Brad Thor - Blowback

“What about the documents you found?”

“That brings us back to my question, “He said, looking to Jillian once again. “Could the illness be spread by contact with things that had been purposefully contaminated?”

“Sure,” responded Jillian. “The ancients were very fond of lacing fields they knew their enemies were going to pass through with toxic poisons. The enemy would walk through, and the substance would enter their bodies through direct dermal contact or respiratory inhalation. They were even known to contaminate foodstuffs, water supplies, or everyday goods and leave them for the enemy to ‘discover,’ and that would be that. Why are you asking?”

“From what Gary told me, the contaminated package in the U.S. contained some sort of powdered spice made from ground cherry pits. It was being shipped to an ex-Saudi national who owns a string of very interesting businesses.”

“What kind of businesses?”

“Gas stations, convenience stores, currency exchanges, payday loan and check-cashing operations throughout the Northeast.”

“So?”

“So what do all those businesses have in common?”

After a moment, Harvath responded, “Cash. They all deal very heavily in cash.”

“Bingo,” said Reynolds. “And all of those businesses encounter little or no regulation. They’re virtual money-laundering machines.”

“Or money-dirtying machines.”

“According to the list I saw, these guys have operations throughout the United States, even in Alaska. Short of getting someone inside the Treasury Department, I can’t think of a better way to compromise large amounts of American currency. The question is, though, could they use that powdered spice to contaminate paper money?”

“If what I learned in the Secret Service is any indication,” replied Harvath, “then definitely.”

“How?”

“Our paper is very fibrous, and it doesn’t take much for things to get embedded in those fibers. The best example would be cocaine. According to statistics, trace amounts of cocaine are believed to infect four out of every five bills in circulation.”

“That’s impossible,” answered Reynolds. “There aren’t that many people doing drugs in America.”

“The drug users may be the root source, but they represent an almost negligible minority when it comes to how bills get contaminated. When a powdered substance like cocaine is very finely milled, it passes easily from one surface to another. The biggest contamination culprits are ATMs. Once infected, they were shown to spread trace amounts of cocaine to all the bills they distributed. Counting and sorting machines like those used in banks and casinos are just as bad. Even the machines tested in several Federal Reserve banks were shown to be contaminated.

“Basically, a single bill with trace amounts of a substance like cocaine can infect an entire cash drawer, and when that cash encounters a counting or sorting machine, which fans the bills, the contamination grows exponentially. It makes perfect sense.”

Reynolds looked back at Jillian. “You’re the scientist. What do you think?”

“From a personal standpoint, I think it’s terrifying. But from a strictly scientific point of view, it’s absolutely brilliant.”

Harvath hadn’t liked it when al-Qaeda’s strategic genius was praised after the September 11 attacks, and he didn’t like hearing this current terrorist strategy described in such a way either, but he understood what she meant. “So is this a viable means of infection?”

“It makes sense,” said Jillian. “Contaminated currency would be a perfect, virtually unstoppable way to spread it. It would also have a chilling psychological effect on financial markets worldwide. The American dollar would be quite literally worthless. Not only would al-Qaeda succeed in killing scores of infidels, but they would also decimate the American economy. Quite a one-two punch.”

Harvath turned to Reynolds and asked, “How much time before we get to the warehouse?”

“About five more minutes.”

“Is your cell phone secure?”

“More secure than most in the kingdom, why?”

“Just in case we don’t walk out of that warehouse, Gary needs to know what we’ve discovered.”

As Harvath raised the phone to his ear, he glanced in the Land Cruiser’s side-view mirror and watched as a blue Mercedes behind them turned off onto a small side street and another car merged into traffic three lengths back. It was the same car that had been behind them when they turned onto the main road leaving Riyadh Air Base.

Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Reynolds, “I think we’ve got company.”

Reynolds trusted Harvath’s instincts. Without even waiting for an explanation, he yelled for everybody to hang on and pulled a hard right turn followed by a quick left. Pulling a walkie-talkie from beneath his seat, he asked Harvath to describe the car he had seen. Once he knew what they were looking for, he raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Bluebird, this is Pelican. Do you copy? Over.”

“Who’s Bluebird?” asked Harvath as he glanced over his shoulder to see if they were still being followed.

“He’s one of my men. His name is Zafir.”

“Is he a Saudi?”

“No, Pakistani. He’s ex-military and one of the few people I trust with something like this. He’s on a rooftop down the street from the warehouse keeping an eye out for us. In about a block he’ll have a clear view, and we’ll know if anyone is following us.”

“Pelican, this is Bluebird. I copy. Over,” broke a voice across Reynolds’s radio. “What’s your status? Over.”

“Pelican is inbound with possible company. Please check our tail for a beige, late-model Nissan Sentra. Over.”

“Late-model beige Nissan Sentra. Roger that,” said Zafir. “Take a right turn at Al Mus’ad and another right turn at Khair al Din. Will let you know. Over.”

“Roger that. Pelican out,” said Reynolds as he handed the radio to Harvath and prepared to execute the turns.

Three minutes later, Zafir radioed back that they were all clear. Either Harvath had overreacted and they weren’t being followed, or they had managed to lose whoever was behind them. Something told Harvath it was the latter. He had a bad feeling that they were about to walk into something they might have a very difficult time walking out of.

Taking the radio back from Harvath, Reynolds did one final check with Zafir, who told him the warehouse had been quiet all day. Even though the parking lot was empty, Reynolds chose to park on the street about a block away. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to the fact that someone was visiting.

Fool them once, shame on them. Fool them twice, double shame on them was Reynolds’s feeling as he removed the prayer mat, which, just as in his last visit to the warehouse, was wrapped around his Remington twelve-gauge tactical shotgun. The nice thing about this trip, though, was that unless the owners of the structure had changed the locks, Reynolds had his own set of keys.

Working their way around to the office at the rear of the structure, Reynolds tried several of the keys until he found the one that worked. With Harvath helping cover him with his H amp;K, Reynolds pulled his Remington from the prayer rug, and they quietly crept inside with Jillian right behind them. At the end of the hallway, Reynolds held up his hand and counted to three, at which point he and Harvath both swept into the office and found it totally empty.

Every desk drawer stood open and bare. Harvath checked the file cabinets and found the same thing. The entire place had been cleared out. Somebody had decided they didn’t want to wait around to see if the shotgun-toting Westerner was going to make a second appearance.