by Rachel Lee
Those deaths would be symbolic of the slow death that their infidel leaders had inflicted upon them by rejecting Allah. In this act, Kasmir would raise Allah's name to new heights, striking hard at the empty, materialistic hearts of Allah's enemies, leaving them leaderless, demoralized, decaying from within, just as their society was decaying from within.
And for this, Kasmir had to make sure every detail was perfect. The timing device was sealed inside a lead case, along with a brass plaque on which Kasmir had engraved a message: Justice from Allah! The case would survive the blast and be found by the investigators. There would be no doubt as to who had done this, and why.
Kasmir had built the timer himself, along with a mercury antitamper device, also sealed inside the lead casing. Once he had armed it, the bomb could not be removed without detonating it. From the lead casing, steel conduit curled through the cesium and into the center of the Semtex. Inside that conduit ran the wires connecting the battery to the detonator. The wires could not be cut without moving the bomb, and the steel conduit itself would create more fragments in the immediate blast area.
Both would be placed in the Tour, the towering atrium entryway of the Louis Weiss Building in the EU parliament complex. This was the primary entrance and would be the site of tonight's formal reception, hosted by the President of the European Commission and his other commissioners. Dozens, if not hundreds, of members of parliament would be present, to see and be seen, to quietly press their ideas in snatches of conversation. The ugly business of government would already have begun amidst the pomp and circumstance, but Allah and Kasmir's work would change all that.
It was, Kasmir thought, the most effective and efficient use of his resources. When this day had ended, the world would know that Islam could strike anywhere, at any time, even in the most closely guarded circumstances. The armies of Islam were no longer ragtag desert Bedouins who could be massacred with machine guns. They were skilled commandos, men to be reckoned with and respected.
On this day, the West would quake with fear at the power of Allah. This was how it should be.
Avenue La Liberté, Strasbourg, France
The hotel that Office 119 had chosen lay in the heart of Strasbourg's university area. It was—in the opinion of Margarite Renault, who knew the city better than any of them, the best place in the city for a group to disappear. No matter the city, students tended to be focused on their studies, their romances, their jobs and themselves, not necessarily in that order. Being accustomed to new classmates and new places, they tended not to notice the arrival of a dozen new people in their neighborhood.
Lawton and Renate had a detailed model of the Institutions Européennes alongside a small-scale map of the city. Margarite Renault had come from Rome to provide local knowledge and translations where essential. She had three contacts in the city, one of them a member of the parliament itself. Their knowledge was not complete, but it was as complete as they could make it.
They were now briefing the strike teams, who stood in two wary groups, Ahmed's four men on one side of the table, and Niko's three-man Office 119 squad on the other.
"Al-Khalil works alone," Renate said, holding up a file that had expanded considerably overnight. Agents in Rome had put together a detailed dossier on Al-Khalil: age thirty-nine, born in Chechnya, immigrated at age twelve, educated in Köln, London and Stanford. "His cell in Prague appears to have been very small, and his associates have no roles in his operations except to procure materials and provide intelligence."
"We haven't rounded up the others yet," Lawton added, "but I agree with Renate. Al-Khalil is most likely alone. That makes him a harder target to find. But Margarite has some ideas."
Margarite rose and pointed to the map. "Based on the information Ahmed translated, he is staying somewhere between La Petite France and the Rue du Dome. This is the tourist area of Strasbourg, and it attracts visitors from all over the world. If a man alone wants to hide, that would be the best place to do it. No one will notice a new face. No one will question him, so long as he has euros to spend."
"And he does," Renate said. "We know that from the bank transfers. We need to plan an intercept point between the Place de la Cathedrale and the European parliament complex. We know that this is where he's going to strike. Ahmed, if you could fill us in?"
Ahmed had been awake most of the night, translating the documents they had found in Al-Khalil's apartment. His eyes were worn, but still clear and sharp. He nodded and walked over to the model of the EU parliament buildings.
