Terminal Rage (33 page)

“What?”

“Right before the three failed attempts that initiated the destruction protocol, there was one successful access of Leviathan. And an export of all the data. Whoever destroyed it did it on purpose, and after looting the whole damn thing.”

What?

Danny moved uncomfortably close to Blackwell and pushed his glasses on top of his head.

“The only
way you can retrieve the data now is to find whoever did this. And good luck with that—it could be anyone. And they could be anywhere.”

All Blackwell could see as he stood in front of Zimmerman was a smiling fox.

“I
’
m guessing you have far more interest in this case than old man Bob is letting on.”

Zimmerman took out a card and handed it to him. Blackwell hesitated at first, as if accepting it would infect him with some synthetic, malevolent government virus that would compel him to sell his soul to Danny
’
s employers.

“Never was much of a recruiter, but I
’
m obliged to let you know that the NSA takes care of its own. And we have great coffee. Far better than the Bureau.”

Blackwell shook Danny
’
s hand and shot out of the apartment first.

Where the hell are you, Sam?

TWENTY-EIGHT

Sunday, July 23, 2006—4:00 p.m.
Newport, Rhode Island

S
am Morgan walked along with the hundreds of men, women and children who were trickling in from the main residence through the symmetrical paths of crushed oyster. They gathered outside on the spectacular Ocean Lawn facing calm waters. Even though the Belle Mer residence was Rhode Island
’
s finest venue for weddings, there were no nuptial floral arrangements around the lawn, or the blissful buzz of matrimony in the air. Just a subdued melancholy under the honey-colored light of the afternoon sun, and the emptiness of unprocessed grief suspended over the air like a tenacious cloud.

When the standing audience had reached its critical mass, a blonde woman in her early sixties emerged from the crowd. She wore a white linen strapless dress and pearl-encrusted sandals, and walked with poise towards a simple oak podium set up for her at the edge of the lawn. Sam had never seen Amelia Ridgley in the flesh until now, and was certain neither had most of the people gathered to hear her speak today. But he recognized her face from the media. He had observed a few people approach her prior to the speech to thank her for everything she had done on their behalf.

Amelia took a few seconds to canvass the sea of eyes fixed on her, then took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Exactly a year ago, every single one of us here today lost someone we loved. A friend, a spouse, a child, a parent, a relative, or a colleague. Death is never easy. But tragic death is even more painful, because the senseless violence behind it, somehow, becomes the focus of attention.

“We are left with the chilling emptiness of unexpected loss. The painful day-to-day realities of dealing with the vacuum left behind. For some of us, the mourning process can take a lifetime, for others, less. But the one thing we all share is that throughout our grieving, we find little time to celebrate the lives of those we lost.

“And this is why we are gathered here today. Not to remember the pain of death, not to relive the tragedy of that fateful day, and not to rehash the anger we all felt and still feel. But to remember with pride the loved ones we lost. And to be grateful for the time we spent with them, rather than the time cut short.”

She paused and allowed her eyes to observe the crowd before she continued. “It is through this mutual celebration of their lives that we may accelerate our individual healing. And we can do it better
together, as a group of people who experienced the same horrific loss.

“When my colleagues and I created the Spring Roy Employee Solidarity Trust, it was meant to support the families of the colleagues we lost during the brutal terrorist attack on our Sharm El Sheikh property last year. But we soon realized the legacy of our colleagues would be forever connected to every single person who died with them that day.

“The men and women of the Spring Roy Sharm El Sheikh lost
their lives honorably doing what we love to do best—to serve others, just like we serve our own. And this is why, with the utmost respect and love, I announce to you today that the foundation has now been renamed the Spring Roy Sharm El Sheikh Memorial Trust. This stems from our commitment to provide the same emotional and material support to
everyone
affected by the attacks, and not just our own.”

