“Well, one thing for sure, things are still hot around here,” Sophia said. “All the more reason for all of us to go right away to the White House.”
Jeppesen looked thoughtful. “That shot was aimed directly at you, Sophia.”
“That’s not the first time that’s happened,” Adam said.
“These terrorists seem hell-bent on killing you, in particular,” Jeppesen said to Sophia. “I have an idea. One way to protect you is to make them think this attack was successful.”
“How?” Tripnee asked.
“We let it be known that Sophia is dead,” Jeppesen said. “From time to time, we have to do things like this. I’ll have our Athens station chief provide a body to create a traceable record, an official death certificate. Then I’ll put out the word so it gets to Cyclops.”
“Beautiful,” Adam said. “That, combined with Sophia disappearing, will take the target off her back.”
Sophia smiled coyly and did a girlish twirl on her tiptoes. “I’ve always wanted to go to America.”
Chapter 37
The Oval Office
T heir CIA jet landed at Andrews Joint Military Base outside Washington, DC and taxied over to a long, black limousine and two black government SUVs, all with men in suits standing at attention beside them. Stairs were quickly rolled into place. As they filed off the jet, a driver held the limo door open for them. With a welcoming wave and a slight bow, he indicated they should all climb in, which they did, finding it spacious and comfortable.
Sophia laughed with delight. “Such luxury.”
George remarked, “Wow, this is the Beast, the president’s personal limo. The admiral and I have never gotten this treatment before. You three rate.”
“Creature comforts,” Tripnee said, looking at Adam, “are nice, especially for our walking wounded.”
As they were driven through morning traffic into DC, Jeppesen took an urgent call. A few minutes later, putting away his phone and looking grim, he said, “It’s damned lucky you finished rounding up those nukes and that we’re getting back now. The NSA is picking up chatter from multiple sources that a terrorist attack on the United States is imminent. If the reports are to be believed, one—or possibly more—major terrorist honchos just arrived right here in DC.” Looking out the limo windows at the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol Building beyond, he shook his head. “The threat level is through the roof.”
Adam winced. “How can we help?”
Before Jeppesen could answer, his phone rang again. When he put away his phone a second time, he said, “That was the White House. The president wants us to join him in the Oval Office for a quick initial thank you. And then for this evening, he’s rearranged his schedule for us to have that pull-out-the-stops private ceremony.”
They entered the White House through a lesser-used side door. Jeppesen, as one the president’s key national security advisors, and George, as his aide, were well known at the White House and were ushered straight through.
Adam, Tripnee, and Sophia, on the other hand, underwent a thorough Secret Service security scan, pat-down and pelvic area X-ray. Made sense. In this day and age, body cavities had to be checked. Be glad it’s not a strip search with a body-cavity hand probe. Of course, they had to turn over their weapons—including Tripnee, who now carried her M82 everywhere. Maybe the search was excessive. But it made sense to take zero chances, especially with a terrorist attack expected at any moment.
Their Oval Office meeting was brief, but—let’s be honest—amazing. After all, this was the President of the United States and the leader of the free world. The man had taken the time to learn the details of each of their exploits, including even those of Lieutenant George. As he warmly chatted up each of them, the president specifically praised key contributions of each and poured on heartfelt thanks.
When one of the president’s aides caught his eye and cleared his throat, it was time for the meeting to end.
Sophia, evidently mustering her courage, spoke up, “Mr. President, it’s an incredible thrill to meet you. I’ve always been a security buff and this is the most secure building in the world. It would be a dream come true if I could have a behind-the-scenes tour.”
A Secret Service guy, who stayed in the background but was never more than a few feet from the president, said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“By the way, everyone,” said the President, “this is Bob, the head of my security detail today.” Then, turning to Bob, he said, “These are heroes of America. They’ve just repeatedly, over and over, again and again, in huge ways, risked their lives in order to protect this country and the world. If we can’t trust them, who can you trust?”
