Kill Alex Cross ac-18

by James Patterson

  I recognized only a few people around the table. Ned Mahoney was one of them.

  He came right over and shook my hand. A little formal for Ned. “Alex. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I mean it. This’s been about the craziest week of my life.”

  I hadn’t laid eyes on him since this roller-coaster ride had started. Part of me still wanted to be pissed at him, but what was the point? Ned was a friend.

  “Any idea what we’re doing here?” I asked him in a quiet voice.

  “I’m not sure. But listen,” he said. He turned me around so we were both facing a glass wall that looked out to guest parking and the rolling, deep green woods beyond. The sun was just coming up over the hills.

  “I need to apologize for how this mess has gone down so far,” Ned said. He spoke quietly but still in that rapid-fire way of his. “It wasn’t my call, but I know that doesn’t mean anything when you’re at the shit end of the stick.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “I do worry about it. I think you’re a hell of a resource, Alex. And a friend, too. I don’t want to lose either one. We okay?”

  “Just write me a nice check or something. Buy me a Philly cheesesteak and a beer.”

  He smiled at that and I guessed we were already over the hump. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure they’d listen to me,” he said.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About bringing you into the loop.”

  Before I could respond, a voice behind us was calling the meeting to order.

  “Good morning, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Evan Stroud, head of the Directorate here at the agency.”

  Ned and I sat down at the far end of the table. I knew Stroud’s face, but only from the news. He’d made a blip in the media when he started this job, all of four weeks ago.

  “If you’re here, you’ve already been cleared by the heads of your respective organizations,” he went on. “Beyond that, everything we cover is for the eyes and ears of this group only. You’ll find clearance credentials in the folders in front of you. You have to fill them out before you leave.”

  Stroud made all the introductions himself. He impressed me by knowing everyone’s name and title without notes. It was a complete alphabet soup in that room — CIA, FBI, NSA, MPD. There were counterterrorism analysts, as well as reps from Secret Service and Homeland Security, and one exhausted-looking agent from the National Clandestine Service who had just arrived from Riyadh.

  When he was done, Stroud sat down and nodded to the analyst on his right. “Let’s begin,” he said. “We have a hell of a lot of material to cover this morning.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Mahoney. This was a big meeting. Ned made a little circling gesture with his finger, mouthed the words “in the loop,” and then pointed at me.

  Yeah, I guess so.

  “AT APPROXIMATELY THREE o’clock this morning, two DC metro police officers were shot and killed at the Brentwood rail yard in Northeast Washington,” the analyst started in. It wasn’t any easier to hear about the murders a second time. Both officers had families. I didn’t know them, but that didn’t matter. When another officer goes down, we all feel it.

  “An indeterminate number of suspects were on-site, all of whom escaped. What we did find, however, was twenty pounds of Semtex explosives. And six canisters of aerosolized sarin. The sarin had already been deposited in the air-conditioning ducts of several Metro subway cars.”

  My head was starting to buzz. That was a staggering amount of deadly material. A couple pounds of Semtex can take down a high-rise, and sarin gas is a nightmare at any dosage.

  The professional decorum in the room began to break apart at that point. Several side conversations started up around the table, and the questions were flying all at once.

  “Are we any closer to knowing who’s running this … this attack?” one of the NSA guys asked. He was bigger and louder than the rest of us.

  “Actually, yes,” the analyst said. He looked across the table at his colleague from Riyadh. “You want to take that?”

  The man from Riyadh’s name was Andrew Fatany. He was clearly running on fumes and needed a shave. His voice was disturbingly hoarse when he got up to speak.

  “Here’s what I can tell you,” Fatany said. “We now have credible intelligence on the existence of a fledgling, independent terror organization based out of Saudi Arabia. Beyond that, we have several unconfirmed reports regarding the establishment of a multifunctional cell here in Washington, a very serious and deadly one, I’m afraid. They’re well financed and organized.”

  It felt like half the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Nobody said a word now, just listened.

  Fatany went on. “Our liaison with the Istikhbarat tells us they’re aware of the group but not of any criminal activity inside the Kingdom itself. That said, we’ve been moving as many operatives as possible out of the embassy in Riyadh and into the southern part of the country, where we believe Al Ayla is training its people before sending them abroad — meaning here, the United States. That includes Washington for sure, possibly New York and Los Angeles as well.”

  “Al Ayla,” Stroud repeated for him.

  “Right. Sorry.” He got a few grim, sympathetic smiles as he took a long swig of coffee. “Al Ayla is the purported name of this organization. It translates as ‘The Family.’”

  “Which may or may not have something to do with the use of married couples at the operational level,” the first analyst said. “It could also just be a coincidence.”

  “But I sincerely doubt it,” Fatany said, half to himself.

  “Excuse me.” Ned raised his hand. “Not to get too far ahead of ourselves here, but do we know anything about Al Ayla’s larger objectives? Current targets, future targets, ideology, anything like that? Anything useful to us on the ground.”

