Diminished Capacity

Chapter Three

by G. Lawrence

Jack joins the terrorists

This crime novel ultimately turns into a romance of sorts, but there are strange plots and fantastic adventures before it gets there. And though there is occasional nudity and sex, it is not intended as an erotic novel. If someone compares this to pulp fiction stories, they are not wrong. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap; Jack Lawrence was arrested for assassinating the President of the United States, though he doesn't remember anything about the shooting. Having stumbled upon a terrorist plot involving a nuclear weapon, the FBI has arranged for Jack to escape and meet an informant.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

I am grateful to learn you have taken custody of Jack's memoir. To address your concern, I see nothing in the text that will violate national security. It's true that when Jack disappeared, I feared the worst. I cursed myself for ever trusting him. The next few days surprised me as much as anyone. Sincerely, Harold Rasmussen

* * * * * *

Chapter Three

THANKSGIVING EVE

I had never ridden in a limousine before, and it was quite the experience. Mahtam and I rode in the wide back seat, separated from the driver by a closed screen. There was a well-stocked bar, which surprised me, along with potato chips, fresh fruit, and a television. I noticed a 3" paring knife.

"Excuse me," I said, reaching for the knife and a blue embroidered hand towel.

I pulled back the sleeve of my orange jumpsuit, found the tiny scar where Rasmussen's tech had implanted the tracking chip just below my elbow, and sliced the skin open. The blood quickly soaked the towel. Mahtam was shocked.

The chip wasn't hard to find. There had been no time for an elaborate procedure. I pinched the edge with my fingers to draw it out.

"The Feds think they are clever," I explained. "The security of their detention center was substandard, so this was their insurance policy. I've had friends in military prisons tagged the same way."

I rolled the window down at the next stoplight. A long-haired redneck in a dirty white pick-up truck was next to us, the bed of his truck full of used tires and broken auto parts. I tossed the chip into the pile and rolled the window back up.

"That should give them a chase," I said with satisfaction, wrapping my arm with the towel. It wasn't a deep wound. A decent bandage would suffice.

I passed on the green tea Mahtam offered and reached for a small bottle of Russian vodka. I raised it, looking to Mahtam for permission. He grinned, tossed his tea aside, and found a vodka of his own.

"I am a Muslim, but I am also a man of the world," Mahtam said.

I did not doubt him. We clicked the bottles together and drank.

"What is our plan?" I asked.

"We will go to the embassy. The ambassador may not see you, but we will meet Shak Raskani, the chargé d'affaires. He will have instructions for you."

"It's good to be free," I said, resting back and stretching my legs.

"This is a great honor. To meet one who has slain a tyrant."

"Blair was a murderous son of a bitch," I said, an edge to my voice. "Bombing women and children. Destroying schools and hospitals. Giving billions to the Zionists. The monster had to be stopped."

"Now you will bask in the appreciation of my people," Mahtam said.

I did not mention Khanani or the coming big event. It wasn't the right moment.

The quiet of the drive gave me a chance to size Mahtam up. I put him at 5'5", a hundred and fifty pounds, with closely cut black hair and a thin beard along the edge of his narrow chin. There was a craftiness about him, and he'd had a good education, but he was blinded by his admiration of my dark deed.

We drove southeast toward Washington. The Rakmanian Embassy was on Massachusetts Avenue near the end of Embassy Row, across the street from the French Embassy. Good location for them. Rakmanistan was still a new country, a breakaway province from disintegrating Turkmenistan on the Afghan border. The 104th Rangers had conducted clandestine operations there during Operation Gray Storm.

We entered through the rear gate, parking in an underground garage. The U.S. government couldn't touch me now that I was on the grounds of a foreign embassy. Mahtam gave me a trench coat to cover my orange jumpsuit before entering the elevator. We emerged in a service area near the back.

"Quite the elaborate affair," I said, not having visited a Washington embassy before. The old building was four stories high, with dozens of rooms, marble floors, and paintings hanging everywhere. I could hear cooks in the huge kitchen.

"Mr. Lawrence, this is an honor," a distinguished dark-haired Persian said, approaching to shake hands. The man was just an inch or two shorter than I, middle-aged, with straight shoulders and the noble visage of a prominent family. His long white jacket was draped with a blue sash.

Rather than shake hands, I bowed from the waist. He had two aides, both in black business suits and looking somber.

"The honor is mine. I thank you," I said.

"I am Shak Raskani. I welcome you to the Rakmanian Embassy," he said. "We are having a reception tonight before the ambassador returns home. When the entourage leaves for the airport in the morning, you will accompany him disguised as private security. You will be shielded by diplomatic immunity."

"See? It is as I said. All is taken care of," Mahtam boasted.

"I hear your country is beautiful," I complimented.

"We have a place for you, a cabin high in the mountains. There are trees to protect you from the American spy satellites," Raskani said. "On special occasions, we will ask you to denounce your former masters, that the people may know their enemies."

"That is generous," I said. "Will you find a wife for me?"

"Jack, there are many attractive women in Rakmanistan. There is time for such considerations later," Mahtam urged.

"No, my friend. I am not interested in attractive women," I disagreed. "If I am to start a new life, I want a wife. I want to learn how to read the Qur'an in Arabic, that I might be a good husband to her. If I find it in my heart, I will become a Muslim. This is as it must be."

