Waiting.
The cellphone in his shirt pocket buzzed even as his hands moved over the metal receiver of the submachine gun and he plucked it out of his pocket. Thomas. Speak of the devil…
“Hello.”
“I only have a moment,” his teammate responded. “But I need an answer from you. How credible was your intel on Vegas?”
Harry took a deep breath, ignoring Carol’s inquiring gaze. Forcing himself to remember.
He could remember the night, the tension in the room. The sweat beading Andropov’s face. Every detail as clear as polished glass in his mind’s eye.
“I am a facilitator, nothing more…they’re going to strike Las Vegas.”
True? Or false? He could still see the fear in the Russian’s eyes, hear the slight tremor in his voice. Truth? Or lies?
And lives rested in the balance.
“He was telling the truth,” he replied finally, breathing a prayer that he was right. “It was solid intel. Vegas is Tarik Abdul Muhammad’s target.”
“Because the Bureau’s LA field office is currently following up on a sighting of Abu Kareem a few miles from LAX this morning with another man, possibly a foreign national. They think the disappearance of their CI in Vegas is a diversion.”
“No.”
12:14 P.M.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Alone. With his thoughts. And his God.
Omar bent forward, his forehead touching the surface of the prayer rug as he whispered the takbir. Words of praise.
Twenty-five steps, he thought, distracted for a moment by the sight of his Kalashnikov propped in the corner of the empty room.
Twenty-five steps for him to reach his firing position. Just out the door, up the stairs—onto the roof. That’s all it was.
I seek refuge in Allah from the outcast Satan, he breathed, quelling his own fears. He had seen men die, the first when he was nineteen. A drug deal gone wrong.
He could remember that moment as if it were yesterday, the look of fear in the other man’s eyes as his gun came out. The surge of power that came from pulling the trigger. The blood flecking the dirty asphalt.
What would it feel like to be that man? He raised himself from off the mat, the question caroming around his mind, itself unstoppable.
Soon enough, he would know. As would the Americans…
2:45 P.M.
FBI Field Office
“It’s been two hours. No one in or out.” Agent Powers stared at the screen in front of him, the images from the helmet-cams of the Los Angeles Field Office’s tactical team.
“Did you run down the building’s owner, Dietz?” he asked, speaking into his Bluetooth headset.
The screen shifted away from the Canoga Park-area commercial building, revealing the face of LA Assistant Director-in-Charge Anthony Dietz. “Yeah…it’s Wells Fargo. The bank took the entire property four years ago—it was part of a chain of pawn shops.”
“What is thermal giving you?”
“Two men in a back room. Based on the statements of a witness, we’re reasonably certain that it’s Abu Kareem and the foreign national. They just seem to be waiting…maybe on the rest of the cell. I’ve staged my teams out of sight—if anyone shows up, we’ll be able to deploy within seconds.”
“Any hits on his companion?”
A shake of the head. “Negative, ran him by Interpol and the boys at Langley. Whoever he is, he’s not thrown up any red flags prior to this.”
“Keep me updated.”
“When I know, you’ll know.” The screen went dark without further comment.
“Where are we at here in the city?” Powers asked, moving back to the task at hand.
Marika watched as Agent Chase picked up the remote, changing the view on the plasma back to the map of Las Vegas. “Nothing, as of yet. We’re focusing on properties like the one in Canoga Park, places that are unoccupied. Any buildings rented within the last six months.”
It was a lot of territory, Marika thought. And they had scarcely a hundred agents. The reinforcements Buhler had sent from Denver had no sooner landed at McCarran than they had packed back up and headed for LA.
She got up from the conference table, passing the CIA agent on her way out the door. He had to have been in his late thirties, but he looked younger.
“Walk with me,” she said as she passed. It wasn’t a request.
A nod and he turned to follow her as they moved out into the corridor. “Who are you?”
A faint smile passed across the man’s boyish face and he unclipped his visitor badge, passing it to her without a word.
She snorted, glancing down at the name printed there.
“Right. You’re not an analyst—not the type of desk jockey Langley generally sends over. What are you in…the SAD?” Marika asked, referencing the Special Activities Division.
“No comment,” he replied with an easy shrug. “See no evil, speak no evil?”
“Not until this is over. Then there will be an investigation into who authorized an op on American soil.”
“I’m sure there will be,” came the even response. “In the mean time, we’re occupying Ground Zero…but you know that, don’t you?”
She nodded, glancing down the corridor. “I know it, you know it…I think even Powers can feel it. But until D.C. knows it—until they give the order to the other field offices, our hands are tied.”
4:01 P.M. Mountain Time
Billings Logan International Airport
Billings, Montana
“Delta Flight 94, this is Tower. You are cleared for departure on Runway 2.”
Captain Paula Gonzalez acknowledged the order, glancing over at her co-pilot as they began rolling down the runway, the huge Pratt & Whitney turbofans roaring into life on either side of the fuselage.
“Christmas Eve in Vegas? It could be worse—right?”
She laughed. “Right. Then back to see Andrew and Julie unwrap their presents. If Keith can keep them in bed that long.”
