“Does anyone know,” Hardy said over his shoulder, “how to work this thing?” One of the extras of the room was a Nespresso coffee maker. He bent over. “What buttons do I hit?”
“Over here,” said Cruz, holding up a cup.
“Thanks.” He took a sip and sat on the end of the couch—to Dahlia’s left—smacking his lips.
Hamilton leaned back and interlaced her fingers on top of her head. “So, which is better…Nespresso or my Jura?”
Hardy had a snappy comeback locked and loaded, but decided to throw her a bone. “This is good, but the cup I had in your office was delicious. I might have to get one of those for my apartment.” He took another drink. “What time do you usually leave work, Hamilton? And, do you lock your office door?”
Hamilton’s fingers pecked away at the keys. “Security cameras, my friend, security cameras…they can’t be beat.”
Hardy sensed Dahlia’s eyes boring a hole into his skull. “Says who?” he said to Hamilton before facing Dahlia and shaking his head. “It’s not you.” He held up two crossed fingers. “You and Cherry are solid.”
Dahlia’s shoulders dropped, and she leaned back on the couch.
Lifting the cup to his mouth, he noticed the other women staring at him. “She was feeling…not needed. I assured her that wasn’t the case. She’s good.”
For the next couple of hours, everyone had noses stuck in computers, periodically coming up for sips of coffee. Hardy figured out how to operate the Nespresso machine and was having fun playing barista, serving up everyone’s favorite beverage. At 3:30 in the morning, they gathered to compare notes.
Cruz referenced her notepad. “There were three terror attacks in the last eighteen months; two biological and one weapon-related that RAS,” —they had abbreviated the group’s name, partly for the sake of ease and partly because Hardy butchered it anyway— “took credit for and which can be substantiated by law enforcement.”
Cruz flipped a page. “The two biological attacks, one in a London subway, the other on a commuter train, claimed the lives of more than one hundred people and injured dozens more. The small arms attack resulted in the deaths of nearly thirty-six people. Again, dozens more were wounded. All of the terrorists who carried out the acts killed themselves. Once their identities were obtained, law enforcement officials were able to trace them back to RAS.”
Sitting at the end of the couch, Dahlia to his right, Hardy uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What do we know about the group? Who is the leader?”
Hamilton held her notepad in one hand and ran the other through her hair. “RAS is a relative newcomer to the playing field. So new that no one person has been ID’d as a top person.” She licked a finger and separated two pages. “Based on my research, I can loosely link a Hamid Marsullah to the two biological acts that Cruz mentioned. And, when I say loosely, I mean sand-in-the-hand loose.”
Hardy sipped his coffee. “Were you able to find anything on him?”
Hamilton shook her head. “No, he’s kept a low profile over the years. In fact, RAS has kept a low profile.” She pointed. “Cruz said that RAS took credit for those three attacks. Actually, that intel was obtained through questioning members of other terrorist groups.”
Cruz nodded. “That’s true.”
“From there, LE was able to verify the information.”
Hardy sat back and held the espresso in his lap. “So, we have a rookie group that is launching attacks, but staying under the radar…doesn’t want to draw attention to itself. Why? That’s what these nutjobs thrive on, the fame and the glory.”
“Maybe they’re finally realizing that if they keep quiet, they have a better chance of eluding us.” Hamilton held up a finger. “Or, maybe they have something big planned and they don’t want to be tripped up over a trivial attack.”
Dahlia held up her hands. “What difference does it make…the why? If RAS is involved and planning a nasty attack, then we find them and take them down.”
Hardy faced her. “Know thy enemy, Dahlia. The ‘whys’ can lead us to the ‘whos’ and the ‘wheres.’”
Having put on her jeans and blouse, Charity planted both one-inch flats on the floor and sat erect. “We got something.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
Hardy abandoned his cup and leaned closer to Dahlia, who leaned closer to Charity; both wanted a better view of the laptop. He rolled a hand. “Don’t keep us waiting, Cherry. What is it?”
“Facial recognition software picked up Richard Kimmler walking through an airport terminal in Barcelona; however, the probability is only at twenty-nine percent.”
Dahlia spun the laptop to see the screen better. “Did you get a hit off my algorithm?”
Charity switched screens and ran the data through Dahlia’s program. “Yes…sixty-nine percent.”
Dahlia eyed Hardy. “Are we going to Barcelona?”
He squinted at her for several seconds before observing Charity. “Any way you can bump up those numbers, Cherry?”
Her hands folded around her nose and mouth, she sounded like Darth Vader when she breathed. She spoke into her hands, “I think so,” before tapping the touchpad. “With some help merging facial rec with gait rec…” Charity peeked at Dahlia out of the corner of her eye, and the woman smiled. “…we might be able to improve upon the percentage and track his whereabouts.”
Hardy nodded. “Do what you have to. How long before we know something?”
Charity eyed Dahlia. “I’d say one…”
“Two hours at the most,” said Dahlia, nodding.
Hardy stood. “I’ll start making the travel arrangements.” He gestured. “Cruz, Hamilton, get an hour or two of sleep.” A duet of ‘I’m good’ came back. “Please, ladies, I’m going to need you fresh when it’s go time. Once I get our ride ready, I’m getting some nap time too.” He faced the women on the couch. “Do you two need to be awake, while this thing is doing its job?”
“We should only need,” said Charity, “about fifteen minutes to verify everything’s working.”
He pointed, while digging out his mobile. “Make sure your eyes are shut in fifteen.”