Zapwired, page 15
“Excellent,” Masri said. “It will be a just ending.”
PART THREE
AUGUST
57
I was in my condo Friday morning already dreading what the day would bring. Zapwire’s launch was scheduled for midnight tonight and I had no way of stopping it.
The house phone rang, jarring me back to the present.
“Good morning, Blair,” Yassin greeted me as if he were my best friend. “I’m having you picked up at 10:15 tonight. That should get you here pretty close to 11:00. This is the last time. Not much longer now and you’ll have your daughter back.”
“Wonderful,” I said, acting like I believed him. Playing along, as Jeremy instructed.
I hung up and began to pace the floor, driving myself crazy with anticipation.
How do I get word to Jeremy about Sandra’s predicament?
Yassin was watching and listening to everything I did or said. There was no way I could contact my friend in Israel and tell him. I knew in my heart that Yassin had something abominable planned for the Zapwired launch. But what could it be?
I found myself in the middle of the den, wanting to throw something, wanting to scream at the top of my lungs.
My daughter was waiting for me to rescue her. If I could hang in until now, twelve hours more shouldn’t matter. What I would give to see into the future and know what Yassin was up to.
I could visualize Sandra in my mind and was anxious to finally tell her how sorry I was for getting her involved. Yassin had allowed our video calls to continue sporadically. In some ways it made things worse. So close, yet so far. Each time we talked my heart bled a little more. Would I really be allowed to hold her again? Even for one last time?
*
As 10:15 p.m. approached, I entered the elevator and rode it down to the lobby level. I was just exiting when an elderly woman carrying a heaping bag of groceries almost collided with me, and a loaf of bread toppled to the floor. I picked it up and put it back in her bag, while she cursed me out in Yiddish. I apologized, then headed out of the building and approached the waiting SUV, idling at the curb.
As usual, “Agent Atkins” sat behind the wheel. Abdul Masri was in the back seat. We pulled away. Instead of a blindfold, Masri held up a cloth bag and slipped it over my head.
58
When we arrived, Masri guided me out of the vehicle, up a few stairs, and toward what I assumed was the entrance to the safe house.
Once the door opened, he gripped my arm and led the way into a room, where he sat me down. As soon I felt the steel connect with my spine, I realized it was the same chair as before. The straps were secured around my arms and legs. I wondered if more torture was in store for me. Did Yassin somehow get wind of Jeremy’s plan?
A hollow feeling gripped the pit of my stomach. The cloth bag was yanked off my head. Then Masri walked out and I was left alone.
What felt like a half hour passed. For the umpteenth time I tested the tension in the straps holding me in the chair, looking for any give in at least one of them that I could work loose.
About ten minutes later, at what I guessed was near midnight, Yassin walked in, using the door behind me. He was dressed in a gray lightweight suit and matching conservative tie.
Back to John Dalton? I wondered.
“And so your journey is near its end,” he said pleasantly enough. “I am sorry if it was not all to your liking. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
Play along, I reminded myself. “Yes. Were you serious when you said Sandra will be released?”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Yassin. You and I both know neither my daughter nor I will be leaving here alive.”
He turned his back to me, and started typing on his computer keyboard.
“So,” I called out, “how about granting a dying man’s last request?”
Yassin ignored me.
“Tell me … what the fuck is this all about?”
He continued typing.
“What kind of bribe do you plan to use Zapwired for?”
That got his attention. Yassin turned around and smiled. “That’s what you think? That’s the best you can come up with? A bribe? No, no, my friend. I’m much smarter than that.”
“So, tell me how smart you are,” I challenged him.
I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. Yassin went over to a wall cabinet, opened it and removed a Zapwired prototype with its cover removed. He pointed to an area adjacent to the battery compartment. “You see, your precious little toy has had an internal change. This capacitor is used to divert the electrical charge from what was originally intended. In today’s world of miniaturization, the components are infinitely smaller and more versatile. The employees of Starlight Industries, who work for me, only had to insert the capacitor, then convert the starter to a trigger mechanism. Thus, it can ignite this innocuous-looking substance.” He pointed inside the works to a minuscule, colorless blob, resembling a swatch of hardened glue. “NC-5—the most versatile form of plastique available on the Black Market today. A fraction of the amount has triple the explosive power of its predecessor, C-4. It’s guaranteed to cause a powerful explosion that can annihilate or severely injure a roomful of people.
“Zapwired comes with its own batteries. All the customer has to do is use a Phillips screwdriver to open the battery compartment, pull this isolater tab like so.” He demonstrated. “And the contacts are no longer protected. Turn the switch to ON and wait three seconds…” He flipped it. Sparks soon flew, and a sound emitted—”PHHT”—like a match flame igniting.
Yassin let out a chuckle. “If the wiring had been in place, you and I would be visiting with Allah this exact moment.” He paused. “But here’s the best part: the first one hundred thousand pieces have been moved from the key retailer warehouses in the New York area to their individual stores, in time to get their shelves stocked for tonight’s launch.
