The Florentine Deception Page 26

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “FBI. Special Agents Velasquez and Snyder,” came a voice from behind the locked door.

  “Please hold your badges up to the keyhole,” said Altschiller. Then, to us, while still peering through the hole, “Those are the names the field office provided, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure.” Then, to his phone, “They’ve arrived.”

  A moment later the two beefy agents stepped through the front door.

  “Agents, thank you for coming. I’ll need you to take these two into protective custody,” said Altschiller, gesturing to Tom and Gennady, “and once I complete this call, Mr. Fife and I are going to need an escort to the airport.”

  “No problem, sir,” said Velasquez. “Gentlemen, I’ll be taking you to our field office, and after a debrief, to a local safe house. Do you have a change of clothes and toiletries for a few days?”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “We’re all ready.”

  “Okay. Let’s get going then,” said the agent.

  “Good luck, man,” said Gennady.

  Tom stepped up and gave me a hug. “Somehow it’s always an adventure with you. See you on the flip side, Alex.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I said.

  “All right, let’s go,” said Velasquez. “Snyder, once you get them to the airport, we’ll regroup back at the office.”

  Snyder nodded, then turned to Altschiller. “Sir, I’ll be waiting outside the front door. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

  Altschiller signaled his approval, then returned to his call as Tom, Gennady, and Velasquez stepped out the front door and into a black Lincoln Town Car. Snyder stepped out onto the porch a moment later and withdrew a cellphone.

  “The friends are safely on their way,” said Altschiller, locking the front door. After a few more minutes of discussion, he said, “Yes, I can do that. I’ll call to confirm receipt as soon as I’m done,” and ended the call.

  “Okay, slight change of plans.” Altschiller turned to face me. “They want me to upload the Florentine files over a secure link before we leave, so the techs in Baltimore can start looking immediately. Once we transmit the data, we’ll pack up and head straight over to the airport.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Good. Let me go get my laptop—I’ll be right back.” Altschiller took another look through the keyhole. “You have Internet here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said. Then he unlocked the door and stepped outside.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen grabbing some food before we leave,” I said. “The thumb drive with the Florentine file is in the manila envelope.” I pointed at the box.

  A brief inspection revealed nothing but beers in the refrigerator, so I began rummaging through the pantry.

  Then I heard it.

  The phut of a silenced gun, then the thump of a body collapsing to the floor. A second later, the gun spat again, and I heard another body slam into a wall.

  Fuck.

  It had to be Khalimmy. But how could he possibly know I was here? That I’d made it out? Had he had me tailed?

  Nausea seized my stomach. I had no way of escaping out the front or the back without heading through the main hallway, right past Khalimmy. I could duck into the guest bedroom next to the kitchen, but without any place to hide, I had no chance. I scanned the countertops for some means of defense.

  Nothing. Dammit!

  No time. I slipped around the center island and slid underneath the large kitchen table, shimmying beneath its center to hide from view.

  Step by step, Khalimmy’s cautious footfalls grew louder. I gazed helplessly toward the hallway, waiting for him to round the corner.

  After ten excruciating seconds, his black slacks slid into view. He took a tentative step forward, hesitated a long moment, then walked up to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard and gave it a tug. Satisfied, he turned to face the kitchen and took a few tentative steps toward the counter. Then he stopped, his slacks and brown loafers just feet from my face.

  I held my breath, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

  Then I saw it. Just inches away from Khalimmy’s outstretched hand.

  Gennady’s pistol.

  He’d left it on the granite counter covered by a newspaper, the circular mouth of the barrel barely visible from my vantage on the floor.

  Khalimmy stood there, immobile, completely silent.

  Had he seen me? Heard my breathing?

  Five agonizing seconds later, he took a first tentative step toward the guest bedroom, then a second and a third.

  He disappeared through the door.

  I readied myself.

  The guest bedroom’s bathroom door creaked open.

