The Faithful Spy

He tried again, turning the trunk on its side. He found a digital lock with a numeric pad instead of a keyhole. Just as Bokar had promised. The lock’s red LCD flashed the time: 15:47:05. 15:47:06. Shit. He had less than an hour to get downtown. As Bokar had told him to do, he tapped the pound key on the pad three times. The clock disappeared, replaced by a blinking row of dashes. DiFerri pulled his battered wallet out of his pocket and found the piece of paper with the code that Bokar had given him. 4308512112-9447563-01072884.

DiFerri carefully punched the numbers into the pad. By the time he finished he was sweating, and not from the heat in the airless room. He hoped he had gotten the code right. He punched the pound key three times, as he’d been told. The code disappeared, replaced now by a timer. 10. 9. 8. 7.

Holy shit.

6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. He lumbered to his feet and tried to back away. l i k e e v e ryo n e e l s e watching in Langley, Exley could see exactly what was happening inside D-2471. The cameras were good enough to catch the terror on the guy’s face as he stepped backward. Then the bomb blew. The explosion echoed inside the communications center, and the monitors went black. The room was silent. Exley could not stop replaying the panicked look she had just seen. He was no terrorist, that guy. He didn’t belong in that locker. She had just watched an innocent man die. For the first time in history, a radioactive weapon had exploded on American soil. And she and everyone in this room had allowed it. Their mistakes had no end. Shafer’s joke about the Dixie cup seemed unimaginably callous now.

Then the ringing of a phone, and another and another, broke the silence. The communications center began humming like a casino on New Year’s Eve, technicians shouting to the commandos inside the center. The mission wasn’t over. The Delta units and the Albany police had to evacuate everyone within a quarter mile while NEST’s scientists determined how much radiation the dirty bomb had released. Plus, they would have to figure out who the guy in the locker had been and track his movements and accomplices as far back as they could. Though Exley had little doubt that the trail — if they could trace it at all — would eventually lead back to one Omar Khadri.

Exley felt a murderous rage replace her shame. In all her years at the CIA she had never been so angry. She knew that personalizing these battles didn’t help win them, but she couldn’t stop herself. This man Khadri was toying with them and killing Americans for sport. He had to be destroyed. “Whatever it takes,” she said to herself under her breath. Shafer heard her. “Yes,” he said.

khadri was brushing his teeth in his motel room in Kingston when he heard the first television bulletin.

“This is Scott Yorne with breaking news from Channel 2, your capital area news leader. The Albany Police Department is evacuating parts of western Albany following an explosion in a storage center on Central Avenue. Authorities are advising everyone else in the region to stay inside for at least two hours. So far, police have been tight-lipped about the nature of the explosion, but they promise us more information as soon as possible. ”

So Farouk had told the Americans about the bomb, Khadri thought. Otherwise they wouldn’t be evacuating the city. They had been watching the locker and knew what it held. Or thought they did, anyway. They would be surprised when they got inside. Khadri smiled briefly as he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His precautions had been wise.

But his smile faded as he thought about Farouk’s treachery. He had to assume that Farouk had told the Americans everything. At least one cell in Pakistan was blown. And probably all the nuclear techs that Farouk had recruited. Khadri had carefully compartmentalized his operations. He might be able to cut off the blown cells in time to save his other operatives in Pakistan. But he couldn’t escape the fact that Farouk’s capture was a major setback. Pressure constricted Khadri’s chest. He reminded himself that he had no real reason to worry. The bomb had surely killed that fool DiFerri. Still, he wanted to get as far from Albany as possible. He trotted into the motel bedroom and began tossing clothes into his suitcase. Then he stopped. In control, he thought. Always in control. He emptied the suitcase onto the bed and began repacking, folding his clothes neatly.

within an hour, NEST scientists wearing radiological protective suits were inside locker D-2471, trying not to gag as they picked their way around the pieces of Tony DiFerri scattered around the room.