Jihad db-5

by Stephen Coonts

  Ground units were already scrambling nearby, running toward the pipelines connecting the two portions of the plant. Light erupted near it, so intense that Karr threw his hand up to shield his eyes. The chopper pirouetted away as a ball of fire shot into the air, so high that it exploded over the helicopter, an umbrella of red and yellow.

  “Explosions,” said Karr, telling the Art Room what was going on. He cursed, angry that he hadn’t figured out what was going on sooner. He leaned back toward the window, trying to assess what was going on. The two tall cooling stacks — made of concrete, they looked like smoke stacks but were used to condense gases in the desulphurization unit — stood over the complex, twin sentinels.

  A fly was climbing on one.

  “That tower there,” he told the helicopter pilot. “The smokestack. There’s somebody on it. Knock him off.”

  “Was?” sputtered the pilot. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t have a gun. Get him off of there. He wants to blow the stack.”

  Karr reached for the helicopter’s controls, threatening to do it if the pilot didn’t. It was a bluff — Karr had no idea how to fly the aircraft. But the pilot didn’t know that. He pitched the chopper forward, veering as close as he dared to the man climbing up the side of the large stack. The man tottered for a second, then began fiddling with a small pack at his belt. As the helo turned away, the wash knocked the terrorist off balance and sent him tumbling toward the ground.

  He exploded about twenty feet from the pavement, obliterating himself, but failing to ignite a fire or destroy the stack, either of which could have touched off a much larger explosion.

  “Do not interfere with the controls,” said Hess, leaning forward from the back. “You are a very dangerous man, Herr Magnor-Karr.”

  “Not dangerous enough,” said Karr, still mad at himself for being a step behind the terrorists.

  CHAPTER 63

  After she left the airport, Lia drove back toward Istanbul, circling around the roundabouts several times to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Even though her back was clear, she took a circuitous route toward the Ceylan Inter-Continental Hotel, where the Saudis who had met with Asad were staying. She tracked through the sleeping business district, once more making sure she wasn’t being followed before parking across from the side entrance to the hotel.

  The Ceylan Inter-Continental Hotel was one of the fanciest hotels in the world, let alone the city. The Saudis were ensconced in one of its well-appointed executive suites, proof that dedicated jihadists need not take a vow of poverty.

  The CIA team had posted two men on the street, watching the main and back entrances, with a third handling communications and coordinating other members. The coordinator was working out of a panel truck around the block from the hotel, using a short-wave radio to talk to the lookouts and a satphone to stay in touch with the Art Room. Desk Three had tapped into the hotel’s security system and was monitoring the Ceylan’s video cameras.

  The panel truck was exactly where Lia had left it several hours before. She went to the passenger side and rapped on the window.

  “You should’ve moved,” she said.

  “I just got here,” said Terrence Pinchon, leaning forward and opening the door for her.

  “What happened to ReislerT’

  “Went to get some beauty rest. It’s a lost cause, don’t you think?”

  Lia could feel her heart race. It had nothing to do with the mission; she wished it had nothing to do with Pinchon.

  “What are the Saudis doing?” she asked, shutting the door behind her.

  “Far as we can tell, they’re snoozin’. Don’t have enough people to put somebody up on the floor.”

  “You have plenty of people.”

  “Eight. And some of them have to sleep. But you’re here now, right? The rest of us can go home.”

  Lia reached to the back of her belt and flipped the com system off. Then she turned to Pinchon. His green eyes fixed on her own, boring through the wall that protected her.

  He was handsome, there was no question about that; his face had the rugged look of a movie star. But his personality — he hadn’t been this much of a jerk when she’d known him. He couldn’t have been. And he hadn’t been a liar; she didn’t fall for liars. Maybe their relationship had been one of convenience and circumstance at the time, but even so, she wouldn’t have fallen that badly for an ass.

  “What happened to you?” she asked him.

  “Took a quick nap.”

  “In Kyrgyzstan.”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were dead.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Are you going to tell me the story?”

  “No story to tell.”

  Someone was talking on the radio. Pinchon pushed the earbud back into place; Lia tapped her com system to life.

  “They’re in the elevator, coming down,” Sandy Chafetz said.

  “We got a BMW 740 pulling around,” said the CIA agent near the entrance. “Blue. Here’s the plate.”

  “All right. I’ll tag along,” said Pinchon. “You guys get in your cars.” He turned to Lia. “Comin’?”

  “For a while.”

  The BMW collected the Saudis in front of the hotel, then went directly down the hill, swinging toward the Bosporus.

  “Probably headed toward the bridge,” said Pinchon, directing his team over the radio. “Bobby, get across it. I’ll trail. Steve, why don’t you jog right and head in the direction of the airport? That’s probably where they’re going.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Lia.

  “I was doing just fine before you got here, thanks.”

  “They’re going toward the ferry port,” said Lia as the BMW pulled left instead of going over the Galata Bridge as Pinchon had predicted. Reluctant to admit that he had been wrong, Pinchon nonetheless started to reposition his people. Still, they were the closest when the BMW stopped in front of the ferry entrance a few minutes later.

