Zapwired, page 13
“Sorry. Office name and number have been changed. We do that every six months—or when an assignment’s been completed. It allows us to create different scenarios. But the reason for the delay is that it took more time than I anticipated to verify the authenticity of the PO with the powers that be at Starlight Industries.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that instead of keeping me in the dark? Do you realize what I’ve been going through?”
“Look—I apologized! Do you want to be reunited with your daughter or not?”
I clamped my mouth shut.
“This is how it’s going to work: Agents Atkins and Olsen will pick you up in front of your apartment building in one hour. You’ll get into the back seat of the SUV. Then you’ll be blindfolded again. And sorry, Blair, but Rena will also have to cuff your hands behind your back—in case you get the urge to remove the blindfold. Yes, that will be uncomfortable. You can turn sideways in your seat if you need to. But we can’t take the chance of you doing anything stupid.”
He paused. “Once you’re here, we’ll reunite you with your daughter, and we’ll get you both on your way. No blindfolds this time…” He laughed. “You’re welcome. We’ll then make sure you both get home safely.”
*
At 11:20 I went downstairs and waited on the sidewalk. The familiar Buick pulled up ten minutes later. Right on time.
Rena Olsen stepped out of the front passenger seat. No greeting. She looked right and left. Satisfied no one was paying her any attention, she opened the back door and said, “Get in.”
I was expecting the request and did as I was told. Olsen asked me to slide over, then joined me.
She seemed bored. I figured now that I was to be reunited with my daughter, her assignment was over, and she’d be returning to some dull desk job that she probably hated.
Atkins was slouching in his seat, looking even more bored than Olsen, if that were possible.
Olsen pulled handcuffs out of her jacket pocket and held them up.
I willingly turned my back and allowed the cuffs to be applied.
She reached into her other pocket and removed a blindfold.
“Here—I’ll make it easy for you,” I said, leaning toward her so she could tie it around my eyes.
I sat up straight, felt Olsen reach across my body and attach my seat belt. I shuffled to get more comfortable. Then it hit me. Just a little while longer and I’d be reunited with my daughter. And I couldn’t resist. “Sandra, here I come,” I said out loud.
But the vehicle wasn’t moving.
I waited.
I could hear the driver opening the center console, then I sensed something being passed to Olsen.
Immediately worried, I said, “Hey … what’s going—”
I felt what must have been a needle plunging into the side of my neck.
One second … two seconds … blackness.
47
Sandra?
The plight of my daughter jolted me awake.
I was seated in an oversized room. It had two doors, one at either end. My chair looked strange: metal with wide arms, and an electric cord attached to the base. Kevlar straps bound me in place across my wrists and ankles. I was locked in, practically immobile.
For a moment I felt disoriented.
It slowly came back, sitting in the SUV, Olsen injecting me with something.
But why?
*
The wait was intolerable. There was a rectangular conference table positioned close by, with a 40” flat-screen television and a computer.
The color scheme in the room was a universal dull gray. There were no windows, so this was either an interior or basement room.
The door nearest me opened and I held my breath in anticipation.
Rena Olsen approached, her eyes narrowing with what could’ve been hatred. She gripped my wrist and checked my pulse.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, angry with her. And angrier with myself for not realizing Dalton’s “reunite” plan should have sounded fishy. Instead, I’d suddenly believed a guy I never trusted from the beginning.
She shone a flashlight in my eyes and examined them for clarity.
“What are you doing?”
She walked out, ignoring me.
Three agonizing minutes later a man wearing a djellaba walked in through the opposite door; an attachment to his white robe—not unlike a hijab that some women wore—partially concealing his head and face.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said.
The voice was familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Had I met this man somewhere? When? Under what circumstances?
He removed the head covering.
It couldn’t be, but it was: The Arab standing in front of me was John Dalton.
PART TWO
JUNE-JULY
48
Lisa Brandt faced Jeremy Samson in his Tel Aviv office. “I have no excuse,” she said, crestfallen, as she reached inside her purse.
Despite the worn jeans and loose-fitting New York Yankees tee-shirt he was wearing, Jeremy still made an imposing figure. He accepted the envelope she handed him without opening it.
“My resignation,” she explained.
His cheerful disposition turned serious. “Not your fault. I’m the one who asked you to get close to him.”
“Close, yes. But emotionally involved?”
“He’s a good guy to be involved with,” Jeremy said, trying to ease the tension. “Look—you’re both single adults. You told me your feelings were reciprocated.”
“Yeah ... I thought that they were.”
“What’s done is done, Lisa. We can’t change anything.” He handed the envelope back to her. “Tear this up. I refuse to accept it.” He paused. “How was it left with Blair?”
“He doesn’t trust me and won’t talk to me until I reveal who I’m working for. He more or less told me to get lost. I’m … not sure I did the right thing.”
“You did. I’m the one who should’ve come clean with him. I tried hinting about it. But if either of us reveals the name of our employer, we’re automatically terminated. No second chances.”
