OMAR: A Novel
Brief Synopsis: In 1995, the CIA / FBI jointly uncovered secret plans to recover priceless treasure from 2077 fathoms below the North Atlantic Ice Barrier, aboard RMS Titanic. A terrorist organization competed against divers, hired by a billionaire, which set off a complex web of intrigue and suspense. Dr. Cary Parker, Woods Hole oceanographer and maritime law specialist, was recruited to beat both teams to the ship's grave. A wave of global terrorism was set into motion, as Parker challenged the terrorists on his own turf. And a rare, priceless, early 20th Century book became the primary focus of a triadic search.
A short excerpt from the suspense-thriller, OMAR: A Novel (A Cary Parker Thriller).
Terrorists have crossed over the Canadian border, through the Windsor, Ontario/Detroit, Michigan Gate. They have arrived at a motel near the Gilbert Ordnance Depot and a military prison—a stop-off along the way.
The Gilbert Motel manager, seeing three well-dressed men, decided to give them the best room available. And charged them double the going rate on the stolen credit card.
“Sign here, uh . . . Mr. Hakim.” He handed the registration card and a pen to Rahman. “And we’ll need your car license so’s ya’ don’t get towed during the night. We get visitors to the prison who park and sleep in our lot without payin’.”
“It’s a rental, and I can’t remember the number.”
“Tell you what,” the manager looked out the window, “I’ll get it from you later and just note it’s a gray Taurus for now. We ain’t that busy tonight.”
“Fine.” Rahman improvised a smile.
“They’ve just finished re-doin’ the bathroom,” said the manager. “Last guests stole the sink and the pipes. Would’ve taken the toilet if they’d had time. You fellas stayin’ long?”
“Just a day or two,” Rahman said. “On our way to a horse show in Kentucky. Decided to drive in from New York to mix business with pleasure. You know, see the countryside.”
“Stop by the pharmacy, out on the main road. Got the ol’ fashioned root beer floats in frozen glasses. Damn good. “
“Thanks,” Rahman cut the conversation short and turned for the door.
“There’s a body shop—Arnie’s—closer in to town, if you’re lookin’ for one.” Rahman looked quizzically at the manager.
“Sanders called me from the Bait n’ Tackle station. Said you might be comin’ by. Said you hit a buck, and might need a body shop.”
Rahman affected a slight smile, bothered by the attention given to their car door. “Why, that was kind of Mr. Sanders. Please thank him for us. But we’ll have the rental company take care of it upon our return. Good night.”
The room had one window overlooking a vacant parking lot, across from a large berm on the perimeter of the property. Curtains, with condensation stains, drooped loosely from a pull-rod. Two queen-sized beds hung low in the middle, resembling sway-backed horses.
“If they ever cleaned this room,” remarked Al-Mamun, as they looked around, “it was last Ramadhan.”
“We aren’t here for the room. Empty the car door panels,” said Rahman. “Be careful not to be seen. Time is short.”
The three men prepared for the next day, as they removed sub-machine guns, explosives, Soviet-built triggering devices— hidden inside the car—and brought them to the room for assembly.