Zapwired, p.14
Zapwired, page 14
*
I wasn’t hungry, but I opened the fridge and removed a protein drink. I remained standing and sipped through a straw, then waited. No rejection from my stomach, which was as good as it was going to get.
The house phone rang and I checked caller I.D.: JEREMY SAMSON.
“Sorry I couldn’t be there with you,” he said. “How you holding up?”
“F-Fine.”
“That good, huh?”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“Is there anything you need?”
YES, I nearly said, but held my tongue.
“Don’t shut me out, okay?” he continued. “I can’t bring your daughter back, but my thoughts and prayers are with you. Now and always, Blair. I mean that.”
“Thanks, Jeremy.” I would’ve liked to have taken him into my confidence, but just couldn’t do it. “Where are we with Starlight Industries?” I asked.
“Production is right on schedule,” he said. “That’s why I couldn’t get away. All systems go!”
52
Khalid Yassin was in his car when he observed the tail. Male driver, mid- to late-twenties, in a black Chrysler 300. Yassin wanted to pick up speed but was restricted by the narrow, traffic-clogged streets of Lower Manhattan. A few blocks later he saw his opening and took it, accelerating in front of a taxi, then yanking the wheel to his right, around a corner and quickly pulling to the curb. His pursuer went sailing past. By the time he realized his mistake and hit his brakes, Yassin was on him.
This would most likely be the same faction that was trying to interfere, Yassin believed, prepared to do whatever it took to undermine his efforts. Sunni versus Shiite; Muslim against Muslim. An internecine battle without end, hurting their cause time and again, all for bragging rights; their petty jealousies turning them into rivals instead of comrades in arms.
He thought back to the time the Imam had appointed him to take on this role in North America. Nassar Camir, a man close to his own age, had actually been the one chosen. But during the training process, Camir had allowed his ego to get in the way, twice disobeying instructions, saying he knew better. There was no third chance. The Imam dismissed Camir, and replaced him with Yassin.
As a result, Yassin had learned, Camir treated the rejection as an insult and vowed to get retribution, big time. It was his people who were responsible for the surveillance of Blair Anderson in London, the sabotaged restaurant in Israel, and the incident with the blue truck in Montreal. Each had been meant to seriously disrupt Yassin’s plans and make him appear ineffectual. At this point, Camir didn’t want to reclaim his rightful place and take over the operation; his intent was solely to see Yassin fail.
Yassin remained close to the car in front. Soon, the Chrysler accelerated, zipped around a truck and a few other cars, then came to a screeching halt. There was an accident up ahead and all lanes were blocked. Yassin could see flashing lights of the police and ambulance vehicles. Typical of New York, there was a cacophony of car horns. Yassin found a parking spot. He shut the motor, grabbed his keys and jumped out. The driver he was following had also pulled to the curb. He caught Yassin in his rearview mirror, opened his door, and ran for it.
Yassin reached for the knife he kept hidden in an ankle holster. His arm went into spasm; his old shrapnel injury that had never healed properly. He tried to fight the pain, but it delayed him. Finally, he managed to take the knife in hand.
The man had hurried across the street. Yassin followed in a zigzag pattern, reached the other side, and spotted him just turning a corner, onto a street with less traffic. Yassin took off at a full sprint, occasionally brushing past pedestrians but not apologizing.
Closer and closer, he got, until he recognized Ali Al-Hassan—Camir’s right-hand man.
This kill will put a serious kink in Camir’s game, Yassin congratulated himself.
But before he could act, another black Chrysler 300 slammed to a halt, ten feet in front.
The back door flew open.
Al-Hassan literally dove in.
The car accelerated, its momentum causing the door to slam shut.
Yassin stared after it, cursing under his breath. He turned and made his way back to his car. Traffic still hadn’t moved. He took pad and pen in hand and jotted down the parked Chrysler’s license plate number, though the plates were most likely stolen and he was wasting his time.
53
I was in my office with the door closed. The 100,000 pieces for the Zapwired launch were due to arrive in New Jersey on Wednesday. Thursday I’d be driven to the fulfillment center where I was to approve the shipments to the two retailer warehouses that serviced the New York area.
I was deeply concerned. What was Yassin’s true intention? I did the math. Once the initial quantity was shipped, Starlight Industries would earn approximately $20 per unit—somewhere in the vicinity of two million dollars. Was that motive enough? Was this a bizarre and lethal version of GoFundMe?
If Yassin could have three people murdered in cold blood, it seemed unlikely he’d be doing it solely for financial gain. Something else had to be at play, with Zapwired as the means to an end.
I thought back to when the concept of the game was first introduced to me. Avarice had thrust me into this situation, my eagerness to make the big score. Zapwired was to be my ticket to financial freedom. Instead, I was aiding and abetting a madman, someone I could logically assume was going to somehow use the game to further his terrorist agenda.
*
I worked away, if one could call it that. Shuffling paper was more like it. Sales numbers were a complete blank. Forecasting future volume was a waste of time. Over two dozen phone messages were left unanswered.