  It was now or never. I shifted out from under the table and rose to my feet, then, taking one long stride, reached the counter and quietly slid the gun from beneath the newspaper.

  I had it.

  Hands shaking, I carefully wrapped my index finger around the trigger, and then, with the gun’s barrel centered on the bedroom’s doorway, began inching back toward the hallway. Just as I reached the edge of the kitchen wall, Khalimmy reappeared in the doorway, his silenced pistol pointing straight ahead. Directly at my chest.

  “Drop it,” I yelled.

  “It seems we have a stalemate,” he said calmly.

  “Drop the fucking gun!” I screamed. “Now.”

  “You can’t win this, Alex,” he said, immobile, his gun still trained on my chest.

  “No, but if I’m going to die anyway,” I spat, “at least I’m going to get even.”

  I pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 54

  And dove rightward, down the hallway and onto the floor.

  I scrabbled to my feet and immediately fired again, sending a warning round smacking into the kitchen ceiling, then backed up a handful of steps and pumped another round down the hallway.

  Step by step, I backed up, gun trained down the hall, until my backside pressed into the brass handle of the front door.

  I reached behind me, clicked the latch, and tugged the door open. Gun still aimed toward the kitchen, I sidestepped through the doorway, then yanked the door shut.

  Safe. For now, at least.

  I spun around to bolt.

  The fist caught me squarely in the solar plexus and I collapsed to the ground, gasping for oxygen. Then, as in a nightmare, unable to breathe or lift my arms to defend myself, I saw the butt-end of a gun fly in an arc toward my temple.

  Chapter 55

  I came to slowly, confused and physically uncomfortable—my temple, neck, right shoulder and lower back throbbed angrily and my right arm had fallen asleep. I opened my eyes to total darkness; the air, hot and stuffy, smelled of gasoline and old rags.

  The bastards had locked me in a car trunk. After a moment to clear my head, I shifted my body left and dislodged my right arm, unleashing a thousand excruciating pins and needles. Once the feeling had returned, I probed with both arms to gauge the space and quickly ran into a jumble of boxes, cables, and a plastic gas can, its contents sloshing from the sudden shift.

  I rotated my body, making every effort not to generate additional noise, shifting my feet to the rear of the car and my head toward the front, then pressed my ear up against the rear of the backseat and listened. If they were in the front of the car, they weren’t making any noise. They probably locked up the car in a garage and were waiting until after dark, when they could safely drag me out. Again I shifted, placing my ear up against the metal trunk lid. No one within earshot.

  Reassured, I rummaged through the boxes, feeling around for tools: a crowbar, screwdriver, a jack, anything I could use to escape. Nothing. Well, at least I knew my situation. Locked in a trunk, probably inside a garage, hopefully out of earshot. I rearranged my body into a less cramped position, reducing the strain on my neck and lower back, and ruminated.

  I could try kicking out the lid of the trunk but that would make noise. I could also
try kicking the backseat into the front of the car. That would be quieter. I’d try that first.

  I rotated and wedged my frame against the rear of the trunk, then using my arms to steady myself, launched a devastating kick at the rear of the backseat. This, to my stunned disappointment, sent searing pain through the heels of my feet yet did absolutely no damage to the car’s rear seating. After the pain subsided, I steeled myself and kicked again. The seat didn’t budge. I tried once more, this time kicking toward the top of the seat. Nothing.

  Dammit.

  I had to try the lid, even if it meant they might hear me. I wiped the layer of sweat from my forehead, took a few deep breaths, and positioned my body for an attack on the trunk’s hatch.

  Over and over I slammed my palms up through the suffocating darkness against the trunk’s lid. The lock felt like it was starting to give, ever so slowly, but I couldn’t keep it up. The temperature had risen noticeably in just the past few minutes, and whether it was the heat or the dwindling oxygen, I was starting to get dizzy. I had to stop or I’d pass out.

  Shit. That was the last thing I needed.