Raskani nodded with approval, as did Mahtam. They believed me, and there was no reason not to. I had learned during my life on the streets never to lie unless necessary, and if I was to be whisked away as their propaganda pet, I would build the best life I could. I would marry. I would study the Qur'an. I would convert if the spirit moved me. Everything I said was the truth; it just wasn't the plan I had in mind.

"We will speak later," Raskani said.

He waved to an aide who directed us up a winding rear staircase, ascending three flights to a spacious room overlooking the colorfully tiled courtyard. The windows were tinted to prevent observation from outside. The room was more luxurious than my cell, with a king-sized bed, lush Persian carpets, and the biggest bathtub I'd seen in years. The closet was filled with suits in different sizes, and there was a nice selection of shoes. Mahtam followed me in.

"Pick out the clothes you need. The trip to the mountains may take several days," he warned.

I sat on the bed, bouncing to test the mattress, and entered the bath area. The toilet was off to the left, out of Mahtam's view. I took out Alex's phone and battery to wrap them in tissue. Then I stepped back where I was partially visible and stripped off my orange jumpsuit. And everything else, standing nude, just in case he wondered if I was wired in some way. Once such a doubt was put to rest, I rolled the outfit into a ball and threw it on the floor with contempt. All I kept was the old watch that Father Sebastian gave me. It needed to be wound every few days.

"You may have my slave garb," I said, starting the bath water.

"You have many scars, my friend," Mahtam observed. Which was true. My days as a medic in the 2nd Afghan War had been hazardous, though those records had been concealed from the public.

"Some are old. Some are from those who tortured me after my arrest," I said. "They wanted to know who helped me kill Blair."

"Did you have help?" he asked.

"I will never tell."

"You must hate those who have mistreated you."

"Someday, in some way, I will have revenge," I replied, confident in my determination. "And if the price is high, I will pay it."

"You are tired. Enjoy your bath. And our hospitality," Mahtam said with a wink.

He left the room and closed the door.

I finished filling the tub and began to soak. It felt glorious. Nearby there was bottled water, wheat crackers, and three kinds of cheese. I munched while wondering how to make this work. There was a knock on the door, and before I could say anything, a young Japanese woman entered wearing a white bathrobe.

"I am Michiko, your towel girl, good sir," she said in a pleasant accent.

Without asking, she came to the tub, gracefully dropped the robe, and climbed in. She was a small woman, except in the places that counted. She washed my hair, massaged my shoulders, and led me to the bed, where she offered other skills. My first inclination was to decline. I was, after all, on a secret mission. A very dangerous one. But my new companion was deliciously attractive, and my chances of being with a woman again, ever, were not very good. Besides, dangerous missions never discouraged James Bond.

There would be nothing wrong with testing the quality of her perky breasts, I decided, for I didn't wish to be rude. Just a little harmless foreplay. They were everything a man could hope for. But her slim body was tempting, too. Soft. Eager. And she seemed to be a professional, stroking and moaning with theatrical passion. It wasn't like I was seducing a virgin. One thing soon led to another, and before long, I was giving her everything I had. More than once. I had to give Mahtam credit--he was a hell of a host.

The towel girl was gone when I woke up from my nap. I found gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, picked out two business suits that were neither smart nor shabby, and stuffed some needed accessories in a duffle bag. Then I sat on the bed, ate some more cheese, and turned on the television. I was interested in the news reports. Was there a nationwide manhunt?

No, not a word. Just as Rasmussen intended. I couldn't be sure how long that would continue. They had planned on tracking me to my encounter with Mahtam, then haul me back in. That was never going to work. Mahtam wasn't going to give away his confederates after one meeting. Once Rasmussen realized the tracking device was headed to a landfill, he might change his mind. He was probably regretting the whole scheme already.

With the nation getting ready for Thanksgiving, there were no stories about John Lawrence. The news networks were talking about football, shopping malls, and traffic jams. President Markham had pardoned his first turkey. The East Coast was expecting good weather.

Mahtam returned with sandwiches. We sat at a small table near the window, watching service people preparing for the evening reception. Deliverymen rolled food carts into the building. Security was checking credentials. Beyond the main gate, reporters were trying to get interviews and take pictures. I had no doubt some were CIA posing as press. A black SUV parked across the street was likely FBI. They may have suspected I had come to the embassy with Mahtam.

"What is this big event?" I asked Mahtam in my most casual manner.

He had mentioned it first, so it shouldn't have been a surprise, but he was cautious.

"A plan of the Tashad," he said. "They have a weapon that will bring America to its knees."

"Bigger than 9/11?"

"9/11 will be a picnic by comparison," he replied.

"I've read articles about the Tashad. And Frac Khanani. He is much feared. How well do you know him?"

"I have traveled with him. Just last week, I escorted him from the embassy to our safehouse in New York City."

"As a youngster, I spent several years in New York," I recalled. "Sometimes I slept under bridges or in alleys. The winters are cold."

"As a youngster?" he said, surprised.

"I was an orphan, left to fend for myself. This country cares nothing for its poor."

"Barbarians," Mahtam agreed.

"If the big event is to take place in New York, I would like to help," I offered. "Khanani is brilliant, but foreign. I know the streets in a manner few others do."

"The final decision is yet to be made. We will seek Raskani's counsel."

"My friend, this may be what I've been looking for. A chance to strike a truly historic blow," I said, sincerely but not pressing too hard. "Will you give me your support?"