“Relax,” he replied as the Delta Airlines 757 rose into the sky, carrying two hundred and thirty-three souls.
“It’ll be a milk run.”
6:17 P.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“The President will join you momentarily,” the Secret Service agent announced, ushering Kranemeyer into the Treaty Room.
The President. Kranemeyer’s eyes flickered around the room, coming to rest on the old Theobald Chartran painting on the wall across from him, of the signing of peace protocols between the United States and Spain in 1898.
Men coming together for peace. Back in a day when wars had been fought between nation-states—and a treaty had meant something.
A simpler time.
Voices at the door, and the DCS turned as President Hancock entered the room, flanked by his detail.
“Thank you for coming, director,” Hancock said, his voice smooth as silk as he gripped Kranemeyer’s hand. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but this is our lot in life, isn’t it?”
Kranemeyer nodded his acknowledgment, Haskel’s face flickering across his mind’s eye. The way he had looked, groveling on the carpet. Dying.
“Peace in our lifetimes. A permanent end to…the energy crisis for America. It was going to be real—all we had to do was stand back.”
Politicians, Kranemeyer thought, maintaining a studiously neutral expression.
“I’m due for some good news, director. I trust you’ve come to give it to me.” The President looked tired, fatigue betraying the smooth veneer.
“I’m afraid not.” Kranemeyer passed an open folder across the table to the President. “If anything, our assets on the West Coast are being spread thin, misdirected.”
His words seemed to rattle Hancock. “What are you saying?”
“Every piece of intel we’ve been able to gather indicates that the attack is against Las Vegas. The pictures we have are of both Abu Kareem al-Fileestin
i and Tarik Abdul Muhammad together in a Vegas strip club just a few days ago. There was nothing on LA until this morning, when Abu Kareem showed up there.” He was going out on a limb, trusting the intel Parker had provided him. Trust your men.
Could he still do that…after Hamid?
“But he is there,” Hancock responded, tapping the folder nervously. “And the FBI has him pinned down. They’re just waiting for the rest of the cell to show up.”
Kranemeyer inclined his head to one side. “And what if they don’t show up, Mr. President?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…what if our intelligence is, in fact, correct? What if Abu Kareem is a decoy?”
“But that would mean that we have nothing.” Hancock leaned forward. “And your intel could be wrong. I have to go with what we have, director. Terrorists have brought a weapon of mass destruction onto our soil…and I have to follow our best chance of stopping it. I can’t let a terrorist attack of this scale be the legacy of my presidency.”
“Then you won’t countermand the orders coming out of the Bureau’s regional field offices?”
Silence. Kranemeyer could see the indecision written on the President’s countenance. Torturous uncertainty.
“No. I can’t.”
4:49 P.M. Pacific Time
FBI Field Office
Las Vegas, Nevada
The moment Agent Chase reentered the conference room, Marika knew something was wrong.
The younger woman’s face was pale, the pasty look of someone who had just vomited. “There’s something I need to show you,” she stammered, glancing from Marika to the S-A-C. “It was forwarded to us from Fort Meade—they picked it up less than fifteen minutes ago as it was being uploaded.”
“Throw it up on the plasma.”
She hesitated at Powers’ instruction. “It’s graphic.”
And Marika knew. She heard the S-A-C repeat his order as if in a haze, then turned toward the screen as a video began to play.
It was low-resolution, not much better than webcam quality. But she knew the face. Nasir abu Rashid. Or al-Khalidi—or whatever his name had been, really.
Her CI. Kneeling in what appeared to be a large, darkened room…facing the camera.
The wall behind him was covered with the flag of jihad, bearing the shahada in flowing Arabic, white script on a hell-black background. There is no god but God—and Muhammad is his Prophet.
She watched as the man standing at his side began speaking in rapid-fire, nervous Arabic, his face shrouded by a black balaclava, clearly pronouncing a death sentence.
Nasir’s lips were moving, but the microphone couldn’t pick up his final plea for mercy.
Don’t worry, Nasir. I’m coming for you. A promise she hadn’t kept, Marika thought…watching as the executioner took a step back, drawing a glistening steel katana from its sheath. You’ll be safe.
She remained watching, stone-faced as the sword fell with a cry of “Allahu akbar!”
Blood sprayed into the air, a strangled scream reaching the microphone—a wet blade pulled back to strike again and again until the head fell to the floor, completely severed. The decapitated torso remained kneeling for another half-second before it toppled to one side.
Marika looked over to see Agent Chase covering her eyes. “Look!” she hissed from between clenched teeth, seizing the younger woman by the wrist. “We sent him out there, we failed him—we let him get killed getting intel we needed…don’t you dare hide your eyes.”
She rose from the table, her body trembling with anger. “Take that video apart—I want to see every frame over and over until we find out where it was filmed. Let’s get them.”
5:23 P.M.
Canoga Park, California
“Still out there?” Abu Kareem asked in Arabic as the Pakistani fighter reentered the room.
The man nodded, responding in the same language. “Two snipers that I can see out the front.”