"There is a reception tonight, a ceremony that will officially open the new session of parliament. The President of the European Commission, along with his other commissioners, will greet the members of parliament. The reception will be held here, in the Tower."
"La Tour," Margarite said. "Please."
"As you wish," Ahmed said. "This is the most open space in the entire parliament complex. It's the perfect site for the kind of bomb Al-Khalil is going to use."
"And that's a dirty bomb," Lawton said. "Al-Khalil's notes talked about a radioactive material known as cesium-137. If that's mixed in with the bomb, and the bomb goes off while the room is full, it will kill everyone. If not at first, then later, from radiation poisoning."
"It would be a monstrous act," Ahmed said, nodding. "One that would bring the wrath of Allah and the nations of the West down upon our people. We must find that bomb."
"I also want Al-Khalil," Renate said, her face grim and determined. "And I want him alive. He's a pawn in this chess game. I want the king. After that…"
Her voice trailed off. She didn't need to finish the sentence. She and Lawton had argued this point back and forth for much of the night. The simple fact was, she did want Al-Khalil dead, and dead by her own hand. But Lawton was right. They needed the information that only Al-Khalil could provide: his contacts, his superiors, how he had been recruited, who selected his targets.
For her part, Renate didn't believe Al-Khalil would even know those things. He didn't seem like the type of man who would commit atrocities in the service of European bankers and power brokers. He would believe his motives were pure, that he was acting on the orders of Al Qaeda or some similar group.
Still, they had to question him. He was their only tangible thread in this shadowy web. So she would not kill him. Not yet.
"A question," said Geoff O'Connor, former SAS and now an Office 119 operations officer. "Why so many of us? We're looking for one man working alone. We know where he's going to strike, and we know when. Why not just tell the EU security people what we know, pass them a photo of Al-Khalil, and let them take him down when he tries to plant the bomb?"
"Two reasons," Lawton said, jumping in before Ahmed could answer. "First, Ahmed's team needs to be the public face on this one. I don't have to tell you how things have been for European Muslims in the past few months. And the vast majority of European Muslims had nothing to do with Black Christmas, or the subway attack in Prague, or any of the rest of it. This operation needs to look like a case of Muslims taking care of their own, so Ahmed here can make the case for an Islamic community that isn't hell-bent on death and destruction."
"As for the second reason," Renate said, "while Al-Khalil is working alone so far as he's aware, I think he's getting help. He's being funded by a banking cartel called the Frankfurt Brotherhood. They're worldwide, and they have contacts at the highest levels of any number of governments. They are very sophisticated, and very dangerous. They paid for the ricin attack in Prague, and for Black Christmas, as well."
"The Frankfurt Brotherhood almost certainly has contacts in the EU security apparatus," Lawton said, interrupting when he saw Renate's anger begin to flash. "In fact, there is no other way that Al-Khalil could get anywhere near the parliament building today. The complex is on security lockdown. The Brotherhood probably also has him under protective surveillance, to make sure he doesn't run afoul of the local cops before he can carry out the operation."
"So we
should expect resistance," Niko said. "And not just from Al-Khalil."
"Exactly," Renate replied, nodding. "It may even come from French or EU security people, people in uniform. And that's why you're here. Your men will cover Ahmed's team. If it turns into a firefight, Ahmed's men are to seize Al-Khalil and take cover. We don't want armed Arabs shooting at French policemen, even if those policemen are corrupt. Your men will give covering fire and do whatever else is necessary to make sure Ahmed's team can get Al-Khalil out of the area and into our custody."
"So Europeans shoot Europeans to protect Arabs trying to stop an Arab from killing Europeans?" O'Connor asked. "It's bloody insane."
"It is also your mission," Niko said, his dark eyes flashing. "You follow orders, or we'll get someone else who can."
"Aye-bloody-aye," O'Connor said. "I'll follow orders, but it's a fucking mess is what it is. If the Frenchies want to shoot Ahmed's men, that's fine by me, so long as they get this Al-Khalil fellow in the cross fire. We didn't start this bloody war, after all."
