Dead Water

15

Ryyaki Ali had returned to the warehouse to meet the man known only as Smith. Ali had six guards with him, all armed with AK-47s and Glock nine-millimeter handguns. As agreed, he had his banking information ready to present as additional proof that his payment had been made. He wanted no disagreement with this man.

Ali had waited ten minutes when a white Chevrolet Suburban appeared and parked. Smith got out, surrounded by three stern-faced bodyguards. No weapons were visible, but Ali had no doubt they were in possession of such.

"My bank has notified me that the transfer went as agreed," Smith stated.

"Yes. I brought records of my own in case you had any questions," Ali replied.

"No, all is well. I expect you to wire the final payment within ten days if you find that satisfactory."

"That is acceptable."

Smith turned and nodded at the Suburban. A rear door opened, and a fifth man got out, holding a wooden crate.

With no words spoken, he walked straight to Ryyaki Ali and placed the crate at his feet. He returned to the Suburban and climbed back inside, shutting the door.

Smith then approached Ali and handed him an envelope. "Inside are a few notes I made, along with a business card with only a phone number, and a cell phone. If you have further use of my services, call the number from that cell phone. I believe this concludes our present business."

"Yes."

The two men gave curt nods and parted ways.

Upon returning to Ali's immense home, one that most would refer to as a mansion, the group retreated to the downstairs secure room, one that had been specifically built to block any manner in which the room could be spied upon. It consisted of a long mahogany table that could seat twelve, with matching chairs. Along the side of one wall was a full-length desk, upon which sat three different computers. At the far end of the room, there was a walk-in safe, shelving installed upon three walls. Cash, arms, along with jewels and stolen art were stored. Only Ali could access this, as it was protected by an electronic keypad that also required his thumbprint.

"Stay here," he directed the four men who accompanied him as he walked to the safe. After punching in the code and pressing his thumb against the scanner, the large, heavy door swung open noiselessly. "Bring me that crate."

None of the other four men moved.

With obvious annoyance, he walked back to the table where he had placed the crate containing the toxin. "What are you afraid of? It is harmless until the agent is placed in water. Do you see any water here?" He impatiently grabbed the crate and took it into the safe, where he placed it upon one of the shelves. Without saying a word, he exited and closed the door.

The four men did not look entirely convinced, particularly Rijah Ellhad, who had personally seen the consequences of what that crate contained.

"Come, sit at the table," ordered Ali.

"How will we get there?" asked Rijah Ellhad.

"The most direct route from here. We travel Interstate 84 to Interstate 15, take State Highway 169, and access the lake through what is called the Overton area. There will be heavy traffic, so thorough examination of vehicles will be limited."

"Will you be joining us?"

Ryyaki Ali gave him a look of annoyance. "No. I have other business to complete. You will be traveling with a woman who supports the cause. A couple will draw the least attention. All should go well."

"Forgive me for asking, but would it not be better to have others along to protect this package?"

Ali looked annoyed. "I have given this much thought, and as I just said, I believe a couple will draw the least attention. Rijah, if I thought you were not up to the task, I would not send you. Do you have any doubts about your ability to complete this task?" Ali asked in a semi-threatening manner.

"No. When do I leave?"

"You will leave in two days, on this cursed holiday these infidels celebrate. You will release the agent Monday afternoon upon your arrival. After that, kill the woman. We will leave no witnesses."

"Allahu Akbar."

Nazir al-Hadid called a burn phone number.

"Yes?" came a voice.

"I want to know that you are ready. I will leave for the fishing vessel in two hours. You are to meet me there in three hours. I have our escape means in place. Be sure you have eaten. We will have a six-hour journey after we complete the mission. Be sure to drive very carefully. Do you have any questions?"

"No, I am ready," answered Sirhan al-Razar.

"Then we proceed."

Styles and Starr had arrived at Inland Helicopter.

"How do you want to work this?" asked Starr.

"Straightforward, follow my lead, but your priority is watching my back for any shooters. Let's go," he said.

They walked in the Quonset hut-style building, a long, half-round structure made of corrugated steel. While the outside had been freshly painted silver, the inside was several different colors, including rust.

"What can I get you boys?" asked a gruff, scruffy-looking man. He definitely looked the part of an Alaskan; red plaid shirt, blue jean coveralls, boots. He was standing behind a four-foot-tall service counter.

"Who's top dog here?" Styles inquired.

"Well, I'm a co-owner, and since I'm the only one here, guess that'd be me."

"A few days ago, you picked up a man at a remote lake about two hundred miles from here and took him to hook up with a floatplane from Northern Hunting Expeditions. I want to know who that man was."

Starr had taken up a position just inside the doorway and five feet off to the side. His hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his nine-millimeter Glock, a pistol that Styles didn't particularly care for but Starr swore by.

