The Last Day E-Book

Robert L. Bryan

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A nuclear threat. A race against time. Can NYPD's finest save Manhattan from annihilation?

Bobby Moylan wishes this shift wasn't his last. Years after a drunk driver killed his family, his life-saving distraction of work with the NYPD is coming to a close. But when he discovers an Islamic terrorist plot against his city, his final hours on the job could turn explosive.

Joey Galeno misses the days when he could count on his partner. Years removed from working with Moylan, the counterterrorism expert hopes to get something solid from his new, unreliable undercover agent. As it becomes clear a nuclear threat is imminent, Galeno has no choice but to trust his fellow agent to preserve millions of lives.

As the clock counts down to obliteration, can Moylan and Galeno take out the deadly cell before extremists trigger an urban nuclear Armageddon?

If you like clever heroes, high-stakes action and character-driven tension, you’ll love Robert L. Bryan’s 'The Last Day'.

Leseprobe

THE LAST DAY

ROBERT L. BRYAN

Copyright (C) 2021 Robert L. Bryan

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to Marilyn, Bryan, and Meghan, who will always be the angel on my shoulder

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Little Nagasaki

2. The Last Day—The Beginning

3. The Cell

4. The Cop

5. The Lieutenant

6. The Undercover

7. The Inspector

8. The Last Day—The End

9. The Aftermath

Epilogue

About the Author

PROLOGUE

THERE IS NO PERFECT SECURITY

OCTOBER 8, 2003—NEW YORK CITY—UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

Kristin Bermudez was well beyond panic, barely looking both ways before accelerating through the red light. Traffic was light in this remote section of a New York City outer borough, so congestion would not be an excuse for her lateness. It had only been five months since she was hired by the NYPD—not as a cop, but as an analyst, and she did not want to draw negative attention to herself. Her efforts were failing due in large part to three prior occasions where she could not arrive by the start of her 7 a.m. shift. Kristin’s four years in army intelligence along with her freshly minted master’s degree made her a prime candidate to be scooped up by the newly opened Counterterrorism Bureau, but her tardiness was beginning to put her on her boss’s radar, and not in a positive way.

With five minutes until the start of her tour, Kristin’s Toyota sped through a maze of streets lined with junkyards and auto-body shops before finally coming to a stop in a parking lot adjacent to an unmarked red brick building. Here, miles from Manhattan, was the headquarters of the NYPD's new Counterterrorism Bureau. Kristin trotted through the parking lot and through the plain metal door at the side of the building. Entering through that door had the same effect as falling down the rabbit hole, as Kristin was instantly transported from the mostly desolate, semi-industrial area in the shadow of an elevated highway into the new, high-tech, post-9/11 world of the New York City Police Department. The interior was gleaming and futuristic—so unlike the average police precinct with furniture and equipment circa 1960. Headlines raced across LED news tickers. There were electronic maps and international-time walls with digital readouts for cities such as Moscow, London, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, Islamabad, Manila, Sydney, Baghdad, and Tokyo. In the Global Intelligence Room, twelve large flat-screen TVs hung from ceiling mounts, broadcasting Al-Jazeera and a variety of other foreign programming received via satellite. The police department's newly identified language specialists—who spoke, among other tongues, Arabic, Pashto, and Urdu—sat with headphones on, monitoring the broadcasts. There were racks of high-end audio equipment for listening, taping, and dubbing; computer access to a host of super databases; stacks of intelligence reports and briefing books on all the world's known terrorist organizations; and a big bulletin board featuring a grid with the names and phone numbers of key people in other police departments in the United States and around the world. The security area just inside the door was encased not only in bulletproof glass but in ballistic sheetrock as well.

Kristin was breathing heavily from her sprint as she stopped at her cubicle and rummaged through the clutter on her desktop. She grabbed a folder labeled DAILY BRIEFING and was again moving at a fast trot. Kristin hesitated momentarily and took a deep breath before attempting to covertly slide into the crowded conference room. She was relieved upon observing Inspector Morgan at the head of the table, fully engrossed in buttering a bagel. Kristin claimed an empty chair next to Sean McGinn and tried to appear as if she had been present for fifteen minutes. The inspector appeared satisfied with his buttering job as evidenced by the huge bite. With his mouth full of bagel, he addressed the staff gathered around the table.