  Both analysts automatically looked to the head of the table.

  “No,” Stroud answered for them. “Nothing at this time.” It was less than subtle code for the fact that we’d reached a wall in terms of what they were prepared to tell us. At least on the topic of Al Ayla, The Family.

  “But we do have one other important piece of intel to throw into the mix. This could be useful,” Stroud added. “It’s about Ethan and Zoe Coyle.”

  ONE OF THE assistant directors from the Bureau, Peter Lindley, took over now.

  “We’ve received a second package from Ethan and Zoe’s presumed kidnapper,” he said. “At a minimum, this is someone who has or has had access to the children since they were taken from the school grounds.”

  Everything about this was news to me. Two packages? What packages? I could tell I wasn’t the only one playing catch-up at the table. Lots of frowns and head shaking around the room.

  “The first came to us several days ago,” Lindley said.

  He pulled a pair of eight-by-ten photos out of his briefcase and started them around the table. “The little black case you’ll see is known to belong to Zoe. And the note in the other photo was folded up inside.”

  A respectful silence followed the pictures as they were passed around. When I saw what was in that note, I understood why.

  “There is no ransom. There will be no demands. The price, Mr. President, is knowing that you will never see your children again.”

  You can’t read something like that and not feel compassion for the victims — the kids and their parents. I have an unfortunate tendency to take these things personally, as if my own family had been harmed. That’s my strength, and my weakness.

  “And yesterday, we received these,” Lindley said, passing around two more photos. “They’ve already been DNA-tested and matched to Ethan and Zoe, respectively.”

  The new images were of a boy’s white oxford shirt and a pair of thick-soled red boots, the kind a girl like Zoe might wear to school.

  “Any formal theories?” someone asked.

  “Actually, I was going to ask Detective Cross
for his take on all this,” Lindley said. Everyone turned to look at me, probably in time to catch the surprise on my face. “I know you’ve only been working around the edges so far,” Lindley said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot here.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. At least I knew why I’d been brought in now. I’ve done as much profiling for the FBI as anyone in Washington. The pictures were all passed back my way, and I looked at them as a set.

  “First thoughts?” I said. “The note’s unequivocal — no ransom, no demands, period. So then the next question, Why send the second package?”

  “Maybe just to string us along?” one of the Bureau wonks contributed the obvious. “Flaunt an advantage. Hang it over our heads. Show off.”

  “I think that’s probably true,” I said. “But there’s a personal element here that’s directed at the president. He’s the one named in the note. If someone wanted to make him suffer, the best way to do that would be to draw this search out for as long as possible.”

  “Go back a second,” Stroud said. “When you say this is personal, are you suggesting it’s also an individual act? Is this one man’s vendetta against the president?”

  I thought about it before I answered, but my first impulse didn’t change.

  “If you want my best guess,” I said, “yes. That’s what this feels like to me. But for the sake of argument, terrorism can be very personal, too, even in the name of a larger cause.”

  “Especially in the name of a larger cause,” Fatany said. “Most of these shits take what they’re doing very personally. They’re willing, even eager, to die — as we’ve already seen.”

  Lindley started to move on, but I jumped back in when one other thing occurred to me.

  “This is above my pay grade — but I’d also recommend keeping President Coyle out of the public eye, if that’s not already in the plan,” I said.

  “Why is that?” Stroud asked, although I think he already knew the answer.

  “If I’m right, it deprives the kidnapper, or kidnappers, of a primary motivation. Don’t let them see the president dealing with this. That’s probably exactly what they want. To humble the United States president in front of a world audience.”

  One of the Secret Service reps cleared his throat. “The president and First Lady are in a secure location,” he said. “We’ll keep Detective Cross’s recommendation under advisement, but any decisions about that kind of thing —”

  Just then, a familiar voice came into the room from an unseen speaker.

  “Excuse me. I’d like to say something.”

  It was coming from the wall, or the ceiling, or maybe even the table itself. I couldn’t tell. But there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

  President Coyle was there with us, and apparently he was ready to make a statement.

  TWO WIDE SCREENS flicked on, one at either end of the room. Suddenly President Edward Coyle was there, sitting at a generic-looking desk, with a set of plain blue drapes drawn behind him.

  For all I know, it was a set piece, a bit of theater meant to hide any clues about where he actually was at this time. Still, it gave me a chill. Probably did the same for everybody in the room.

  “We have you, sir,” Stroud said. “Go ahead. We’re here and we’re listening.”

  Coyle looked bone-tired, and his face was drawn. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I also got the impression he hadn’t been planning on doing this, speaking to our group right now.

  “Let me state the obvious first,” he said. “I have two separate and distinct obligations here. One is to Ethan and Zoe, and the other is to this country.

  “Right now, we don’t seem to know how enmeshed those obligations might be. But I do know that by all indications, and according to the best advice I can get, our capital city is under attack.”