“So, what happens now?”
“You’ve got a job to do and I’m counting on you to finish it. Now more than ever. “
“It’s the job I’ve screwed up,” she muttered.
“Why do you say that?”
“A week ago, Wednesday, I made another attempt to talk to him, at his condo in the evening. He wasn’t there. He never returned home and he’s not answering his cell. It’s like he’s disappeared. Gone into hiding or something.”
Jeremy stood. “I want you in New York. There’s more at play here than what meets the eye. You should be aware—an offshoot of the Islamic State could be involved.”
Lisa felt a tremor go through her body.
49
“Dalton,” I said, “what kind of game are you playing?”
“First lesson—you’ll address me properly.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Khalid Yassin.”
“Fine, Dalton. Whatever you say.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do I have to threaten you?”
I shook my head. “You’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.”
“We’re not through with you yet, Mr. Anderson. Far from it.”
“Who are you?”
He ignored my question. “Let me bring you up to date: I wasn’t getting anywhere with you, so I had to become more creative. Involving your daughter did the trick. Our research told us everything we needed to know about you. Your habits, your customs, the way you run your business. We couldn’t have found a better candidate.”
“I’m flattered.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, Dalton.”
His face grew enflamed. “Not Dalton! My name is Mister Yassin!”
I sat there doing a slow boil. I was desperate to know what was happening with my daughter, but was too worried about the answer to broach the subject. Besides, I knew Dalton wouldn’t reveal the truth until he was good and ready.
“I guess I don’t have to tell you that BIS doesn’t exist,” he continued.
“No, I get it. Everything was a ruse to get me to switch the Zapwired production to Starlight Industries. But why?”
He gave me one of those If I told you, I’d have to kill you looks, then said, “Good news, bad news.” Dalton milked the tension that must’ve been evident on my face.
Finally… “The good news for you is I have no plans for keeping you here much longer. You will return to work and carry on your normal duties. Under our surveillance, of course.
“Bad news… There’s been an accident I must make you aware of. A few nights ago, there was a fire at your ex-wife’s home.” He paused. Then, with mock sympathy, he continued, “I’m afraid she perished, along with her boyfriend.”
“What?” Mandy dead? Can he be serious? Or is he toying with me?
Dalton tapped on a computer key. The screen lit up with a video of Mandy’s house consumed in flames. Firemen were shooting multiple hoses at the blaze, to no avail. “There’s more,” he said, hitting another key.
The scene of the fire flipped to the background and a male news anchor came into focus. “After a fire in the New York suburb of Fresh Meadows, firemen discovered the bodies of two adults—”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“—and one child…”
Wait! Did I just hear what I thought I heard?
Dalton turned his computer off with a look of self-satisfaction.
Agony ripped through my heart. “H-How can that be?” I hollered at him. “You returned my daughter to Mandy? Then what? Set the house on fire?” I struggled desperately with my restraints, wanting to get my hands around his throat and squeeze the life out of him. “Sandra is dead? W-Why? I did what you asked! Why did you have to kill her?”
He actually smiled as he turned the computer back on.
I could see myself, a thumbnail in the top corner. Then my daughter’s face filled the screen.
“Daddy!” she yelled upon seeing me.
Sandra’s alive!
Before I could utter a word, the screen shut off again.
“I want you to remember the grief you just felt,” Dalton said. “I’ll need you to show the same emotion when you attend the funeral … and pretend it was indeed your daughter who lost her life.”
I was appalled; couldn’t make sense of it—until I did. “You killed them—didn’t you? Who was the girl, if not Sandra? And why, Dalton?”
He slapped my face hard; once, then again. “Yassin, not Dalton! You will show respect!”
I reeled from the blows. “To whom?” I demanded, my temper out of control. “To you? A murdering sonofabitch?”
He calmly reached inside the pocket of his robe and pulled out what resembled a TV remote control.
Yassin turned it on. A string of LED lights, running along one side, all changed to blue.
Both arms of my chair lit up, matching the same color.
He slid the lever forwards. Blue turned to green. I heard a light hum and what felt like an electric current streaked across my arms and lower extremities. It was unpleasant but still tolerable … until green went to yellow, followed by orange, then to a blinking red. My body convulsed. Each alteration in color had increased the intensity. The pain was fierce. I knew I couldn’t last much longer.
*
I was on the verge of passing out when the colors started to reverse themselves, finally returning to blue.
Dalton turned the computer back on for a third time. A closed-circuit picture of my daughter, full-length, filled the screen.
I wanted badly to say something to her, but this time the feed was one-way. I could see her, but she couldn’t see or hear me.
Sandra was quietly crying, strapped into a chair exactly like the one I was in, but looking dwarfed by its size. The arms of the chair were glowing blue.
I glanced at my own chair; the lights were off. But Dalton was manipulating the same controller, so it was obviously wireless, enabling him to take charge of either chair at his whim.
A knot formed in my stomach. I turned in Dalton’s direction. “Please—don’t do it.”