"To have such a hero would add luster to our cause," he replied, reaching to grip my hand.

That evening, as the reception was getting under way, Mahtam and I went to Raskani about my desire to aid Khanani. Raskani appeared relieved.

"There are reports of FBI surrounding the embassy," he said. "Smuggling you out in the ambassador's entourage seems less promising than before. But we will still get you out. We are not the only ones who seek to humble the Americans."

I wondered if they were sorry to have assisted my getaway. Sometimes a good idea can go bad with astonishing speed.

"I place myself at your service," I assured him.

Generous with his time, Raskani discussed several promising escape plans, some involving other Washington embassies and their intelligence networks. It was quite the web of conspiracy. Mahtam also appeared well-informed. His duties as attaché ranged far beyond the job's requirements.

"I think it best to join Khanani," I concluded. "I will assist the mission, then escape with him. That way, Rakmanistan may not be held responsible if I am caught. You have done too much for me already."

"If that is your decision, my friend," Raskani happily agreed, shaking my hand.

Back in my room, I packed the duffle bag with a change of clothes. And took Alex's phone from its hiding place. I had no idea how Mahtam expected to escape the embassy undetected, but he didn't appear worried. He said what was good enough for Khanani was good enough for me.

I went downstairs to meet Mahtam while the party was in full swing. A band was playing loud enough to wake Arlington. Though Islam forbids alcohol consumption, it hadn't stopped the embassy from serving it. And like Mahtam, not all Muslims were devoted to the prohibition. I was accosted on the stairs by a very elegant guest. She wore a long silky blue dress with a high neckline, a string of white pearls, and a scarf over her head.

"I am Yasmin. Are you a guest of the embassy? I have not seen you here before," she said. I couldn't tell if she'd been drinking or was just naturally outgoing.

"I am just here for the party," I said.

I was curious if she would recognize me. The famous photos of John Henry Lawrence used by the media showed me as a partially shaven thug with frayed hair and dull, lifeless eyes. Now I was well-groomed, sporting a full beard, and smiling with a flirtatious twinkle.

"There is dancing in the ballroom," she hinted.

"Perhaps we will see each other later," I said, resisting the temptation.

On my way down to the garage, I peered out the service porch window. Traffic in and out of the main gate was brisk, and most of the diplomatic vehicles had shaded windows. Keeping track of the passengers would prove difficult.

"We should leave now," Mahtam announced.

But rather than get in a car, he opened a thick steel door at the back of the garage. I followed him down a dark spiral staircase, through another door, and into a dank tunnel. Five minutes later, we were climbing a ladder to emerge in the gardener's house of the French Embassy across the street.

"I like the French," Mahtam whispered.

We went through a narrow iron gate in the back wall, hailed a cab, and headed for the train station. Mahtam was a smooth operator, chattering away while pretending he'd been drinking but not overplaying the role. With the cab driver paying more attention to him, I was able to remain unnoticed.

Mahtam already had our train tickets. We lingered in the shadows, then boarded just as the doors were closing. Late on a Monday night, with the rush hour long over, we found seats in a rear car and read magazines. Forty-five minutes later, we were off the train in a poorly lit parking lot.

"Here," Mahtam said, pointing to a gray SUV. His cell phone opened the door.

"You better drive," I suggested.

"That's right. You don't have your driver's license," my companion joked.

He didn't know that I'd given up my driver's license seven months before, after Francie died, when I started having blackouts and waking up in strange places.

We found a nice hotel and spent the rest of the night drinking before finally turning in. I praised Mahtam on his superb planning. Certainly better than I could have done. Mahtam took no credit, saying Raskani had prepared everything. Though now that we were on our way to meet Khanani, we were on our own.

The drive up the coast was pleasant. We were not in a hurry, and I still didn't know where we were going. Mahtam checked his cell phone for text messages. I let him brag about all the secret missions he had participated in, though it became clear he was a facilitator rather than a player. He envied those who had actually accomplished something, and my escape was his biggest achievement. We discussed our adventures on the Black Web, sharing sources and techniques.

Lunch in Atlantic City seemed foolish to me. I had heard stories of casino cameras, facial recognition systems, and extensive private security. Mahtam assured me that Atlantic City was looking for card sharks, not John Lawrence, and I supposed him to be right. We dined at a quaint little Persian eatery on the boardwalk, drank sharbat, and watched youngsters do tricks with their skateboards. Finally, Mahtam got the text message he'd been waiting for.

"New York," he whispered with a smile before excusing himself.

While Mahtam huddled in a corner making plans, I walked down to the beach and put the battery back in Alex's phone. It only rang once.

"Sweetheart," I greeted. "It's Jimmie. How are you?"

"Hello, Jimmie. We've been worried," Alex hesitantly said.

I assumed she was in the command center with other agents listening in. I could not be sure of speaking confidentially either. The beach was crowded, and our waiter knew Mahtam well. They had exchanged several glances during the meal. Was one of the beachgoers loitering near me working for Tashad?

"You don't need to worry," I said. "I've been staying away from the crap tables."

"Will you be home soon?"

"No, I'm afraid not. How is Old Da?"

"Getting older. And grayer. Very gray," she said.

"We should all be so lucky. Tell him to sing a song for me. I'm sorry things didn't work out for us."

"Jimmie, about --"

"Sorry, sweetheart, I need to go."

