C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE
For the briefest moment, John Ward's New York paranoia struck: he had visions of the few bad cops he had known in his life, in his father's life. He was momentarily gripped with the fear that Police Chief Brennan would answer, “Saeedâis there a problem?”
She did not. She sounded alert as she said, “Bet you have a wrong number.”
Ward's throat relaxed. “No, Chief Brennan. This is John Ward and I have the right number.”
It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts. “But the wrong phone. Who the hell is Saeed Kamyab?”
“He's a guy who was babysitting what looks like a terrorist training camp up here in the mountains,” Ward said.
Again, she took a moment to process that. “In
my
mountains?”
“Buried deep,” Ward told her. “It's the reason the Muslims wanted the Randolph place. Not just because it was a high point for a mosque, but because it was a wormhole to this little slice of hell.” Ward was looking among the other supplies the men had brought up, packed in a trio of duffel bags. “Look, I can explain that later. I'm in the cave, Saeed is my prisoner, and you have to promise you and the troops won't come rushing up here.”
“One thing at a time,” Brennan said. “This Saeedâis he hurt?”
“Not a bit,” Ward lied. He couldn't tell her the truth. He was betting she'd be forced to send a Medivac chopper up to get him. Seeing or hearing that might scare the others away. He started rummaging through their supplies.
“What's his condition?” the police chief asked.
“Semi-conscious,” Ward said as he found what he was looking for: a first aid kit. “Chief, we have a situation. The place is armed for an assault and there are all kinds of images of the Aspen airport on their laptop.”
“There was a false alarm there last week,” she said.
“I know. I was just looking through the photographs. I have a feeling someone was testing their response apparatus.”
“Aspen?” she said. “Why would terrorists strike there?”
“Becauseâit's
Aspen
?” Ward said.
“Yeah, but it's off-season and tourism is down. Even the glitterati are going elsewhere.”
Ward didn't buy that argument. The NYPD ran a focus group on potential terror targets. The majority of respondents said they wouldn't care if celebrities or jet-setters got hit, but celebrities and jet-setters would be all over the airwaves talking about a Vegas or Atlantic City or some other pleasure spot if it did get clocked. It would be in the news for weeks, a jihadist's dream.
“Regardless,” Ward said, “there has to be a reason for all the surveillance and we need to find it. Do you have any of the specifics of the alert last week?”
“I'm looking it up now,” she said. “Threat analysis from the FBI Denverâterminal evac and flight lockdown triggered by the discovery of a 7.62-by-39-millimeter casing on the floor of the main terminal.”
“That's an AK-47 shell,” Ward said. “They've got a bunch of those bad boys up here.”
“Security cams were unable to ascertain who dropped it or where,” Brennan went on. “Early conclusion was that a hunter, probably meeting someone on a flight, had it on his person without knowing. Planes were allowed to take off and the terminal was reopened. Fingerprints turned up negative. Initial judgment stands.”
“That's bull,” Ward said. “Someone was testing the system. They were exposing the sky marshals on-site. Some of the images here, I saw two civilians with handguns helping passengers out.”
They were both quiet for a while.
“Any kind of calendar in the computer?” Brennan asked.
“Nothing that I found. But it doesn't look like we're dealing with a seasoned operation,” Ward said. “But they
are
homegrown, which is trouble. And something else.”
“What?”
“Saeed was trying to call Gahrah when I stopped him.”
“John, that doesn't make any sense.”
“Why?'
“Gahrah and his cronies own over a dozen properties in Basalt,” Brennan said. “The man's got the stealth
jihad
working for him, and pretty effectively. Why would he do something like attack the airport?”
“
He
may not be doing it,” Ward said. “I've never dealt with a criminal enterprise that's monolithic. Maybe there's a radical cleric behind it, the imam here or whoever is funding them. Gahrah may not have a choice when it comes to supporting it.”
“All right,” she said, thinking quickly. “I need to get some tech guys working on that computer.”
“Fine, but in the meantime we've got to shut this training camp downâpreferably when a bunch of them are inside. That lessens the chance that they can pull off whatever they're planning at the airport.”
“Any idea how many people are involved?”
“They've got a dozen prayer mats, but I only saw five men here tonight. There isn't a helluva lot of room. They obviously come here in shifts.”
“You said they've got guns?”
“Plenty, with the serial numbers burned off the ones I checked. You'll have reason to hold them.”
“All right. What do
you
want to do?”
“Well, we've only got till sunrise to set something up,” Ward said. “Chances are someone will be checking in come morningâsooner, if he was supposed to check in. When they can't raise Saeed, someone'll come and check it out.”
“Can you get him to play ball with us, buy us time?”
Ward looked at Saeed. He was barely moving. “I don't think so. Tell you what, Chief. I'll get the laptop to youâ”
“How?”
“The kid's Arctic Cat is here,” he said. “I can take that and be back before sunup. Why don't you concentrate on the airport angle andâ”
“You're trying to sideline me, detective.”
Busted
, Ward thought. “Not sideline,” he said. “Delay. Do you really want to take a bunch of teenagers into custody and question them with their lawyers hovering over you?”
