Authors: A.M. Khalifa
A few minutes later, a huge man of mixed Asian and Hispanic descent sauntered by his table, looked at the mug, then turned and sat down, with no expression. He was in his early thirties, but his weight added a decade to his age. He reeked of the funk of disregard to personal grooming but it was not entirely unbearable. His hair was long and greasy and desperate for a wash.
“Whatcha here for?” His eyes scanned the room like they were connected to an internal radar, optimized to detect undercover cops and federal agents.
“The wedding dress.”
“
¡Me encanta Argentina!
” He grinned and turned the mug upside down. “I am Bone, by the way.”
Seth just nodded. Even though it was fake, he still didn
’
t feel the need to share his name.
Bone
’
s eyes scanned around again until he fixed on Seth. “He said you
’
d buy breakfast.” The tentative tone in his voice suggested he too wasn
’
t sure of the accuracy of that proposition and would leave it Seth to confirm or deny.
Seth placed a hundred dollar bill in front of Bone. “Order up front and they
’
ll bring it here. And keep the change.” Of all the traits shared by small-time middle men he
’
d interacted with across the globe, the expectation of a free meal and a handsome tip was hands down the number one unifying factor. Followed closely by poor hygiene.
“Want anything?”
“I
’
m good.”
Bone came back with a table number, a huge grin on his face, and a twinkle in his eyes.
“Turkey pesto panini with curly fries. Sex in the mouth, dude.”
“I wouldn
’
t know. I don
’
t eat meat.”
He eyed Seth with a modicum of suspicion as if he had just blurted out something in Zulu.
“So what do you eat, then?”
“Everything else. Listen Bone, I don
’
t mean to be rude or anything, but I have to split soon. You got it?”
“I gots it.” Bone
’
s head dipped in apparent disappointment. Seth was here to get what he came for and get the hell out of there quick. Chit-chat wasn
’
t on the menu.
The big man pulled up a red backpack from between his feet. He opened it and removed another smaller black case with the word “Exertify” embroidered in red and gold filaments.
“This is it,” he said.
“Standard issue VitaCull life perception vest, right?”
Bone nodded.
“No hacks or modifications other than the one we requested?”
“Yep. Out of the box VitaCulls are programmed to broadcast their unique IDs on parallel satellite, radio and Bluetooth frequencies. But we shut this one up for you. The only thing singing is the genuine article bleep, so if someone
’
s listening, they
’
ll know this is a real VitaCull, but won
’
t trace when it was made, and in this case, when it went missing from Exertify
’
s inventory. And that
’
s what you wanted, right?”
That
’
s
exactly
what he wanted.
Seth pressed on. “And just to confirm, they can
’
t dial in and disable this VitaCull or relay a false signal back to my remote operator, correct?”
“They can sure try, but they
’
ll be denied access.” Bone looked at him as if to size him up. “Have you used one of these before?”
Seth shook his head. “But the guys in my crew can handle it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But Jacob said you
’
ll show me anyway. What I am concerned about is how to fly with it. I don
’
t want to check any luggage.”
Bone
’
s eyes bulged with excitement. “Easy.” He took out a sketch pad and a pen and started diagramming.
“VitaCulls are made up of two parts, the vest and the home-base controller. The vest has an electronic unit called the
‘
manticore
’
that houses the power supply, the chip, the transmitter and the GPS device—all in one. The manticore is as big as your iPhone.” Bone took out the device in question and showed it to him.
“Before you fly, unplug the manticore and house it in the dummy phone compartment included in the package.” He then pulled out what looked like a burrowed shell of an iPhone 4s. He stuffed the electronic unit snug inside and it seemed convincing enough.
“This is now officially your second phone. It
’
ll clear the TSA scan just like your regular one.”
Seth wasn
’
t quite convinced how convenient this all sounded. The fake iPhone looked plausible enough to his eyes, but who knew what was inside its gizzards that could trigger the alarm at the airport?
“How can I be sure?”
“You
’
re gonna have to trust me on this one. This is what I would do: Put the phone in a separate tray, and if it triggers an alarm, don
’
t claim it. Walk away.”
Easy for you to say, tubby. You haven
’
t spent the last few months chasing for this exotic tech. Or paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to buy a hot one.
Seth scrutinized Bone
’
s face. All soft flesh and shiny skin with no discernible jaw structure. There was something about him that didn
’
t inspire much confidence, but Seth couldn
’
t put his finger on it.