I hung up and took the battery back out. I didn't want the phone's signals pinging off cell towers and telling the FBI where I was, though I had just told Alex where I was going, for New York, New York had been one of Old Da's favorite songs.

Several hours later, we left the car in Hoboken, took a cab to Broadway and 34th, and the subway to Brooklyn. I told Mahtam stories about New York's saloons, the docks, brutal street gangs, panhandling, and what it's like to live in an alley. All of it true. He shared stories of life in Pakistan, his home country, and living in Turkmenistan during the civil war.

Mahtam also had much to say about the Second Afghan War. The entire region, even countries in conflict with each other, were tired of the Americans interfering with their cultures. They wanted the United States to go home. Most Americans would agree. The United States had paid a heavy price for two Afghan wars, which explained why President Blair's Remobilization was so unpopular. I personally felt we had done some good there, but not enough to justify the cost.

I kept wondering when we would meet with Khanani, how many men were helping him, and where they intended to plant the bomb. Without more information, there was no point in contacting the FBI. I didn't ask Mahtam, not wanting to appear too inquisitive. And I'm not sure Mahtam knew all the details.

After visiting Prospect Park, where General William Howe defeated George Washington during the American Revolution, we checked into the Freberg Hotel, overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge. Our room had a great view of Manhattan as the sun was setting.

"Someone will meet us here," Mahtam finally explained.

We were on the balcony enjoying room service, for I could not risk being seen downstairs in the restaurant.

"Will it be Manhattan again?" I asked, hoping that wouldn't be the case.

"No, I do not think so," Mahtam said. "They want the blast to spread."

"Will it be such a huge explosion? Even a large truck bomb can only do so much damage."

"It will not be a truck bomb, my friend. No, no. Much more exciting."

"Is it so large a bomb? How hard is it to move?"

"You will see. Have patience," he answered.

I could not press him further, so we ate porterhouse steaks smothered in mushrooms, drank a very expensive bottle of California cabernet, and listened to street musicians down below while the sun disappeared. I was thinking of which targets might be appealing on Thanksgiving. A football stadium? La Guardia Airport? The Macy's Day Parade? Despite my questions, I had already researched the size of the device. Protecting so many venues would be impossible.

The knock on our door didn't come until 7 o'clock the next morning. The day before Thanksgiving. Time was growing short.

"Omar," Mahtam greeted as a black-haired giant entered.

Omar was a forty-year-old Egyptian, about 6'4, and must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He had an imposing physical presence that would make me think twice about fighting him. Unlike Mahtam and I, who wore casual business suits, Omar was dressed in dark gray coveralls, as if he'd just come off a construction site. From what I understood, he was Khanani's head of security.

"Hello, Ferret," Omar said, putting a huge hand on Mahtam's shoulder. "Is this the one we've heard of?"

"This is John Henry Lawrence," Mahtam proudly introduced. "I helped his escape."

"It will be a good story to hear, but now we must go," Omar said. A no-nonsense character, focused on the mission. The type of soldier I had always preferred serving with.

Rather than return to Manhattan as I expected, we took a rented Ford sedan north to Flushing. Something about the mission had changed. I sat quietly in the back seat while Mahtam and Omar spoke in Persian, assuming I couldn't understand them. They were wrong about that.

With the 144th Infantry in Afghanistan, and then with the 104th Rangers operating in countries we weren't supposed to be in, I spent four years living in local towns and villages. When buddies took leave back in the States, I stayed behind, having no family to visit. I came to know shopkeepers, schoolteachers, doctors, farmers, militia leaders, and sheepherders. I ate their food, played their music, and prayed in their mosques. It was no different than what I'd done as a kid on the streets, adapting to those around me.

When we reached a bus station parking lot, there was another car waiting for us, this one driven by a scrawny Saudi national named Ali. I put him at thirty-five years old, barely 5'7, and skinny. He was not cowardly, but showed a nervous tick. He wore a thick midnight blue turtleneck sweater and black beret.

"Have you searched him?" Omar asked Mahtam.

"Searched him for what?" Mahtam said.

I stepped up and raised my hands, cooperating fully. Omar was going to search me one way or another. The only electronic device I had was Alex's phone missing it's battery.

"He is not Tashad," Omar said, crushing the phone with his boot.

"You must buy me another when we get home," I mildly protested.

"Mahtam will buy you a phone," Omar said, possibly jesting.

We began driving north. Mahtam and Omar sat in the back seat, their talking more subdued. It seemed they had known each other for many years. The conversation between Ali and I consisted of "Nice weather" and "Yes, it is." When we reached Interstate 95 North, I finally realized what their target was.

"New York has become dangerous," Ali explained. "We have a boat near our warehouse. When all is ready, we will see the explosion from far out in the bay."

"There are warehouses off Summer Street south of town," I said.

"You know Boston well?" Omar questioned.

"I was accused of vagrancy there, even though I was just minding my own business. The police are fascist thugs," I answered.

"We are near a channel. It's a good location," Omar explained.

"There will be more damage if the device can be moved to the Commons," I suggested.

"Moving the device is difficult. It gives off a radiation signature," Ali said.

"Radiation?" I said, as if surprised.

"What did you expect? Fertilizer?" Omar replied.

I had no professional knowledge of nuclear weapons. What I studied speculated that a fifteen-kiloton bomb could create a blast radius of about a mile. Originating from the Fort Point Channel, it would devastate half of downtown Boston. Casualties could easily exceed two hundred thousand. More on Thanksgiving, with tourists filling the venues. It would be worse than Hiroshima.

