Abdul-Hakim sat on the couch and planned his next move. It was hard creating an illusion of terrorism.
He was no extremist. Far from it. Had he not been kicked out of the Wharton School of business he might have been a junk bond trader by now. Abdul-Hakim resented it. Cheating on exams hardly seemed an expellable offense. For most business positions it was practically a prerequisite. No matter. He now stood to make more than any of his former classmates.
His team for this mission had been carefully comprised of a disparate group of Islamic fanatics and American thugs. This was not just of necessity—fanatics were hard to come by—but part of the plan, one of Calvin Hancock’s requirements.
The whole grand terrorist plot was designed to unravel upon the slightest inspection. All it would take was a push in that direction, and that had been planned. Then all the discrepancies would begin popping up. The CIA bullet, for instance. Nothing in itself, but telling once taken in context.
Abdul-Hakim smiled, and went back to his plans.
—
IT WASN’T WORKING. The safety pin from Karen’s glasses was the right size for a key, but it just didn’t work. If the pin was closed, it would fit in the lock but it wouldn’t turn. If she unpinned the pin and straightened it out, the big end was just the right size to fit in the lock and move the tumblers, but she couldn’t get a good enough grip on the pointed end to twist it.
If was horribly frustrating. The point of the pin was sticking into her finger, but she barely noticed. She was sure it would work, if only she could make it turn.
—
ABDUL-HAKIM’S train of thought was broken by the girl’s jailer, who came lumbering into the living room and stood, dumbly, staring at him, as if waiting for instructions.
“Yes?” Abdul-Hakim said.
“When we gonna move the girl?”
It was actually a good question. This house was a temporary situation only, a fine place to stash the girl for a few days, but it wouldn’t suit their ultimate purpose. For that they’d need someplace isolated, and the transport would take time. The round-trip would take three hours he could have spent on something else. On the other hand, it would get the big goon out of his hair. From that point of view it was probably worth it.
Abdul-Hakim considered. All right, what did he have to do? Nothing that urgent. He shoved his briefcase aside, and set his black satchel on the coffee table.
He popped the satchel open and took out the hypodermic syringe.
—
BLOOD FROM THE pinpricks in Karen’s fingertips was making the pin slippery and hard to hold. She licked the blood off, but the saliva was just as bad. Nonetheless, she was making progress. Her prototype of a safety pin key was turning slightly. Her finger was bleeding, but it was turning.
No!
It was turning from the other side!
Karen wrenched the safety pin out, crossed the room in two barefoot, silent steps, and flung herself on the cot, praying the big man wouldn’t hear the squeak of the bed frame over the sound of the opening door.
It wasn’t the big man. It was the Arab. He didn’t seem to have noticed. He came in carrying a little black satchel that looked like a doctor’s bag.
Karen’s heart was already pounding from the close escape, but the black bag scared her more than anything. The Arab set it on the floor, knelt down next to it.
His cell phone rang.
Abdul-Hakim frowned, took it out, and checked caller ID. If it was Calvin Hancock, he’d have to take it.
It wasn’t, but he had to take it anyway.
It was his contact on the Coast.