainder of the fabric and threw it deep into the brush.

The radio crepitated. “Hurry!”

Morgan turned it off. Moving from wheel to wheel, they crept toward the back. Multiple footsteps pounded above them. Nadia pulled the revolver from his satchel. There was no time to argue.

He pointed for her to climb to the front platform of the fifth car. Nadia scaled the metal steps, vanishing in the shadows. Morgan removed the pin from one of the grenades and squeezed the lever to ignite the fuse.

Hiss…

He side-handed the globe under the train so it would roll down the opposing embankment.

Four one thousand…

He plugged his thumbs into his ears while covering his closed eyes with his fingers.

Six…seven…Exhale!

The explosion turned the world white-orange as angry echoes bounced over the countryside. Morgan lobbed the second grenade under the train as he vaulted up to the rear platform. Two figures were looking out windows at the glowing mushroom cloud as a third man rushed to the forward door. Morgan heard Nadia’s gunshot but didn’t see the man’s head rip apart.

He covered his ears and eyes again and exhaled.

The car shook as the fireball ascended both sides.

Morgan opened the door, dropped to one knee, and took aim.

The closer man fell onto his flashlight. A moment later, the other man hit the floorboards—the beam illuminating the both faces. The sheen of death was descending.

With smoke pouring out the muzzle, Morgan moved closer.

“Mercy,” pleaded one in a fading whisper.

Morgan would offer none.

He picked up the flashlight. To temporarily blind the passengers, he shined it in their faces while he moved to the rear platform. On the gangway he turned it off and called for others on the radio.

No response.

They had killed all of them.

He scaled down to the ground. Nadia reappeared, purse in hand.

The clamor above grew louder as the passengers peered through the windows. The authorities would arrive soon. They had to get away quickly.

The couple ran along the rail ties until coming to an overpass. Morgan released his pistol’s safety and cocked the hammer. The barrel followed his eyes as he scanned the darkness.

Animals and distant trucks were all he heard.

They slid down the embankment, and in the darkness saw what looked like starved ponies.

Motorcycles.

Morgan shoved the Makarov into his waist band, pried off one of the bike’s ignition caps, and hot-wired a twin-cylinder Honda. It chugged to life. Nadia stood nearby, her eyes transfixed on the train.

“Nadia!” he shouted over the clanking growl.

She mounted behind him, sliding the revolver into the satchel. The tasseled purse drooped over her shoulder as her arms went around his waist.

The throttle edged higher and the wheels spun and caught. After driving several hundred feet through the brush to cover the tire marks, the Honda returned to the road. The Grand Trunk Highway was no more than a mile or two distant.

As the motorcycle accelerated, Nadia pressed her wounded face into his back to shield it from the wind—but mostly the dust.