Now I knew where and how. I considered jumping out of the car and calling the FBI, but Khanani could have the device moved, or detonated, before help arrived. I decided to stay with my companions and see how the game played out.

The drive to Boston should have taken about four hours, but Ali took several detours to make sure we weren't followed. I wish we had been. And Mahtam insisted on having lunch in Hartford. I tried to spot a phone without drawing suspicion. Omar kept a close eye on me.

When we reached Boston, Ali gave us a tour of the downtown, taking pictures with his phone. Mahtam took pictures, too, thinking it a good joke. Having no phone, I watched from the back seat as we passed dozens of historic buildings, some of them hundreds of years old.

"What are you thinking, American?" Omar asked, his accent thick.

"It's a beautiful city," I replied.

Omar liked that. I hadn't made any raving speeches about the Great Satan, or how pitifully I'd been treated, or my quest for revenge. He would not have been impressed.

At sunset, we crossed Sea Port Boulevard Bridge and turned right, passing a museum, municipal buildings, a hotel, and finally turned down a narrow alley to an old government warehouse, now rented out to the private sector. The building was two stories tall, made of chipped red brick, and had several large windows on the second floor. We were only fifty yards from the channel where a sleek speedboat was tied up.

An Arab sentry in gray coveralls opened a chain-link gate for us. There was another sentry on the roof. I assumed they were armed but saw no guns. We parked in a dirt lot and stretched as we got out. Omar and Ali proceeded up a dozen cement steps into the old warehouse. Fenced in and guarded, they knew I wasn't going anywhere. I stopped on the landing just before the thick wooden doors. It was time to make my move.

"Mahtam, my friend. My watch is wrong. Do you have the time?" I asked.

"I have no watch," Mahtam said, which I already knew.

"Let me see your phone," I requested.

Mahtam took out his phone and handed it to me. I struggled to take off my wristwatch, fumbling with the band while secretly dialing Alex's number with my thumb. As a distraction, I dropped Father Sebastian's watch, seeing it bounce down the steps into the scrub grass below the landing. Mahtam went down to pick it up. I texted 'Boston' and quickly deleted the message. Mahtam returned with my watch.

"I am sorry, my friend. I think your watch is broken," Mahtam said.

Sadly, it was. The crystal face had cracked all the way through, bending the hour hand.

"It was a gift from a priest. Maybe this is a sign," I said, giving the phone back.

It was finally time to meet their famous leader. He was standing in the middle of the cavernous warehouse, the walls lined with metal racks. The hundred-year-old ceiling was held up by ancient steel girders. A tall, trim Saudi in his early fifties, Khanani wore brown coveralls typical of a warehouse worker, his long black hair tied back. His beard was trimmed. I noticed a semiautomatic pistol holstered on his belt. He was speaking with a pudgy man in a white engineer's jacket. They turned as Mahtam and I approached.

"The famous John Lawrence," Khanani greeted, not quite smiling, but not frowning either.

"Am I in the presence of Frac Khanani?" I asked.

"You are."

We shook hands, sizing each other up.

"There are some who say you did not kill the Satan Blair," Khanani remarked.

"I killed him," I answered.

"You do not seem proud of it."

"I don't know that we should take pride in murder. We do our duty."

"Are you ready for what we do now?" he asked.

"I am ready to do what's necessary," I replied.

"This is Hassan," Khanani introduced.

"I am honored," Hassan said, reaching to shake my hand.

Hassan had the look of a scientist. Bushy, poorly combed hair. Glasses that he adjusted every few minutes. And round in the middle, with stubby legs. The sleeves of his jacket were too long and stained at the cuffs.

"I bet you have a doctorate," I said, offering a firm grip.

"From Lahore. I am escorting the device," Hassan explained.

Omar came forward. He'd been checking his cell phone for messages and wasn't happy.

"We have had inquiries here from the authorities," Omar explained. "If rumors spread, we might arouse curiosity."

"I would be pleased to speak with any authorities," I said. "But that danger should have passed. It's the holiday now. No government officials will be working again until Monday."

"We hear you need transport out of the country," Khanani said.

"That would be preferable to death row, but if death is coming, I would rather not die with a needle in my arm."

"Only fate may determine that," Khanani said.

He was not what I expected. The stereotypical Islamic terrorist is a religious zealot, wild-eyed and making speeches. Khanani was calm. Business-like. Though I detected a disturbing lilt to his voice that hinted of dark visions.

"What time will you employ the device tomorrow?" I asked.

"What time does the famous assassin recommend?" Khanani replied.

"High noon always sends a message," I suggested.

"That is a good time," Khanani agreed. "Hassan?"

"We can set the timer or use the remotes," he informed.

Hassan took a remote control from his pocket. Khanani took one from his. Omar tapped his breast pocket. Hassan waved across the floor area to Ali. He held up a remote, too. Any of the four could set off the device.

"Just in case, a martyr should stay with the weapon. It has a trigger," Khanani said. "Ali, Faruk, and Akbar have volunteered. What about you, Mahtam?"

Mahtam stepped back, unpleasantly surprised. Khanani laughed.

"Do not worry, Ferret. We must call upon a braver man than you," Khanani said. "What of you, John Lawrence, slayer of giants?"

"If you draw lots, I will draw, too. Let fate decide," I replied.