“OK, who has something?”

Sean McGinn, an analyst hired two weeks after Kristin, cautiously raised his hand. Inspector Morgan wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Yeah, what is it, Steve?”

“Sean sir.”

The next big bite was fully underway. “Yeah, yeah, Sean—what do you have?”

“Well, sir, I have a report from British Intelligence. It seems the Brits intercepted a communication from Zawahiri.”

“Who’s Zorro Hero?” Inspector Morgan inquired as he worked the buttered knife across the remaining portion of his bagel. Sean shot a quick glance at Kristin and rolled his eyes.

From the chair next to Morgan, Lieutenant Joey Galeno interjected, “Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri is Al Qaeda’s number two.”

The inspector shot back with bagel in hand. “Of course—all those names sound alike to me.” He took the first bite of a new bagel. “So, what was Zorro Hero talking about?”

Sean realized there was no point trying to correct the pronunciation, so he sighed deeply and continued. “Zawahiri was talking about a plot to unleash poison gas in the New York City subway system.”

Inspector Morgan cut Sean off. “Yeah, yeah—that’s old news. They’ve been talking about this subway chemical attack for months.”

Morgan returned to his bagel while Sean again raised his right hand. “Excuse me inspector, but this intercept does contain new information.”

Between chews, Morgan mouthed, “Continue.”

Sean opened his folder to make sure he relayed the information correctly. “In this intercept, Zawahiri is calling off the chemical attack.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Morgan.

Sean put the folder down on the table. “The intercept says that Zawahiri was dropping the chemical attack for something better.”

Inspector Morgan had the last big piece of the bagel in his mouth when it hit him. He grabbed some napkins to spit out the bagel remnants as best he could, but the majority of the bits found their way to Lt. Galeno’s uniform shirt. “Jesus Christ—what if they have a nuke.”

MARCH 12, 2017: NEW YORK CITY

Dr. John Hickey had lost interest in the current speech. He was the next scheduled speaker and was desperately attempting to get a waiter’s attention to bring water to the dais. His wave finally caught the eye of a fast-moving young server, and a minute later he was clearing his throat with a much-needed cold drink. The symposium on subway crime was his first public event as NYPD Deputy Commissioner for Counterterrorism, and he found himself unexpectedly nervous while waiting to speak.

Just one month earlier, Dr. Hickey was the youngest chairman of the Department of Terrorism Studies at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. One long conversation at a dinner party with the progressive mayor regarding strategies for fighting terrorism in the city was all it took for the thirty-six-year-old Hickey to be appointed the youngest NYPD deputy commissioner. Over the last month, however, reality was setting in for the doctor. His background was purely academic, and he was quickly finding a huge divide between the theoretical world of academia and the real world of counterterrorism operations. The symposium was his first opportunity to establish himself as the NYPD’s counterterrorism czar.

The five hundred guests mostly represented management from transportation systems throughout the United States and Canada. As Dr. Hickey drained his water glass and scanned the ball room, he noted the elegant décor. The grand ballroom in Manhattan’s luxurious Four Seasons Hotel was truly awe-inspiring, with finely adorned tables, thirty-five-foot ceilings, turn-of-the-century teardrop chandeliers, blond hardwood floors, a horseshoe-shaped balcony, and a built-in stage. The scene reminded Dr. Hickey of an upscale wedding reception, rather than a subway crime conference.

The polite applause signaled that the chief of the NYPD Transit Bureau was done with his remarks. Dr. Hickey fidgeted in his chair as the master of ceremonies read a very complimentary introduction. As the applause resonated, Dr. Hickey collected his notes and moved behind the ornate wooden podium. Despite drinking so much water, he still had to clear his throat several times before commencing his speech.

“Good morning. It is imperative to understand that the open nature of the subway system will always leave it vulnerable. How is this potential target defended when some experts assert that the environment is indefensible? Herein lies the dilemma of a free society. We simply cannot protect every person against every risk at every moment in every place. There is no perfect security. If we tried to attain total security the cost would be exorbitant—in financial terms and in lost freedom and prosperity. Balancing risk necessarily means applying resources against the highest risks—and not against all risk.”