“The body sensors, the wires, and the tubes of the vest can all be dismantled and put in a first-aid kit or medicine bag. And the vest ain
’
t nothing more than synthetic fabric—wear it under your regular clothes and you
’
ll be all set.”
“And the home-base?”
“A hundred percent software. All you need to do is install it on a computer with a reliable internet connection. Not
‘
somewhat
’
reliable. Armageddon-proof reliable. If the connection between the vest and the home-base is cut, whoever
’
s wearing it will be exposed.”
“How do you install the home-base software?”
Bone placed a tiny memory card in his hand. “It
’
s all here on a micro SD.”
He huddled closer and his eyes swept the room. Then he lowered his head and spoke in a hushed voice. “You
’
ll need a needle in your veins. Jacob said you have a medic and a geneticist who know how to use this shit. That right?”
“Yeah. We need special needles?”
“Nah. Your medic can supply those when you get to the other side—26g hypodermics should do it.”
A waitress deposited a huge plate of food in front of Bone. He grabbed some fries even before the plate had touched the table, then stuffed his mouth. With little shame, his chubby fingers wiped the oil from the fries on his Hawaiian shirt, which only highlighted how dirty the shirt was to start. When he had satiated his mouth with a few noisy bites of the sandwich, Bone reached inside his backpack and pulled out what looked like a small metallic marble. It had a tiny red button and a micro USB port. Bone placed it in Seth
’
s palm. It felt heavier than its size implied.
“A little freebie for you from Jacob. The digital bomb you had asked about.”
“I thought Jacob said you were out of stock?”
“We were when you asked. But we just got a shipment from Stockholm. This one
’
s on the house, bro.”
Seth nodded in appreciation.
“How do I use it?”
“Press the red button, and this bad boy here will put any video recording unit within a five-thousand-foot radius to sleep. Tapes, hard drive and even mobile devices, you name it. You can house it in the VitaCull vest here—we
’
ve customized an acrylic pouch for it.”
Observing the small object resting in the palm of his hand sent a satisfying vibration through Seth
’
s body.
“And also disables cell phones, correct?”
Bone nodded. “Plug it into your phone through the micro USB port here. It
’
ll automatically dump a small app called
‘
Sniffer.
’
With the sphere close to your phone and the red button pressed, it
’
ll disable incoming and outgoing calls within the same five-thousand-foot radius. It
’
ll also keep a log of attempted cell phone activity within that radius and send live notifications to your phone.”
“Perfect. Anything else I need to know?”
“Just one more thing. The VitaCull—your geneticist should know this, but I
’
ll say it as a disclaimer. Before the vest is
‘
paired
’
, the genetic profile of whoever will use it needs to be initialized on it. Draw some blood, scrape some cells from your inner cheek, or just jerk off—that
’
s what I would do.” Bone paused waiting for a smile or laugh from Seth, but he just stared at him.
Get to the fucking point.
“Then smear your biological source code on the base of the manticore here to create a primary genetic profile. It takes about fifteen hours to map, so factor that into your op time. When it
’
s done, feed the profile back to the home-base system via the USB port. It
’
ll generate an encrypted passcode based on your genetic profile and will lock the device for good.”
“Define
‘
for good
’
.”
“VitaCulls are made for one person and one person only. Monogamous for life, like dolphins.”
This unexpected poetic side to Bone was short-lived.
He showered his fries with salt and then peered up at Seth. “Remember—no returns, no refunds. If you screw it up, tough shit. Jacob will snap your fucking head off if you even suggest it.”
“I know. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Back in his car, Seth stared at the video bomb and the VitaCull for a few minutes. With this gear in his possession, there was no turning back now. He switched on his phone and navigated to a photo of a man on a beautiful beach playing with a yellow lab.
I am all ready for you now, Alexander Blackwell.
THREE
Saturday, November 5, 2011—12:55 p.m.
Prickly Pear Island, British West Indies
S
wimming maniacally to the south shore of Prickly Pear Island wasn
’
t particularly taxing for Blackwell. Few men past forty-five had a body this tough. A smooth torso ripped with tight muscles. Legs strong as a workhorse. Arms primed with pure strength. Even at the lowest point of his nervous breakdown, the excruciating pain of a punishing physical routine always distracted him from the guilt eating him up from the inside.
As he got closer, the jet fumes of the helicopter were more pungent. The cyan waters and powdery sand of the north shore started to glimmer through the lush green.
He reached land and found the narrow trail through the brush vegetation that he
’
d used before. It was mostly sea grape along the way, but he had to look out for the prickly pear and other nasty little species of cactus.
