by Tom Clancy
“I’ve thought about it,” Brian told him.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. Think about it over this weekend, okay?”
“Fair enough.” Brian backed off. The tone of the interplay had gotten a little uglier than he’d actually wanted. It was time to back down. He didn’t dislike Pete at all. It was the not knowing, and his distaste for what it looked like. Especially with a woman as the target. Hurting women was not part of his creed. Or children, which was what had set his brother off—not that Brian disapproved. He wondered briefly if he might have done the same thing, and told himself, sure, for a kid, but without being quite sure. When dinner was finished, the twins handled the cleanup, then settled in front of the downstairs TV for some drinks and the History Channel.
IT WAS much the same the next state up, with Jack Ryan, Jr., drinking a rum and Coke and flipping back and forth between History and History International, with an occasional sojourn to Biography, which was showing a two-hour look at Joseph Stalin. That guy, Junior thought, was one seriously cold motherfucker. Forcing one of his own confidants to sign the imprisonment order for his own wife. Damn. But how did that physically unprepossessing man exercise such control over people who were his own peers? What was the power he’d wielded over others? Where had it come from? How had he maintained it? Jack’s own father had been a man of considerable power, but he had never dominated people in anything like that way. Probably never even thought about it, much less killing people for what amounted to the fun of it. Who were these people? Did they still exist?
Well, they had to. The one thing that never changed in the world was human nature. The cruel and the brutal still existed. Perhaps society no longer encouraged them as they had in, say, the Roman Empire. The gladiatorial games had trained people to accept and even to be entertained by violent death. And the dark truth of the matter was that if Jack had been given access to a time machine, he might—he would—have journeyed back to the Flavian Amphitheater to see it, just once. But that was human curiosity, not blood lust. Just a chance to gain historical knowledge, to see and read a culture connected to, yet different from, his own. He might even toss his cookies watching . . . or maybe not. Maybe his curiosity was that strong. But for damned sure, if he ever went back, he’d take a friend along for the ride. Like the Beretta .45 he’d learned to shoot with Mike Brennan. He wondered how many others might have taken the trip. Probably quite a few. Men. Not women. Women would have needed a lot of societal conditioning to want to look at that. But men? Men grew up on movies like Silverado and Saving Private Ryan. Men wanted to know how well they might have handled such things. So, no, human nature didn’t really change. Society tended to stomp on the cruel ones, and since man was a creature of reason, most people shied away from behavior that could put them in prison or the death chamber. So, man could learn over time, but the basic drives probably did not, and so you fed the nasty little beast with fantasies, books and movies, and dreams, thoughts that walked through your consciousness while waiting for sleep to come. Maybe cops had a better time. They could exercise the little critter by handling those who stepped over the line. There was probably satisfaction in that, because you got both to feed the critter and to protect the society.
But if the beast still lived in the hearts of men, somewhere there would be men who would use whatever talents they had to—not so much control it as harness it to their own will, to use it as a tool in their personal quest for power. Such men were called Bad Guys. The unsuccessful ones were called sociopaths. The successful ones were called . . . Presidents.
Where did all this leave him? Jack Jr. wondered. He was still a kid, after all, even though he denied it and as a matter of law he was a grown man. Did a grown man stop growing? Stop wondering and asking questions? Stop seeking after information—or, as he thought of it, truth?
But once you had truth, what in hell did you do with it? He didn’t know that one yet. Maybe it was just one more thing to learn. Surely he had the same drive to learn as his father, else why was he watching this program instead of some mindless sitcom? Maybe he’d buy a book on Stalin and Hitler. Historians were always digging into old records. Problem was, then they applied their own personal ideas to what they found. He probably really needed a shrink to look things over. They had their ideological prejudices, too, but at least there was a patina of professionalism to their thought processes. It annoyed Junior that he went to sleep every night with thoughts unresolved and truths unfound. But that, he figured, was the whole point to this thing called life.
THEY WERE all praying. All quietly. Abdullah was murmuring through the words of his Koran. Mustafa was running through the same book in the sanctity of his own mind—not all of it, of course, just the parts that supported his mission for the coming day. To be brave, to remember their Holy Mission, to accomplish it without mercy. Mercy was Allah’s business.
What if we survive? he asked himself, and was surprised at the thought.
They had a plan for this, of course. They’d drive back west and try to find their way back to Mexico, and then fly back home—to be welcomed with great rejoicing by their other comrades. In truth, he didn’t expect this to happen, but hope was something no man sets completely aside, and however Paradise might beckon, life on earth was all that he actually knew.
That thought startled him, too. Did he just express doubt in his Faith? No, not that. Not that, exactly. Just a random thought. There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His messenger, he chanted in his own mind, expressing the Shahada, which was the very foundation of Islam. No, he couldn’t deny his Faith now. His Faith had brought him across the world, to the very location of his martyrdom. His Faith had raised and nurtured his life, through childhood, through the anger of his father, into the very home of the infidels who spat upon Islam and nurtured the Israelis, there to affirm his Faith with his life. And his death, probably. Almost certainly, unless Allah Himself desired otherwise. Because all things in life were written by Allah’s Own Hand ...