Dr. Hickey then switched to another set of notes to highlight the tactics utilized by the NYPD. He mentioned rapid deployment of assets like the heavily armed Hercules teams, the public awareness “see something—say something” campaign, and the random bag check program on subway stations.

Dr. Hickey placed his notes on the podium and removed his reading glasses. “Any questions?”

A hand shot up from one of the rear tables.

“Go ahead, sir,” Dr. Hickey acknowledged as a conference worker sprinted to the table with a microphone.

The bald, heavyset male at the SEPTA table rose from his chair. “What would be the result of a nuclear bomb detonating in the New York City subway system?”

Lacking the expertise to respond to the query, Dr. Hickey quickly scanned the dais, focusing his attention to the man at the last chair to his right. “Perhaps Dr. Cummings would like to handle the question?”

Preston Cummings was not on the agenda to speak at the symposium, but Hickey was aware of the physicist’s scholarly research regarding the effects of a nuclear attack on New York City. The sixty-eight-year-old, silver-haired Cummings shifted in his seat and shrugged, indicating “Why not” to Dr. Hickey’s offer. Showing no sign of vacating his seat on the dais, the MC hurried to Dr. Cummings and handed him a wireless microphone. Cummings then commenced speaking in an emotionless, monotone manner that would have been well suited for a routine weather forecast as opposed to a description of a nuclear holocaust.

“My study identifies Manhattan as a target—not specifically the subway. Detonating a nuclear device in Midtown positions the bomb where the largest number of people would be located. Assume the device is detonated near the Empire State Building at 11:45 a.m. Assume that the weapon is a one hundred fifty kiloton HEU gun-type bomb. Damage estimates can be scaled down to approximate damage and casualties should the bomb be a lower-yield weapon. Assume the day is the beautiful day that 9/11 was—clear and cool, few clouds in the sky, with a light wind from the east. Assume the population density is uniform, with an average of a hundred twenty-five thousand people per square mile. Assume the bomb’s shock wave spreads out evenly, not affected by the structures. Within the first second, a shock wave with an overpressure of twenty psi extends four-tenths of a mile from ground zero. This destroys the Empire State Building and all other buildings within that radius, including Madison Square Garden, Penn Station, and the New York Public Library. The reinforced steel in the skyscrapers does nothing to support them. Everything within the first four-tenths of a mile from ground zero is reduced to a pile of debris hundreds of feet deep in places. No one in this area survives or even knows what happened to them. The blast kills somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred thousand people instantly. Those outside in direct line with the blast are vaporized from the heat. Those inside the buildings who survive the blast are killed as the buildings collapse. A mushroom cloud and fireball expand upward. Instantly, all communications that depend on this area for broadcast stop. National television stations and hundreds of radio channels are instantly off the air. Cell phones throughout the region malfunction. New York City drops off the world communication map. It is not like 9-11, where the rest of the world could switch on their televisions and watch live what was happening.”

Cummings paused briefly for a quick sip of water. “As the shock wave spreads out, an additional three hundred thousand people are killed and a hundred thousand more are injured. Almost no one within a mile ring escapes injury. Those below ground in the subways will escape this first blast with few injuries, though the loss of electricity may shock the cars to a stop. Blocked exits may trap all subway passengers underground indefinitely. All power in New York City goes out or experiences difficulty. Telephone service stops. There is no radio or television from New York City and no information passing to the outside world about the damage or casualties. Six seconds after detonation, the shock wave expands to one point five miles from ground zero. The damage spreads to Carnegie Hall, the Lincoln Center, and the Queensboro Bridge. Gone are Grand Central Station and the Met Life Building. The Chrysler Building is gone, as are virtually all the name-recognized buildings along Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue. The thermal pulse kills another thirty thousand people who were in direct sight of the blast, including virtually everyone on the street at the time of the blast. Some five hundred thousand people in this ring are dead. Another a hundred and ninety thousand within buildings are killed by flying debris or are crushed when the buildings collapse. Of those buildings left standing, about five percent burst into flames instantly. Within twenty-four hours, virtually all buildings that remain standing catch fire.”

