Can a dead man speak?
When interrogator Emma Ripley learns of an imminent attack on US soil, she is not surprised. What does shock her is when the most valuable prisoner ever to arrive in custody is handed to her.
Georges Subdallah is a US citizen, long ago radicalized, and the most skilled bombmaker in the world. He is a man long thought dead – the architect of his own horrific suicide bombing years ago.
In him, Emma faces her most complex and urgent counterintelligence order: to extract key intel from him to stop the largest attack in US history.
To do so, she must reach a man willing to die for his cause, who has been held for years in a secret government building, maimed and broken.
To prevent further bloodshed she must learn what made him turn against his country, what brought a model US citizen, with a wife and young daughter, to blow himself up.
A heart-pounding, non-stop, intelligent spy thriller that will have you gripped from the first page. Perfect for fans of Lehane, Grisham, and Freida McFadden.
Can a dead man speak?
When interrogator Emma Ripley learns of an imminent attack on US soil, she is not surprised. What does shock her is when the most valuable prisoner ever to arrive in custody is handed to her.
Georges Subdallah is a US citizen, long ago radicalized, and the most skilled bombmaker in the world. He is a man long thought dead – the architect of his own horrific suicide bombing years ago.
In him, Emma faces her most complex and urgent counterintelligence order: to extract key intel from him to stop the largest attack in US history.
To do so, she must reach a man willing to die for his cause, who has been held for years in a secret government building, maimed and broken.
To prevent further bloodshed she must learn what made him turn against his country, what brought a model US citizen, with a wife and young daughter, to blow himself up.
A heart-pounding, non-stop, intelligent spy thriller that will have you gripped from the first page. Perfect for fans of Lehane, Grisham, and Freida McFadden.
September 4th, 1989
SIPPING this root beer was the last pleasant feeling he would ever have.
All this sweat was something he hadn’t expected. But wearing the nice suit and tie was necessary to get past all the guard posts, to look the part and use the phony security passes forged by Marcel’s team. So Fadi had scooted along Windsor Street on the little Vespa, already damp with sweat despite the nice breeze, despite being beardless for the first time in ten years. The bulky helmet didn’t help things either. But Marcel had said it too was necessary. “This is a special helmet, Fadi. It can stop bullets. Imagine you are zooming toward the target, zooming toward immortality, and a bullet finds your head that stops you from igniting the charge.”
About a half mile before the guard post was a little corner store. Fadi had parked the Vespa on the sidewalk and popped the helmet off, then went inside to spend the single dollar in his pocket on a cold root beer. He sat on a bench out front and cracked the can open, taking a long sip of the sweet stuff. The sound and taste of the drink weren’t the first sensations today that he realized he’d never feel again. He’d had this same thought the whole morning: the sting from the razor on his neck, the crisp warmth of the shower, the coffee, the choke of the tie.
Fatu had never tasted soda at the time he first met her. Later she would allow herself one tiny glass of root beer with ice in the late evening at their home. To her it was a vice, like smoking, sneaking out to the porch, even hiding the glass behind her back, the shameful smile with her face down as she closed the door behind her. To be able to serve her a tall glass on a tray, the bottle set beside it, lots of ice.
He held the last sip in his mouth a few seconds, swallowed, then tossed the can into a recycling bin. He threw his leg over the seat of the Vespa, latched the chin strap of the heavy helmet, clutched the front brake, turned the key, and held his breath as he pressed the ignition switch. His chest buzzed as the engine started, and he breathed out. He had spent the last few months coaching those crafty Egyptians on how to turn this little bike into a big bomb. Much of the space formerly taken up by the 150 cc engine had been filled with meaner things, adding weight that required stronger wheels and housing, keeping the moped as skinny and innocent-looking as before but with a belly full of anger.
The rest of Windsor Street was a shaded lane of Arlington’s nicest homes, few cars passing. Straight as an arrow. All the extra weight also made it difficult to steer. Despite practicing for several days with a dummy weight, something about this arrangement felt different, more lopsided. He whirred down the street at max throttle, thirty-two miles per hour, and on his right a long brick wall began, which he followed for a quarter mile until he came to the front gate.
Without hesitating he pulled up to the booth, where a guard greeted him and asked him to turn off the engine. Fadi showed him the perfect credentials, including his new ID badge with the clean-shaven face he didn’t even recognize in the mirror. The young man looked at it twice, smiled. Then he said, “Morning Dr. Ross.”
“Morning.”
“Got you working on a Saturday too, huh?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “At least I can come in a bit later though. Damned if I’ll wake up at seven on my Saturday.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same for myself.” Then he leaned into the station and pressed the button. The arm swung upward. “Have a good one.”
“You too, thanks.”
