“Never when I’m visiting my friends at the Bellagio, Steve. Gave them Christmas off to be with their families. You’ll watch out for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Winfield turned to the short, stocky man at his side as they moved toward the waiting limousine. “Gilad, you’ll be personally responsible for the congresswoman’s safety from now until she leaves Vegas. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, the runway lights reflecting off his shaven head as he extended a hand toward the congresswoman. “My name’s Cohen, Gilad Cohen. I’ll do my best.”
Winfield laughed. “Don’t let Gilad fool you—he’s the best there is. Former Israeli special forces, the head of my security team ever since I stole him away from Adelson at the Venetian.”
The Israeli never even smiled, moving to flank Gilpin as they entered the limo. “Can you update me on your threat profile, congresswoman?”
Gilpin let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She leaned back into the white leather of the limo. “The usual crazies, you know the drill. I get a couple death threats on Twitter every day, a few people ranting in all caps how they’d like to ‘remove me from office,’ nothing serious. Nothing like it was a year ago, right after my appearance with Frank Gaffney.”
“So, no threats that you would consider credible?”
“None.”
4:24 P.M.
Summerlin, Nevada
He could remember it all clearly now, Thomas thought, looking down into his whiskey. A night in D.C., just back from the sandbox—spending the evening in the Atlas Room. A blonde, alone at the bar.
No ring.
“What are you going to say?” Nicole Powers asked, her eyes pleading with him across the kitchen table.
“About what?”
“Us, of course.”
Thomas shrugged, tossing back the last of the whiskey she had poured for him. “What’s there to say?”
What, indeed. It had only been hours later, back in his room, that she had gotten a call from her husband. Out of the country, in the Sudan to be exact, working with the JTTF.
“He should have been here by now,” he observed, glancing at his watch. How many minutes was it since he had entered the house? He didn’t remember.
He pushed the glass away from him, silently cursing himself for giving in to the temptation. His weakness.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside and the door burst open, revealing the silhouette of her husband. “Honey, I got here as quickly as I could, the traffic was heavy and I…”
His voice trailed off as he saw Thomas sitting there at the table. “Who are you?”
“Have a seat, Trent,” Thomas admonished, gesturing to the chair beside Nicole. “We really need to talk.”
5:17 P.M.
A grocery store
Las Vegas, Nevada
He had to do it. Go now, the voice within warned him. Nasir glanced ahead—they were almost to the check-out counter. Only one customer ahead of them, an overweight American woman with a cart heaped full of snack food, undoubtedly destined for a Christmas Eve party…or perhaps it was all for her. It was hard to tell.
Just enough time. He watched as Omar grabbed a pack of Trident gum off the display, placing it on the counter beside their loaves of bread.
“I gotta take a leak,” he whispered, nudging his brother in the side.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamal replied, seeming preoccupied. “We’ll see you at the car.”
And it was that simple. Nasir felt sweat trickle down his face as he walked away, struggling not to run—not to call attention to himself. He moved up one aisle and turned, heading down another toward the back of the store, scarce daring to breathe. Freedom.
A double door marked “Employees Only” stood in his path and he pushed it open, half-expecting an alarm to sound. Nothing.
Nasir found himself standing in the storage room of the small grocery store, shelves filled with toilet tissue and paper towels rising above him toward the ceiling ten or eleven feet above his head. His hands fumbling with the back of the phone, he moved behind a nearby shelf, crouching down.
Redial. His breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the phone’s screen, watching as it began to ring.
He murmured a curse in Arabic, his hands trembling. Pick up. He nearly dropped the phone when a woman’s voice answered, “Yes?”
The woman from the FBI. His handler.
Alhamdulillah. God be praised.
“Please, please—you have to help me. They’re moving forward with the attack.”
“Details, Nasir. I need the details—what is the target?”
He closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth. “No, no, no. You come and get me first—then I will tell you everything. Once I am safe. I’m done.”
“Where is your brother?” Omar asked, holding the grocery bags easily in his massive hands as he and Jamal left the check-out counter.
“He’ll be with us in a couple moments,” the college student responded carelessly. “Men’s room.”
Omar nodded, starting to push open the door of the convenience store. Good enough.
All at once, he stopped, his eyes fixed on a little sign hanging just outside, printed in both English and Spanish.
No Public Restrooms.
His heart nearly stopped, the words of the imam that morning flickering through his mind. Keep an eye on Nasir…I fear his heart is not with us.
And he knew. They had been betrayed. “Find him,” Omar hissed, ignoring Jamal’s look of disbelief—his eyes darting around the small store. He patted his jacket with anxious fingers, feeling the bulge of the Smith & Wesson underneath. “Quickly.”
A noise, something moving in the store outside—and Nasir looked up, sweat trickling down his face. “I’ll meet you at the back of the store,” he whispered into the phone. “I can tell you their plans for the attack, everything—just please hurry.”
“We’ll be there in under ten minutes, Nasir,” the woman’s voice responded. “Just need to cross town. But you need to give me the information now.”
He hesitated, an agonizing moment of indecision—running a hand through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. The rough concrete floor of the storeroom cut into his knee as he leaned against a nearby shelf.