Dr. Cummings removed his glasses and placed them on the table. A slight smirk appeared on his face as he continued in his emotionless tone. “Now that I’ve scared the heck out of you, let me say that it is extremely unlikely that an entity other than a very few nation states would have the capability to build and deploy a one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear weapon. The much greater risk comes from the possibility of a much smaller weapon being smuggled into the country. It is well documented that during the cold war, both the United States and Soviet Union produced miniature, suitcase nuclear weapons. Supposedly, they weighed anywhere from thirty-five to fifty pounds and were in the three to five kiloton range. The lightest nuclear warhead ever acknowledged to have been manufactured by the U.S. is the W54, which was used in both the Davy Crockett 120 mm recoilless rifle–launched warhead, and the backpack-carried version called the Mk-54 SADM, or Special Atomic Demolition Munition. The bare warhead package was an eleven inch by sixteen inch cylinder that weighed fifty-one pounds. It was, however, small enough to fit in a footlocker-sized container. While the explosive power of the W54—up to an equivalent of six kilotons—is not much by the normal standards of a nuclear weapon, their value lies in their ability to be easily smuggled across borders, transported by means widely available, and placed as close to the target as possible. Even a one kiloton nuclear weapon would be many times more powerful than even the largest truck bombs for purposes of destroying a single building or target.”

Dr. Cummings wiped his brow with a napkin and put his glasses back on. “Let’s face reality. If an organization was committed to acquiring nuclear materials they could do so. Finding the scientists to build such a weapon, whether dirty or actual, wouldn’t be all that difficult.”

Cummings paused for another sip of water. “Let me throw a hypothetical operation onto the table. The Islamic State has billions of dollars in the bank, so they call on their friendly province in Pakistan to purchase a nuclear device through weapons dealers with links to corrupt officials in the region. The weapon is then transported overland until it makes it to Libya, where the mujahidin move it south to Nigeria. Drug shipments from Columbia bound for Europe pass through West Africa, so moving other types of contraband from East to West is just as possible. The nuke and accompanying mujahidin arrive on the shorelines of South America and are transported through the porous borders of Central America before arriving in Mexico and up to the border with the United States. From there it’s just a quick hop through a smuggling tunnel and hey, presto, they’re mingling with another twelve million “illegal” aliens in America with a nuclear bomb in the trunk of their car.”

Dr. Cummings sat back in his chair, looked at Hickey and shrugged his shoulders again, “That’s all I have.”

There was complete silence in the room. Only the distant sound of clanging silverware in the kitchen could be heard.

Dr. Hickey broke the silence. "Any other questions?"

A middle-aged woman sitting at the Baltimore Area Rapid Transit table raised her hand.

"Yes, ma’am."

"New York City has such a huge subway system. What would stop a terrorist from entering the subway in one of the outer boroughs with one of these suitcase devices and simply riding the train into midtown Manhattan?"

Dr. Hickey took one last sip of water and cleared his throat. He leaned in closer to the microphone. "Nothing."

CHAPTER1

LITTLE NAGASAKI

MARCH 15, 2017: PARIS

Dr. Khaled Fadel squirmed in his chair and glanced impatiently at his watch. The French president seemed to be droning on forever at the podium, but his gold Rolex revealed a truth reflecting only five minutes. At least he could marvel at the elegance of the main ballroom of the La Clef Louvre Hotel while waiting for the keynote speaker to finish. He realized that the conference was the reason for his presence, but the parade of speakers was boring him, and he still had his own business to take care of before tasting the night life in the City of Lights.

Dr. Fadel mockingly referred to the conference on fighting ISIS as a "Coalition of Repenters," who after providing support to ISIS in one form or another, were only now seeing that they had created a monster. Along with the Europeans and Americans, delegations from ten Gulf States were among the countries attending the summit.

Dr. Fadel was a member of the delegation from Qatar. He was not a government official or a member of the royal family, but the Qatari government wanted to include a prominent private businessman in their delegation, and Dr. Fadel fit that bill perfectly. His family’s oil business had made him fabulously wealthy, allowing him to sit back and reap the benefits of a luxurious, pampered lifestyle. His business card read Chief Operating Officer, Gulf State Energy, but there was a much darker side to this well-polished, educated man of privilege, with a PHD in international economics.

