by Rachel Lee
Ahmed continued. "Everyone thinks they were part of that cell, but that was not so. Who is ahead on all of this? Who is planning this? I swear to you, it is not Jihadists, for I would have caught wind of their plans."
Renate reached out and touched his arm briefly, lightly. "I know who it is, but I can't prove it. We need to go through these papers."
He nodded sharply, as if barely restraining himself. Then he took the packet and went to sit at the small desk, where he ripped open the plastic and began to scan the tightly written lines of Arabic.
"Lawton?" Renate said.
He looked at her.
"Break silence. Call Miriam. I'm getting really worried."
"Me too," Lawton agreed. "I'm starting to see tentacles everywhere."
"Yes," Ahsami said, looking up. "Tentacles. That is the name for them. And they are indeed everywhere, my friends."
Lawton nodded, pulling out his cell phone. "I'll have to ditch this phone after I call. And the call could still be traced."
Renate shrugged. "I don't think we're going to be in Prague for very long anyway. Somehow I suspect Khalil has moved on to another job."
Her face sagged a little then, and her blue eyes, no longer glacially icy, met his straight-on. "This man killed my family, Law."
"You're sure of that?"
She nodded. "Beyond any doubt."
"Then we're going to find him and nail him to the wall. I promise."
"Don't make promises you might not be able to keep."
"Good advice," Ahsami said bitterly. "In this world, it seems promises are made to be broken."
"Not mine," Lawton said. He and the Saudi exchanged looks, and for an instant, just an instant, there was perfect understanding between them.
Renate nodded to Lawton, and they stepped into the hallway, leaving Ahmed with the papers.
"Did you hear?" she asked. "He sent a team to Vienna. They were the ones who took out that cell. His nephew got killed in the attack, and the police swooped in and just counted his nephew along with the terrorists."
Lawton nodded. "He's telling the truth about that part. But the way he moves, and what I see in his eyes…he's dangerous, Renate."
"Yes, I know," she said. "I saw his men in action. If he doesn't have special operations training, then he's hired people who do. They move fast, and they hit hard. We ought to contact Niko. If we can get photos to him, he might be able to identify some of them. That's a pretty tightly knit community."
"Yes, most of them train together, in the U.S. or in Britain. Niko might recognize them, especially if they're Saudis."
She nodded. "And they probably are. I don't think he's hiring from the radical Islam community."
"He might be a good asset," Lawton said. "If we can control him."
"Yes," Renate said. "If we can control him. Well, let's go back in and see if he's found anything."
Ahmed was hard at work, intently focused on the precise lines of Arabic, taking notes on a pad of paper. From time to time he shook his head and scratched out a word or two, then wrote again. So intent was his focus that he did not appear to have noticed their departure or their return.
"Anything yet?" Renate asked.
Ahmed held up a finger, asking for a moment, as he studied a page and then wrote more. After a minute, he looked up. "What is happening in Strasbourg this week?"
Renate looked at Lawton.
"The EU Parliament is in session," he said.
"Yes, it is," she said.
"That would be a choice target," Ahmed said. "Very high profile. And it would make a pointed retaliation for how the European security forces have treated Arabs here lately. It's exactly the kind of target Al-Khalil would be willing to attack."
"We need to get to Strasbourg," Renate said. "And we need a team there waiting."
"My team can be ready on an hour's notice," Ahmed said. "And I want them there."
"How do I know we're not just letting you walk in the front door?" Lawton said. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but why should we trust you? This won't be in an Arab quarter. We can do it."
"Because I know where Al-Khalil is staying," Ahmed said, holding up a sheet covered in Arabic characters. "And you don't read Arabic."
"He has a point," Renate said. "On the other hand, we have translators."
"And how long would it take them to pore through these documents?" Ahmed said. "Are you sure you have the time? Because I'm not."
"We go in together this time," Lawton said. "Your team and ours. Together."
Ahmed shook his head. "Our men have not worked together."