George, apparently also mustering his courage, cleared his throat and said to the group, “Sophia has dedicated her career to fighting terrorism.” Then, after exchanging glances with Jeppesen and getting a nod, he turned to Sophia and said, “I’d be glad to be your guide.”
Wearing a thousand-watt smile, Sophia leaned in close and squeezed his arm. “Would you, George? I would love that so much.”
Then she flashed that lit-up smile around the room, lingering on each of the men, and all the men stood a little taller.
After they filed out of the Oval Office, George and Sophia strolled away, her arm in his, a bounce in his step.
Jeppesen’s secure phone rang. He lifted it to his ear. After a short conversation, he beckoned to Adam and Tripnee. “Our Athens bureau chief needs us on a secure video call ASAP. We’re cleared to use the bunker down in the basement.”
Chapter 38
The White House
A high-speed elevator took Adam, Tripnee, and Jeppesen deep into the White House basement.
As they approached the bunker, they passed through massive blast doors. Tripnee reflected, “Well, at least the president has this secure shelter designed to withstand even a direct nuclear strike.”
“Unfortunately,” Jeppesen said, “that’s a myth. The fact is, it’s designed to withstand anything but a direct nuclear hit.”
Tripnee’s eyes opened wide. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too,” Jeppesen said. “I’m afraid a direct hit—even a suitcase nuke detonation inside the building—would wipe out the entire White House, including everyone in this underground bunker.”
The three of them took seats facing a giant flat screen on the opposite wall. Jeppesen sat in front of a small camera so that only he would be visible.
Adam and Tripnee sat to the side, off camera.
The Athens CIA bureau chief, an African-American man with a striking resemblance to Dr. Martin Luther King, said, “We received an urgent message from a guy who says he used to be part of Jamaat-e Aleimlaq. He’s calling from the Island of Folegandros, and he says he has information about an imminent attack.”
Surprised, Adam said, “We surveilled two guys on Folegandros, Isa Kaan, and Dogu Kubilay. Dogu was a gung-ho enforcer for Cyclops. Both seemed to have defected. Could be one of them.”
Jeppesen hit a few keys on a keyboard. When a face appeared on the big screen, Adam whispered, “It’s Isa Kaan.”
Jeppesen introduced himself, and said, “I understand you have information about an imminent attack?”
Isa Kaan said, “You’ve got a big problem. I know you know about the Cyclops jamaat. What you don’t know is that Cyclops is about to launch a major attack.”
“Tell me more.”
“The attack will be devastating. It will create hell on earth for generations. It will set Islam and the West on a path of open conflict that Islam can’t win.”
“I need details.”
“They will use suitcase nuclear bombs, lots of them.”
“When? Where? Who?”
“That’s all I know. But you have to stop it. Or the entire world will be torn apart.”
“How do you know this? Who are you?”
“Who I am is not important. I was part of what you call the Cyclopean jamaat
, but no more. You must not tell anyone that I talked with you—no one.”
“How do I know this is true? Why have you come forward?”
“I used to think jihad was noble and the best way to right the wrongs done to the Islamic world. I actually believed dying as a martyr was the guaranteed way into Paradise. But I’ve realized there are no circumstances on earth where violence is permissible. Violence only leads to greater harm. I’ve opened my eyes. Cyclops and others use jihad to justify their love of power and desire to control others. They send young people to die fighting unwinnable wars. The truth is, these leaders only cause misery.”
“Good for you,” Jeppesen said, nodding, “that you’ve realized this.”
“I’ve come a long way.”
“You have.”
“We have a core problem: Islam cannot be criticized in any shape or form in the Middle East,” Isa said. “But if I can open my eyes, others can as well. People drawn to jihad are not that different from everyone else. People can change.”
A voice from somewhere off-screen yelled, “Isa, what are you doing?”
“That’s Dogu Kubilay,” Adam whispered.
BANG.
A shot rang out and Isa slumped forward, a bullet hole in his forehead. Then the screen went dead.
Jeppesen, Tripnee, and Adam sat in stunned silence.