“That's how it's done.”
“Right, but I'm looking at bayonet dummies up hereâand one of them's a child. Is that a line you'd ever cross?”
“Of course not.”
“Exactly. Normally, I'd agree with you. But this isn't ânormally.'”
Brennan did not reply.
“Chief, they're ramping up something deadly and we need to find out what it is.”
“John, are you telling me you're gonna work Saeed over?”
“I don't know,” the detective answered honestly. “I was thinking of calling his mom, having her get it out of him. Intel says these kids are more afraid of their mothers than they are of Gitmo.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Ward wasn't sure how far she'd go, even with an attack of some kind in the offing. That was one reason he had not told her where the cave was located. She had to realize that too.
“Bring me the laptop,” she said. “And the prisoner.”
Now it was Ward who hesitated.
“You took him down, didn't you?” she asked.
“Not entirely,” John answered.
“He's wounded. Gunshot. Leg? Shoulder?”
“Shoulder,” Ward answered. “He was getting set to fire at me.”
“How serious?”
“Clean, through the shoulder. I was waiting for him to pass out so I could patch him up. He was still pretty feisty.”
“Christ, John.”
“Hey, his fingerprints will be all over the AK-47,” Ward said. “I made sure I picked it up by the strap.”
“You bring your own evidence bag too?”
“I didn't think this would be a working vacation,” he replied.
She laughed a little. “How do I not send a chopper out there to airlift him to the hospital?”
“You wouldn't be able to get a resource of that kind close to this location, even if you could find it,” he said. “By the time they trekked here he'd be dead. Truthfully? I'm his best way out. And when I drop him off, it'll be anonymously at the hospital.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“Hasn't a clue,” he lied.
“All right,” she said. “I'll make sure they don't try and ID him until the morning. That'll give us time to look this thing over. Take him first, then get me the laptop. I'll meet you at the station and we'll figure out where to go from there.”
“Fine,” Ward said. “How's Debbie?”
“Awake and hurting,” Brennan told him. “Docs say she'll need some skin grafts but scarring will be minimal.”
“On the outside.”
“Yeah.”
Ward's eyes fell on Saeed. Was he one of the punks behind the home invasion? “Any evidence?”
“Not so far,” she said. “The guys who did this worked clean.”
“Probably because they were trained,” Ward said as his eyes fell on the martial arts dummy. “Right here, I'm guessing.”
“The law will see that they get what's coming to them,” Brennan said.
“You're wrong about that,” Ward replied. “Oh, we'll incarcerate their bodies. But these lunatics don't care. When the judge sentenced the failed Times Square bomber, he ranted about his cause and how others will take his place. The SOB is going to read his Koran in prison because the ACLU will make sure he can, and he'll thump his chest to the grave. Same with these monsters. Meanwhile, Debbie will never know a night's peace for the rest of her life.”
“You may be right,” Brennan said. “But our community is as strong as theirsâwe just don't show it. The day we do, with a loud voice, every Debbie from here to Kabul will sleep better. I'll see you soon, John.” She hesitated, then added: “Nice work.”
“Thanks.”
The police chief hung up. She had a point. But until the hyphenates got out of the way of a unified America, that was only a local dream. It needed to become part of the American persona once more.
He wanted to be part of that big change, though that would have to wait. Despite what he had told Brennan, he had no intention of figuring anything out with the police chief. He had a better idea.
The detective opened the plastic first aid kit. He pulled out the bottle of zinc oxide, bandages, gauze medical tape, and small surgical scissors. Saeed's eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow but regular. Ward cut open the kid's shirt, poured the astringent on the entry woundâthe kid didn't even gasp at that, so he was definitely outâthen carefully raised and angled the boy so he could douse the exit wound. He pressed gauze on both sides and fixed them in place with tape. Then he wrapped the bandages around his chest to keep the dressing from moving much. Finally, he propped the boy against the wall to lessen the flow of blood to the wound. It wasn't a great patch job but it was probably better than the young man deserved. He didn't do anything about Saeed's broken hands.
“You'll recover but you won't be cutting any throats,” the detective observed.
When he was finished, Ward went to the cooler and found some power bars. He ate one as he got his own cell phone from his pocket. He walked outside and noticed, on a ledge, a small solar panel.
“Al Gore, you're helping terrorists recharge their batteries,” he said.
He scrolled to Randolph's number.
“It's about time,” the farmer said. “I thought you were going to text me?”
“Not necessary.”
“Why?”
“I've been busy,” Ward said.
“Doing what? You're also not whispering anymore, so where the hell are you?”
“In the cave,” he replied.
“Goddamn, I
knew
you'd try that!”
“I didn't âtry,' Scott. I've got it. It's ours, and it's
jihad
central. The good news is, the bad guys don't know I have itâyet. If we act quickly, we can really do some damage.”
“Brother John, I don't know what angel is looking over you but I want him on my side. What's the situation?”
Ward told him about the camp and about the airport. He explained that he was coming back to make the drop-offs but would need some guidance on how to get out through the valley. He said that he was coming right back but had a job for the farmer.