"The American press has called you a cowardly file clerk," Khanani remarked.

"I'm angrier now," I answered.

I gave Khanani a slight glare under bent brows. He needed to know I was a man of resolve. The sly old dog may have believed me, but probably not.

"We must leave three hours before the event, but now we will have a meal," Khanani announced.

"May I see the device?" I requested.

"Hassan will show you," Khanani said.

I followed the plump engineer through the warehouse storage racks, down a rear corridor, and through an employee breakroom. A heavy door led into a cold storage room about ten feet wide and thirty feet long, the walls covered in thick foam insulation. Before me, on a steel cart, sat the device. I caught my breath.

"It's based on an American design," Hassan explained. "While trying to improve the yield, the Pakistanis added a helium injector that heats up the core faster."

The weapon was lying lengthwise in a metallic blue cylindrical shell, six feet long and three feet in diameter. I guessed the weight at eight hundred pounds. It looked like a sleek coffin. There was a digital panel imbedded near the base, but the casing was otherwise featureless.

"This gauge shows the radiation levels," Hassan said, pointing to a chronometer with ten settings. The needle was pointing at the second hash mark. "Anything at two or below is safe. At three, you should limit your exposure if you still wish to have children. Above four, you will require immediate treatment. Beyond six, you are a dead man. It will just be a matter of how many days you have left."

"It is bigger than I expected. What yield are you predicting?"

"We estimate twenty-five kilotons," Hassan said, stroking the smooth shell with a gloved hand.

"Any of the four remotes can detonate it?"

"Redundancy is the most reliable protection, though pressure here will activate the trigger," he replied, showing an indentation just below the radiation meter.

"You didn't volunteer to stay behind," I mentioned.

"Neither did Frac. We are too valuable to the cause. As are you. He will not let such a valuable asset become a martyr."

"I am relieved to hear that, but say nothing. I would like him to believe I am braver than Mahtam."

"We are all braver than Ferret," Hassan said with a grin.

The meal was not shared in the employee breakroom. It was too close to the weapon. Instead, six of us sat on a second level catwalk with a view of the warehouse floor, while Akbar and Faruk stood guard outside. It was the evening before Thanksgiving, just after 7 o'clock. Ali had gone out for kebab koobideh. I would have liked a beer, but Khanani was more devout than Mahtam.

I was quiet as we ate. My hosts switched back and forth from Arabic to Persian, occasionally speaking English for my benefit. They said nothing of consequence. I wished to appear moody and apprehensive, which wasn't far from the truth. The bomb was far more powerful than I expected, large enough to level the entire city. And even if I could open the shell, I had no clue how to disarm it. What if the FBI didn't show up in time? What if one of the remote-control keepers detonated it prematurely?

This was my fault. I wasn't exactly sure why, but if I'd been smarter, or more intuitive, the plot would not be on the verge of success.

"You are quiet," Khanani observed.

"Once this happens, there's no going back for me," I replied. "But why are you here? What does Tashad have to gain?"

"When the Americans helped Rakmanistan win independence, we were grateful," Khanani said. "But then they continued to wage war. They would not leave."

"Until they were forced to leave," Ali added, gobbling his food.

"We thought the struggle finally over, until your President Blair decided to initiate his remobilization," Khanani said.

"The late President Blair," I pointed out.

"Your bullet saved thousands of lives," Khanani agreed. "And if Markham had been true to his word, we would not be in Boston. But your militarists will not give up their dreams of enslaving our homeland. After the event, America will demand revenge. Markham will be forced to declare war."

"The invasion will unite all the nations," Mahtam said. "Turkmenistan, Rakmanistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, will all renew the fight. We have been promised weapons from Pakistan. Air support from Iran. We'll even have volunteers from Iraq and Kazakhstan."

"There is no going back for us either, John Lawrence," Khanani said. "We will be hunted. Our friends will be hunted. It is a world of tears."

We had not finished eating when Mahtam received a text alert on his phone.

"Something is wrong," he said in Persian. "All of tomorrow's football games have been cancelled. Across the entire country. The airports are being closed. Citizens are told to remain in their homes."

Omar and Ali checked their phones. It appeared Khanani didn't carry one.

"Markham is about to address the country," Omar reported. "They are declaring a national emergency."

"They must know we have the device," Ali said.

"There is time. They don't know we're in Boston," Mahtam guessed.

"The weapon is generating too much radiation. It will not be hard to detect if they know what to look for," Hassan warned.

"We will leave now," Khanani decided. "Ali, you are our chosen."

"Thank you, Frac," Ali fearlessly said. "I will say my prayers."

"Omar, prepare the boat. Hassan, check the weapon. Lawrence, you will join Faruk and Akbar on lookout," Khanani ordered.

"Shouldn't I have a gun?" I asked.

"You don't need a gun to cry warning," Omar answered.

He was suspicious, and I didn't blame him. If I was in charge of security, I would be suspicious of everybody.

"We will board the boat in half an hour. Omar, Hassan, keep your activators close by. I will give the order, but if I cannot, act on your own. Brothers, this is for our people," Khanani said, and not without a good deal of charisma.

While Khanani, Mahtam and Hassan were making last-minute preparations, I stood on the catwalk, deciding what to do. Gaining control of all four remote controls while preventing manual detonation was impossible. The device itself needed to be disabled, and within the next few minutes. When no one was looking, I walked around the perimeter of the warehouse and went down the rear stairwell near the breakroom, stopping outside the door. Trying not to make any noise, I pushed it open a few inches to listen.