  I laid my head down on what felt like a clump of oily rags. I’d rest a minute. Slow my breathing. Let … let the dizziness pass. Just for a minute. Because if I were still here when they got back, I was dead. They’d torture me for the password, and then they’d … and they’d kill me … and I wasn’t … I …

  I slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 56

  I awoke confused and sore on the dusty linoleum floor of a small, drably furnished bedroom—a children’s room, at least at one time. Flaking hand-painted clouds and biplanes ornamented the scuffed, gray-hued walls. A cot with a rumpled army surplus blanket lay in one corner, a shabby children’s dresser next to it, and opposite them, a door and a sliding mirrored closet. A lone window, boarded from the inside, covered the wall nearest my feet. After gaining my bearings I tried to shift my arms, which had been bound behind my back, to alleviate the stress on my shoulders. The exercise was futile; I instantly recoiled in pain—savagely tightened plastic cable ties, the kind police use to incapacitate protesters, sliced into the flesh of my wrists. I looked down at my ankles. They too were fastened, with no less than three of the nasty bindings. The bastards weren’t taking any chances.

  I lay still on the filthy floor, listening and staring intently at the dim sliver of light beneath the door for any sign of movement. None came. After several minutes of waiting, I shimmied my rear along the floor and inched my body backward, using my bound feet, until my back rested against the wall. Drawing my feet in close, I pushed my heels against the floor, extended my legs, and gently slid my body up the wall.

  Once I’d gained my feet, I hopped over to the door, then shuffled in place until my hands contacted the knob. It was locked, as expected. Undeterred, I worked my way over to the dresser, backed myself up to it, and pulled the drawer open a few inches.

  I hit pay dirt. Among other items, the top drawer contained a Zippo lighter, a flat-head screwdriver, and a bunch of pens. I bent forward, extending my bound arms back to pull the drawer open farther just as I heard footsteps in the hall.

  “Let’s get this over with,” said Khalimmy.

  Shit. Hands caught in the cookie jar. I jerked backward in an attempt to shut the drawer, lost my balance and slammed shoulder-first onto the dusty linoleum floor.

  The lock clicked and the door edged open a few seconds later.

  “How do you like the accommodations?” asked Khalimmy.

  I rolled onto my stomach and gritted my teeth to stifle the searing pain.

  “Not feeling too talkative, I guess. Unfortunately, I’ve got a few questions for you.” He prodded me with his foot. “Would you rather answer lying there on your face, or on the cot?”

  “C-cot,” I stammered through the pain.

  Khalimmy grabbed my left arm and tugged me upright, then escorted me over to the cot, his pistol trained on my chest.

  “Better?”

  “Better,” I replied, noticing for the first time the bloodied bandage on his right ear.

  “I must give you some credit,” he said, observing my gaze. “I never expected you to pull the trigger.”

  Silently, I shook my head in anger. If only I’d aimed a few more inches to the right.

  “Good. All right, Alex. I’ll make this simple. I’m going to need the password for the video. The last time you stalled, two people died.” He scratched his graying, stubbled chin wearily. “I have no qualms torturing you for it. But understand one thing, I will get that password.”

  As if on command, Khalimmy’s partner walked up to the door with a spool of nylon cord, a rusty pair of pruning shears, and a ball peen hammer.

  “Over there,” he said, motioning casually at the drawer with his gun. His eyes didn’t leave my face.

  The man dropped the tools into the drawer and mumbled something in what must have been Arabic. Khalimmy replied, and the stocky man walked over to the cot, grabbed the mass of cable ties securing my ankles and yanked my legs toward the edge of the cot, then knotted my legs to the cot’s aluminum frame with the cord. He then looped the cord several times around my neck and knotted it around the other end of the frame. I was, for all intents and purposes, immobilized.

  “Thank you, Sami,” said Khalimmy, then he asked something in Arabic. The man responded in kind, then left the room.