"I somehow doubt that is true," Renate said, her eyes turning cold and hard. "I watched your operation tonight. I would bet money that your men trained at the same bases ours did."
Ahmed gave a noncommittal shrug.
"We could do this all night and into tomorrow," Lawton said. "Bottom line remains the same. We go together or we take you down."
After a long moment, Ahmed nodded. "I need it to be known that Saif Alsharaawi did this. It is important. More than you can know."
"That is fine," Renate said. "It's better, in fact."
"Yes," Ahmed said. "You can remain invisible."
"We always do," Lawton said. "We don't exist."
Washington, D.C.
Phillip Allen Bentley did not want to take the call that was about to be put through. Though nominally the National Security Advisor, tasked with giving the president insight and advice on military and intelligence matters, in the past three weeks he had become the de facto chief of staff. What was about to happen was far too important to be left in the hands of the hack political appointees who populated the other key positions in Rice's administration. Too many important people had too much at stake for Rice to be permitted to make mistakes.
To avoid that, Bentley had been working long hours over the past weeks, often into the wee hours of the morning, making sure that everyone in the decision loop was on message and had no doubt as to Rice's commitment.
Predictably, men of conscience seemed to balk at the prospect of unleashing the unthinkable. No one had used nuclear weapons in war since the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And while the strikes Bentley had planned would not release citywide devastation in the manner that those had, there was still hesitation at the prospect of opening that Pandora's box. The Pakistanis had nuclear weapons, after all, and no one thought they would accept this attack passively. It was only natural that the aircrews and their commanders would be loath to carry out their duties.
Those men's only source of confidence would be their confidence in the unwavering resolve of their commanders, including their commander in chief. Dissent could not be permitted from any quarter. Already the navy admiral commanding the Sixth Fleet had been removed, officially to be "promoted" back Stateside to head the Naval Military Personnel Command, but in fact because he had transmitted a message to the president, expressing his doubts about the upcoming mission. Bentley had intercepted that message and, by removing the admiral, sent a message of his own to everyone involved: The president's mind is made up, and dissent will be expunged.
All the extra effort might have been unnecessary if Harrison Rice could have been trusted to do the right thing on his own. But Rice himself still harbored doubts, and Bentley knew he had to provide the certainty and firm hand that a spineless president could not. Bentley had to shield the president from any information or opinions that might embolden his doubts. With so many people seeking access to the president, that was more than a full-time job.
And now this. Grant Lawrence, of all people. Why him? Why now?
Bentley did not believe in coincidence. In his world, the illusion of coincidence was exactly that: an illusion, manufactured to cover the carefully orchestrated actions of those who did not wish to be seen. The difference was that Bentley was accustomed to seeing behind the curtain, to knowing who the secret players were, who was in the process of creating the coincidences that a gullible pub
lic would swallow like fresh bait.
Grant Lawrence was not supposed to be one of those players. But for the vicissitudes of fate, Lawrence would be cold in the ground, forever removed from the political scene. He had always been too much of an independent thinker for Bentley's tastes, and for those of Bentley's superiors in the Brotherhood. Early in Lawrence's senate career, he had been sounded out to determine if he would be willing to do as he was told for the right price. When that had failed, they had sought to find some leverage that might be used against him, but there was none to be found. Grant Lawrence had been implacably honest in his political life, with a fiercely loyal coterie of personal friends from whom he sought advice and guidance. Despite the Brotherhood's best efforts, Grant Lawrence's inner circle had remained as impregnable as a medieval fortress.
Had Lawrence been content to remain the junior senator from Florida, working on his pet legislative projects while leaving the real business of running the world to those who knew what ought to be done, the Brotherhood might well have let him be. In America, as elsewhere in the world, the halls of government were sprinkled with a small handful of committed idealists, men who could not be compromised, men who would be faithful to the principles and promises by which they had risen to their positions. The Brotherhood was content to let such men be, to let them labor away in comparative obscurity, to be fondly remembered by their constituents for a smattering of trivial accomplishments that never threatened the true agendas of power. Indeed, such men provided the illusion of representative government and noble principle by which the ignorant masses were kept docile and obedient.