A massive applause erupted on the lawn. It could have been to acknowledge gratitude, or to give the visibly shaken Amelia a chance to compose herself and wipe her tears. When the clapping had faded and the strength of her voice restored, Amelia continued on a more determined, emotive note.

“I urge us all
to use our time here today to speak to one another about the beautiful souls we lost. Let
’
s commemorate their lives and our eternal love for them. Let
’
s remember the joy they gave us, rather than the pain of their death. Let
’
s create new friendships and cement the bond of this new family of ours with love and mutual respect.

“I leave you with fleeting emotions from an often-quoted poem about loss, the true meaning of which I only recently understood—through my own mourning of my friends and colleagues and everyone who perished that day.” She paused, lowered her head briefly, and began reciting.

Can I see another
’
s woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another
’
s grief,

And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow
’
s share?

Can a father see his child

Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear

An infant groan, an infant fear?

No, no! Never can it be!

Never, never can it be!

The crowd erupted once again in passionate applause, and spontaneously repeated in unison the concluding verse of the poem. “Never, never can it be! Never, never can it be!”

Sam
’
s attention was focused on a young woman standing next to him. He was intrigued by her. Not because of anything she was doing, but precisely the opposite. She wasn
’
t applauding or reacting to anything Amelia was saying during her rousing speech. She wasn
’
t even looking toward the podium, but was staring out to sea with a stone-cold glare in her eyes. She seemed almost repulsed. The young woman had glanced at Sam once briefly and then looked away.

After the speech, when the crowd had dispersed, Sam looked around for her but she was gone. He had been tracking her for months and learning everything about her, until that day when he decided beyond any doubt she was everything he was looking for. Today seemed like the perfect opportunity to speak to her. He was used to her disappearing on him, but he always managed to trace her.

Sam ignored Amelia Ridgley
’
s suggestion to mingle with the other victims
’
families and retreated instead to an isolated bench overlooking the water. He closed his eyes and shut his ears to the murmur of chatter in the background. In the year since his family had been killed, the times he was able to sleep soundly through the night were few and far between. He had never gone back to live in his old house, and that may have had something to do with it.

He would sometimes doze off in the middle of the day and wake up to find himself in a public park or on a beach somewhere, barely able to remember how he got there in the first place. Being intoxicated with grief will do that to you. There were times when he
’
d wake up from these short bouts of sleep feeling euphoric and positive, as if his life had never changed. But before long the painful reality of what happened to his family would lodge itself in his belly like a sharp dagger. A bad dream that never ends.

He had tried everything to accept his fate, but there was a gaping wound in his soul more cavernous than any psychotherapy could heal. Both his parents were born Catholic, but had drifted away from their religion and passed on to Sam strong values instead of dogma. They had given him a scientific and spiritual toolbox to explain the great mysteries of life. But unlike people of faith who upon experiencing a tragedy either question their beliefs or find solace in them, Sam had ultimately analyzed and come to terms with his misery through a strictly material prism. And he had suffered tremendously before he found the only path that could keep him sane.

It wasn
’
t that he hadn
’
t tried to find his peace through conventional emotional means. But nothing he tried could reconcile the sheer injustice of what happened to him and his loved ones.

His first port of call was to seek therapy to deal with the immediate emotional trauma. This helped him a little to get on his feet so he could function. But he knew right away it wasn
’
t going
to be a viable long-term solution.

Like most survivors of violent crime, Sam started believing he could heal faster if he embraced his guilt. He was the one who had accepted his client
’
s offer of an all-expenses-paid holiday in Sharm El Sheikh, much to his wife Angela
’
s initial resistance. They could have gone anywhere in the world, but they ended up in the one place that would rob him of the three people he loved most. And it was his decision, and his alone.