  “You were sloppy,” he said. “Sami tells me that you didn’t properly wipe the Florentine files from your computer when you deleted them. He thinks he might be able to recover them.”

  “So you don’t need the password after all,” I said.

  “No. I didn’t say that. I’m not going to take any more chances, Alex.” He walked over to the drawer, laid the gun down, and picked up the shears. “I am not going to wait while Sami plays Steve Jobs. You’re going to tell me now, and get this over with. If you don’t give me the password, or you give me the wrong password, I will inflict enormous pain on you.”

  Khalimmy walked over to the cot and kneeled next to my head. “I’m sure many things are going through your mind right now, so what do you say I give you thirty seconds to think it over. To give you some incentive, I intend to start with your nose.”

  He waved the shears inches from my face, then stood up, walked over to the closet, and dragged out a large roll of plastic sheeting.

  “This kind of thing can get messy,” he said as he lifted his shirtsleeves and stared at his watch.

  Capitulate now, or suffer immeasurably and then capitulate? The choice was easy.

  “I’ll give you the password.”

  “Good. You won’t regret it.” Khalimmy pulled a small spiral notepad from his slacks and a pen from his shirt pocket, then stared at me expectantly.

  “Seven, six, nine, five, four, two.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” Khalimmy jotted down the digits, then slipped the pen back into his pocket. He had just reached the door when Sami yelled something incomprehensible. Khalimmy yelled back, then rotated in the doorway, a large grin exposing his yellowing teeth.

  “Sami just finished recovering all of your deleted files. We didn’t need the password after all. In any case, you just saved yourself a great deal of unnecessary suffering, Alex.”

  Several hours later, Khalimmy returned with a paper plate of Chinese takeout and plastic fork.

  “No monkey business, please.”

  He placed the plate on the dresser, loosened the cord binding my neck, and used the shears to cut through the plastic ties around my wrists. Fighting extreme stiffness in my shoulders, I brought my arms forward and accepted the sagging plate of food. It was cold and congealed into a takeout-box-shaped clump, but edible. Khalimmy leaned up against the dresser and stared pensively at the wall as I ate.

  “The beginning of the end …” he mumbled to himself.

  “What?” I asked, looking up from the plate.

  Khalimmy straightened, his eyes focused, and he
studied me.

  “This will be the beginning of the end for America and Israel,” he said after a moment. “A suitcase nuclear bomb can kill thousands, maybe tens of thousands of infidels, but this is ultimately insignificant. The sting of a hornet to a bear. Bin Laden never recognized this, and this was his fatal flaw. He measured success based on the count of bodies.

  “But the reality, one that few in my world are able to appreciate, is that west’s strength is built upon a flimsy house of cards. Your banks, hospitals, stock markets, your electricity and traffic grids, your military—everything is computerized. Everything. You are dependent on computers as much as any organism is dependent on oxygen. Take away this oxygen and the organism dies. It will asphyxiate and collapse.

  “The challenge, of course, was how to destroy your hundreds of millions of computers without being discovered and blocked in the process. Our academics suggested that we use a sophisticated computer virus.” He snorted condescendingly. “Fools. Even the fucking Israeli pigs, with their trillions of stolen wealth, were able to impact only a tiny fraction of our uranium enrichment with their advanced Stuxnet virus.” Khalimmy scratched his chin. “But then we learned of the Florentine, and its remarkable potential.” He shook his head. “You must give credit to the Russians. They are godless and corrupt, but they are also brutally clever.”

  Sami called from some other part of the house. Khalimmy stepped out into the hall for a few minutes, then returned.

  “Allah is smiling upon our efforts. Sami has almost finished preparing a test payload for dispersal with Florentine.”

  “A test payload?” I asked.

  “A benign payload, Alex. We must make sure the cryptographic keys from Lister’s flash drive are valid, and that the distribution system is functioning properly,” he responded matter-of-factly. “Allah willing, within a few days, we will be safely back in Iran, and your people will be looting and killing each other.”