by Vince Flynn
“He liked to read . . . especially American authors. He had traveled to your country before. And Cuba as well. His favorite writer was Ernest Hemingway. He talked of going to his house in Key West and in Cuba as well. As far as we can gather, he left the fighting a few months before the teams had been assembled. It was rumored later that he had been sent ahead to scout out potential targets.”
Rapp’s doubt was quickly dissipating. “Name?”
“Hakim al Harbi. Grew up in the town of Makkah, Saudi Arabia. And here is the really interesting part. As you know, most of these fighters sign up in groups. Hakim joined with his best friend, a man named Karim, who in a very short period gained a reputation as a fierce and capable fighter.”
Butler said, “One source says that he was barely one week in the fight when the Taliban mixed it up with an American hunter-killer team that had staked out a mountaintop position. The local Taliban commander ordered three assaults on the position . . . each one a complete disaster. This Karim and his fresh group of Saudi fighters were ordered to lead the fourth assault. Rather than lead his men on a suicide mission he shot the Taliban commander on the spot and took over.”
“Nice way to receive a battlefield promotion.”
“And that’s exactly what happened,” Butler continued. “Apparently this Taliban commander was a bit dim. The al Qaeda leadership was looking for an excuse to get rid of him and without their lifting a finger Karim took care of their problem. The Taliban didn’t make a stink, because this particular commander had made a habit of burning through fresh conscripts.”
“Anything after this incident?” Rapp asked.
“We’re working on compiling and checking the stories, but he was known to be a tough and disciplined commander with a wicked temper.”
Cheval said, “And apparently wasn’t afraid to engage in a little self-promotion.”
“How so?” Rapp asked.
“He gave himself a nickname.”
Butler asked, “Care to hazard a guess?”
Rapp was used to connecting the dots, and this was something he should have picked up on several minutes ago. With a shake of the head he said, “The Lion of al Qaeda.”
“Exactly,” Cheval answered.
Rapp looked at Butler’s file and then Cheval’s. “Please tell me you have one more photo to show me. We’ve been after the Saudis but they haven’t given us shit. They’re denying that he’s even one of them.”
“That does not surprise me,” Butler said. “Sorry to disappoint, but we have no photo at the moment. I promise you, though, we are throwing a lot of resources at the problem.”
CHAPTER 33
MIDWEST, U.S.A.
HAKIM came to, and the first thing he noticed was a lack of movement. There was no gentle swaying back and forth and the occasional bounce. They were either on a very smooth road or they had stopped. His head moved to the right and then the left. He felt fluid sloshing around inside somewhere and then a stabbing sensation in his ear. He knew instantly his left eardrum had been burst. After clenching his jaw for a long moment he opened his eyes and looked around the bedroom in the back of the RV. The shades were still drawn on the two windows, but a bit of light still managed to make it through.
Something felt oddly different this time. To say that he had been a bit out of it would be a huge understatement. Hakim had no real sense of time, but it felt as if he had slept on and off for most of the day. Occasionally something would hurt so badly he’d come to for a moment, and then things would get hazy again. His memory was foggy, but at one point he seemed to remember Ahmed sticking something in his arm. That image jogged a few things loose and he suddenly realized he was really thirsty. He tried to sit up, but it was too painful. A few ribs were surely broken.
Reaching out, he managed to get hold of the curtain that separated the bedroom from the kitchen area. He moved it a few inches and saw Karim sitting in the booth talking to Ahmed. Maps were spread out on the table and they were talking in hushed tones. Karim sensed he was being watched. He lifted his dark eyes and looked through the gap at the man he had pummeled earlier in the day.
Hakim did not look away. He stared back at his friend with his sliver of a left eye, the right one still puffy and closed. He wanted Karim to have to look at his battered face. He wanted Karim to know exactly what he had done to his supposed friend.
Ahmed realized Hakim was awake and quickly slid out of the booth. He yanked open the door to the half-sized refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. He quickly brought it over to Hakim and after gently cradling his head, he pressed the bottle to his swollen lips.
Hakim took several sips and after a long pause a few more. When he felt he could speak without his voice cracking he asked, “Where are we?”
Ahmed looked over his shoulder and Karim reluctantly nodded for him to go ahead. He looked back at Hakim and said, “We are not sure.”
“Not sure. You mean we are lost?”
“Yes.”
Hakim didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. “How could you be lost? Where is the GPS device?”
Ahmed did not answer. From behind, Karim announced in a quiet but noticeably angry voice, “It was left in the house.”