It didn’t matter, he thought, his fingertips lightly caressing the butt of the Sig-Sauer P226 holstered under his light windbreaker…just beneath the edge of the explosive vest he was wearing. They had no intentions of leaving here alive.
The imam ran a hand over his beard, glancing at the bare white interior walls of the shop. This wasn’t the way he had envisioned himself dying, but that was not for a man to choose. It was enough for his life to be given in a holy cause.
He glanced at his watch, smiling as the hands moved on inexorably toward their destination. Two and a half hours…
Chapter 26
5:38 P.M.
FBI Field Office
Las Vegas, Nevada
“By judging the light—the shadows, we can get approximate dimensions for the room.” Agent Chase brushed her hair back from her eyes, attracting Thomas’ attention. “I’d say we’re looking at a room maybe 20’ x 23’…maybe a little larger. We’ve also run the audio—we’re not getting the type of feedback that you would expect if the walls were solid.”
“What then?” he asked, moving closer to where she sat. Chase glanced between him and Powers.
“I’d say we’re looking at glass walls on at least three sides…taken together with the room dimension, perhaps a conference room?”
It was such a narrow thread. He walked over to the plasma as the tape began to roll again, advancing forward frame-by-frame. There was something…ninety seconds in he held up a hand. “Roll that back.”
And there it was again. He pointed toward an edge of the jihadists’ banner—something on the wall just behind it, barely revealed by a fold of the cloth. Letters, and something else. “Can we enhance the image?”
She made a face. “We’re dealing with poor source-quality…I can try.”
“Do it.” Thomas looked back at the sound of Agent Altmann’s voice. The look of cold resolution on her face hadn’t wavered since the video first played.
“It will be up in a few seconds.”
And there it was, on the big screen. Barely visible—the logo probably wasn’t more than six inches. Five black letters, surmounted by a swirl of red. H-I-L-D-R.
“It’s a company logo,” Marika announced from his elbow, startling him. He hadn’t heard her approach.
“Then we need to find the company,” Thomas announced, turning back toward the table. “You find the company—you find their properties or the last time they rented property in the region. Narrow it down to buildings that are no longer occupied. We work from there.”
6:03 P.M.
The Bellagio Hotel & Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
“…and it is with pleasure that I welcome Congresswoman Laura Gilpin to the Bellagio tonight.”
Steve Winfield moved back from the microphone, extending a hand as Gilpin mounted the stage. “Thank you, Steve,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Applause erupted from the room as she came to the podium, looking out over the bunting-bedecked tables, the faces looking back at her through the darkness.
All of the years. All of the fighting. To get here. Politics was intoxicating in these moments, she thought—these rare moments of adulation. It was these moments that people inside the Beltway lived all their lives for, every waking moment. This feeling of power.
“I’d like to thank my dear friend Steve Winfield and the staff of the Bellagio for their hospitality tonight. And my aide Brooke Morgan for managing the logistics of the evening—making it all come together. And to all of you for your support through a long and tiring campaign. After all the hours of campaigning, after all the shoe leather worn bare, after all the phone calls we placed together…this is your night. We work hard, and we play hard. This, my friends,” she finished with a smile, “is your night to play.”
9:31 P.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“We’ve caught a break,” Ian Cahill announced, sweeping back into the Oval Office. “The Bureau’s field offic
e in Las Vegas believes that they have a location on the rest of the terror cell.”
“Where?” Relief broke across Hancock’s features, the look of a man just released from prison.
“An abandoned convention center on the outskirts of Vegas. It has lain empty for two years, but someone purchased it nine months ago. The Bureau is still following the money trail, but it looks like the fingerprints of the House of Saud are all over this one. Perhaps it goes no farther than financing…but they’re involved.”
Hancock looked down at his hands. “What is the plan, exactly?”
“They’re going to take down both locations simultaneously, the one in Vegas and the building in Canoga Park.” Cahill paused. “If you want, you can monitor everything in real-time from the Situation Room.”
The President hesitated for only a moment before rising from his seat. “Let’s go.”
7:29 P.M. Pacific Time
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Stay out of sight until I give the go-order—then close with the target,” the S-A-C announced, speaking into his headset, as he looked out the tinted windows of the unmarked SUV at the target building.. “We’ll breach the building from three sides, with another tac team covering the rear.”
“Copy that.”
He glanced over at Thomas. “We’ve jammed all communications coming in and out of the building to prevent the terrorists from using a remote detonator, leaving only a single frequency open for our use. But no cellphones are going to work, nothing else.”
A grim smile. “The moment of truth.”
“Yeah,” Powers replied, suddenly seeming distant. He listened to the chatter on the team radio for a long moment. “I need to know…was it you?”
Startled by the question, Thomas managed a blank look. “What are you talking about?”
The FBI agent shook his head, his lips pursed into a thin line. “I know my wife cheated on me those years ago—I’ve known it for a long time, and it really…doesn’t matter. I love her, and I love the child she carries. But I saw the way she looked at you in our kitchen last night. And I want the truth—did you sleep with her?”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, an unaccustomed feeling rolling over him…was it shame? “It was late—we both were drunk. Too drunk to think things through.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 50
