1. Hotel Tower 485 m, 1,591 ft.
2. Hajar 260 m, 853 ft.
3. Zamzam 260 m, 853 ft.
4. Qiblah240m,787ft.
5. Sarah 240 m, 787 ft.
6. Marwah 240 m, 787 ft.
7. Safa240m,787ft.
With the exception of the hotel, each of the names had its roots in Islam. Sarah and Hajar were women in the Qur’an. Zamzam was the famous well inside the Great Mosque. Marwah and Safa were the hills that pilgrims travel between seven times. Qiblah was the direction of prayer in Mecca.
According to the pamphlet, each of the buildings was being treated as a separate project. All of them were interconnected, but they would be finished at different intervals. Two of the residential towers would be completed this year; the hotel would take until the end of the decade.
Payne considered this while he planned their next move.
Meanwhile, his men gathered around as if he were a quarterback in the huddle, waiting for him to call the play.
“There are six of us and six exterior buildings,” he said. “We don’t know where they’ll be or what they’re doing. For all we know, they’re spread throughout the complex. The best way to cover that much ground is by splitting up. Radio frequently. Keep me posted. Concentrate on the structural areas, places where an explosive will do the most damage. We don’t have time to go room to room. Just follow your gut and we may get lucky.”
He pointed to a man then pointed to a building, each assigned the number in the pamphlet. “You, four. You, five. You, six. You, seven. D.J. and I will take the two towers closest to the hotel. If you see anything, let us know. We’ll reassign manpower as needed.”
The soldiers dispersed, moving in pairs. Even-numbered buildings were on the left; odd numbers were on the right. The men would travel together until they were forced to split up.
Payne and Jones were the last to leave. They lingered in (he subbasement for an extra minute, looking for something to improve their odds, hoping to find a better map, one with floor plans or mechanical drawings. Anything to point out the weaknesses that Schmidt might have spotted when he did his research.
As it turned out, their biggest break wasn’t an object. It was a sound. A simple sound. Nothing more than a drip of liquid falling on concrete. Like a droplet of rain hitting the sidewalk. Jones heard it as he searched for paperwork. On most occasions it would have blended into the outside world and he would have ignored it. But in this case, his senses were in overdrive. Adrenaline was flowing, and everything around him was part of a much bigger puzzle.
A sound could be a footstep. A sound could mean his death.
Drip. Somewhere to his left.
Drip. Back near the maintenance shaft.
Drip. What was that smell?
Suddenly his curiosity was doubled. Not only was there a noise, but there was an odor. A familiar scent that reminded him of his time in the military. Back when he was flying planes and helicopters. Killing time in hangars. Waiting for his next mission to begin.
He took a few steps forward, searching the ceiling and floor for moisture. Finally he saw it. A small puddle underneath the massive water pipe they had followed from the hatch. Curious, he crouched and inspected the liquid. It was clear like water but had a strong chemical smell. He put his nose closer and took a whiff.
“Jon,” he called over his shoulder. “Come over here.”
Payne spotted him in a catcher’s stance, examining a puddle on the ground. He couldn’t imagine what his friend was doing. “Please tell me you didn’t take a piss.”
Jones ignored him. “I think it’s fuel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think this pipe is leaking fuel.”
“But that’s a water pipe.”
He nodded. “I know it is. But I’m telling you, this isn’t water.”
Dubious, Payne leaned closer and breathed in the fumes. An acrid stench filled his nostrils, burning the back of his throat and making him gag.
“Told you it isn’t water.”
Payne coughed a few times, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell is that?”
But Jones didn’t answer. Instead, he took a few steps down the maintenance shaft, trying to figure out what was going on. He glanced back into the subbasement, following the plumbing, then back into the shaft again, the pieces still not fitting together. “Where do those pipes go?”
“To some private facility in the desert. Shari said the towers were so big they had to pump in their own water.”
“But that’s not water.”
“I know it’s not water. I’m still choking.” He paused for a second as all the nasty possibilities started to sink in. “Wait. What do you think it is?”
“Aviation fuel.”