Page 116 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“Not Pennsylvania?” I asked.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve got the codes for Mercedes’s version of an OnStar system. It’s dead or in a dead spot, but we had him last about fifteen minutes ago on a residential street outside Savage, Maryland.”

“Savage?” Sampson said. “That’s not far from the Baltimore/ Washington International Airport.”

“Jesus,” Mahoney said. “Good call, John. We’ve got agents and police on the way. I’m on the way too.”

He hung up as we were getting on I-395 east of Annandale, Virginia.

“Head north?” Sampson said. “Or home?”

“Both the same way,” I said. “Give me a minute to think about it.”

I did, trying to look at everything that had happened in the past day, not only the capture of the Dead Hours killer and his claim to be linked to M and Maestro, but the leaps and bounds we’d taken in the investigation of the downing of AA 839. I thought about Ibrahim Obaid and every twist and turn of his journey — working for the U.S. military with Leslie Parks, then killing Parks; changing his name; stealing the Browning machine gun and the Stinger missile system; shooting down the jet; killing Rosella Santiago; and, if John was right, kidnapping Captain Davis and Fiona Plum as part of an elaborate frame job.

I called Mahoney back. “That tracking system still off in the Sprinter?”

“Affirmative, but we’ve got an address for where they last had it. I’ll give it to you. Follow me north.”

“I don’t think so, Ned. Something tells me he’s doubling back. John and I are going to head west, cover the bases. Can you give us someone at Mercedes who can tell us all the places he’s been recently?”

“I can. Here’s the number. Her name is Carolyn Mayfield.”

CHAPTER 98

SHORTLY AFTER DARK, ASthe temperatures dropped into the twenties, and the sleet turned to snow, Ibrahim Obaid took a right off the highway onto Tanner Lane, the entrance to Chantilly Crushed Stone, Vulcan Materials, and Virginia Paving, which owned pieces of a giant gravel pit there.

Obaid stopped the Sprinter at the gate next to a booth with a security guard, a guy in his late thirties, dark features, and also wearing a Canada Goose jacket with the hood up. Obaid looked at the booth’s camera as the guard opened the window. The tiny red bulb that should have lit up to indicate the device was recording remained dark.

All was going according to plan.

“I’m placing an order,” Obaid said.

The guard said, “Good luck finding anyone. Once they heard all the snow was coming, they freaked and left.”

“Eight to fourteen inches overnight, I heard.”

“Same.”

“Too bad about the Chevy.”

“Early bird gets the worm,” the security guard said, and he hit a button that raised the gate. “Godspeed, brother.”

“And to you, brother,” Obaid said.

He drove forward onto an inch of fresh, wet snow over pavement that quickly gave way to pressed gravel, which was slick and rutty. He was happy that the van was all-wheel drive.

The guard had been right — there were no personal vehicles at Chantilly Crushed Stone, Vulcan Materials, or Virginia Paving. And all the dump trucks and dozers in the pit were idle and empty.

Obaid drove down into the pit and went past the vehicles, beneath the conveyor belts that fed the gravel sifters, and by a steel maintenance shed. All dark. The terrorist felt a thrill go through him. He could not have asked for better conditions and felt truly blessed this night.

On the northwest side of the pit, where vehicles either turned around or continued down into the deeper excavations, Obaid drove forward and stopped. He turned off the headlights and put on his yellow fog lights, which shone down rather than out. He retrieved a pair of heavy bolt cutters and a headlamp with a soft red filter from the floor on the passenger side. He put on the headlamp, pulled up the hood on his jacket, got out, and was hit with driving, wet snow.

He walked forward through the snow about twenty-five yards to a chain-link fence and proceeded to cut out a section about twelve feet wide and drag it aside. Back in the Sprinter, he brushed the snow off his clothes, put on hisseat belt, and looked over his shoulder into the dark rear of the van.

“Hold on tight, now,” Obaid said to Captain Davis and Fiona Plum. “Things could get a little bumpy here.”

Obaid turned on the parking lights to add to the glow from the fog lamps, put the van in gear, and stomped on the gas. The Mercedes fishtailed and then caught enough traction to accelerate forward through the gap he’d cut in the fence. Obaid hit the opening a little to the right, scraping the side of the van as it gained speed. He saw the edge of the ditch ahead, tugged the wheel left, and braced for impact.

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