Dr. Fadel considered himself a holy warrior. In fact, he was the most dangerous kind of jihadist—a financier. Fadel was one of the many rich “angel investors” in the region providing seed money to the most violent militants that helped to launch ISIS and other jihadi groups. The Qatari government was famous for talking a good game regarding the war on terror, while turning their backs to the activities of these rich Arabs who did for terrorist groups what “angel investors” did for tech start-ups. Dr. Fadel and many others would provide early seed money until a group could get on its feet and become capable of raising money on its own through means like kidnapping, oil smuggling, and selling women into slavery. Most of the Arab states had laws prohibiting such fundraising, but the Qataris never seemed to be too concerned with enforcing their laws.

The polite applause served notice that the French president had finally concluded his speech bringing closure to the conference. The attendees circulated in the grand ballroom shaking hands and congratulating themselves at being masters of the world. Dr. Fadel shook several hands before breaking free from the Qatari delegation and heading for the exit of the hotel.

The cab ride to Rue du Pont Neuf took fifteen minutes. Diners leisurely sipped wine and conversed under red umbrellas at sidewalk tables in front of the le Pont 9 Café. As he exited the cab Dr. Fadel noticed a waving arm from a man seated alone at one of the sidewalk tables. The umbrella provided protection from the sun, as he took the seat directly across from Waheed Mosaab. Over the past year Dr. Fadel had become bored with financing the jihad and decided to assume a more active operational role. This meeting with Mosaab was not about financing. They both sipped red wine and enjoyed the passing feminine scenery.

Mosaab finally broke off from the girl watching. “Why did you call me all the way to Paris, and why did we have to meet here? Why couldn’t we just go to the hotel and meet with all the other brothers?”

Dr. Fadel finished his wine, placed the empty glass on the table, and sat back in his chair, contemplating the man questioning him. In almost every respect they were different. Fadel was a privileged, polished, educated fifty-five-year-old, while Mosaab was an uneducated thirty year old raised on the streets of Doha. While Dr. Fadel reaped the benefits of an oil rich nation, Mosaab’s reality was much different. In Waheed Mosaab’s Qatar, the streets in the capital city of Doha were not paved with gold. To the contrary, they were covered with dust and rocks.

Dr. Fadel responded, “I’m sure you recall the invasion of Europe during WWII. Do you know why the Normandy invasion was successful?” Dr. Fadel did not really believe Mosaab knew anything about WWII and did not wait for an answer to his rhetorical question. “Deception was the key to success. The Allies knew the Germans believed the American general, Patton would lead the invasion of Europe, so the Allies made it appear to the Germans that Patton was going to spearhead the invasion at Caen. They brought Patton to England and put him in command of a completely phantom army, causing the Germans to prepare for his invasion at Caen.”

Mosaab still had no idea what the doctor was talking about as Fadel continued. “We will do the same thing to the Americans. We will tell them about a strike on America via a cargo ship. Meanwhile, we will strike at them from a completely different route.”

The seedy Hotel Du Parc was a stark contrast to the luxurious La Clef Louvre. Dr. Fadel and Mosaab were both breathing heavily when they emerged from the stairwell onto the dimly lit fourth floor. The walls were cracked and dirty with threadbare carpeting running the length of the hall. The dim illumination from a series of red bulbs made the setting very brothel-like. Halfway down the hall Dr. Fadel abruptly stopped and knocked lightly on the door of room 414.

There were eight Arab men inside the room and Mosaab knew none of them. Before addressing the gathered contingent, Dr. Fadel could not help but gaze disgustingly at the terrible décor, with every wall containing cracked plaster and ridiculous-looking enormous flowers on wallpaper.

Dr. Fadel snapped out of his trance and addressed a tall stocky, dangerous-looking man with a large, jagged scar on his right cheek. "Has the room been swept?"

"Done," was the one-word reply.

"Sit, brothers." Dr. Fadel waved his right hand in a sweeping manner to encourage the men to find seats on the three chairs and twin beds in the small room. "I'll make this fast because we are all busy men, and the less we are seen together, the better."

Dr. Fadel took a deep breath, nodded his head, and smiled. "God is truly great, brothers. Through his goodness we will soon have the power and ability to strike a devastating blow at the infidels. We will make the Americans forget about the World Trade Center with the magnitude of our attack."

A short, thin man with a long nose interjected from one of the beds. "How will we strike such a blow, Doctor?"