When he got to the thatched-roof bar on the north shore, the requisite Bob Marley repertoire playing on loop and the spirited banter between the bartender and his clients was eerily absent. It seemed the bar had just been abandoned. An unmixed cocktail was still in the blender, and the fridge was stacked with Carib beers that hadn
’
t been there long enough to chill.
The restaurant right across from the bar had also been boarded up and locked.
What the hell happened to everyone?
He took cover behind the bar. Listening closely, he pulled out his gun from the pouch. Faint but unmistakably American voices were floating in the air. And in the background, unintelligible radio chatter.
Through the bamboo walls of the bar, the empty beach was ominous. No trace of the utility boats that ferried the staff and the supplies from Anguilla, and there wasn
’
t a sunbathing tourist in sight. Even the laughing gulls and other tropical birds must have sensed danger and were nowhere to be seen or heard.
He stepped out on the sand, gun at the ready and his eyes scanning left, right and center. The voices grew louder, coming from the east. Blackwell ran along the deserted beach towards the sounds, then took cover behind the other restaurant on the island, which had also been shuttered.
Quietly, he fiddled with the flimsy kitchen door lock until he unlatched it and walked inside. Blackwell often brought his cruise passengers here for lunch, and remembered the best vantage point would be from the men
’
s room in the back.
Standing on the toilet seat, he spied through the prison-like window with his binoculars. A silver Seahawk helicopter was positioned on the main hump of the island like a beached whale. Two marines stood guard around the perimeter of the aircraft.
He swept the scene until he finally zeroed in on someone he recognized—FBI Special Agent Frank Carter.
Oh shit.
Blackwell charged like a bull towards his former colleague. And he would have jumped him if the two marines hadn
’
t intercepted him just a few inches before reaching Carter. Their combined force was barely enough to keep him restrained.
“What the fuck
are you doing here, Carter, showing up with the damn Fourth Fleet?”
His raw voice projecting primal rage sounded like it was coming out of someone else
’
s throat.
“Alex, listen. Just listen! He asked for you by name.”
The lava in Blackwell
’
s chest bubbling to his head blocked any meaningful perception of what Carter was saying.
“…We had no other choice, man—just give me a chance to explain, all right?”
“This is
not
what I was promised! Which part of
‘
resigned
’
is so hard for you dickheads to comprehend?”
“Alex—we don
’
t have much time. The state department pulled all the stops to get the Anguillan government to evacuate this little island for us. But they want us to get the hell out of here fast.”
Carter seemed desperate. A more rational part of Blackwell knew his former colleague was merely a messenger. But the red hot blood rushing through Blackwell
’
s head was still blocking out what Carter was trying to convey. He took a few seconds to calm himself, unclenched his fists and scrutinized Carter
’
s face.
When he was prepared to listen, Blackwell nodded. “Speak.”
“We have a critical situation on our hands. I need you to put your dick back in your pants, take a deep breath and get in that chopper right now. I
’
ll explain everything once we
’
re airborne.”
Now that Blackwell had discharged most of his anger and wasn
’
t about to pounce on Carter, the marines released their grip on him. One of them picked up a duffel bag from the ground and took out a towel and a change of clothes and handed it to Blackwell. As if Carter
’
s orders were indisputable. And Blackwell
’
s compliance imminent.
He ignored the marine and remained silent for a while.
“What happened?” Blackwell blurted, his eyes fixed on Carter.
“A critical hostage situation in an office tower in midtown Manhattan—200 Park Avenue. The old Pan Am building, right across from Grand Central Terminal.”
“You said
‘
he
’
asked for me by name.
’
Who
’
s
‘
he
’
?”
“The hostage-taker. We are assuming he
’
s Middle Eastern. And he
’
s given us until twenty-one hundred to get you there.”
The tightness in Blackwell
’
s neck was radiating to the base of his skull. A migraine couldn
’
t be too far away. “When did it start?”
“Ten thirty this morning. He
’
s holed up with the hostages on the thirty-ninth floor.”
Blackwell rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. The question of what was on the thirty-ninth floor must have been written on his face for Carter to read and answer.
“The headquarters of a company called Exertify. Security and defense contractor. Top of the food chain sort of thing. CEO is Mark Price, also one of the hostages.”
“Mark Price.” He repeated the name as if the mere act of saying it could somehow release from the folds of his brain any memory of who this guy was. But he drew a blank.
“The younger brother of Senator William Price from North Carolina. Both men have been in the public eye recently. Nothing their publicists would have been proud of, though.”
