by Rachel Lee
His cousin in the Saudi Bank had pinpointed the origin of the money here in Prague. A banker named Mikael Rotel, a man descended from the Court Jews of old.
Ahmed had found that story very interesting, for while Rotel was no longer Jewish—in fact, his family had found it expedient to become Christian during the nineteenth century—Ahmed could not help feeling some sympathy for what the Court Jews had endured in times past. In fact, it gave him what he believed was a key to why Rotel would become involved in the ricin attack in Prague, as well as the attack on the Catholic churches.
Court Jews had been the moneymen for many of Europe's monarchs after the Templars had been executed and driven away. But while these men had funded the excesses of those who had ruled by "Divine Right," everything from fancy jewels to armies, they had been reviled and abused by those who depended on them.
So even if Rotel's family had found it wise to become Christian early in the nineteenth century and thus had avoided Hitler's purge of European Jews more than a century later, Ahmed suspected Rotel had grown up hearing of his family's mistreatment by the royalty and gentry they had financed.
Ahmed knew all about long memories. His people suffered from the same problem. Add to that the problems of the modern day, and some very angry people emerged. Scarcely surprising that Rotel, a Semite, might choose to join other Semites—Arabs—in a war against Christianity.
But he also knew that Rotel was merely a courier for a bigger cabal. Rotel had not personally funded Saif Alsharaawi's attack on Christmas. The money had come from Frankfurt, and no doubt the same people had funded the other Christmas attacks.
But Rotel was his point of entry into the European banking cabal. The Saudi Bank dealt on the fringes of that group, wealthy enough to be a power in its own right, but not entirely welcome in the oldest banking circles in the world. Banking circles, he had lately discovered, that seemed to like to fund both sides in a confrontation, thus ensuring they had backed the victor no matter the result.
Ahmed shook his head. Anger he could understand. Rotel he might well be able to understand. But a group of people who worshipped money as their god and had no other moral measuring stick…He thanked Allah that he had a strong faith and the Koran to guide him.
His appointment with Rotel was late in the day. After hours. His cousin had said that Rotel often worked late, so there was nothing unusual in an appointment at such a late hour. Ahmed felt less sanguine. The late hour could have been chosen because Rotel did not wish to be seen with an Arab.
He could have chosen a Western business suit, but for some reason Ahmed decided he preferred to present himself as who he was: a Saudi, a member of the royal family, however minor, and a highly ranked oil minister. He would see if Rotel objected to being seen with such a one as himself by appearing flagrantly Saudi.
He donned the thobe, the long white garment that covered him from neck to ankle, and the ghutra and igal, the embroidered red-and-white scarf and its black rope crown, which secured the scarf. Then he chose his most expensive black bisht, the over-robe he wrapped about himself. It was widely bordered with fine gold embroidery, suitable to his station. Because of the cold weather, however, he opted for Western shoes.
A glance in the mirror told him that he appeared as exactly who he was. It seemed important to him this night not to be covert, not to deny his heritage by wearing a Western suit. It seemed important to let Rotel know he was not dealing with just another malcontent but a man who held power in his own right.
Satisfied, he headed for the door of his room. He deliberately left his bodyguards behind. Tonight he sought information, and he felt he would achieve his purpose better without a threat of violence in the background.
* * *
Lawton and Renate sat in a Mini across the street from Rotel's bank, sipping strong coffee and trying to keep warm as night descended over the city. They had been warned about Rotel's late hours and might well have avoided this wait, but they had decided they didn't want to risk missing him. They didn't want to have to wait another day. Another day might result in another terror attack.
"I hate stakeouts," Lawton remarked, simply to fill the silence.
"Me, too. They're one of the worst parts of the job."
"Yeah, second to getting shot at."
She started to chuckle, a sound that warmed him more than it probably should have, but the chuckle was cut short by the arrival of a black limousine. From it emerged a man in full Saudi dress. The bank's doorman escorted him inside.
"Interesting," Lawton murmured.
"Ja." Renate was silent for a moment. "Law?"
"Yes?"
"Can you think of any reason why a Saudi would want to visit a European bank?"
"Well, yes, actually. I understand that when things in the Middle East get tense, a lot of wealthy Arabs move their money to European banks."
"And?"
He turned to look at her. "Are you suggesting we hijack a wealthy Saudi?"
"I'm suggesting we go in right now and have a talk with them."
"Do you have an appointment?" The question was half joking.
"No, but I have a badge. Interpol."
He shifted uneasily. "Umm…"
"I know. But it's better than trying to kidnap the two of them on the street to find out what is going on."
He couldn't argue with that, but using false police credentials, such as an Interpol badge, was strictly against Office 119 rules. It was more likely to make the agent memorable. Still, there was little choice.
"Rules were made to be broken," he said finally. "Let's go."
Washington, D.C.
Night thickly blanketed the icy world outside, and Harrison Rice had the feeling it was crawling in through the glass of the Oval Office windows and reaching out with damning tendrils. Tonight he was facing not only Bentley, but Bentley's allies, as well.