Giving her the information…it meant giving up what leverage he had. All his assurances of safety. “How can I trust you—that you’ll still come for me, once I’ve given you what you want?”
“You have my word. It’s for your own safety, Nasir. The more quickly we can get these men in cuffs, the safer you’ll be. I’m coming for you.”
Faith…in a stranger. He swore in frustration. No. “I’ll meet you behind the store, and I’ll tell what you need to know—”
“Nasir? Nasir?”
He tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words, his throat suddenly dry. He was staring into a muzzle of blued steel, into Omar’s dark eyes behind it. Eyes full of disappointment and rage.
“Give me the phone.”
Helpless. Marika could hear a shout, then the line exploded in static. The sound of a phone being destroyed. She knew it well. Knew all that it meant.
She swore, an oath filled with fury, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. The car in front of them refused to budge, continuing to plod along just below the speed limit.
“Get the LVMPD on the phone.” She didn’t even glance at Russ, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “And Powers. Have them meet us there.”
She paused for a long moment, struggling with the cold reality of what she had heard. She had given him her word—that she would protect him, that his work for the FBI would not be forgotten. All of it…for what?
“We just lost our CI.”
5:26 P.M.
Summerlin, Nevada
“Why should I believe that any of this intelligence is reliable…Mr. Todd?”
“Why should you?” Thomas responded, maintaining his
composure. Everything in Powers’ body language screamed of a man who had yet to be convinced. “Take it with you. Run your own analysis. You’ll find the facial recognition is an 83% match with photos of Tarik Abdul Muhammad from his time in Gitmo. We ran it through the Agency systems when our source first flagged it.”
“Your source?”
Thomas spread his hands out on the tabletop. “That’s need-to-know, I’m afraid. Above both our pay grades.”
Powers shook his head, cursing under his breath. “What is the Agency doing running ‘sources’ on U.S. soil—care to tell me that?”
A smile. “Once again…pay grade. Now, the bigger question, can you afford to take the chance that it might be true?”
The FBI agent’s eyes locked with his. “I’ll have to take all of this back to the field office, begin to verify it through our databases.”
“Understood. And you understand that I will have to accompany you—Agency protocols, this intel doesn’t leave my presence.”
Powers hesitated for only a moment. “What can I say…you check out. I suppose this request is reasonable.”
“It wasn’t a request,” Thomas replied, maintaining his poker face. This was one of the benefits of using an Agency backstopped legend. He had rolled the dice that the bureaucrats at Langley wouldn’t have thought to close it down. Gambled and won.
“Now…I need to know something.” The agent paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “How do you know my wife?”
No warning, no indication of what he had sensed. Nothing leading up to it. Just the question.
He could see her out of the corner of his eye, in the kitchen. The look of desperation on her face. Thomas smiled easily, as if the question was of no import. “We met once in D.C., years ago. A political event, if I recall correctly. We—”
The phone on the table beside Powers’ hand began to vibrate, and the FBI man glanced at it. “I need to take this.”
Thomas waved a hand, fighting against the nerves that plagued him. “Of course.”
He waited as the agent went into the next room, wishing he could get another drink. Knowing that he couldn’t handle one. Keep control of yourself…
When Powers reappeared, he was pulling on his coat. “We need to go—right now. You were right. They’re here. In Vegas.”
Thomas didn’t see Nicole as he left the house. Just as well—nothing to say, only the hope that whatever news the phone call had brought, it would be enough to distract her husband from asking too many more questions. Powers popped the remote entry key of his Subaru, moving around the other side of the vehicle.
“Talk to me, Thomas,” the voice in his ear interjected. Harry, this time. “What’s going on?”
He cast a glance around, making out their car near the end of the block. Powers was inside the SUV now, the engine roaring to life. “When I know, Harry…you’ll know.”
Something was happening, Harry thought, watching as Thomas entered the vehicle with the FBI agent. He could feel it. And somehow, he feared that they had been too late.
5:58 P.M.
The convention center
Las Vegas, Nevada
The concrete floor came rushing up to meet him, scraping the skin from the side of his face. A booted foot landed in his ribs, and Nasir could hear them crack under the impact.
A scream, almost inhuman in its sound, a pain-soaked fog descending over his eyes. He could taste blood in his mouth, a raw, sickening taste.
He rolled into a ball, head against his knees, trying to shield his damaged ribs—just as another boot smashed into the small of his back. Pain rippled like fire through his body, another scream escaping his lips.
I’m coming for you. The voice of the woman, playing itself through his mind. Don’t be afraid.
Lies.
Spittle struck him in the face and he looked up, his vision clearing just enough to make out the form of his brother standing over him.“Jamal…” he whispered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Jamal…”
“Shut up!” The image seemed to waver, fading in and out as his head throbbed. But it was his brother. “How could you—how could you have betrayed our faith?”
I didn’t. His lips tried to form the words, but all that came out was a moan of agony. Then he saw his brother’s foot drawn back once more…and he closed his eyes.
6:15 P.M.