  “I’ll stay with them until you park the car,” Lia told Pinchon, getting out.

  The Saudis apparently had already bought tickets; they headed straight for the sea bus that went to the dock at Haydarpasa. the train station on the Asian side of the city. Lia, just to be sure, bought tickets for all of the destinations. The clerk rolled his eyes and took his time counting the change, shorting her a lira and smirking when she pointed it out. When he finally gave her the coin, Lia flipped it contemptuously into his booth.

  She had to run to make the sea bus, hopping aboard as the ropes were tossed and the engines revved the ship from the dock. The boat wasn’t quite half full; Lia went forward, spotted the Saudis sitting on the starboard side, and took a seat across from them. The Art Room switched her com unit into the CIA network, and she heard Pinchon shifting his people. There was no quick way to get from Beyoglu to the Asian side of Istanbul; he sent one of his cars to the vehicle ferry and had another take the long detour to a bridge to the north. He was going to take the next sea bus across, in about twenty minutes.

  Lia got up as the vessel neared the pier. One of the Saudis shot her a glance. They made eye contact she smiled, as if she were a semi-interested tourist reacting to a handsome foreigner. The Saudi was dressed like a businessman on vacation, trim black trousers and a casual shirt; he carried a canvas overnight bag, as did his partner. Lia got off ahead of the two men, but walked slowly so that they could overtake her; they did in short order, striding quickly toward the train station. The man who’d smiled earlier didn’t look at her.

  “Are there video cameras in that station?” Lia asked Chafetz.

  “Negative. You’re on your own. First train to leave is the Süper Ekspresier—the express Pullman for Ankara. It goes in five minutes. I doubt they’re going to take it, though — no way they’d cut it that close.”

  “Where’s that reserve team?” Lia hissed, picking up her pace.

  “About ten minutes away.”

  The
Saudis headed directly for the Süper Ekspresier. Lia, already guessing that they had timed their arrival so they wouldn’t have to wait long, ran to the window and got a ticket for Ankara, the end of the line.

  “Lia, what’s going on?” asked Pinchon over the radio.

  “The platform at the far end, on your left. I have your ticket,” she told him. The conductor was starting to shoo people aboard.

  “I’m still on the boat,” he told her. “I can see the dock.”

  “Well, get moving,” said Lia.

  The Saudis weren’t on the platform. Lia got on the front car, walking through quickly to make sure they were there.

  “Not in the first car,” she said.

  “Lia — you have less than a minute to get off,” said Chafetz.

  “Where are you, Pinchon?”

  “We’re just pulling up to the pier.”

  “All right. I have the train,” Lia told him. “Get somebody to the first stop.”

  “We can’t make the first stop,” answered Chafetz. “It’s in Sincan, only eighteen minutes by train. There’s no way with the traffic.”

  “Second stop, then.”

  “That’s two and a half hours from now.”

  “Peachy,” said Lia. “Terry, get in the station while I make sure they haven’t slipped off. I haven’t spotted them yet. If they’re not here, I’ll get off at the first stop.”

  “I may make it,” said Pinchon, huffing.

  “Relax,” said Lia, crossing into the second car.

  The conductor yelled “all aboard” in English and Turkish. Stepping into the third car, Lia spotted the two Saudis sitting in a compartment on the right. She walked past, smiling at the man whom she’d seen before — a flirty smile, which she held until she took a seat in a compartment behind them on the opposite side.

  “Car three,” she told Chafetz, as the train bumped from the platform. She turned and looked out the window, then folded her arms to watch the scenery.

  CHAPTER 64

  Asad slept well for two hours, then rose, his headache gone and the dizziness completely relieved. Whatever the doctor had done, Allah had surely been with him.

  He seemed a thoughtful man, confident of his skills, not easily shaken. This had set the bodyguards on edge — they were used to cowing people, and anyone who did not show abject fear threatened them.

  Asad felt just the opposite. He did not want to put himself in the hands of someone with no faith in his abilities. The doctor’s insights on human nature and the way of God were small but profound. Under other circumstances, Asad might have arranged for the man to be recruited. But there was much to do this morning.

  “Are you ready to leave?” he asked Katib after his morning prayers and tea.

  “I am.”

  Something was wrong with Katib, Asad sensed; the bodyguard was still brooding over the incident at the hospital the other day. Coming on top of the car accident, it had made him doubt his abilities.

  “You should not do anything foolish,” he told his bodyguard when they were on their way to the airport. “You are needed for the long battle.”

  Katib said nothing.

  Asad stared out the window, thinking of what to tell his follower. So often in the past, words had flowed into his mouth, but today he still had not found any when they arrived at the airport for his flight.

  “I will make amends,” said Katib, holding the door as he got out of the car. “My mistake will be erased.”

  “Mistakes are to be expected.”

  Katib stared at him. Asad considered whether he should order him not to do anything. But he sensed that Katib would not listen to him if he did.

  Perhaps this is what I owe the man for his loyalty, Asad thought — approval.

  Perhaps it was for the best. He was not taking any bodyguards with him to America, not even Katib. He’d learned that it was far safer to travel alone there, as foreigners in groups tended to attract attention. And action here might add to the crescendo effect of the attacks. Strike here, strike there, continue even as security was increased — the enemy would soon grow disheartened.