All that mattered was the upcoming videoconference with my daughter. I’d put it to Yassin directly: If I didn’t have proof Sandra was alive and being treated well, why should I do anything he asked? He could continue to threaten me, but I needed to see her with my own eyes.
He said he’d get back to me. And he did, the next day, laying out the ground rules. A direct access-feed was set up through the Dark Internet that was 95% hack-proof, requiring a code to activate. The feed would be accessible only when Yassin deemed it safe. It would last for five minutes and could be terminated at any time of his choosing should he suspect that someone other than me was trying to access the feed; or if anything didn’t seem quite right.
The feed had to go through one dedicated computer at my office, in the early evening, when no one else was around. The communication could not be guaranteed every day because Yassin couldn’t always be sure the encrypted code was untraceable. It was up to me to tap in. If Sandra didn’t show and I received a blank screen or static, it meant I was to try again the next evening at the same time.
I entered the code now and waited. My computer screen remained blank except for an annoying revolving circle, spinning for 30 agonizing seconds or more. Then my daughter appeared. She wasn’t able to see me, but could hear my voice. I quickly told her it was me.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said, tentatively.
It wasn’t a close-up view, and the picture was very low res, so I had no way of knowing if she was under stress or not. “So nice to see you, darling. Are you doing okay?”
“F-Fine… When can you come get me, Daddy?”
“It won’t be much longer now,” I did my best to assure her.
“Tomorrow?”
“It—uh—can’t be tomorrow. But soon…”
“When?” she pleaded. “And will Mommy be with you?”
The picture suddenly pixilated and the sound turned fuzzy. There were a few seconds of static, then my screen went black.
I had no doubt this was a message from Yassin: Be careful what you say. Don’t get cute. Keep the conversations with your daughter mundane. Anything other than that, I’ll cut the feed.
54
The phone rang. Yassin automatically looked at the time: 11:36 a.m., or 6:36 p.m. in Tel Aviv. He’d been expecting the call so he picked up on the first ring.
“Asalaam aleikum.”
“Waleikum Asalam.”
“What is this ‘terrible news’ you have for me?” Yassin said to Randy Altman, his man in charge at Starlight Industries.
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you, but I thought you should know. This Jeremy Samson character insists on inspecting our production line. He says it’s a standard quality-control procedure. He’ll probably want to test a number of samples at random.”
“And this disturbs you?” Yassin said evenly. “Why?”
“In-line, while the actual assembly is taking place.”
“What day did he choose to do this inspection?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Morning.”
“Even better. Set up an un-doctored run. Let him inspect as many pieces as he desires. As soon he signs off on them and leaves, revert back to the NC-5 blueprint.”
“But this will cause a delay,” Randy wavered. “As it already is, we are rushing like mad to meet your deadline.”
“Make everyone work around the clock to recoup the lost time, including the weekend. Be sure everything is ready to air-ship by next Wednesday, the latest.” He paused. “Am I clear?”
“I … think so.”
“You don’t sound convincing.”
“It’ll be close.”
“Just get it done,” Yassin snapped. “Do I have to remind you of the consequences for you and your family if you don’t?”
“No!” Randy said. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Do I have your word?”
“You do, Khalid. I will not disappoint you.”
“I’m sure you won’t.” Yassin disconnected.
55
When daylight broke on Thursday, I got out of bed with the deep suspicion that the minute I approved the Zapwired shipments, I’d be fulfilling whatever sinister plan Yassin had in mind—something I’d regret doing for the rest of my life.
I showered and shaved, got dressed in my usual suit and tie. Before leaving the bedroom, I took one last look around, wondering if I’d see it again.
The Buick SUV showed up exactly on time, driven once again by Ian Atkins—or whatever his real name was—who instructed me to get into the back.
A thickset, bearded man in his early forties was sitting there. “Abdul Masri,” he said in accented English, holding up what looked like a thin electric cord. “Undo your tie and unbutton your shirt, please. I’ll need a minute to attach this wire.”
We started to drive.
“Mr. Anderson?”
I undid the front of my shirt.
“At your distribution center,” Masri said, “you will give the usual instructions to ship the product to the Arrow and MyMart warehouses in New York. You are not to say or do anything to raise suspicion. I’ll be listening in.”
“And when will I be reunited with Sandra?”
“It’s not up to me. But soon. Once the product is in stores, you are of no further use to us. You and your daughter will go home and that will be the end of it.” He paused. “Understood?”
I interpreted his words for what they were—pure and utter bullshit. But I nodded as if I believed him.
*
We rode the Westside Highway to the Holland Tunnel and crossed into New Jersey, finally entering the town of Secaucus. A few minutes later, we approached the warehouse I knew well; one of many in the neighborhood—nondescript, two stories tall.
We drove around to the side and pulled to a stop. There were twelve loading bays, seven of which were occupied; truck drivers and their helpers busy with their loading or unloading tasks.
Masri told me they’d wait for me there. I stepped out of the car. It was humid, with rain clouds forming. I began to walk, my legs feeling sluggish. A voice in my head was telling me to disobey their instructions. I may’ve been wired, but I could always scribble a note, order the warehouse owner, Larry Killgallon, to place the Zapwired product in quarantine.