"We have to take strong action," General Carlisle was saying. "After the incident in Prague, we have to show that we're not going to stand for this. We need to strike a blow that will get the world's attention! Before they use ricin or sarin in the New York subway system. Or here at our heart, in the D.C. Metro."
"I want a measured response," Rice said, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. "And I want the perpetrators, not innocents."
"Do you think they care about that?" the secretary of defense, Harvey Schiller, asked. "They've been attacking innocent people from the beginning. Suicide bombers in restaurants and buses in the Middle East. Businessmen and secretaries and firemen on September 11. Commuters in London. Catholic churches all over the world, including that Catholic church in Pakistan a few years ago, where they killed worshippers at mass. Now the trains in Prague. Do you think they care who they kill? It's about terror, Mr. President. And they think they can keep tweaking us without a response. They think we won't respond with all our force. They're counting on it, in fact."
"I couldn't have said it better," Bentley added. "They keep pulling the tiger's tail with impunity. All we do is roar. It's time to let them know that we can bite."
"And we know for a fact," the general chimed in, "that there are terrorists hiding out in the mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan. At this point it doesn't make a bit of difference whether they were directly involved. The important thing is to let them know what we're going to do to them wherever we find them if they don't stop this."
"But nuclear weapons? They'll leave the place uninhabitable for centuries to come. The radioactive dust will kill many people outside the area."
Bentley nodded. "Yes, Mr. President, it will. But these are bunker-busting nukes. What are we going to leave uninhabitable? Caves and a few nomadic villages around them? It's hardly a loss for the world, sir. And I can guarantee you that there will never be another terrorist attack if you do this."
Rice smiled mirthlessly. "You want to put that guarantee in writing?"
"I will. Gladly. The point is, these damn terrorists feel safe. We hunt them li
ke criminals, and they keep slipping away. I say it's time to fight them as if they'd declared war on the Western world. Because they have, Mr. President. They have."
Rice turned away and looked toward the windows. The night was pressing in, and he began to feel it in his bones. "These are low-yield, tactical weapons?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," the general answered. "They'll burrow into the ground and detonate in the caves and bunkers where these bastards run their operations. We'll minimize the collateral damage but still make the point that the tiger has teeth. Nuclear teeth."
Rice closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to find a way around this. He couldn't. He thought of his own daughter riding the New York subways to classes at Columbia. What if someone used ricin there? What about all the other people in this country who relied on public transportation? Was he to offer them up as sacrificial lambs in this unholy war?
Something deep within him stiffened. He turned and faced the waiting men. "Do it," he said. His voice was firm. "But I reserve the right to recall the planes if at any point I feel it will serve our interests."
The general stood up, grabbing his hat. "We won't arm the weapons until you send the codes. And we'll keep you apprised at every moment where the task force is."
The darkness had filled him, and all the reassurances from his advisors couldn't make him feel any better. He had just made a choice no president since Truman had made. He had never guessed just how lonely he was going to feel in this office.
26
Prague, Czech Republic
Getting past the doorman and building security proved far easier than Lawton would have expected. Apparently people in Europe were more impressed by a badge than in the U.S. Or at least that seemed to be the case here in Prague, where years of Soviet oppression had perhaps made them less likely to question authority.
They passed through the door without a moment's hindrance, and the security guard at the front desk eagerly directed them to Rotel's office and promised not to warn Rotel they were coming.
Oddly, Lawton believed him. The man had paled at the sight of the badge and clearly preferred not to engage Interpol's attention.
If he hadn't seen the same reaction from the doorman, Lawton might have wondered what the man was hiding. Instead he thought it was a damn shame that so many people had been taught to cower before any sign of authority.
In the elevator, he remarked to Renate, "I prefer my criminals demanding warrants."
She looked at him blankly. He decided the explanation would be too involved and let it go.
"We start pleasantly," she reminded him.
"As long as they do." Sometimes he grew a bit irked at the way Renate seemed to consider him in need of instruction. He'd been a field agent longer than she had.
The elevator doors opened jerkily. Apparently not everything had been repaired since the birth of the Czech Republic. Eighth floor, to the right, and there was the office. Lawton tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside was a receptionist's office, but she had apparently left for the day. Everything on her desk spoke of compulsive tidiness.
From beyond the inner door they could hear male voices. "Knock and announce?" he asked Renate quietly. After all, she was the one with the phony credentials.
"No." Reaching out, she placed one hand on the doorknob and raised her Interpol credentials as if they were a shield. A second later, they were in the room.
Of all the things Lawton had expected to see, the scene he found was not among them. Rotel was sitting behind his desk with his hands up. The Saudi was sitting on the other side of the desk, pointing a 9mm pistol at the banker.
"Interpol!" Renate said firmly. "Drop the gun!"
At least that was what Lawton assumed she said, since she had spoken in German. Automatically he stuck his hand under his jacket to feel for a gun that was no longer there. The gesture served its purpose, however. The Saudi lowered the pistol and placed it on the floor beside him.
Rotel started shouting in Czech, but Renate silenced him with a few sharp words. The man seemed to shrink in his chair.