  The president was incredibly focused. I thought of the eye of a hurricane as I watched him. He was obviously a strong man and it was no fluke that he had risen to this position.

  “I’m not saying that we’ve reached some critical point at which a decision has to be made between my children and our nation’s security —”

  “No sir, not at all,” Stroud cut in.

  The president immediately put up the flat of his hand to quash any discussion. “I need to make one point very clearly,” he went on. “With all due respect to the opinions in the room, if I have to show my face to lead the country through this crisis, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Sir —”

  “That’s all for right now. Carry on,” he said. “Evan, I’ll expect my next briefing by ten o’clock. I should be back in the residence by then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stroud said.

  There were a few more mumbled “thank you, sir”s around the table before the screens went blank again, and the president was gone. He’d said all he needed to say.

  I looked down at my watch. It seemed impossible, but it was only a few minutes past six a.m. Bree would be getting off work about now. The kids would be waking up and starting to get ready for school after their day off. It sounded like President and Mrs. Coyle would be headed back to the White House. And two murdered policemen’s families were going to have to start piecing their lives back together this morning.

  It was another day in Washington, DC, and none of us — the ones who were supposed to protect the city — had any idea what it would bring.

  HALA WOKE UP first, as she almost always did. But something was different, she sensed. No, she knew something had changed. For the better?

  It was the sound of the adhan. The sound of home, ringing out from somewhere nearby. She raised her head to see where she was.

  Tariq was still asleep on the metal cot across from hers. Shelves of paper towels and toilet paper, the most pedestrian materials imaginable, lined the corner space above his bed. Where were they?

  Her clothes were the same as the night before, except for a slight stiffness where they’d been sweated through and dried again.

  How many miles had they run? It had seemed as if the night would never be over. But now they were here. Safe for the moment, in a new hiding place.

  “Tariq?” She swung her legs out of bed. It was stuffy in the room, and the cool cement felt good underfoot. “Wake up. Tariq. Tariq.”

  His eyes fluttered open just before he sat up fast. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened? Are the police here?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  This wasn’t a place they were supposed to know about. A dear friend at the camp outside of Najran had given her the name of the mosque. Just in case, he’d said. And use the back door in the alleyway. Hala hadn’t even told Tariq about the location until last night.

  It had been pitch-dark when they came in, and lights were prohibited. Now a single high window was letting in just enough gray dawn to show her details she hadn’t seen before. This was a storage room, wasn’t it? There were boxes of paper and other office supplies. Some canned goods. An enormous wooden lectern, listing a bit to the side, like an old person who needed to use a cane.

  And what was this? She saw that their things had been brought from the hotel. Both suitcases, Tariq’s laptop, and the black weapons case were stacked neatly by the room’s only door.

  “Is it safe to move around?” Tariq asked.

  “I suppose it is. Let’s see.”

  Hala stood up. They could at least change their clothes. She was halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened from the outside. Had someone been watching them all night?

  A portly woman, somewhere between middle-aged and old, walked in on them.

  “You’re awake,” the woman said in Arabic. “Good. We brought your suitcases here.”

  She had a basin of water in both hands, still steaming hot. There were two hand towels on her shoulder and what looked like a blue silk hijab for Hala. Clothes from back home.

  “As soon as
you’re ready, you can come have breakfast with him,” she said. She set the basin and towels on a chair, then turned to go. “I’ll just be outside.”

  “Excuse me. Breakfast with who?” Hala asked.

  The woman stopped, but only to look them over again, assessing them in some way. “Don’t be too long,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

  THEY WERE BROUGHT around through the darkened back of the mosque. Hala could hear the Fajr prayer coming through the walls as they moved quickly along, carrying their shoes.

  The housekeeper, or whatever she was, stopped at a tall carved door and let them inside, but she didn’t follow. The breakfast was already set.

  “Brother. Sister,” the man at the table greeted them, also in Arabic. “Come and sit. The coffee’s getting cold.”

  He was squat, like a man crossed with a toad, but his face was open and seemed friendly. He watched them come into the room with the kind of amused curiosity one usually reserved for a visit by children.

  It was only when they came closer that Hala noticed the wheelchair. The heavy table and his long shirt had obscured it until now.

  “Thank you for having us, Sheikh,” Tariq said. “We’re very sorry for the imposition. We apologize.”

  He waved their concern away. “You were right to come here,” he said. “And I’m not the imam of this mosque. Just a Family member like yourselves. You can call me Uncle. Now, please, don’t be so polite. I know you must be hungry.”

  She was, but Hala still paused to take stock. The man — Uncle — had scrambled eggs, pita, and jam on his plate. There were several other untouched dishes on the table.

  He picked up on it right way. “Smart,” he said. “But completely unnecessary. What would you like me to try?”

  “The labneh,” she said. “And the date spread.”

  She didn’t back down, and it seemed to please rather than antagonize Uncle. His grin only broadened as he took large bites of both, then poured coffee for all three of them from the same pot.