The convenience store
“Agent Altmann?” A tall woman in an FBI windbreaker turned as they approached across the parking lot, ducking under the crime scene tape.
“Yes,” she responded simply, extending a hand to Powers as Thomas looked on.
“Trent Powers, Vegas S-A-C. What do we have?”
“Not much,” the woman replied, glancing in Thomas’s direction. “Who’s he?”
“Steven Todd.” The FBI man waved him forward. “He’s Agency. They came into possession of intel on the terrorist cell.”
“Indeed? Then maybe they can tell me where to find my CI—because all I have is this,” Altmann retorted, bitterness sweeping across her features. She held up a sealed evidence bag containing the smashed phone. It was completely mangled, twisted metal and plastic. “No signs of a struggle in the back room where he placed the call, nothing except the phone. My guess is that he was taken at gunpoint.”
“Witnesses?”
“None of the crime. No one paid any attention to them exiting the store. Showed Nasir’s photo to the clerk. He was in there with another Arab and a black guy, best they could recall.”
Powers nodded, his gaze sweeping the front of the store. “Security footage?”
“Two cameras,” came the short reply. “The tapes are already on their way to your field office. We’ll have to see what they tell us.”
Her eyes came to rest on Thomas, and he felt as if the older woman was looking straight through him. “What is your intel telling you?”
“That Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in-country…and Vegas is his target.”
10:04 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Sir, I need you to look at this.”
Kranemeyer glanced up to see Daniel Lasker standing in the doorway of his office. “What is it, Danny?”
“A flash from the FBI’s Las Vegas field office just hit the op-center. They’ve lost a CI in the Abu Kareem manhunt, with his last transmission from a convenience store in the Vegas metro area. They believe his cover has been blown.”
The DCS took a deep breath. “So, we’ve got a homegrown terror cell in a major American city…potentially in possession of a WMD.”
“No.” Lasker hesitated for a moment, unusual for the talkative young comm chief. “They don’t believe it to be homegrown—they have new intel that seems to indicate that Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in-country and heading up the attack.”
“Where did they get that intel?” Kranemeyer demanded, cursing underneath his breath. If it were true…
Another long, unnatural pause. “According to the Vegas S-A-C…they’re getting it from us. More specifically, from an officer named Steven Todd.”
“So?” The name meant nothing to Kranemeyer, nothing that he could think of. “Is he one of ours?”
“Steven Todd is an official Agency legend…for Thomas Parker. And I can’t find any reason for him being in Vegas. He was supposed to be on vacation—a hunting trip. And the FBI was looking for him.”
“I know,” the DCS replied significantly, staring Lasker in the eye. “Run with it.”
“You mean…?” The comm chief’s voice trailed off. “Sir, under the terms of the CIA charter, we can’t operate on U.S. soil. It’s illegal.”
Kranemeyer pushed his chair back away from his desk and rose, leaning heavily on his bad leg. “Rules were made to be broken, Danny. And it’s on me. Not you. Not Parker. We’ll deal with those niceties later.”
He limped over to the percolator, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Confirm Parker’s intel to the Bur
eau and kick it upstairs. Make sure the President receives the latest.”
8:02 P.M.
A motel
Henderson, Nevada
It hurt to breathe, a stabbing pain in his side. Harry winced, holding the hot, wet cloth against his ribs for a moment longer before pulling it away to reveal a purplish bruise.
“We’re missing something here,” he announced, buttoning his shirt as he came back out of the bathroom. Things weren’t adding up—two plus two equaling five. “Why Vegas?”
Tex was sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in his hand. “It’s a symbol of Western decadence?”
It was the most logical explanation, but there was something missing. “Why now?”
“Christmas?” Harry turned to find Han standing in the doorway of the adjoining room. “One of the biggest Christian holidays…the birth of Christ.”
“Allah has no son,” Harry mused, remembering the words of the Qur’an. It was possible.
“An influx of tourists even with the recession,” the SEAL added. “Vegas is a high-value target on a normal week…but Christmas? You do the math.”
He had. “Let’s go over this again. What do we know about Tarik Abdul Muhammad?” Harry asked, glancing over to where Carol sat.
A shrug. “Not much to know, really. He spent eight years in Gitmo following his capture in 2004. According to soldiers assigned to guard him, Tarik was considered devout, often spending hours reading the Qur’an. It was said among his fellow prisoners that he was a hafiz, having memorized the Islamic scriptures during those years in captivity. In 2012, political pressure from the administration strong-armed a military tribunal into dismissing the most serious charges against him. Against the protests of several prominent members of Congress, he was then returned to Pakistan—sort of an olive branch after the Bin Laden raid.”
“Where he cropped up on our radar again within six months.” Harry shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “You can’t argue with the success of soft power.”
“Some of the intel we gathered suggested an affiliation with Lashkar-e-Taiba, but that was never confirmed. His followers call him ‘The Shaikh,’ a sign of respect, we believe, for his knowledge of the Sunnah. A couple of local attacks on Coalition military in Afghanistan before our withdrawal were tied to him…but he’s largely stayed in the shadows. Waiting.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 48