Blackwell didn
’
t have the faintest clue who these people were. In the last four years, he hadn
’
t read a newspaper once or been in the same room with a television.
“NYPD? It
’
s their turf—why aren
’
t they on it?”
“He
’
ll only negotiate with you, Alex. But you know the drill with NYPD. They
’
re just too powerful to yield completely. So even though we are taking the lead, they
’
ve set up their own command post and we are working close with them. Sharing is caring.”
Something about the way Carter
’
s eyes glanced away was bothering Blackwell.
Is he being straight about why the Bureau is taking charge?
There had to be another reason why things were moving so fast. Why Carter was dispatched in a Seahawk to fetch him. This kind of traction is out of the norm.
Blackwell looked at the chopper and the crew of two men inside.
“How
’
d you get here so fast?”
“I was already in San Juan on a covert op. The Nimitz just happened to be close.”
A quick review of the time and geography in Blackwell
’
s head confirmed the feasibility of what Carter had just told him, but opened up a potential flaw in the overall plan.
“Even if I agreed to come, how the hell do you expect to get me to Manhattan in time?”
Carter explained that the USS George H.W. Bush was positioned twenty miles north of Puerto Rico, which meant the Seahawk would get them there in about ninety minutes. Once they reached the aircraft carrier, the plan was to put Blackwell on an F-15 and get him to LaGuardia in under an hour. A chopper would then ferry him to the heliport in Manhattan. From there a Bucar would take him straight to command center.
“We
’
ve set up shop right across on Vanderbilt Avenue. The rest of the team will have plenty of time to brief you.” Once again Carter
’
s eyes scurried away from Blackwell
’
s fixed gaze.
The little weasel
’
s definitely hiding something.
“How many are they?”
“One guy, unarmed, and no explosives—none that we know of, anyway. But he
’
s wired with some future-age vest.”
Blackwell glanced at the marine who was frozen in position holding the change of clothes and the towel. Like a terracotta warrior, totally tuned out of what Blackwell and Carter were talking about. “I meant the hostages, Carter. How many people is he holding?”
A small grin crept on Carter
’
s face as if he had only just remembered how Blackwell operated without having to consult the manual.
“Oh. Not sure. Twenty to thirty, maybe. We won
’
t know until we
’
ve debriefed the ones he
’
s let go.”
“He
’
s released some hostages?”
“Yeah. All admin and security personnel. Kept only the top executives.”
Blackwell considered this, and although he was resisting hard to start formulating a mental opinion of the hostage-taker, his mind was already fast at work.
“That vest he
’
s wearing. Suicide bomb?”
“Not likely. He had to clear a security buffer zone called
‘
the vault
’
to get into Exertify. From the descriptions given by the witnesses, this vest is nothing we
’
ve ever seen on a terrorist before. It
’
s US Military-grade.”
“What does it do?”
“He called it a
‘
life perception vest
’
and it
’
s attached to his vitals. Apparently, if he
’
s stressed or taken out, it reads his body and alerts his guys on the outside.” Carter sniggered.
“What
’
s so funny about that?”
“Fucker
’
s got a sense of humor. The vest was developed by Exertify, the same company he
’
s now holding hostage.”
Blackwell paced around the sand. Something wasn
’
t adding up.
“So what
’
s his leverage, Carter? You said he
’
s got no guns or explosives. Why aren
’
t you storming in and taking him out? The Hostage Rescue Team could do it quick and clean.”
Carter pursed his lips and ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Well for starters, the vest, as I just explained. But that alone doesn
’
t answer your question. And this is where it gets—how can I put this? Complicated.”
“I ain
’
t going anywhere.”
Carter slumped his shoulders as if to resign himself to doing the bulk of the briefing on the sand, rather than in the Seahawk as he had hoped. He took a few steps sideways, cocked his head up, then sighed deeply.
“So?”
“Two weeks ago, the thirty-year-old daughter of Senator William Price, Julia, was lured from a bar in Rome to a nearby van where she was abducted. The Bureau only found out a week later from the Italians, and it was all kept on the down low. Deputy Director Benny Marino is a family friend of the Senator and didn
’
t want this to go public until we figured out what the hell was happening. The director is with the president in Europe so Marino
’
s calling all the shots. Of course, while liaising with him.”
“Marino made deputy director?” Blackwell surprised himself with the level of interest in Marino
’
s career his question had betrayed. He had spent his first two years on the island deploring the FBI, and the other two pretending he didn
’
t give a damn about it. The stratospheric rise of a career agent like Marino shouldn
’
t have mattered to him.