He handed Fadi the badge and papers, which he put in his coat pocket. Then he squeezed the front brake, turned the key, and pressed the ignition button. Exhaled and cranked the throttle. The Vespa pushed him forward with its high buzz, pushed him forward as the arm closed behind him. That was the easier one, Code C access, visiting employee badge, not much scrutiny at the gate. They gave those to teachers, consultants, janitors.
The Roberts compound was huge, but Fadi knew the layout so well he could have given directions to any building in the place, could have told maintenance men where each power station was, each water meter. He was scooting along at a good pace now, trying to clear his mind, to think of nothing, to pray. But suddenly Marcel’s voice blared in his ear. This, he knew, was the real reason Marcel had insisted he wear a helmet: so he could be the only thing Fadi heard, a surrogate conscience, blocking out all internal persuasion contrary to the mission, keeping the plan front and center. Less a shield against bullets than against any errant, abortive thoughts that might invade his skull.
“You are doing well, my brother. You are strong and calm, you are a warrior, you are holy, you are my brother.”
Even the sound of the Vespa’s engine couldn’t drown out Marcel’s sermonic pleading. They were watching him through binoculars. There were men in the hills tracking his path, only a few places along the route obscured by a building, the corner store for example.
Marcel knew to stop talking when Fadi pulled up to the second gate, this one manned by a guard who looked nearly identical to the previous one: young, clean, very kind eyes, the brows turned up in permanent sympathy.
“Morning, sir.”
“Morning to you.” He handed him the papers only.
“Thank you. Got you working today?”
“Yes, though…” Suddenly he froze. He couldn’t get a word out, couldn’t even think of what to say. The language he’d spoken his whole life was now like a foreign tongue lodged in his throat.
The guard looked up from the papers. “You okay, sir?”
Sweat fell into his eye. He tore at the chin strap, finally removing the helmet. Drawing a huge breath despite the clamping of his chest. “Yes.”
The guard disappeared into the booth. I’m finished. He’s calling for help, and they’ll realize I’m not Dr. Ross. Prison. But he returned a moment later with a thermos.
“Here you go, sir. Little Coke. It’s cold at least.”
He poured some of the Coke into the thermos top and handed it to Fadi, who looked at it suspiciously. “Had a man pass right out at his post the other week. Hotter than hell.”
He brought it to his lips, closed his eyes. It was cold. He took that first small sip and felt the sweetness in his cheeks then followed it with a gulp that emptied the cup. What a feeling, that simple kiss between his cheeks and the sugary water. He opened his eyes.
The guard was standing arms akimbo, an unworried smile and clear eyes. He was likely from northern Virginia, the manners and the bulk of him, the straight back in his fatigues. “Does the trick, doesn’t it?”
He handed the cup back. “Yes. Yes, it does. I’m embarrassed.”
“Maybe one more gulp there, sir?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I sit right next to the cafeteria in Caldwell, so I’ll have a nice glass of water when I get in. Just so terribly hot in this suit, this helmet. But, you know, have to dress professionally, even on a Saturday.”
The guard gave him a quizzical look.
“Coke machine. I sit right next to the Coke machine.” He fanned himself. “Guess I’m a bit flustered is all. The cafeteria is in Hanson, of course, closed today in any event.”
The guard nodded. “Well, get inside to the AC, sir. I won’t keep you.” Then he stuck his hand out. “Name’s Sam Hicks, by the way. Don’t believe we’ve met.”
The white hand hung in the air. Fadi looked at it while considering if the blast would reach this far, no way. It was meant to break the bones of the building, not to blow outward. He shook the man’s hand, callused skin but the hand felt kind, an almost pleading sensation. “Ross. Phillip Ross. Phil.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” As he put the damned helmet back on. “Take care now.”
Just as he was cranking the gas, the man said, “Hope you’re not lonely today.”
“Sorry?”
“Caldwell.” Motioning eastward with his chin. “It’s empty, figured you knew. Only second floor folks work on Saturdays, and one through three are being scraped for asbestos. Workers aren’t even in yet. You must be on another floor. Otherwise, workers will kick you out when they show up later.”
He froze a moment at hearing this then managed to sputter out, “I’m on four, yes.” He nodded and coasted off.
Empty. Do I turn back? Empty?! Eight months of planning and they hadn’t discovered some damned asbestos treatment. This was now pointless. To Marcel, anyway. He could dismantle the building, the symbol, as planned, but the blast, the very last spasm of his life, would not take others with it. Empty. No, he had come too far, and he was so close to his end. What was in the building made little difference. And after he was gone, no one, save for him and this man, Hicks, would know that he had knowingly continued on toward an empty target.
He traveled inward, waffled concrete buildings on either side, benches in small grass areas for government workers to take lunch breaks. Empty parking lots. The motor, the sweat.
“Good work, my brother.” Marcel’s voice again in his ear, trapped inside the helmet.
Fadi glanced toward the hills beyond the eastern wall.
“Do not look up!”