"With a nuclear bomb, brothers." There was silence in the room as Dr. Fadel continued. "Through God's graces we have acquired the ability to produce a small nuclear device the size of a suitcase. When the time is right a holy martyr will bring the bomb in a cargo ship to a port on America's east coast and detonate it."

Throughout the room rose the chant of "God is great."

Dr. Fadel raised both his hands. "You will all be contacted with specific instructions in the near future. Now, my brothers, I must take my leave of you and spend some time with some beautiful French ladies."

Laughter filled the room as Dr. Fadel and Mosaab made their exit. Once on the street Mosaab expressed his confusion. "Forgive me, Doctor, but I don’t understand. Everything you told me earlier about deception and the invasion of Normandy—I don't …"

Dr. Fadel stopped and turned to face Mosaab, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "The Americans will think that we are going to bring the nuke in on a ship. While they focus all their efforts on their east coast ports, we will bring the device across their southern border."

The look on Mosaab’s face indicated that he was no less confused. "But how will the Americans find out about the plan to bring the bomb in by ship?"

Dr. Fadel turned and began to walk again. "They'll know because we just told them."

Mosaab was momentarily stunned, and then broke into a trot to catch up. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Fadel kept walking at a brisk pace as he spoke. "I know there is a traitor in our group, and he will be dealt with in due time. I’m not certain who the snake is, so I had to bring all of our brothers here.”

Waheed was still confused, but now also concerned. “Surely, you don’t suspect me, Doctor.”

Dr. Fadel patted Mosaab’s shoulder. “Rest easy brother. I know you and your brother are loyal to me, and I only need you and Rashid to carry out the operation.”

Dr. Fadel took a deep breath and continued, “But for now, the traitor will serve our cause by telling the Americans of our plan and validating our deception."

Mosaab fell a few steps behind and stared straight ahead. He understood perfectly. "God truly is great."

The brisk pace of their walk soon brought them to the red-light district of Rue St Denis. The street was officially a garment district, but Dr. Fadel did not go there to shop for fabric. He stopped at the corner and marveled at the wide variety of women lining the street. The sun was just starting to go down, so he had plenty of time to finish with Mosaab before turning his attention exclusively to the women. “Waheed, my brother, you have been loyal to me for many years. Even before you joined the caliphate you were loyal to my family business. Now, I need your loyalty again to strike a death blow at the belly of the beast.”

Mosaab wasted no time in responding. “Just tell me what you need me to do Doctor.”

“Good.” Dr. Fadel placed his right hand on Mosaab’s left shoulder. “Let’s walk a little more, brother.”

The women on all sides tried to gain their attention, but Fadel and Mosaab strode by them without acknowledgement. “I have a physicist—a Saudi—putting the final touches on the bomb. He and his team assure me that the device is the size of a large suitcase but will produce a nuclear explosion.”

Mosaab listened silently as Dr. Fadel continued. “This Saudi, however, is not in Saudi Arabia, or Qatar, or anywhere in the Middle East. He is in Guatemala.” Fadel realized that he could not take for granted Mosaab’s knowledge of geography. “Guatemala is in South America.”

Mosaab was already overloaded with information to process, and he could only think of one question. “How can a bomb as small as a suitcase cause such a large explosion?”

Dr. Fadel was very proud of his endeavor, so he readily provided an explanation. “The bomb we have is called a Mark 3. It is a prototype of the obsolete bomb the Americans dropped on Nagasaki, only much smaller. Modern nuclear weapons utilize Insensitive High Explosives.” Dr. Fadel realized that Mosaab had no idea what he was talking about, but he enjoyed going over his own plan. “IHEs are much more difficult to detonate accidentally, making the bombs much safer, even in an aircraft crash. We, however, will use the obsolete nature of our bomb to our advantage. The final phase of the bomb development is creating the nuclear trigger, which, unfortunately, is beyond the capabilities of our team. But by using the obsolete Mark 3 prototype, a conventional explosion will cause our nuke to detonate.”

Dr. Fadel stopped and again faced Mosaab with his hand on his shoulder. Now, it was important for Mosaab to understand. “Our heroic martyr will carry both our nuclear bomb and a conventional explosive. God willing, when you trigger the conventional bomb, the explosion will detonate the nuclear bomb.”