THE ALARM went off just before six. Brian knocked on his brother’s door.
“Wake up, G-man. We’re wasting sunlight.”
“Is that a fact?” Dominic observed from the far end of the corridor. “Beat ya, Aldo!” Which was a first.
“Then let’s get it done, Enzo,” Brian responded, and together they headed outside. An hour and a quarter later, they were back and at the breakfast table.
“It’s a good day to be alive,” Brian observed with his first sip of coffee.
“The Marine Corps must brainwash your ass, bro,” Dominic observed, with a sip of his own.
“No, the endorphins just kick in. That’s how the human body lies to itself.”
“You grow out of it,” Alexander told them. “All ready for your little field exercise?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Brian replied with a smile. “We get to whack Michelle for lunch.”
“Only if you can track her without being spotted.”
“It would be easier in the woods, you know. I’m trained in that particular skill.”
“Brian, what do you think we’ve been doing here?” Pete inquired gently.
“Oh, is that what it is?”
“First get new shoes,” Dominic advised.
“Yeah, I know. These are just about dead.” The canvas uppers were separating from the rubber bottoms, and the bottoms were pretty shot, too. He hated doing it. He’d put a lot of miles in his running shoes, and a man can be sentimental about such things, which was frequently a matter of annoyance to his spouse.
“We’ll hit the mall early. Foot Locker right next to the place they rent strollers,” Dom reminded his brother.
“Yeah, I know. Okay, Pete, any advice on Michelle?” Brian asked. “You know, if we’re out on a mission, we usually get a mission brief.”
“That’s a fair question, Captain. I’d suggest you look for her at Victoria’s Secret, just across from The Gap. If you get close enough without being spotted, you win. If she says your name w
hen you’re more than ten feet away, you lose.”
“This isn’t strictly fair,” Dominic pointed out. “She knows what we look like—especially height and weight. A real bad guy wouldn’t have that information in his pocket. You can fake being taller, but not being shorter.”
“And my ankles can’t take high heels, y’know?” Brian added.
“You don’t have the legs for it anyway, Aldo,” Alexander needled. “Who ever said this job was easy?”
Except we still don’t know what the fucking job is, Brian didn’t respond. “Fair enough, we improvise, adapt, and overcome.”
“Who are you now, Dirty Harry?” Dominic asked, finishing off his McMuffin.
“In the Corps, he’s our favorite civilian, bro. Probably would have made a pretty good gunny.”
“Especially with his .44 Smith.”
“Kinda noisy for a handgun. Kinda tough on the hand, too. Except maybe the Auto-Mag. Ever shot one of those?”
“No, but I handled the one in the gun locker at Quantico. Damned thing ought to come with a trailer to haul it around with, but I bet it makes nice holes.”
“Yeah, but if you want to conceal it, you better be Hulk Hogan.”
“I hear that, Aldo.” As a practical matter, the fanny packs they used didn’t so much conceal a pistol as make it more convenient to carry. Any cop knew what it was on first sight, though few civilians recognized it. Both brothers carried a loaded pistol and a spare magazine in their packs, when they wore them. Pete wanted them to do so today just to make it harder to track Michelle Peters without being spotted. Well, you expected such things of training officers, didn’t you?
THE SAME day began five miles away at Holiday Inn Express, and on this day, unlike the others, they all unrolled their prayer rugs and, as one man, said their morning Salat for what they all expected to be the last time. It took but a few minutes and then they all washed, to purify themselves for their task. Zuhayr even took the time to shave around his new beard, neatly trimming the part he wanted to wear into eternity, until, when satisfied, he dressed.
It wasn’t until they were completely ready that they realized it was hours short of the proper time. Abdullah walked up the hill to Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast and coffee, this time even returning with a newspaper, which circulated its way around both rooms while the men drank their coffee and smoked their cigarettes.
Fanatics they might seem to their enemies, but they remained human, and the tension of the moment was unpleasant, and getting only worse by the minute. The coffee only pumped more caffeine into their systems, making hands shake and eyes narrow on the TV news. They checked their watches every few seconds, willing unsuccessfully for the hands to turn faster around the dials, then drank more of the coffee.
“NOW WE’RE getting excited, too?” Jack asked Tony at The Campus. He gestured at his workstation. “What’s here that I don’t see, buddy?”
Wills rocked back in his chair. “It’s a combination of things. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe it’s just a construct in the minds of professional analysts. You know how you tell what it really is?”
“Wait a week, look back, and see if anything actually happened?”
That was enough to make Tony Wills laugh. “Junior, you are learning the spook business. Jesus, I’ve seen more predictions go wrong in the intelligence business than they have on Preakness day at Pimlico. You see, unless you do know, you just don’t know, but people in the business don’t like to think that way.”
“I remember when I was a kid, Dad used to get in shitty moods sometimes—”
“He was in CIA during the Cold War. The big shots were always asking for predictions that nobody could really give—at least not that meant anything. Your father was usually the guy who said, ‘Wait awhile and you’ll see for yourselves,’ and that really pissed them off, but, you know, he was usually right, and there weren’t any disasters on his watch.”