“So, imagine—a hundred thousand homes filled with anxious teenagers, many surrounded by friends or other family members. Best case scenario, seventy-five percent will turn on their units soon after they or their parents bring it home. Then three seconds later, BOOM!” He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“What do you think, Blair? How many infidels do you think will die tonight? Perhaps not all 100,000. I estimate three-quarters that amount. Can you see the bodies torn apart? The blood flowing everywhere?”
My head dropped. What he described was exactly what I was visualizing. This was worse than my worst nightmare.
“Let me explain what my men are doing now,” he went on, speaking so casually, he could’ve been telling me what he had planned for dinner. “Omar, Yousef and Abdul have positioned themselves in three different suburban retail locations. A customer in each store is being chosen, followed out to his or her car, and then home ... which is when the fun will start.
“You see, we have access to one of the latest marvels of the world. It’s a knockoff of something developed by researchers at the University of California, Berkeley. It’s described as the smallest flying drone ever made. It travels with zero moving parts, meaning no rotors, wings, or similar appendages. Instead, the insect-scale drone relies on atmospheric ion thrusters, which allow it to move in complete silence.
“But ours is even better, Blair.” His smile lit up again, only this time it was nearly euphoric. “We call it Mighty-Bot for a reason. It’s not only smaller than a fly, it has the capability to record both audio and video, with little chance of being detected.
“My men will manipulate the drones so each will attach itself to a person walking into their home. Once inside, the drones will hover inconspicuously in one corner. From there it will broadcast the exact moment a Zapwired is turned on and, seconds later, the explosions.”
I imagined I was watching that broadcast now, images of blood and gore flashing in front of my eyes.
“Of course, there might be a few hiccups,” Yassin continued. “But with all three cameras in operation, I’d say at least one of them will be successful in capturing the gruesome devastation.
“The minute it’s over, we will upload the best one—or even all three if they are good video captures—to the major news networks, along with Instagram, YouTube, and other social media sites. Included will be our political statement, making it clear that this is retribution for past American atrocities committed against the Muslim community. Especially the egregious, cowardly cover-up by the US government when one of its missiles killed seven young boys, including my son.”
I was chilled to the bone. I could now understand Yassin’s motivation. But was that an excuse for such widespread mass murder? I felt anger and guilt at what I’d helped him perpetrate.
The room began to spin. I forced my breathing to slow. Now that I was aware of the full truth, I knew I was right. Both my daughter and I were doomed. No other option.
59
The digital timestamp blinking on the clock in the left-hand corner of the desk showed it was 12:38 a.m. Yassin took a seat at the table a few feet in front of my chair. He positioned three cell phones in front of him. Then he made a show of turning on the computer. “Here we go,” he said with overt pride.
The picture split into three segments, each out of focus. Abdul Masri’s voice was the first I heard. It came from one of the cell phones, now on speaker mode. He spoke in Arabic and Yassin translated. At the moment, Masri was in his car, stationed across the street from a large house in Manesset on Long Island.
“The drone is in place,” Yassin continued, his voice rising in anticipation. “Look—”
The image on the far-left side of the screen came alive with two boys in their mid-teens, a girl slightly younger, and their middle-aged parents standing next to them in the den of their home.
“Masri was able to settle the drone on the back of one of the boy’s belts,” Yassin translated. “Once inside the house, he maneuvered it until it was far enough away to take in the entire room.”
The one piece of furniture to catch my attention was the entertainment center that included a 75” flat screen TV and a Sonos Arc sound bar. What light there was in the room came from an unusual-looking floor lamp, decorated with what could’ve been Swarovski crystals.
The father had a screwdriver in hand and was obviously following directions for opening the battery compartment. The look of excitement on the teenagers’ faces filled me with shame. It was my advertising that had built the demand for Zapwired and gotten them to run out and purchase it.
Yassin addressed the second phone, also on speaker, and once again he went back and forth in Arabic. “This is Yousef Fayed reporting,” he said to me, “parked in Queens, outside another house. There is…” His voice dropped an octave and anger creased his brow, “a bit of a problem.”
They continued to speak, then Yassin said, “Fayad was unable to sneak the drone into the house. But he will keep trying. Perhaps he’ll find a window open. Or maybe a door.”
Another view, on the right side of the screen this time, opened up. And a voice from the third cell phone came to life. Yassin listened for a minute or two, and his mood brightened. “Ah … this one’s working. Omar Aziz is in White Plains, positioned outside a bungalow. The Zapwired was purchased by a couple and their daughter in her mid-teens. He attached the drone to the back of the mother’s dress.”
The image showed a lady in her early-forties, red shoulder-length hair, seated at a table in a large kitchen next to a brown-haired man, who was a few years older and apparently her husband. Their daughter was tearing open the Zapwired box.
I shuddered at what was to come. And I mentally crossed my fingers and prayed to every deity I could think of, asking—begging—for a miracle.