But Lawrence had not been content to keep his place on the periphery. He had sought higher office, the highest in the land—indeed, the most powerful position in the entire world. His charisma and vision might well have seduced the American people into electing him. And the prospect of a U.S. president who was beyond the Brotherhood's reach was simply not acceptable. The office of the President of the United States was far too important to be left to the whims of the American electorate.
For that reason, Lawrence had been targeted for death. Had one of the bullets that struck him been an inch farther to the right, or had the doctors not responded with such skill, or had Lawrence not shown such damnable strength of will, he would indeed be dead. Instead, he was alive, and he had returned to his senate duties and was at that moment on the other end of the telephone line that blinked on Bentley's desk.
With a heavy sigh, Bentley picked up the phone.
"Grant Lawrence, this is Phillip Bentley," he said with feigned warmth. "It's so reassuring to hear you're back to work. President Rice was so worried for you, and so elated when you pulled through."
"Thank you, Mr. Bentley," Lawrence replied with equal charm. "The president's warm wishes meant so much to all of us. My wife and daughters were especially grateful for his letter, and for the Medal of Freedom."
Decorating Lawrence with the nation's highest civilian award had been a calculated act, Bentley's suggestion, and heartily endorsed by Rice. With the country traumatized by the attempted assassination, Rice had needed a way to endear himself to the people, lest he begin his presidency as a political lame duck. Within a week after honoring Grant Lawrence—at a ceremony conducted at Lawrence's hospital bed, when there was still doubt whether he would fully regain his faculties, and then rebroadcast by a consistent, calculated media machine that celebrated Rice's "grace" and "humility"—his approval ratings were in the mid-sixties, giving Rice the clout he needed to pursue his policies.
To pursue the Brotherhood's policies.
"What can I do for you, Senator?" Bentley asked.
Bentley could almost see the phony smile on Lawrence's face as the senator spoke. "Well, as you know, I was barely conscious when the president presented me with the medal. In fact, I hardly remember it, apart from what I was shown later in the news broadcasts. I never had the chance to thank him personally for that honor. So I'd like to set up a meeting with him, just a few minutes of his time, to tell him how much that meant to me and my family."
Bentley pursed his lips for a moment. "I'm sure the president would appreciate that, Senator. But as I'm sure you know, this is a difficult time for him. For all of us. These terrorists have declared open war on the entire free world. The president is busy with other heads of state, trying to coordinate a focused and effective response. We can't afford to end up going it virtually alone again."
"I understand, Mr. Bentley," Lawrence said. "And I promise not to take much of his time. I just…well, at a time when my wife's heart was all but shattered and my daughters seemed beyond hope, President Rice stepped in and gave them a message of hope and pride. I can't let such a kind act go unrewarded, Mr. Bentley. Belle, my youngest daughter, thinks that medal saved my life. She sits in my office sometimes, just looking at it, saying 'thank you.' This is…well…it's important to me, and I can't let it go. I need to thank him. Personally."
Lawrence's voice had cracked as he finished his plea, and for a moment Bentley almost found himself falling for the famous Lawrence charm. Lawrence had a long reputation for sincere gratitude, even among his political enemies. More than one adversary had given him an opening, knowingly or not, in response to his personal charisma.
But Bentley knew Lawrence was no saint. He could not have achieved what he had without a cool, calculating political mind, and he'd earned a reputation as one of the most subtle, savvy and skillful operators on Capitol Hill. It was for that reason, and no other, that Bentley knew he had to accede to Lawrence's request. There was an iron will beneath the velvety words, and Bentley was not naive enough to think a refusal would be allowed to pass. Somehow, somewhere, Lawrence would have a backup plan, and he would not hesitate to spring it if the need arose.