"I wouldn't have any way of knowing just who you was talking about. We run three choppers, and it could have been any one of the three."

Styles's voice took on a razor-sharp edge. "I don't have the time or patience to ask you again. Who is the guy you ferried from that lake to the floatplane?"

"I don't give a fuck about your time or patience. Get the hell out."

Styles instructed Starr, "Check the building for any security cameras and the recorder or computer. Grab all of it." He looked back at the large man standing across the counter with an angry look on his face. Standing at least three inches over Styles and outweighing him by at least sixty pounds, he was badly underestimating Styles.

"All right, you want it hard, you got it hard," he snarled. When he came from behind the counter, he had a large hunting knife in his hand.

Styles backed away from the counter and stood still, letting the man approach him. He moved at Styles straight on, his right hand wielding the knife shot straight out at Styles's midsection. Styles turned to his left slightly, grabbed the man's wrist with his left hand, turned it over to the point of breaking, and then placed his right hand at the man's locked elbow, and using leverage caused by the wrist lock, he forced the man to one knee. "Drop the knife, or I shatter your elbow."

"Fuck you," the man growled.

Styles dug his left thumb into the nerve mass of the man's held wrist, which instantly caused it to spasm. The knife fell to the floor.

"Last chance."

The man tried to get up despite the pain. Styles drew his fist back six inches and drove it through the side of the man's locked elbow, ninety degrees of the opposite direction in which elbows are designed to pivot. The snapping of the joint could be heard across the building. The scream might have been heard across town. Styles grabbed the man by his throat and slammed him up against the cabinet that held the service desk. The man never saw where Styles's own knife came from. It just materialized right in front of his eyes, which appeared ready to bulge out of his head.

"I'm going to ask you again; if you don't tell me, I'll cut off an ear and then the other; I will carve you up like a Halloween pumpkin. Now who was this man?"

"I don't know his name; he was some kind of raghead. Sammy set up the deal."

"Who's Sammy?"

"My partner. He's on a flight right now," he choked out.

"Call him. Get me the man's name."

"I can't. No service up there."

"Use the radio."

"It probably won't work. He's three hundred miles out."

"Try," ordered Styles.

"I don't think I can walk."

"If your ass isn't on that radio in ten seconds I'm going to shatter your knee. Then you won't ever walk right again."

With a legitimate painful effort, the man struggled to move his feet. He was cradling his right arm, which was bent at a very unnatural angle. Styles grabbed the suspenders of his coveralls and helped him walk and then perched him on a stool in front of the radio.

"I'm familiar with aviation lingo, so don't say something stupid."

"6140 Charlie, this is base. Come back," the man said into the microphone. "Sammy, come back; it's an emergency." No response. "Sammy, come back. Emergency."

A voice emitted weakly from the speaker. "Yeah, I barely hear you, what's the problem?"

"There's a guy here needs the name of that raghead guy we flew in a few days ago and dropped off at Northern's floatplane. What's his name?"

"What business is it of his?" was the answer.

"Just give me the fucking name, or he's gonna slit my throat. Quit fucking around and give me the name."

"Who is this guy?"

Styles took the mike. "Give me the name, or when you get back, your friend's head will be sitting on the counter, minus his body. You've got five seconds."

"I don't have a name, just a credit card number. You can find it. It's filed under Northern Hunting. It'd be the last one run. Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone you don't want to cross. If this doesn't check out, you're both dead."

Starr came back from the office with the manila folder marked "Northern Hunting." "Got a credit card slip dated six days ago, prepaid. Name is a corporation from Portland, Oregon. No security cameras. What about him?"

Styles looked at the man hard. "You or your partner ever breathe a word we were here, there's no place I won't find you. Now I need to put you to sleep for a while." He instantly put the man in a rear choke hold, and in ten seconds, he was out.

"I'm surprised you didn't kill him," said Starr.

"So am I."

"Where to now?" Starr asked.

"Back to the plane, I think. Looks like we're heading back to Portland. Call J. C., and tell him we're on our way. Get hold of Phillips; have her meet us there."

"On it." Thirty seconds later, Starr informed Styles, "Phillips is already on her way. Girl is a workhorse."

"Yeah, she is. We'll have her check out this credit card and go from there."

Phillips was there when Starr and Styles arrived. Starr gave her and J. C. a quick rundown on what had happened at Inland Helicopter. Phillips grabbed the credit card slip, boarded the plane, and was back at her computer station, fingers flashing over her keyboard.

They were forty-five minutes out of Bethel when Phillips called Starr and Styles back to her workstation.

Styles asked her, "You get any sleep?"

