Jihad

CHAPTER 78

Asad bin Taysr and his driver got up before dawn to say their prayers and were on the road a short time later. Dean and Karr followed along, their distance varying from a quarter mile to nearly two, depending on the road. The driver had not been identified; his picture and voice patterns had been compared to files of known operatives, but there were no matches. Working on the premise that he would be from the state where the car was registered, the NSA had used an administrative subpoena to access New York State driver’s license images, but the image captured on the video bugs matched more than five thousand drivers, and winnowing the list had failed to produce a solid ID. It wasn’t clear whether the car had been stolen or its plates simply switched from a similar vehicle in Long Island; that lead was being followed up gingerly, so as not to tip off whoever was helping Asad that they were on to him.

If it became necessary to grab Asad, Dean and Karr would be the tip of the spear in the snatch plan, backed by several dozen federal agents shadowing Asad in helicopters and vans. In the meantime, their main job was to stay awake.

Which wasn’t difficult in their less than comfortable Ford Focus, especially with someone like Tommy Karr at the wheel, who managed to find every pothole in the pavement. By nine A.M., they were on the New York State Thruway, heading westward toward Rochester a half mile behind Asad’s light blue Buick Regal. The posted speed limit was 65 miles per hour. Most vehicles did about 80. Asad’s driver was going a steady 56.

“He’s gonna get pulled over for obstructing traffic,” Karr complained. “Ten bucks.”

The Regal pulled off at a rest area just beyond Batavia. Dean and Karr followed, taking a spot near the very end of the lot. Both Asad and his driver got out.

“I hope he’s changing cars,” said Karr. “Or at least drivers. Want to get something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Dean told him.

“Hey, suit yourself,” said Karr.

Karr trotted in the direction of the snack building. Dean got out and stretched his legs, walking toward the grass beyond the lot. This part of New York was farmland; ignore the cars and squint into the distance, and it looked much as it had nearly two hundred years before, after pioneers had cut back the trees to plant corn and let their cows graze.

Dean turned around slowly, pretending to be absorbed in the view, though he was really trying to spot a substitute car. There were about thirty other vehicles here, and more on the other side of the building where the gas pumps were. Any one of them could be waiting for Asad. Any one of them could be filled with explosives, ready to be detonated at Asad’s whim.

He folded his arms, waiting.

“Charlie, Asad is coming out of the building now,” said Rockman. “All right, we have a good view of the driver. Same guy.”

Dean walked slowly back to the car. He was surprised to find Karr already inside, a McDonald’s super-size box of french fries in his hand. The small Focus smelled like the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant. “Big Mac?”

“No thanks.”

“He’s moving,” said Rockman. “Sounds like they’re going to Detroit. The driver mentioned the interchange there.”

“You ID the driver yet?” Dean asked.

“Negative. The closest match is a Jewish guy in Hemp-stead; funny how computers work, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He’d have to remember Rockman’s remark; the runner generally put a nearly blind trust in the high-tech gadgets he controlled from his bunker.

“They’re on the highway. You guys should get going, right?”

“We’re on it, Rockman,” said Karr, chugging the french fries and then backing out of the parking space. “Detroit or bust.”