  But he hated to lose Katib. He had known him since the Syrian since was thirteen, nearly a decade. Though young, he had a sharp mind.

  “You have everything arranged?” Asad asked.

  “I have friends. It will be done at noon. Taksim will be full then.”

  His bodyguard’s solemn expression tugged at Asad’s heart.

  “Go with God,” he told him. “We will meet in paradise.”

  Inside, a woman took Asad’s bag and set it on the belt to go through the X-ray machine. She was a typical decadent Turk, he could tell, seduced by the West. He moved to the metal detector.

  As he stepped through it, a buzzer sounded and the two guards crowded next to him.

  “Here,” said one of the men harshly. “Spread out your arms.”

  Asad felt a moment of fear. Stifling it, he raised his hands. The other guard began patting his clothes.

  “Your watch,” said the first guard.

  Asad started to take it off, thinking the guard was asking for a bribe. Then he realized that it was meant as an explanation — the steel band must have set off the alarm.

  “Did you want to examine it?” he asked.

  “When you go through the next checkpoint, place it in one of these,” said the guard, holding up a shallow tub. “Or you will set it off again.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” he said, passing through the gate.

  CHAPTER 65

  Besides holding his post as National Security Advisor, George Hadash had served in the U.S. Army as a young man and received both the Purple Heart and Silver Star, making him eligible for burial at Arlington National Cemetery. But his daughter Irena held firm on that issue; her father had always wanted to be buried next to his brother, who had been killed in Vietnam and was interred with other family members at a cemetery in suburban Virginia.

  The ceremony was a simple one, with family and close friends only. But as the President of the United States was among Hadash’s closest friends, there was no way to make it small, or truly private. The TV people kept a somewhat respectful distance from the gravesite, but their presence hung like a shadow in the distance.

  “He was the pragmatist, I was the optimist,” said the president, speaking without notes in front of the open grave. “He was the teacher. I the student.”

  Marcke’s modesty touched Rubens, as did his obvious grief; the president looked as pale and drawn as Irena. When he ended his eulogy by simply looking down at the casket and saying, “I’m going to miss you, George,” even Rubens felt tears slip from his eyes.

  The minister read from the 23rd Psalm, selected by Irena with Rubens’ help. Then one by one they threw fistfuls of dirt in the grave — Irena, her daughter, the president, Rubens, the others.

  And then it was over.

  Rubens watched as President Marcke consoled Irena and her daughter one last time. When the president began walking toward his limo, Rubens went over to her. He had planned to give Irena and her daughter a ride back to their condominium, where she would host a few family members for a light breakfast. He couldn’t stay himself.

  His phone began to vibrate just as he reached her. He stepped discreetly to the side, activating the phone.

  “Red Lion plans to come to the U.S.,” Marie Telach told him.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. He just checked in for a flight to New York with a connection at Paris.”

  Rubens clicked off the phone. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he told Irena. Then he started down the hill toward the president’s limo. Marcke was standing next to the open door with a group of aides, including Bing.

  “Mr. President,” said Rubens as Marcke started to get in the car.

  “What’s up, Billy?”

  “We should talk — perhaps in private.”

  Marcke slid into the car. Rubens followed.

  “Red
Lion — Asad bin Taysr, al-Qaeda’s number three — he’s coming to the U.S. We can arrest him here if you want. You’d spoken of wanting to put a top leader of the organization on trial, if possible.”

  Marcke said nothing. Rubens guessed he was considering the political ramifications; putting a terrorist on trial was full of pitfalls and could easily backfire.

  “We’re still not sure what he’s planning,” added Rubens. “I — we unraveled the plot in Germany as I told you earlier, but obviously there’s something here.”

  “I want him, Billy. I want to put him on trial and show the world what slimes we’re dealing with. Can you get him?”

  “Yes, sir. First, though—”

  “First find out what he’s up to, absolutely. You do that. Then we nail him for it. You do it. Whatever it takes. I want that son of a bitch.”

  There was so much emotion on Marcke’s face that Rubens felt his own flush. “I’ll get him. I will.”

  As Rubens reached for the door, the president grabbed him by the shoulder. “George Hadash was a great man. I owe him a lot.”

  “I do, too,” managed Rubens, nodding as the president released him.

  * * *

  By the time Rubens reached the Art Room, Telach had gotten one of the CIA backup people to the airport and over to the gate area. The flight was overbooked; the Art Room computer wizards were able to change the coding on both tickets to ensure that the men would not be bumped, making it appear that they had not only checked in several hours before anyone else, but that they had both paid the airline’s full fare.

  “Where are Lia and Dean?” Rubens asked Telach as she pointed out Asad’s location on the screen.

  “Lia is tracking the Saudis. There’s no way she can get there in time. Dean’s in the airport, but Asad just saw him. I don’t want to risk putting him on the same flight.”

  “We’ll need someone in Paris — a full team in case he gets off there.”

  “He checked his bag. If he doesn’t get on the flight, it’ll set off all sorts of alarms.”