For a few seconds no one moved, no one spoke. Lawton thought almost wryly that where once he had been concerned about setting off some kind of international incident by interfering with the banking affairs of a wealthy Saudi, he was now concerned that they had walked in on a crime in progress and couldn't do anything about it.
Surprisingly, it was the Saudi who spoke—in English.
"I am," he said, "Ahmed Ahsami. I am a Saudi, and an oil minister for my country."
"And the gun?" Renate asked, staring him down.
"I have reason to believe," Ahsami said, "that this man provided the funds for the recent ricin attack. He has blackened the name of all Arabs."
"A lot of Arabs have blackened their own names, too," she answered coldly.
He gave a dignified bow of his head. "That is true, but it is an Arab problem. Arabs must take care of their own problems, including terrorism. It is not for the rest of the world to become involved."
Lawton could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "So you came here like the Lone Ranger to take him out?"
"Lone Ranger?"
"Never mind. What were you going to do with that gun? Execute him?"
"I need information. There is another operation under way, and I intend to stop it." Ahmed paused. "I have devoted my life to finding a way to settle our problems without bloodshed. But some people—powerful people—seem to have another goal. They are willing to kill innocents, even if it is forbidden by the Koran."
"It is forbidden by the Bible, too," Renate said bitterly. "That doesn't seem to make any difference."
"As Mohammed, blessed be he, noted, we are all people of the Book. We are bound by the same rules. But there are those who feel the rules do not apply to them."
"And you want to stop them?"
Ahmed nodded. "Indeed. The situation is spiraling out of control. Just today, the American president began talking publicly about nuclear strikes in Islamic lands. Blood for blood, and more blood for that. It is madness!"
Rotel had been slowly lowering his hands, and now Lawton turned on him. "Move your chair back, away from the desk. Now. Or I'll ask Mr. Ahsami to pick up his pistol."
"Tying him up would be good," Ahsami remarked.
Lawton pulled a pair of flex cuffs from his back pocket and cuffed the banker's arms behind the chair. Then he looked at Ahsami. "I have a pair for you, too."
"Not necessary. I will tell you a story…a true story. It will help you understand."
Renate nodded at the pistol, and Lawton closed in carefully, using his foot to move it well out of reach of the Saudi before he picked it up. Then he sat in a chair in the corner, the weapon pointed in the direction of the two men near the desk. Renate's shoulders relaxed a bit, and she, too, sat—out of the line of fire.
"I'm listening," Lawton said.
Ahsami closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were intense. "For five hundred years after the wars of Christian aggression—what you call the Crusades—your people left the Arab lands alone. We ruled ourselves, resolved our disputes and conducted ourselves according to Islamic law. Then, in the mid-nineteenth century, everything changed."
"Oil," Renate said.
"Precisely," Ahmed said. "The British found oil in my country, and in Iraq, just as the Industrial Revolution was creating a demand for that commodity. And, in the manner of a people who believed themselves entitled to whatever they wanted from non-European peoples, your people set to work dividing up our lands among themselves, as if we who had lived in those lands for centuries out of mind had no say in the matter."
"You're talking about Israel," Lawton said.
"That is only the excuse, my friend," Ahsami said. "For while the Palestinians justly feel that they were driven from their homes, one might also note that no Arab nation took them in as brothers and helped them start new lives."
Lawton nodded. "The thought has crossed my mind."<
br />
"No, this goes beyond the state of Israel. This is a two-hundred-year legacy of imperialism, an imperialism that continues to this day."
"The Arab nations were granted independence after World War II," Lawton said. "If not immediately after, then certainly within a decade or two. Your people aren't living under colonial rule anymore."
"You think not?" Ahmed asked. "Who do you think owns our oil reserves? Our 'independence,' as you put it, was paid for with long-term leases on our oil fields. Our national borders were drawn by Europeans, without regard to our traditional identities. Our ruling families were chosen by Europeans, given free rein to be as corrupt and oppressive as they wished, so long as the wells continued to pump. Even when we nationalized our oil production in the 1960s, the drilling and processing equipment was still owned and run by Western businesses. After the regime of Saddam Hussein was overthrown, the British authorities in Basra hired local Iraqi contractors to operate the port facilities. The U.S. canceled that contract and instead installed one of its own corporations. Yes, my friend, we still live under colonial rule."
Renate spoke. "Is this how you really see it?"
"This is not how I see it," Ahmed said. "This is how it is. Millions of people are massacred in Africa, and the Western nations do not intervene. But let there be a problem in a place where oil can be found, and suddenly they have a responsibility to act."
"So Western nations act in self-interest," Lawton said. "That justifies terrorism?"
"Hardly," Ahmed said. "But consider this. The Jews fought to drive the British out of Palestine. They used terrorism to do it. And they succeeded. Do you think the Palestinians did not learn the lesson? Do you think other freedom fighters in Islamic lands did not learn the lesson? Terrorism is the warfare of the weak against the strong, my friend."
Lawton nodded, absorbing what he was hearing, but making no judgments as yet. He wanted to hear everything before reasoning it through.