He buzzed forward, coming to a wood sign that read “Caldwell.” Then he brought the Vespa around to the back end of the building, down a hill, where he stopped with the engine still running. The rear entrance, right under the second floor, the perfect target for a well-placed boom.
Empty.
“Allah is in your heart, you are a great man, you are my brother, Fedayeen.” Then words in Arabic followed that Fadi had heard so many times before, but the strange syllables evaded comprehension and might as well have been raindrops on glass.
He flicked open the special latch next to the ignition, set the switch two clicks to the left. This had all been his design, so ingenious, he now thought, to use the bike’s electrical system to ignite the charge, no wasted space, just like the invention that had made him wealthy enough to retire, to pursue his true calling, as he’d said to his white mother all those years ago.
“Allah’s voice, Allah’s servant, Allah’s champion…”
He looked at his tan hand on the throttle, the thing that would propel him toward the building and set off the blast. It looked nothing like Nadat’s little hand. She and her mother making bread in the kitchen. Every movement of Fatu’s was mimicked by Nadat’s little version of her hand. Nadat would look up at her mother, repeat whatever she was doing, the smaller clump of dough squishing in her tiny fingers. Thank God she had gotten Fatu’s eyes, “The Eyes of Fatima.” That was how Marcel had described his daughter’s eyes, a great compliment of beauty in Egypt. For a woman to have the eyes of The Prophet’s daughter, and Nadat had gotten those eyes, but they were so little, and her hands were so little.
“My brother you will live on forever, you are a great servant, you are…”
He unsnapped the helmet and threw it to the pavement with a great clack. Then he loosened his tie and peeled his coat off. Though he knew Marcel and the others were watching, he dug into the bag at his feet and pulled out the expensive mobile phone his brother had recently bought him. He dialed the numbers, sweaty and shaking. The mechanical ringing was chopped up and distant.
“It’s me. Everything…yes, everything is fine. Listen to me. I love you so very much.” Tears with sweat, stinging. “I love you so much. I’m sorry. No…goodbye.” He hung up and put the phone back into the bag.
The two hundred feet in front of him he could do with his eyes closed. The practice course in Marcel’s warehouse had been made to exact measurements. The only tricky part was weaving between the stone pylons, which was why the tiny bike had been chosen. But it was the only way into the tender underbelly of this evil place; the Egyptians had assured him of that. With enough power and pin-point aim, they could bring down the entire southern wing. Empty, that his life would break in such a way.
He twisted the handle backward, released the brake, and was brought forward between the stone blocks, fifty feet away from the back door now. Closer, his thumb hovering over the ignition, the burst that would end this knotted string of feelings and thoughts, that would bring him back to Nadat and Fatu, but he didn’t know, didn’t know what was in that blackness on the other side of this door, but he charged forward, ever forward, and hoped God would greet him, God existed, that his two sweet girls still existed somewhere separate and good. Allah, Allah…not moving forward but the door getting bigger and moving toward him, and the door larger and larger, the door…Allah, Allah…Allah, Allah…Nadat, Nadat, Fatu…Nadat.
Daniel Davies serves up a winner of a book here! "Bombmaker" is one of those reads that leaves you reeling while being unable to look away or put it down. It is a page-turner at its finest, one with depth and true substance. It is a book that builds upon itself from start to finish and keeps you guessing and, at times, breathless.
Fair warning: I'm not a fan of crass or coarse language, and I do my best to avoid foul language. If this is you, too, you may want to skip this read. The female lead, especially, has a mouth on her that could make many a man blush.
While I found the dating life of one of the main characters, Emma Ripley, to be fluff that needn't be present, I found her family life relevant. I appreciated the backstories and present-day intricacies of the multitude of characters as they were shared throughout the book. The shaping of lives and sharing them brought things full circle and the methodical darkness to light. The American dream many strive for, and how it can be destroyed by racism. terrorism, and formulating an identity when you are one person of different parts, parcels, and ancestry. Who are you? What are you here for? Which part of yourself do you most identify with? All expressed within these words, as read on page 284 of Bombmaker, "When I was young, I tried to make myself happy. I tried to squeeze in here and change myself to fit. But when I became an adult, I realized that's not what you do. You find places that suit you. Not the other way around. And I want my daughter to grow up in a place that suits her."
Stories aren't typically linear. They are usually filled with ups and downs. This book is no different. It's extremely true to life and believable. What I perhaps appreciate most about this book is the questions it raises about what drives people, including terrorists. These are questions I would perhaps never have taken the time to ponder if not for this book.
Life doesn't always end up how we wish it would. And, while this book leaves loose endings, it's also satisfying. The many characters are never confusing but masterfully shared. This book has staying power and will linger with you even after reaching its conclusion. So much life is lived beyond the scope of what we see and are aware of each day. This is both exhilarating to recognize while also terrifying. We can choose to exist in a bubble or prayerfully determine what if any, role we are to play in the communities in which we live. How far down the rabbit hole do you want to go?