"Yes, you did," Ahmed said quietly. "You started it when you decided that Muslim lands—my people's lands—were yours for the taking. You had your 'empire on which the sun never sets,' and if that meant enslaving those of us who lived there, well, that was the white man's burden. 'Wave the flag and flog the wog.' Oh yes, you started this, my friend. Have no doubt of that."
O'Connor stepped forward, but Niko held him back.
"Enough!" Renate said in a voice that brooked no disagreement. "If you two want to debate the history of colonialism, do it another time. We have a job to do. O'Connor, you have your orders. If following those orders is going to be a problem for you, tell me now and you're off the team. If any of Ahmed's men gets hurt because you blew an assignment, I'll kill you myself."
Something in her eyes left no doubt as to her resolve. Even O'Connor's face went slack. For a long moment no one spoke. No one moved.
"Yes, well, I am sure that won't be necessary," Margarite said, breaking the silence that hung like a toxic cloud. "We are all a bit tense. Putting an operation together on short notice and such. I'm sure Mr. O'Connor was just letting off steam, right?"
O'Connor paused and finally nodded. "Yeah, sure. I was just letting off steam, like she said. Like I always do, right, Niko?"
"If you say so," Niko said quietly, releasing him.
O'Connor shrugged his jacket back into position, took a breath, then looked at the map. "Right. So where are we going to take down this Al-Khalil?"
31
The Indian Ocean
"Black Rock One, Tower Three, Over."
Commander Timothy Wilson keyed his microphone. "Black Rock One, go ahead."
"Black Rock One, cleared for launch. Check your deck crews and happy hunting."
"Black Rock One, roger and out," Wilson said.
He and his weapons officer, Lieutenant Alan Keys, held up their hands to signal the deck crew of the U.S.S. John F. Kennedy that they were clear of any controls, and the deck crew made a final weapons check before backing away to recessed shelters. Only the launch controller remained on the deck, and now he gave them the signal to power up the engines of their FA-18 Super Hornet strike jet.
Wilson eased the throttle forward and felt the rumble of the twin jet engines as they rose to max power. When he was sure they were ready, he signaled the launch controller with a crisp salute. The launch controller pushed his two lighted batons down toward the end of the flight deck, and the catapult officer triggered the steam catapult that slammed the aircraft into the air.
In less than two seconds, the FA-18 was airborne and climbing to rendezvous altitude to link up with the other eleven jets of VFA-41—the "Black Aces"—who would fly the attack element for today's mission. Already in the air were two E-6 Prowlers, electronic warfare aircraft whose mission was to mask the approach of Wilson's squadron, as well as an AWACS airborne command-and-control aircraft, six tanker aircraft for in-flight refueling and two lumbering rescue aircraft flying along their planned route.
Wilson had flown hundreds of missions in his twelve-year navy career, including combat operations over Iraq, but never before had he been ordered to deliver the payload that hung beneath him today. Its official designation was Tactical Nuclear Bunker-Ground Munition, or TNBGM. With typical military irony, the pilots and weapons officers of the Kennedy called it "Tiny Bang'em." But Wilson knew this would be no tiny bang.
As the squadron commander, Wilson had decided that only he and his executive officer would carry the TNGBMs. Only one was required for the mission; the other was a backup in case something went wrong with Wilson's aircraft en route. The remaining ten jets provided escort for Wilson and his XO, armed with radar-seeking, air-to-ground missiles designed to take out any Pakistani SAM sites that might somehow pierce the electronic masking of the E-6s.
"We are formed up and ready, Skipper," Keys said through the aircraft's intercom.
"Roger that," Wilson replied. He keyed the radio. "Big Eye, Black Rock One. Black Rock is standing by."
"Black Rock One, Big Eye," the AWACS controller responded. "Turn to heading zero-one-zero and maintain flight level two-five-five, over."
"Roger, Big Eye. Turning to zero-one-zero at flight level two-five-five. Black Rock is on the way."