He stood there with a blank expression.
“She’s only a child!”
Rena Olsen stepped into the picture and placed a gag around Sandra’s mouth. The view widened and I could see the lights on my daughter’s chair switching to green.
I turned back to Dalton. He was sliding the controller up another notch. “Approximately one week from now,” he said in a blasé tone of voice, “you’ll be driven to your distribution center where you’ll okay the shipment of Zapwired to the key retailers’ warehouses in the New York area. If you disobey me, if you become incapacitated before the ship date, if you cause any delay whatsoever, your daughter will be made to suffer a slow, painful death. Here—let me show you what I mean….”
Sandra jerked upright.
I couldn’t look away from the lights on her chair, now changing from yellow to orange.
My daughter’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of her head.
“Please! No!” I hollered.
“I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes, I’ll do it,” I surrendered.
“Yes, who?”
“Yes … Mister Yassin.”
50
The church had an overflow crowd; easily more than 200 people. I spotted Andrew Sciascia and Lisa Brandt, along with Mandy’s cousins, aunts and uncles. Several of Sandra’s teachers and classmates were in attendance. Frank Roberts came from a small family and his father was deceased, but his brother and mother were here to pay their respects. Since both Mandy’s parents were no longer alive, her sister, Julia, had made all the arrangements. The woman had been especially close to my daughter. Seeing her suffer tore at my heart, especially with the knowledge that Sandra wasn’t the one occupying the third urn.
Julia’s husband had been an undercover cop, killed while on duty barely one year after they were married. They’d planned on raising a family. Julia always wanted children of her own so she gave all of her love and attention to Sandra. I recalled when I was still married to Mandy how often Julia used to babysit, seeing the pleasure it brought her, and how my daughter quickly grew fond of her aunt.
I found it difficult to process what had happened. All three deaths had been ruled an accident. Yassin had told me their surveillance revealed that Mandy was going to call the police. Therefore, he had to eliminate her and Frank. The Sandra lookalike was a necessary collateral casualty so friends and relatives wouldn’t question where Sandra was.
“We’re watching you as well,” Yassin had reminded me. “Don’t get any clever ideas in your head about rescuing your daughter. The room she’s being held in is wired with explosives and the entry is password-protected. The code is electronically changed every day by computer. Only I know what it is. On the off chance you or anyone else discovers this address and tries to rescue her, opening the door without the correct code will trigger an explosion, and blow up your daughter.”
The bastard had thought of everything. It was Yassin himself who drove me, blindfolded of course, to my condo. On the way, he informed me that to account for where I was during the days leading up to the fire, I was to say the pressure of work had gotten to me and I needed a short break, so I booked myself into an out-of-the-way motel for a few days. A member of Yassin’s team, who bore a passing resemblance to me, arranged for my name and credit card to be used. This motel had no security cameras.
*
The minister began the service. Julia wept; her distress inconsolable. I put my arm around her and she leaned into me. As much as I hated to admit it, Yassin’s trick of making me think my daughter was actually dead had worked. It wasn’t difficult to recreate that feeling of loss and emptiness for appearance’s sake.
When it was her turn to speak, Julia gave my ex-wife and Sandra a tribute that left many in the congregation in tears. I had begged off saying a few words, claiming I was too grief-stricken, and was relieved when the service came to an end.
Andrew approached. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered. “Whenever you want to talk, let me know.”
“I will,” I said, then welcomed him back from his vacation. But just like Lisa and my sister-in-law, with Sandra’s life at stake, I knew I couldn’t confide in him, either.
I’d driven Julia here and now drove her home. We sat in my car in front of her house, and hugged. It pained me no end to withhold that my daughter was still alive. But Yassin had been very clear about what would happen if I talked to anyone.
“I’m sorry to be such a mess,” Julia said as she opened the car door. “Please stay in touch, Blair.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yes. Make this nightmare go away. Bring my sister and Sandra back to me.”
I watched as she headed along the short pathway. I would like nothing more than to have this “nightmare”—as she called it—come to an end. But I had no doubt it was far from over. Yassin had more in store for me. He wasn’t through pulling the puppet strings. Not by a long shot.
51
The call on my cell from Lisa came as soon as I got home. I argued with myself about answering but something made me give in.
“My deepest condolences,” she said. “I understand this must be very difficult for you, Blair. I was wondering if you’d like some company.”
I appreciated the sentiment and told her so. But I couldn’t take a chance on seeing her, on possibly being questioned about where I’d been for the last few days. Besides, all that mattered was getting the living, breathing Sandra back. “Look,” I said, “I need more time.”
“But, what’s wrong with now?”
“I can’t do it, Lisa. Sorry. I’ll … call you,” I said and disconnected.
I sat in the den cradling the phone. The funeral had affected me. It wasn’t Sandra who’d perished, but it just as easily could’ve been. There were so many people in attendance today, I immediately texted messages to all those I could remember, thanking them for showing up and telling them how much it meant to me.