"Enough for now. Here's what I came up with. This credit card tracks through six different corporations but ends at some company named Petroleum Assets. They sell refinery equipment and employ interesting personnel. One is Nazir al-Hadid. He appears to be the brother, or maybe nephew, of one Ami al-Hadid, who I believe had the misfortune of meeting Styles. His is the only name of familiarity. One other interesting prospect is Rijah Ellhad. He has flown back and forth six times in two years. He's an ex-captain in Saddam's Republican Guard." She paused and looked up. "Funny. Seems to be a lot of connections within certain groups." She continued, "They both appear to frequent Portland, Oregon, but I haven't established who or exactly why. Something else I found were other purchases charged to the same card. For someone who I would think would want to stay hidden, somebody is either very careless or very stupid."

"What was the card used for?" Styles asked.

"Rental car taken out ten days ago on a monthly lease. Five prepaid cell phones. Camping gear. And this is interesting, a rubber diving suit with full-face hood, but no mask, fins, or anything else."

"Maybe he already has that," offered Starr.

"Maybe. I just think it's odd."

"Where did he purchase this stuff?" Starr wanted to know.

"A big camping and recreation store in Portland. He bought it yesterday. The wet suit, anyway. The camping stuff was purchased six days ago."

Styles spoke up. "That would explain the trip to Alaska. He knew what he needed. The wet suit has me wondering."

"Sounds like he's planning a swim," stated Phillips.

"Or maybe for protection from something other than water," replied Styles.

"You think that this guy might be behind all this?" Starr asked, surprised.

"Not behind it, but the deliveryman. If someone is going to use this new whatever-the-hell-it-is as a terrorist act, somebody has to do something to get it started. Doesn't that make sense? So maybe a wet suit is adequate protection for whatever reason, maybe up until a certain point. I'd guess before it is somehow activated. From what we saw from Phillips's video and other info, we've learned that water somehow does that."

"Wow, Styles, that is quite a deduction. You must be working puzzles or something," quipped Phillips.

"Just common sense."

"I'd say we start with that camping store," inserted Starr, "while Phillips continues her computer thing."

Phillips, slightly rolling her eyes, offered, "It is called research, Starr. You know, the gathering of information?"

"I know. I just like to get you going once in a while."

"You don't have to try very hard to accomplish that," Phillips retorted.

Styles allowed himself a small chuckle.

Christman came over the speakers. "Guys, we're about fifteen minutes out of Portland."

Phillips clicked on her computer screen, and a printer started whirling. "I'm printing this to keep it off the Internet. Here's the name and directions to that camping outlet," she said, handing it to Starr.

"Thanks. The two of us going?"

"Yeah. We'll have J. C. secure the plane, and Phillips can get us some rooms and vehicles. I like the idea of mixing it up a bit; that was solid thinking. Get us two rooms in two different hotels this time and maybe something besides all SUVs, but nothing too flashy. Do get one, though," added Styles.

"On it," said Phillips.

Starr went forward to fill Christman in on what was coming up.

Styles sat down opposite Phillips. "Darlene, when you were with the CIA, did you have much interaction with actual chemical warfare tactics?"

Phillips had noticed that when it was just the two of them talking, he referred to her by her first name more than usual. "Not tactics as I think you mean. I did general research, mostly on actual agents rather than deployment."

"Okay. How would you use this?"

"Put it in a large body of water, maybe a large lake. See how it works on a larger area. So far, they've only used it on a large pond, at least that we know of. I would contaminate a holiday gathering since Labor Day is just around the corner. If this thing kills everything, if there were people swimming and boating, they would die also. At least if they were in the water."

"I agree. All right, what lake would you choose?"

She sat and thought for a moment. "Lake Havasu in Arizona, Lake Mead in Nevada, Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire, or maybe Lake Okeechobee in Florida, which would be an ecological disaster but not harm that many people. Terrorists want to target people more than anything, at least far as I know. I think there's a big lake in Kentucky, but I don't remember the name of it."

Styles said deliberately, "If these guys are out of Portland, then I'd say either Lake Mead or Havasu, mainly because of the tourists, and it also makes sense because those two would be the easiest to get to."

Phillips nodded.

"Check out what's going on at those two. See if something might be more attractive than the other."

"You got it."

Ten minutes before Starr and Styles were set to leave, Styles said, "Hold it. Change of plans. Phillips, you got anything that would resemble a business suit?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'm thinking you go into this camping store. Use your official DPO identification and get access to their computers and security video. See if there's any way to come up with a photo of our guy. I'll go with you but just hang off to the side. Invoke national security if anybody gives you any shit."

"I like that," agreed Starr, who had returned. "She can jump on their equipment, maybe save some time."

"Won't that advertise our presence?" asked Phillips.

"It may. Right now, I'm more concerned about stopping this threat than what the CIA or anybody else knows. We have to deal with this shit one step at a time, and right now, the threat is the priority," declared Styles.

Phillips nodded. "You're right."

"You might even persuade whoever not to tout our presence," suggested Styles. "Let's see how it goes."