To my disappointment, the second phone came back to life. Words were spoken rapidly. Yassin’s face lit up. “Problem solved,” he said. “The woman in Queens came out to deposit the garbage on the driveway by the curb. Fayad managed to have the drone follow her, and it’s now safely inside. Watch this…” He pointed.
The house was fairly modern. The man was tall, overweight, with graying hair. The woman seemed dwarfed by his size. She was a petite brunette and wore glasses. The children, a boy and girl, were in their early teens. They were all in the spacious family room, seated on what looked like a leather couch. A Zapwired was resting on a coffee table in front of them. Each of the four appeared anxious to start playing the game.
I considered the three separate scenes that had unfolded on the computer in front of me. The family of five, the couple and their daughter, and the man and woman with their two kids. All mere minutes away from a horrible tragedy.
Yassin could only just contain himself. “The message will be delivered loud and clear! This will go down…”
He inhaled a deep breath.
I followed his gaze.
The man in the house on Long Island had the battery compartment open, his wife and children gathered around him. The older boy pulled the isolater tab, then shut the lid. His brother and sister leaned in closer. Finally, the boy flipped the game’s ON switch.
Yassin was rubbing his hands together as he started the countdown: “Three… two… one…”
The oldest boy began wielding the joy pad like a professional, while his siblings cheered him on. I could hear shoot-em-up noises. Lights were flashing. The boy’s forearm reacted with a jolt each time he took a hit from one of the bad guys. And I couldn’t believe it. There’d been no explosion.
Yassin’s head jerked back in shock. But he quickly recovered. “No problem,” he said, “the workers at Starlight Industries were under the gun to meet my shipping deadline. It had to be expected that a few of the units would be faulty. What we’re seeing is an anomaly.”
He tapped away at the computer.
The feed disappeared and the screen refreshed. The view was the interior of the White Plains bungalow. The teenaged girl was just shutting the battery compartment.
Yassin bounced up and down. Once, then twice. I could read the tension pouring off him when he said, “Here it comes.”
No! a voice screamed in my head.
The girl turned the game on.
Yassin began a countdown again, this time under his breath, “Three…two…” At “one” he was standing on the balls of his feet.
I was watching transfixed when the Zapwired came to life. The girl began playing with a look of exhilaration. Five more seconds went by, and no BOOM!
Yassin cursed in Arabic. “Okay,” he said, puffing himself up, “as you Americans say, ‘third time’s the charm’. This time you will see Allah’s will…”
He turned off the second feed and a change came over him. He was no longer calm and in control. His fists were now white-knuckled and his eyes were ablaze.
I peered at the screen. The house in Queens: The boy and girl having an argument over who gets to play the game first.
The boy won and turned the control switch to ON.
I tore my eyes away but I couldn’t stop the countdown in my head. Three…two…one… But no explosion. No screaming in agony. I looked back. There on the screen, the boy was playing the Zapwired. His family cheering him on. Laughing. Joy. Fun.
Yassin smashed his fist on the table. He went to the computer keyboard and violently punched a series of keys. The screen split into eight squares, each a news feed of various network and cable stations, including ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX, and CNN.
In five out of eight, anchors were reporting the huge success of Zapwired. There were even some instances where reporters and cameramen were broadcasting live from consumers’ homes, filming the delighted families. It appeared to take an effort to distract some of the players away from the game long enough to conduct an interview. All were gushing praise.
Yassin turned to me with pure hatred in his eyes. “I don’t know how you did it…”
“What?” I said. “I didn’t do anything.” And then it dawned on me: Play along. Jeremy had a hand in this.
“…but you will pay!” He stepped up to the wall cabinet, opened it, and removed a machete. “You are going to watch me grab your daughter by the hair and slowly, with as much pain as I can inflict, cut off her head!”
He went back to the keyboard and tapped a single key. The screen filled with a shot of my daughter, strapped into the damn chair I abhorred.
“Enjoy the show,” he said as he departed through his private door.
“No! No! No!” I screamed after him. “I had nothing to do with this!”
60
Yassin was aware of losing control, and he admonished himself. Though it did little good. His fury knew no relief. He entered the corridor in a rage, his heart beating so rapidly he could hear it pounding in his ears. He paused until he was able to think more rationally.
He wanted Blair Anderson to watch the computer screen as he beheaded his daughter. Then he would return and start in on him. Perhaps he’d begin by hacking off each ear, then chopping off his fingers, one at a time. Whatever it took until Blair revealed how he managed to thwart his plan. Have him beg for death.
But…
It dawned on Yassin that Anderson couldn’t have acted alone. And whomever he had gotten on board could’ve followed him to this very house. Or, if they were told the address, they could be on their way. Torturing Anderson might reveal who else was involved, but he didn’t have the luxury of time.
Yassin hated to see his mission fail, yet it would be far worse if he allowed himself to be caught.
He considered his options once more. There was no point in dragging this out, he decided. He’d have to do them both quickly. No matter what, he’d return to America one day. He swore this to Allah. And when he came back, he would have something far more diabolical in play.