Hassan was inspecting the device, speaking to someone on his phone in Pakistani. The temperature was running hot, but not outside the safety range. I hoped to hear him speak of a way to disarm it, but they were more interested in making sure it exploded.

I heard that if any of the triggers were used, detonation would occur within ninety seconds. Lucky Ali, I thought sarcastically. Though from what I gathered, Hassan had confidence in the timer. I considered several scenarios, all with serious flaws.

A moment later, Hassan emerged. I ducked back into the shadows as he walked past without noticing me.

I snuck into the cold room, the power spring on the door closing it behind me. The shell had no noticeable seams. I squeezed against the wall to see if there was a hatch on the back, but there was nothing. The top didn't lift off. I knelt to study the digital panel. If there was a procedure for deactivation, I couldn't see it. If the timer was counting down, it didn't register on the screen. Maybe one of the remotes was needed to access the readouts, but I didn't have one and wouldn't know how to use it if I did.

How come they don't teach these things in high school? I wondered.

Rolling the bomb out of the warehouse past seven armed men and dumping it in the channel seemed impractical.

"You are too late, American. You will not stop us," Omar said.

I turned to find the giant coming up behind me.

"I just wanted to see it one last time," I lied.

Omar stepped forward, paused with an angry gleam in his black eyes, and swung his massive right fist. I ducked, then ducked again, retreating slowly. He tried swinging his left fist instead, almost catching me on the jaw. The room was longer than a boxing ring but less wide, limiting my options.

Step by step, I was backed into the far corner, which was where I wanted to be. I waited until Omar was nearly on top of me, then grabbed his jacket to spin him around, pinning him against the wall. Sticking my head into his chest, I punched him in the gut. The first blow was like hitting brick. So was the second. The third hurt, and the fourth bent him over.

A huge arm came crashing down on me. Confined in the corner, Omar couldn't throw a punch, as any good alley fighter will tell you, but he still had elbows. I stepped back, punching him in the right eye several times. Omar struck a blow to my ribs, hard enough to steal my breath. Another punch may have cracked a rib. I threw my right, trying to blind his left eye, but was knocked to the floor instead.

I crawled back as Omar tried to stomp me. He missed, and missed again. Stomping works better when your opponent can't fight back. I rolled over, got to my feet, and faked a kick to his balls. When he crouched, I jumped up and kicked him in the face. He staggered backward, blood flowing from his nose.

"You fight like a weasel," he grunted in Arabic.

"You fight like an old man," I replied in his own language.

His eyebrows went up, surprised to discover I understood his insult, but he knew it was true. Omar was strong, but he hadn't grown up on the mean streets like I had. He backed toward the door, opened a hatch in the wall, and exposed a fire alarm. I saw a red ax mounted above canvas hoses. When Omar pulled the ax free of its niche, a siren suddenly went off, scaring the hell out of me. The sprinklers activated, spraying the room. Alarms were probably ringing throughout the warehouse, hopefully causing confusion. No one would accuse us of being subtle.

Instantly drenched, Omar came at me, furiously swinging the ax. The first attempt nearly took off my head. The second just missed my arm. He swung from the heels, giving me just enough time to duck, and the ax head buried itself into the plaster wall. Omar yanked, and yanked again, almost getting it free.

Soggy enough to feel the weight of my soaked jacket, I jumped up and kicked him in the groin, but as he doubled over, he managed to grab my leg. From his knees, Omar punched me in the stomach, dragged me closer, and punched me in the face. The room went black. Breathing became hard. I backhanded him across the bad eye and slipped free, sliding through puddles until I bumped into the drippy bomb. Omar was half-curled on the floor, just starting to get up.

I didn't have time to keep screwing around. The insulation was preventing our fight from being heard in the warehouse, but sooner rather than later, someone would come looking for us. I had to think. Remember where I came from. The docks. The pool halls. The alleys. Father Sebastian trained me for two years in the Golden Gloves, usually fighting above my weight class, and I didn't lose a bout. In the Army, though I did not go out of my way to start bar fights, I had never been on the floor when they were over. This guy couldn't beat me either. I couldn't let him.

Clenching my teeth, I splashed forward, using my legs for power as I shoved Omar backwards. He stumbled, his head crashing against the wall. I climbed on top of him, hit him in the face, and lifted him to pound his head against the floor. He grabbed my arms, trying to break my grip. I struggled just as hard.

Growing desperate, Omar thrust his hips to throw me off, rolling over to get away. I jumped on his back, wrapped my arm around his neck, and clutched with all my strength. He bucked like a wild horse, flailing with his arms, but gradually Omar went limp. I hung on for another thirty seconds, just in case he was playing possum. He wasn't dead, but he'd be out for a while.

My first effort to get up failed. The ribs hurt, and I was out of breath. Blood was filling my mouth. But I knew Mahtam would be looking for me. Or Ali would arrive to enjoy his martyrdom. I was battered, in no condition to fight two or three more. Something had to be done fast. That's when I noticed the fire ax still stuck in the wall, cursing myself for not thinking of it sooner. One good pull, and it came free.

