“Do you have anything to report, my dear jungle bunny?”

“I have followed your directions.”

“Good. They are on their way, then?”

He could almost hear Abdullah’s mind spinning on the other end. “I was told to prepare them,” Abdullah said. “Not to send them.”

“Unless there was a problem. Isn’t that what I told you? Hmm?”

“What problem—”

“Don’t be an imbecile!” Jamal spit into the phone. “You don’t think I know when you eat and when you sleep and when you pass gas?”

His hand was shaking and he took a breath to still himself. He had two men in the compound who reported to him regularly. Not that he needed them often—he knew Abdullah’s moves before the fool did.

“I am on my way, my friend. If you have not done precisely as I have said—”

“The bombs are on the way,” Abdullah said tightly.

Jamal blinked. “They are.” The words stopped him cold.

“Good.”

He slammed the phone down and walked from the phone booth.

SWEAT GLISTENED on Abdullah’s face under the fluorescent lights. He set the phone down, poured another splash of tequila into his shot glass, dipped a quivering tongue into the burning liquid, and then tilted his head slowly back until it drained empty into his mouth. Although he’d never been a drinking man, the last twenty-four hours had changed that. He and Ramón had done little except sit at his desk and wait. And drink.

The alcohol made him perspire, he thought. Like a pig. “Where are the ships now?” he asked again.

“Coming to Cuba maybe,” Ramón answered.

So, Jamal was coming. And when he did arrive, he would die. Abdullah felt a chill tickle his shoulders. He honestly wasn’t sure which thought gave him more pleasure, killing Jamal, or detonating a thermonuclear weapon on American soil.

He ran a finger along the edge of the transmitter lying on the bar beside him. It was a simple 2.4 gigahertz transmitting device, impossible to isolate quickly. But it tied into a far more sophisticated transmitter hidden one mile away, secured in the jungle canopy in a protective housing. From there a tiny burst masquerading as a television signal would be simultaneously relayed through commercial communication satellites. Not all would fail. Not all could be stopped.

And by the time the authorities detected the burst, which they would, it would be too late. The detonation of the first bomb would automatically send a signal to set the second bomb on a twenty-four-hour countdown to detonation. Two green buttons rose from the black plastic like two peas. He circled first one button and then the other. Below the buttons, nine numbers made up a small keypad. Only he and Jamal had the codes to stop the inevitable.