But these superficial feelings of guilt didn
’
t help him heal any faster. Sam was forced to concede that the choices he had taken that led to his predicament had all been random. So he took it a step further. He sought culpability at a deeper, more philosophical level. Sam believed that one
’
s actions are like waves of energy that circulate and find their way back to us. Scrutinizing his life under a moral microscope, Sam tried to recall if he had done anything in the past that was terrible enough to earn him the loss of his wife and children. But he found nothing. At his core, Sam was an honest man who, up to that point at least, had never lied, stolen, or harmed anyone else to get further in life. Never so much as looked at another woman with desire, let alone cheated on Angela. He
’
d been a loving father, a loyal son, a dependable friend, and a supportive boss to his staff. Never fired, sued, or fought with anyone. His was a charitable disposition and he empathized with those less fortunate than him. This was not about karma.

The grinding process of self-immolation went on for a long time until there was nowhere else to go with it. And that
’
s when he realized his only salvation and redemption was to pursue justice for his slain family.

Sam had always understood that the men who had pulled the trigger, Nabulsi and Madi, were nothing more than cogs in a larger machine. A more powerful, better-funded force had planned and bankrolled this attack. There was no doubt about that.

At first, he was naive enough to hope the swift trial of the two
Jordanians would reveal the masterminds behind the explosions. Sam had blind faith in his own government
’
s war on terror to bring the real culprits to justice, once the trial unearthed the real bloodied hands behind the explosion.

He traveled to Egypt to follow the proceedings of the case, rented a small apartment in Cairo, and hired a local law firm to arrange for him to attend the trial. But the Egyptian government had restricted access to the courtroom to avoid a media circus. As a compromise, families of the victims who had traveled to Egypt for the trial were allowed to watch via a closed-circuit telecast in a meeting space adjacent to the courtroom.

Sam watched every single session of Nabulsi and Madi
’
s trial in the same room with hundreds of other relatives of the victims. The Egyptian ministry of justice had also arranged for simultaneous interpretation of the proceedings for the benefit of the family members like Sam who didn
’
t speak Arabic.

On the thirty-eighth and penultimate day of the trial, he saw someone on the television screen who turned his world upside down. A man who went by the name of Adly Sarhan, who Sam had worked with. He appeared for a few seconds at the end of the session, brushing by Nabulsi and Madi as they were being escorted out of their cage back to prison. Sarhan tapped Nabulsi on the shoulder, smiled at him, hugged Madi, and then walked away.

Sam had first met Adly Sarhan in Los Angeles, and then
on numerous occasions in New York. He was the last person Sam expected to see in this courtroom, consorting with the Jordanian terrorists.

Sam asked his lawyers to check the court security logs for the attendants that day. But Adly Sarhan wasn
’
t listed. And no one could identify the man Sam had seen. But in his mind, there was no question it was Adly Sarhan.

He went back to scrutinize the footage with his Arabic translator, this time with better audio. Right before he appeared in the frame, Adly had spoken. Sam recognized his voice. Adly had asked if the camera was switched off, to which someone, presumably the camera man, had responded affirmatively. But fate had intervened and the camera was rolling all along for Sam to ultimately connect him to the attacks.

Seeing him at the trial answered, at least in part, the burning question of who really was behind the explosions. The man he had worked with and trusted was somehow connected to the attack that resulted in the death of his wife and children. His head spun and his chest felt heavy at the implications of this revelation, the diabolical betrayal that had wreaked unimaginable havoc on Sam
’
s life.

When the guilty verdict and death sentences for Nabulsi and Madi were announced, they were all but inconsequential. The trial had failed to implicate any other parties. But Sam knew better. He was now hot on the trail of Adly Sarhan.

He returned to America and tried but failed to meet with any government official to disclose his knowledge of the real culprit. But all attempts to engage the State Department, the FBI, the CIA, and Homeland Security fell on deaf ears. His government
’
s terror strategy was myopic and obsessed with expensive overseas wars. Anything else, no matter how damning or incriminating, was B-roll. The US administration, in collusion with the Egyptians, had only paid lip service to the families of the victims, with no attempt to actually mete out justice.