“Will I ever be that good?”
“It’s a lot to hope for, kid, but you never know. You’re lucky to be here. At least the Senator knows what ‘don’t know’ means. It means his people are honest, and they know they’re not God.”
“Yeah, I remember that from the White House. It always amazed me how many people in D.C. thought they really were.”
DOMINIC DID the driving. It was a pleasant three or four miles down the hillside into town.
“Victoria’s Secret? Suppose we’ll bag her buying a nightie?” Brian wondered.
“We can only dream,” Dominic said, turning left onto Rio Road. “We’re early. Get your shoes first?”
“Makes sense. Park by the Belk’s men’s store.”
“Roger that, Skipper.”
“IS IT time?” Rafi asked. He’d done so three times in the past thirty minutes.
Mustafa checked his watch: 11:48. Close enough. He nodded.
“My friends, pack your things.”
Their weapons were not loaded, but placed inside shopping bags. Assembled, they were too bulky and too obvious. Each man had twelve loaded magazines, with thirty rounds each, taped together in six pairs. Every weapon had a large sound suppressor tapped to screw onto the barrel. The purpose of these wasn’t so much silence as control. He remembered what Juan had told him back in New Mexico. These weapons tended to jerk off target, climbing high and right. But he’d already gone over the weapons issues with his friends, and they all knew how to shoot, had all shot these things when they’d gotten them, and so they should know what to expect. Besides, they were going to what American soldiers called a target-rich environment.
Zuhayr and Abdullah carried out their travel things, locking them into the trunk of their rented Ford. On reflection, Mustafa decided to put the guns there, too, and so all four of them, each carrying his shopping bag, walked out to the car and set the bags standing up on the floor of the trunk. With that done, Mustafa got into the car, unthinkingly bringing the room key in his pocket. The drive was not a long one. The objective was already in sight.
The parking lot had the usual entrance points. He chose the northwest entrance, next to the Belk’s men’s store, where they could park close in. There, he switched off the engine and said his last prayer of the morning. The other three did much the same, getting out and walking to the back of the car. Mustafa popped the trunk. They were less than fifty meters from the door. Strictly speaking, there was little point in concealment, but Mustafa remembered the security desk. To delay police response, it had to begin there. So, he told them to keep their weapons in the shopping bags, and, bags dangling from their left hands, they walked to the door.
It was a Friday, not so busy a shopping day as Saturday, but close enough for their purposes. They came inside, passing the LensCrafters, which was busy—most of these people would probably escape unhurt, which was regrettable, but the main shopping area was still before them.
BRIAN AND Dominic were in the Foot Locker store, but Brian didn’t see anything he liked. The Stride Rite next door was only for kids, so the twins proceeded forward, turning right. American Eagle Outfitters would doubtless have something, maybe in leather, with high tops that would be easier on the ankles.
TURNING LEFT, Mustafa passed a toy store and various clothing businesses on his way to the Center Court. His eyes were sweeping the area rapidly. Perhaps a hundred people in his immediate sight, and judging by K*B Toys, the retail stores would all be well peopled. He passed the Sunglass Hut and turned right for the security office. It was conveniently located, just a few steps from the restrooms. All four went into the men’s room together.
A few people had noted their presence—four men of identically exotic appearance was unusual—but an American shopping mall is the nearest thing to a zoo for humans, and it took a lot for people to take much note of anything unusual, much less dangerous.
In the men’s room, they all took their weapons from the shopping bags and assembled them. Bolts were pulled back. Magazines were inserted in the pistol g
rips. Each man slipped the five magazine pairs into pants pockets. Two screwed the lengthy suppressors onto their weapons. Mustafa and Rafi did not, deciding after rapid reflection that they preferred to hear the noise.
“Are we ready?” the leader asked. The replies were only nods.
“Then we shall eat lamb together in Paradise. To your places. When I shoot first, you will all begin.”
BRIAN WAS trying on some low-top leather boots. Not quite the same as the boots he wore in the Marine Corps, but they looked and felt comfortable, and they fitted his feet as though custom designed. “Not bad.”
“Want me to box them up?” the clerk—a girl—asked.
Aldo thought for a moment and decided: “No, I’ll break them in right away.” He handed her his disreputable Nikes, which she put in the box for the boots, and led him to the cash register.
MUSTAFA WAS looking at his watch. He figured two minutes for his friends to get in place.
Rafi, Zuhayr, and Abdullah were walking into the main concourse of the mall now, holding their weapons low, and, amazingly, largely escaping notice from the shoppers who bustled along and minded their own business. When the sweep hand reached twelve, Mustafa took a deep breath and walked out of the men’s room, and to the left.
The security guard was at his chest-high desk, reading a magazine, when he saw a shadow on the desktop. He looked up to see a man of olive complexion.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely. He had no time to react after that.
“Allahu Ackbar!” was the shouted reply. Then the Ingram came up.
Mustafa held the trigger for but a second, but in that second, a total of nine bullets entered the black man’s chest. The impact of nine bullets pushed him backward half a step, and he fell, dead, to the tiled floor.