I stood before the bomb, hesitating for the briefest moment. It seemed unlikely that striking the shell with the ax would set the device off. More sophisticated mechanisms were needed for that. But there was a good chance the room would flood with radiation, and that wouldn't be good for me. I was forced to shut the thought out. During the war, I had charged onto countless battlefields with my medical kit, ignoring bullets and exploding shells. My duty was to help the wounded, not worry about the consequences. I needed that focus now.

There was no time for delicacy. I wiped the sprinkler spray from my eyes, shook water out of my sleeves, and swung the blunt side of the ax at the middle of the shell, seeing it crack. I swung again, the crack widening. The material was some sort of fiberglass. I flipped the ax around and tore the shell open with the blade, yanking the handle backward to rip a chunk free. When I looked down through the narrow hole, I saw what looked like aluminum containers. Various red and blue lights were blinking. I didn't see any wiring.

Two more blows left a gap big enough to see the inner workings, but I didn't understand what I was looking at. This gadget was connected to that gadget, none of them labeled. The digital readout was still active, so I assumed the remote controls would still function. The bomb needed to be thoroughly destroyed.

I wiped my hands on my pants, paused to take the deepest breath I could, and crossed myself for the first time since Francie died. Then I buried the ax into the largest aluminum tube, splitting it open. Gas burst from the broken shell in wispy streaks. I swung again, chopping the mechanism in half. The tiny red and blue lights flickered and went dark. The radiation indicator went from two to seven.

Well, Jack, you've really done it, I thought. I glanced at Omar to see if the sprinklers were reviving him. He was stirring. The big Egyptian was too tough to die.

The door opened behind me, and Mahtam entered, holding a Russian Makarov.380. He was shocked to see me standing over the shattered bomb, bleeding, soaking wet, and holding a fire ax. Then he looked at the radiation gauge.

"Jack, what have you done? You have killed us! We are killed!" he sputtered.

"I fear that is true, my friend," I said, taking the pistol away from him.

Mahtam turned and fled the room. I should have shot him, but I'd become fond of the rascal, even if he was a terrorist. I put my hand on the door before it closed, creeping into the employee breakroom, and found a chair. My knees were weak. The room was wet, but the sprinklers had stopped. The sirens grew quiet.

Except for being exposed to a high level of radiation, I considered myself doing well. The device was wrecked, I had a gun, and the door was narrow enough that I could probably hit someone coming through. At ten feet or less, I was a marksman. I did wonder why Khanani hadn't become curious.

Gunshots. It took me a moment to realize they were coming from the warehouse. I tucked the pistol in my belt and slowly made my way down the corridor, pausing just short of the storage area. Another gunshot, then several in rapid succession. I didn't see anyone on the catwalks. I did see someone ducking behind the heavy metal racks. Suddenly he straightened up, held a pistol in the ready position, and walked toward the center floor area. It was Khanani. I moved forward far enough to see what he was doing.

I was astounded. While Omar and I were fighting, there had been a gun battle in the warehouse. Windows were broken. The glass in the front door was blown out. Ali and Faruk lay near the entrance, possibly dead, clutching automatic rifles. Akbar was hanging over a catwalk railing, shot through the head. Hassan was crawling toward the loading dock, his white jacket soaked in crimson. Only Khanani was still on his feet.

Standing was getting hard. My ribs hurt. I was wheezing for breath. But retreating wasn't an option. Lying together against the far wall, now splattered with blood, were Alex and Alberto. Both had been shot. I couldn't tell how badly.

My first reaction was to wonder what the hell they were doing here. Where was the rest of the FBI? A SWAT team? Were the kids alone? Alberto aimed at Khanani and pulled the trigger, but the gun was empty. He reached in his pocket for another clip. Alex was trying to reload her Beretta. Khanani was walking toward them slowly, getting ready to finish them off. Taking his time.

I raised the Makarov.380 and took several steps forward. I had a clear shot at Khanani, but if I missed, I could easily hit Missy or Dragon. Both lay in the line of fire. I realized they only needed a few more seconds to reload and decided to give them those few seconds.

"Frac Khanani, you have failed. The day belongs to me," I shouted in Arabic, standing in full view.

Khanani turned with rage in his eyes, saw me pointing the gun, and fired without hesitation. I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder and wobbled backward, but kept my balance. I tried to raise the gun again, but the arm wouldn't move. I transferred it to my right hand. Khanani fired several more times, but I was already going down, hitting my head on the floor. Was I badly wounded? I didn't know. I felt around for the gun, but it was gone.

Then there was a rapid series of shots, but not from Khanani. I saw Alex firing from a sitting position, using both hands. Alberto was lying on his side, firing with one hand. Khanani stumbled and fell, landing hard. He lifted his gun, only to be hit again. With his final breath, he took the remote control from his pocket and pressed the trigger. And pressed it again. Frantically, he pressed it a third time. Then he twisted to look at me lying thirty feet away. He read what had happened in my eyes, and then he died.

"Jack?" I heard Alex call.

I could not respond. Not with her being so far away. I saw her get up and stagger in my direction. As she passed Khanani, she kicked his gun out of reach. Alex had been shot in the upper right arm, cradling it close to her body. Before she got too close, I put up my hand.

"Stay back," I whispered.

"But Jack, you're hurt," she said.

"The device is in the rear room. There's radiation. Evacuate the area. Get a hazmat team."

"You could bleed out," Alex warned.

"Do it, Missy. Hurry."

* * * * * *

The terrorists have been stopped but at what cost? Find out in chapter four, Saying Goodbye.