Hakim looked up at the ceiling and laughed silently. He had taken so many precautions. How could they have screwed it up? He wasn’t worried for a second that they would remain lost. He had driven all over this part of America. He had spent more nights than he could ever recall sitting in lonely roadside motels poring over maps, so many that he imagined he could win nearly any geography competition in the country. “What time is it?”
Ahmed looked at his watch. “Almost five in the evening.”
“When did we leave the farm?”
“Around nine.” Ahmed added, “I think.”
“It was eight-forty-seven,” Karim announced with confidence.
“Do you know what state we are in?”
Ahmed sheepishly said, “I thought I knew, but now I am not sure.”
Hakim was dumbstruck. The states in the middle of America were huge. “How can that be?”
“The river,” he said as if that would explain everything. “It turns like a snake.”
Now Hakim understood the confusion. The Mississippi River acted as a state line for almost all of its twenty-three hundred miles. The RV had two gas tanks, which Karim knew held seventy-five gallons. He also knew the tanks were full because he had topped them off with the reserves he had stashed at the farm. If they’d been on the federal interstate highway system and had driven at the posted speeds they could have traveled as far as seven hundred miles without refueling. That was almost ten hours of driving, and they had been on the road just eight. “How much fuel do we have left?”
“We are low.”
“How low?”
“Barely above empty.”
Hakim was hit by a pang of fear. How could that be? He had gone over the escape plans with both men. He had drilled it into their thick heads that if anything should happen to him, they should follow one of two escape plans, either to Chicago or Houston, and stick with whichever one they chose. Both involved getting on the interstate and blending in, getting as far away as possible, as quickly as possible, with the least chance of something going wrong. Like getting lost. “What happened to the escape routes I gave you? They were simple to follow. Even without the GPS.”
Ahmed made a gesture with his eyes as if he was looking over his shoulder while not wanting to turn his neck.
Hakim understood. “Karim, why did you not follow my plans?” He wished Ahmed would move so he could see the pained expression on Karim’s face.
“I made a tactical decision. When I looked at recent developments I decided we must adapt.”
“And how did that work for you . . . deviating from the plan?” Hakim asked, not caring if he upset him again.
After a long pause, Karim said, “I do not need your help. I can figure this out without you.”
“Is that why we
are stopped? We should be halfway to Houston or safely parked under a bridge in Chicago if that were the case. You chose to ignore all of my hard work and once again, look where it has gotten you.”
“Ahmed, move!” Karim ordered.
The big man got up and walked to the front of the RV.
Karim gave his old friend a long, hard look and said, “I will not hesitate to beat you again. I do not have the time or the patience to deal with your hurt feelings.”
“And I no longer have the time or inclination to condone your arrogance and stupidity.”
Anger flashed across Karim’s face. He pulled back his untucked shirt, showing the handle of a pistol.
Hakim smiled, his once-perfect set of teeth now ruined. “You talk of mission and faith and doing what is best for the jihad, but you can’t humble yourself for even a second.”
“I am your commander. It is not my place to humble myself before you.”
Hakim said, “Who gave you the rank of commander?”
Karim started to draw the gun.
“You gave it to yourself. I was never part of your little group that you trained in the jungle. You may have deluded yourself into thinking that I was, but deep down in your heart you know I am speaking the truth.”
“I am sick of all your talking,” Karim shouted as he stood.
Hakim remained calm. “And you think that justifies killing me.”
“On the battlefield it certainly does. Discipline must be kept.”
Hakim started to laugh, but it hurt too much and quickly turned to coughing. He spat up some blood that dribbled down his chin. His face was so bruised and numb, though, that he didn’t even feel it. He asked, “What would Allah think of this? You say that everything you do is to please Allah. How will your murdering me please Allah?”
Karim held on to the gun so tightly he began to shake. “Allah wants this mission to succeed. That is what will please him. You and all of your Western ways disgust him. Allah cares nothing for you. He would award me for ending your life and sending you to hell.”
“Now you claim to know what Allah thinks. I am truly in the presence of greatness. Maybe you could ask him where we are.”
“I have heard enough.” Karim raised his pistol and pointed it at Hakim.
From the front of the RV, Ahmed called, “Sir, please, may I have a word with you?”
Karim turned to find Ahmed standing ramrod straight, his hands at his sides, his chin pointed slightly up and his eyes looking straight ahead as if he was on the parade grounds waiting inspection. “What?”
“In private, please, sir.”
Hakim lay there on the bed wondering briefly if he had lost his senses. Why provoke an unstable man who had killed and would gladly do it again rather than admit he was wrong? The answer, he guessed, was that he didn’t care. He watched Karim hesitate and then yield to Ahmed’s request. The two men stepped outside and closed the door, leaving Hakim alone in the RV wondering if he would have the courage to leave these two on their own. Let them fend for themselves. That would be poetic justice. Let the egomaniac rely on his inflated opinion of his own skills. He wouldn’t last more than a few days.