Finally, Tripnee said, “Okay, I just can’t keep it in. There’s something about Sophia. I can’t shake a gut feeling she’s somehow involved with this.”
“But where’s the evidence?” Adam asked.
“Well,” Tripnee said, “she keeps expressing pro-Islamic viewpoints.”
“If she were a terrorist practicing taqiyya to fool us,” Jeppesen said, “wouldn’t she be more likely to condemn Islam? The very fact she doesn’t hide her mildly pro-Islamic sympathies tells me she’s sincere. Don’t you think?”
Adam said, “She identified and played a crucial role in helping us kill dozens of terrorists. And there’s just no way we could have captured those thirteen nukes without her.”
“How,” concluded Jeppesen, “could Sophia possibly be a terrorist?”
Chapter 39
Cyclops: Allahu Akbar
T he White House defenses are formidable: a perimeter of vehicle barriers which pop up at the touch of a button, the world’s most thorough security screening, Secret Service everywhere, fences, high-tech sensors galore, including super sensitive plutonium/uranium detectors, bulletproof windows, patrol dogs, and bomb-sniffing dogs, daily scans for surveillance bugs, a small but well-armed army in the basement plus nearby fighter jets and additional forces ready to deploy at a moment’s notice, a nearly impregnable underground bunker system, and—what really pisses me off—the world’s most advanced drone shield system guaranteed to thwart any and all drone attacks.
Merely exploding a suitcase nuke a hundred yards away won’t cut it. But explode the nuke inside the building! That will cook the works—the whole sinful bunch—including everyone below ground. Now that sure sounds good.
Allah is indeed great. The idea that something so vast and powerful—America and its seat of power the White House—could be shaken and obliterated by something the size of an egg—my fake eye. Only in a universe ruled by Allah could such a thing come to pass.
The gaping hole in my head where my left eye used to be is bigger than one might think. Praise Allah—and, well, also my German grandparents who paid for it and the Swedish doctors who made it—for my prosthetic eye. My lovely, fake eye. It even tracks so closely with my right eye that almost no one notices it’s artificial. Especially men, who are distracted by other things about me. You wouldn’t think it possible, but it is. Alhamdulillah.
Inshallah, all goes well. We have rid ourselves of bad people, and along the way have had to sacrifice good people, too. Now we are cleansed, blessed, and at one with Allah. We are the humble tools of Allah, well on our way to decapitating the Great Satan. Let America crumble and collapse. Out of the chaos, Allah will bring forth a glorious caliphate according to His divine vision. Ours is not to figure this out. Ours is to submit and obey.
Chapter 40
The Big Event
T hat evening, true to his word, the president rolled out the red carpet—all with no press coverage, of course. The East Room was decked out for the occasion and even had a string quartet playing in one corner. The joint chiefs of the military, key members of Congress, and the heads of various intelligence agencies were present, as well as several members of the presidential cabinet and a number of close friends of the president—including a few famous billionaires and entertainers.
But missing were George and Sophia. Given their earlier discussion, this prompted Adam, Jeppesen, and Tripnee to exchange glances with raised eyebrows.
The evening was well underway when a dozen secret service agents burst into the room and surrounded the president. Adam, Tripnee, and Jeppesen, sitting in places of honor next to the President, heard agent Bob say, “Sir, our drone shield system was disabled a few moments ago by a small explosive. We’re taking you immediately to the underground bunker.”
Adam, Tripnee, and Jeppesen leapt to their feet.
Tripnee said, “This is Sophia’s doing.” Then, turning to the President, she said, “Mr. President, may I have your authorization to take my rifle up to the roof? This is Sophia’s work. I know this bitch. She’s going to fly drones—with nukes—in here to attack you.”
The President looked at Bob and Adam, who both nodded.
Adam said, “Listen to her, sir.”
Tripnee continued in a rush. “Let me go to the roof. I know how she thinks—how she flies drones. There’s a chance I can shoot down at least some of them.”