Bentley would simply have to control the meeting. With Grant Lawrence, that would be no easy task. But there was no other way.
"The president has a full morning tomorrow, but he may have some time tomorrow afternoon," Bentley said. "I have a ten-minute window in his calendar, between his meeting with the ambassador from India and his economic briefing."
"That would be perfect," Lawrence said. "Perhaps knowing how much he means to Karen and the kids would help his dinner to settle easier in these difficult times."
"Yes, perhaps it would," Bentley said. "I'll pencil you into the schedule at three-twenty, Senator. But if something comes up…"
"I understand, Mr. Bentley," Lawrence said. "I'll be there. I'll have an FBI agent with me. Unfortunately, the director doesn't want any of us to travel without a keeper. As you said, dangerous times."
"Of course," Bentley said.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Lawrence said.
"I look forward to it."
Bentley hung up the phone and looked up at the ceiling. So the Director of the FBI had acted on Bentley's instructions to assign "protection" agents to the key members of Congress. It was Bentley's way of keeping an eye on the major players on the Hill. If Lawrence had any ulterior motives, the agent would let the director know.
And the director would let Bentley know.
Bentley smiled. Yes, the meeting would be fine.
30
La Petite France, Strasbourg, France
Kasmir Al-Khalil reviewed his schematics one last time, then double-checked the circuit board in front of him. What he was working on was far too important to fail due to hasty carelessness. This operation would send an unmistakable message to the Europeans who wanted to use Arabs as their modern-day Jews. These Jews would fight back, and fight back hard.
Kasmir took a breath and looked out the window. He was staying in the area of Strasbourg known as La Petite France. It was an area where tourists were commonplace and a strange face did not attract attention. It was a picture-postcard neighborhood, pale buildings with exterior beams crisscrossing their facades. Attic dormers, sometimes two levels of them, spoke of no space wasted.
Across the street, tourists were already mass
ing at the Au Pont Saint Martin restaurant, tempted by the promise of legendary cuisine in one of the most beautiful settings in all of France. Most of them would spend the day wandering along the well-kept streets, spending their euros in the shops, perhaps looking out over the river that wound through the neighborhood like a glistening ribbon.
A few might make their way across town, to the European parliament complex, a gleaming celebration of steel and glass, with graceful curves and a sweeping view of the river. Many would stop to look at the statue in front of the main entrance, a man and woman locked in an embrace, their thighs forming a heart-shaped union that Kasmir had found pornographic and repulsive. No true Muslim could enjoy such a statue nor any union that it symbolized.
Still, that afternoon, Kasmir would make his way to that same building and past that same statue, not to admire either the architecture or what Europeans thought passed for art, but to wreak the vengeance of Islam upon a cruel and faithless culture.
This bomb was more complex than the one he had used in Baden-Baden, because it had to do more than merely destroy a church full of worshippers. This bomb had to destroy an idea, a dark and terrible vision that would try once again to crush Islam. This bomb had to inflict a horror so total that the infidels would never again dare to threaten Islam or those who worshipped the one true God.
This time his contact had enabled him to purchase two kilos of the plastic explosive Semtex, along with one kilo of cesium-137, a radioactive waste product from nuclear reactors. One-half kilo of Semtex was in a simple pipe bomb. Its purpose was simply to wound and maim those who were standing nearby, and attract would-be rescuers into the blast area for the second bomb. The remaining Semtex was packed into a ball, surrounded by the cesium. When that bomb exploded, ten minutes after the first, it would rip a hole in the building. But the cesium would be the real killer.
Dispersed into the air, its particles would be inhaled by those who had survived the blasts themselves. It would be distributed throughout the soft tissues, causing nausea, pain, disorientation and a host of other disorders. But the real damage would come later, as the radioactive particles emitted beta radiation, warping cell nuclei, turning healthy cells into cancerous ones, eating away flesh from the inside, destroying organs, leaving the victims to endure slow, agonizing deaths.