Mosaab understood perfectly, but he was hung up on one word—you. “Doctor, you mean you want me to…”

Dr. Fadel cut Mosaab off with an annoyed tone. “Of course, I expect you to carry out your responsibilities, brother. Why else did I arrange for you and your brother to go to America? Why else did I finance your business? It was certainly not for you to live the American dream my brother.”

“I understand, Doctor,” Mosaab’s voice was drained of enthusiasm.

Dr. Fadel was not interested in any of Mosaab’s concerns, as it was time to enjoy the pleasures of the night on Rue St. Denis. “Go back to your hotel, Waleed. Return to America and your store. I’ll be in touch.”

Fadel embraced Mosaab but seemed to have an afterthought before completely releasing him. “By the way, brother, how is your store?”

Mosaab immediately regained some of his lost enthusiasm. “Business is great. We were just able to enlarge the store, so we now have a food counter to go along with the newspapers and magazines.”

“That’s great, Waheed. Just remember where your priorities lie.”

Mosaab’s voice resumed its somber tone. “I will, Doctor.”

AUGUST 1, 2017: QATAR

The vibration and buzz of the phone had no effect on his deep, blissful sleep. The phone took a short break and tried again. This time it broke through the barrier as his hand pawed across the bed until it found the device. Before placing phone to ear Doctor Fadel took note of both the time and the caller. As much as he wanted to hear from Abadi, he groaned at noting the 3 a.m. time. "I don't hear from you for weeks, and when you decide to call, it is three a.m."

"Sorry, Doctor, but it is only six p.m. here. Sometimes I lose track of the time difference."

“Well, what do you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you that I am homesick, Doctor."

"Well then, the sooner you finish working on my car, the sooner you can come home."

"Your car is finished, Doctor."

Dr. Fadel paused a moment before responding "Repeat what you just said please."

"Your car is finished."

"It is running well?"

"It runs perfectly. You just need to send someone to pick it up."

"I'll get back to you when I know when it will be picked up."

"Make it soon, Doctor. I want to get back to Riyadh. Eighteen months in Guatemala is more than enough."

AUGUST 6, 2017: QATAR

Despite the roomy nature of the limo, Waheed Mosaab’s legs still ached. He could not help but feel bitter at the accommodations for the thirteen-hour flight from New York City to Qatar. Someone as rich as Dr. Fadel should have provided a first-class ticket, yet now, as with his March flight to Paris, basic coach accommodations were provided. Mosaab was still attempting to stretch his legs as he waited in the huge entrance hall of Dr. Fadel’s posh waterside villa in the West Bay section of Doha. A servant led Mosaab into Dr. Fadel’s private study, and he continued his leg stretching as he turned 360 degrees admiring the expensive-looking paintings and walls lined with books.

“Pleasant flight, brother?” Dr. Fadel entered the room.

Mosaab could have gone on for an hour about the flight, but instead responded meekly, “The flight was fine, Doctor.”

When both were seated on opposite sides of the huge oak desk, Fadel got right down to business. “God is truly great, brother. Our time is at hand.”

Mosaab remained silent. He suspected why Dr. Fadel had summoned him, and the doctor’s opening statement was reinforcing his suspicions.

“The bomb is ready.”

They stared silently at each other.

Finally, Mosaab gulped. “What must I do?”

Dr. Fadel responded incredulously, “You will pick up the bomb and carry out your mission, of course.”

Mosaab sighed, “How will I do this, Doctor?”

Dr. Fadel pointed to a fifty-inch monitor on the wall. A map of Guatemala appeared on the screen as Dr. Fadel began to detail the plan. Mosaab would board the container ship Al Bidda at the Al Rayyan Marine Terminal. Fadel had paid off the ship’s captain and obtained credentials reflecting that Mosaab was an oiler on the vessel. The ship was sailing to Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala’s largest port. With his seaman credentials, Mosaab would have no problem leaving the ship. He would travel to 46 Calle La Esso in Puerto San Jose, the city adjacent to Puerto Quetzal. 46 Calle La Esso was a small warehouse where he would find the Saudi scientist and the bomb. Mosaab would take possession of the bomb and begin the trek north.