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Nixon had taken the unit apart and cleaned it thoroughly. But when he reassembled the phone it still did not work. He’d decided to bake the chip boards in a small toaster oven to make sure that all trace of moisture was gone. Removing the parts from the oven carefully with medical forceps, he reassembled the unit then added the freshly charged battery.
The unit lit up and the message icon flashed.
Nixon smiled and reached for the intercom.
HANLEY AND STONE had been working on Seng and Meadows’s information. They had managed to hack into the British Motor Vehicles Registry and match a name and address with the motorcycle license plate. Then they ran the information on Nebile Lababiti through a different database and located bank information and his visitor visa information. Stone was cross-checking everything now.
“His rent checks don’t match the address he gave passport control,” Stone noted. “I ran the name of the building his rent checks are made out to through a mapping program and found the location. He told passport control he lives in the Belgravia section of London. The building he pays rent to is a few miles away, near the Strand.”
“I know the Strand,” Hanley said. “Last time I was in London I ate at a restaurant on the Strand named Simpson’s.”
“Any good?” Stone asked.
“It’s been in business since 1828,” Hanley said. “You don’t stay around that long if the food is bad. Roast beef, mutton, good desserts.”
“What’s the street like,” Stone asked, “the Strand itself?”
“Busy,” Hanley said, “hotels, restaurants, theaters. Not the perfect place for a covert operation.”
“Sounds like an excellent place for a terrorist to strike.”
Hanley nodded. “Find me the closest heliport.”
“I’m on it,” Stone said.
Then the intercom buzzed and Nixon asked Hanley to come down to the Magic Shop.
LABABITI HAD FINISHED two pints of ale and a double shot of peppermint schnapps. He stared at his gold wristwatch then smoked a cigarette. When that was finished he snubbed it out in the ashtray, tossed some pound notes on the bar and walked outside.
The Yemeni who would drive the bomb to the location was due to arrive on the bus from the airport in the next few minutes. Lababiti found the bus stop just up the street, then leaned against the building and smoked another cigarette while he waited.
London was alive with holiday cheer. The shop windows were decorated for the season and people crowded the streets. Most of the hotels were booked solid as people arrived in London for the New Year’s Eve celebration. There was an Elton John concert planned for Hyde Park. And at both Green and St. James’s Parks near Buckingham Palace, the trees had been adorned with thousands of colored lights. The streets near Hyde Park would be closed, and food courts, temporary pubs and outdoor restrooms would be placed on the streets for the massive party. Fireworks would be launched from barges anchored in the River Thames. And the sky would burn with celebration.
Lababiti smiled with a secret only he knew. He would be supplying the most powerful fireworks, and when it was done the party, and all who attended, would cease to exist. The bus pulled up and Lababiti waited as it unloaded.
The Yemeni was nothing more than a child, and he appeared scared and confused by the unusual surroundings. Stepping timidly off the bus after most of the others at the stop had disembarked, he clutched a cheap suitcase in his hands. He was dressed in a tattered black wool overcoat that must have been bought used. The thin outline of a mustache that would never have time to fill in adorned his upper lip like the mark left from a glass of chocolate milk.
Lababiti stepped forward. “I’m Nebile.”
“Amad,” the boy said quietly.
Lababiti steered him down the street toward the apartment.
They had sent a child to do a man’s job. But Lababiti didn’t care—there was no way he would do it himself.
“Have you eaten?” Lababiti asked when they were away from the crowd.
“I had some figs,” Amad said.
“Let’s get your bags in my apartment and I’ll show you around.”
Amad simply nodded. He was visibly trembling, and speech would not come.
HANLEY LISTENED TO Al-Khalifa’s messages, then saved them.
“His voice prompt is short,” Hanley noted.
“It may be enough,” Nixon said.