But what about Sandra?
That damn inner voice again, playing devil’s advocate. If I did what I wanted to do, I’d be signing my daughter’s death warrant. I still didn’t know Yassin’s endgame, so why risk it? Wasn’t I better off cooperating? Perhaps there was a way to save Sandra, and at the same time figure out what the bastard was up to, then stop him?
The closer I got to the building, the slower I moved. Intuition felt like an anchor weighing me down. I would’ve given anything to not go in, to avoid making any decision whatsoever.
I came to the main door, opened it, and approached the receptionist.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” the familiar middle-aged woman greeted me. “I’ll get Mr. Killgallon for you.”
“Thanks, Jean.”
She got on the intercom while I waited.
“Hey, you,” Larry said a few minutes later.
I forced my smile, then followed him up the stairs to his office.
“I’m so sorry about your daughter,” he said, once he was settled behind his desk.
“Thanks for coming to the funeral.” I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
He handed me a number of documents which included the inventory list for the 100,000 pieces of Zapwired that had arrived from Israel. Any product that came under Jeremy’s purview had to have his stamp of approval. As I started going through them, I told myself it wasn’t too late. I could still take Larry into my confidence. All I had to do was put a finger to my lips, show him the wire, then write, “quarantine Zapwired until further notice” on a piece of paper. He’d cooperate with no questions asked.
The indecision I felt lingered, like a dark cloud hovering inside my head. It took away my concentration, forcing me to have to reread a few of the documents.
I still wanted to do something. Whatever Yassin had in mind, I was convinced he couldn’t implement it if the Zapwired shipment was frozen. I slowed my reading down until I came upon the last sheet, a sample of the operating instructions packaged with each product. And I did a double take, trying to understand what I was seeing.
One word stood out in the second paragraph, close to the margin on the left side. “Along” was yellow highlighted. And three paragraphs below that, also highlighted but nearer the right, was the word “play.” They were not easy to miss.
Jeremy would have assembled all the documents. If those two words were highlighted, he’d done it on purpose. But what does “along … play” mean?
I was stumped trying to make sense of it. I was just noticing Larry Killgallon growing impatient when I recalled Jeremy once pointing out that Hebrew reads right to left, the opposite of English. I switched the two words around, and “along play” became … “play along”.
I sat up with a start.
For the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope. Zapwired didn’t have to be quarantined. Jeremy was telling me to cooperate, to play along with whoever was running this show, for whatever reason.
And if I’m wrong?
I felt confident I wasn’t. And no matter what Yassin did next, I wouldn’t attempt to interfere. Jeremy was on the case. Going forward, I’d make sure Yassin believed I was resigned to protecting my daughter, making it my number one priority, and there’d be no funny business whatsoever on my part.
“You okay?” Larry asked.
I figured he must’ve seen a change come over me. I forced my optimism down and told him I was fine. Then, for the sake of the wire, I said, “Are the bills of lading ready?”
He handed over another stack of documents. “All prepared for your signature.”
I examined them quickly, verifying the quantities of Zapwired to be shipped to MyMart and Arrow.
“The 100,000 pieces will go out today,” Larry confirmed once I scribbled my John Henry on all necessary lines.
I stood, thanked him for his help, and left. But now I was back to worrying. I remembered that the room where Yassin was holding my daughter was wired with explosives. I hope to God Jeremy’s plan doesn’t end up killing her!
56
Yassin and Masri were seated together in the kitchen of the safe house, having tea. Yassin took a sip from his cup and asked about the upcoming arrangements.
Masri ran down a mental check list. “First, the airline tickets have been secured, paid for in cash, in the names you provided. Second, the group has been organized as you instructed: one team to handle luggage, transportation, and the like. Another to assure that every piece of furniture in this house, as well as utensils, walls, windows and lavatories are wiped clean and sterilized. Third, when it’s all over, I’ll fly to Paris, then on to Cairo, making my way by land back to Palestine. A few others, especially Omar and Yousef, will take circuitous routes, but follow similar itineraries.” He paused. “Is there anything else?”
“No. Good job,” Yassin said. “You’ve covered it all. Thank you. Now tell me how it went at the distribution center.”
The other man smiled. “Couldn’t have gone smoother. Anderson didn’t object to wearing the wire. He met with this Killgallon fellow and I listened in as he approved the Zapwired shipments.”
“Did he say anything whatsoever to cause suspicion?”
“Not a word.”
“You are certain?”
“Absolutely. If anything, Anderson seemed resigned to his fate. He even asked when he’ll be reunited with his daughter. I told him once the product was in stores, he and the girl would be of no further use to us and they’d be allowed to go home.”
“You did?” Yassin enthused. “Excellent. And he suspects nothing?”
“Not one thing.”
“So—do you have any questions for me?”
Masri shrugged. “Only one—when do we kill them?”
Yassin smiled. “Not yet. We need to wait for the Zapwired launch. Just before we leave for the airport, I plan on slitting the girl’s throat. I’d like her father to watch her bleed out. Then I’ll do him.”