Ahmed came back into the RV by himself and closed the door. He moved carefully to the back and sat on the edge of the bed. In a quiet tone he said, “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. That jungle changed him. It changed all of us.”
“That is no excuse.”
“No, but it is a cause.”
Hakim thought for the first time that Ahmed might not be as dimwitted as he seemed. “Be that as it may, he is not my commander.”
“You may think that, but you will have a hard time convincing him.”
“Then there is nothing to talk about.”
Ahmed made a calming gesture with his hands. “I think you need some time away from each other.”
“Please, by all means . . . drop me off at the next town.”
Ahmed ignored him. Lowering his voice to a mere whisper he said, “I have offered to deal with you.”
“Are you my superior officer now? We must keep the chain of command in place,” Hakim said in a mocking tone.
“No. I want to save your life. I think you are a good man. And I think we need you. Please help us.”
Hakim thought about it for a long moment and then said, “In the rear luggage compartment on this side,” Hakim pointed over his head to the starboard side of the vehicle, “you will find a black Oakley backpack. Bring it to me.”
Ahmed left and a minute later returned with the backpack. Karim came back into the RV and stood just behind Ahmed, his gun still in his hand. It occurred to Hakim that he was keeping an eye on him in case he drew his own weapon from the backpack. Instead he unzipped one of the pockets and withdrew a Garmin hand-held GPS device. He fumbled with the device for a second and then pressed the power button. As the unit powered up, Hakim looked at Karim with his one squinty eye and said, “All you had to do was ask. I have a backup for nearly everything.”
CHAPTER 34
HAKIM held the small device in his bruised and battered hands, waiting for the inner workings to reach out to the nearest satellite, or mobile phone tower, or whatever it was that allowed it to be so precise. It took a total of forty seconds for the device to power up, run through a bunch of graphics, and deliver the information he was looking for. Hakim would have laughed, but the pain from his previous attempt was still fresh on his mind, so he kept his composure.
Squinting at Karim, he announced, “Congratulations, we are in Mexico!”
Karim frowned, “How can that be?”
“Mexico, Missouri.” Hakim wanted to throw in a you idiot, but knew it would likely elicit a further beating or maybe even a bullet. “It is a town west of St. Louis.”
“I knew we were near St. Louis.”
Hakim didn’t believe him. He looked at Ahmed and said, “There is a laptop in the bag. Would you please hand it to me.” After he was given the laptop, he said, “And in the outer pocket, on the side, you will find a small USB device with Verizon printed on it. Please find it for me.”
Hakim turned on the computer, and while he waited for Ahmed to give him the USB modem he asked Karim, “Do you have any idea where you have been?”
“Not precisely.”
“I didn’t ask precisely. I asked if you have any idea.”
“I know we were in Illinois at one point.”
“Several times,” Ahmed said while he kept digging through the pockets. He came up with something and said, “It this it?”
“Yes.” Hakim took it and stuck it into the USB port. “And what was wrong with the route I had laid out for you?”
Karim looked at his watch and said, “I did not want to be seen, so I decided to stay off the main roads.”
The man was a stubborn idiot. “And you got lost. Did it ever occur to you that the big roads have more traffic? That it is easier to blend in?”
“And they have more police,” Karim said boastfully. “That is why we got lost. I wanted to avoid St. Louis. Too many police and there was construction.”
“You left the farm more than eight hours ago. If you had followed my plan you would already be in Oklahoma, and well on your way to Houston. Now you are barely in the next state.”
“Everything is fine,” Karim said dismissively.
“Three minutes ago you were lost.”
“I knew we were near St. Louis.”
Hakim didn’t believe him. He glanced at the laptop screen and saw that he had a connection. He logged onto Google Maps and double-clicked on the middle of America. Using the track pad, he began to zero in on the area north of St. Louis. He eyed the distance between the Iowa farmhouse and Mexico, Missouri. “You have traveled approximately 150 miles in eight hours.”
“That is a good distance.”
Hakim realized the idiot was still thinking as if he were in the mountains of Afghanistan, where traveling twenty miles in a day was considered a huge success. “If you had
trusted me, you would have traveled more than five hundred miles in that time.”
“It does not matter. We are safe and we know where we are.”
“Doesn’t matter? Three Arab men in America’s heartland. A town like Mexico is probably 90 percent Caucasian. The other ten percent is divided up between Hispanics, blacks, and some Asians. They have probably never seen an Arab before.”
“It doesn’t matter. No one will be looking for us in this part of the country.”
“And when they find the father and son in the house?”