Jeppesen blurted out, “I recommend it, sir. If anyone can shoot drones down, it’d be Tripnee.”
The President, who was already being hustled out of the room, yelled over his shoulder, “Do it, Tripnee. Help her, Bob; make it happen.”
The room erupted into pandemonium, with people rushing to follow the President while others ran for the exits.
Tripnee, with Bob close behind, raced to get her M82. Hefting the long case, she slid her arms through the shoulder straps, and headed for the roof. The elevators were swamped with people desperate to get to the fortified bunker in the basement. So Tripnee ran up the stairs, taking two and three at a time. Bob did his best to keep up, but Tripnee moved with the grace and speed of a cheetah, and the Secret Service agent fell behind.
Tripnee flew up the final flight of stairs to the roof, to find her way blocked by a short, wide man. The guy—who was not a regular Secret Service agent but some sort of officious capital policeman on roof patrol--said, “No way. You’re not taking that”—he gestured toward her gun case—“to the roof. In fact, you’re not allowed to have that.”
“It’s an emergency. We’re under attack. The president authorized me to get to the roof, now.”
“Nope. Give me that—”
Swearing, Tripnee delivered a round house kick to the guy’s head so fast he didn’t know what hit him. Stepping over his unconscious body, she pushed open the door onto the roof just in time to hear the faint buzz of fast-approaching drones.
On some level, she was not surprised. She’d actually anticipated something like this, and had in her gun case night-vision goggles plus several magazines of “drone shot.” Instead of a single slug, these rounds contained buckshot perfect for bringing down Sophia’s damned quadracopters.
As the sound of the drones grew louder and louder, she realized she faced an entire swarm. Maybe a dozen? Or, oh-oh, more likely several dozen. And by the sound, many weren’t so small. Well, the bigger they come, the easier to see and hit. Or so she hoped.
With practiced speed, she assembled and loaded her weapon and whipped on night vision. And in the nick of time—or was she too late? She had just lifted her rifle when a first wave of drones swarmed in low and attached themselves to bulletproof windows below her rooftop p
osition.
Ka-blaam, ka-blaam, ka-blaam, ka-blaam.
Not good. These lead drones had blown open a bunch of windows, clearing the way for bigger drones to swoop into the building with the real bombs. This was definitely Sophia’s work. It reeked of the termagant. It was just how the slut would do things.
A second wave of bigger drones streamed in. Large enough to carry nuclear bombs. Balancing her gun on the waist-high perimeter wall at the roof edge, Tripnee began blasting away. Each shot sent forth a pattern of buckshot perfect for decimating the lethal buggers. Bam, bam, bam, bam.
These were nukes, all right. Her buckshot not only destroyed the drones, it also did a nice job of rendering the nukes inoperable. One, two, three dropped out of the night air.
But there were too many. She wasn’t going to get them all. If even one got inside the building, God help the world.
Chapter 41
Dupont Circle
M eanwhile, the moment they heard that the drone shield had been disabled, Adam and Jeppesen knew what they had to do. Fortunately, they’d sensed there was indeed something suspicious about Sophia. Jeppesen had told George to slip a tracker—a tiny device that looked exactly like a dime—into Sophia’s pocket. George had protested, but had followed orders.
Adam and Jeppesen raced from the East Room, charged out of the building and jumped into Jeppesen’s government SUV. The Admiral opened his laptop and hit a few keys. Sure enough, the tracker showed up on the screen two miles away. Adam already had the vehicle in motion. They roared away from the White House and in moments were barreling though the streets of DC.
“Let’s see if we can take her by surprise,” Adam said. “Better chance of grabbing her before she sets off any nukes.”
Jeppesen relayed directions, glancing back and forth between his tracking screen and the scene before them. Checking his watch, he saw that it was less than two minutes since they’d left the White House. He pulled two Glock pistols from the glove box, handed one to Adam, and said, “She’s around the next corner to the right, in the middle of the block.”
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller Page 16