It was as simple as that. Wilson turned his aircraft and his entire squadron almost due north on the first leg of a flight like no other in over sixty years. Four hours and ten minutes from now, he would drop a nuclear weapon on foreign soil.
The thought gave him pause. Neither the clear, unambiguous orders sent from the president to the Commander-in-Chief Atlantic Fleet to the Kennedy to Wilson's wing commander, nor the sterile and precise instructions that Wilson had delivered in the squadron briefing room, could mask the enormity of what he was about to do.
"Don't think too much, Skipper," Keys said, as if reading his mind.
Wilson and Keys had flown together for three years now, and more than once they had found themselves able to communicate without a word passing between them. That was happening now.
"Hard not to, Lieutenant," Wilson replied. "This is the real thing."
"It's above our pay grade, sir," Keys said. "It's not as if we're going to eradicate a city. You heard Admiral Tanley. It's either this or a regiment of marines trying to batter their way into a cave complex. We're saving a bunch of American lives, Skipper."
"That we are," Wilson said. The thought gave some small measure of comfort. "At least until the Pakis launch their own nukes. Then it's all on the table."
"If the Pakis launch," Keys said. "I'm sure POTUS is talking with them. And if not, there are others quadrons standing by to take out their launch sites. You know they won't leave us out in the cold, sir."
"You're right," Wilson said. "Like you said, we're saving American lives."
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Institutions Européennes, Strasbourg, France
Jules Soult sat in his command center on the Rue de Narcisses, monitoring the security operations. He had insisted that his teams oversee the security for the EU parliament reception, and Frau Schmidt had agreed. The Strasbourg Gendarmerie were happy for the help, especially when they learned that they had not been superseded by foreigners but by a Frenchman, a highly decorated Général d'Armée.
Of course, Soult had his own reasons for wanting to oversee today's security. Across town, at this very moment, Kasmir Al-Khalil would be making his way from his hotel to the EU parliament complex, carrying a book bag over his shoulder, not unlike the thousands of students and tourists who were out on the streets this fine spring day. Although Al-Khalil did not know it, he was under surveillance by one of Hector Vasquez's most experienced teams. His every movement had been reported to Soult, from the time he left Prague up to the present. He had been provided with inside knowledge that would allow him to place the bomb. After that, as he made his way away from the scene, Vasquez's men would "discover" and capture him. In the scram
ble that followed, Soult would vault himself into history.
The capture would happen as Al-Khalil boarded a bus heading south on the Allée de la Robertsau. It would be a very public capture, fodder for news broadcasts all across Europe. The alert, timely intervention of Soult's troops—and Soult's personal heroism—would be credited for saving hundreds of lives and preserving the European parliament.
Moreover, Soult's survival would seem nothing short of miraculous. The world would neither know nor need to know of the small ruby pyramid that was tucked into one of the many pouches in his combat vest. They would not know that he had been protected by a secret passed down from Moses through Christ to Mary Magdalene, then entrusted by her to her grandson, who had spirited it across an ocean to the Americas. Only days before, the Hunter had returned to France and personally delivered the Codex to Soult.
This completed a unity that had been broken nearly two thousand years ago: the Codex in the hands of a Merovingian heir, completing prophecies that had been passed in whispers from generation to generation in the Order of the Rose.
Soult had accomplished what countless others could not. He had found the Codex and positioned himself to emerge in his true identity, as the heir to the Merovingian crown. With the power of the Codex, he would crush the bastard Church of Rome and unify Christendom under the true faith, the gospel as proclaimed by the First Apostle.
Only then, with the might of the American military at his disposal, controlled through an owned and subservient president, could he crush the last remaining opposition—Christian, Jewish and Muslim—and restore the Merovingian throne to its proper place.
Jerusalem.
Every act in Soult's adult life had been in preparation for that final glorious triumph. Four millennia of prophecy, misunderstood even by those who spoke it, would come to pass. The royal line of David himself, sanctified by the bloodline of the Christ, seated on the Temple Mount. And the entire world would bow to the Kingdom of God.
