by Alex Lukeman
"Guided? Who guided you?"
"Allah. Only He can open our hearts to the truth."
"But you were brought up as a Christian, right?"
"Christ was a great prophet, but he was only a forerunner, like Moses."
"I guess I’m not asking the right question," Carlton said. "Maybe I should have asked what you were doing in Afghanistan seven years ago. Is that when you converted?"
"I was never in Afghanistan."
"I was," Carlton looked him in the eye. "And so were you, Abdul."
Hemmings tried to cover his shock. Carlton knew his name.
"See, we did some checking on you. You were in Pakistan on and off for two years, more or less, according to our friends in the ISI over there."
"Yes, I was in Pakistan. My mother had an import-export business in Islamabad. Is that a crime? But I was never in Afghanistan."
"You're part Pakistani?"
"No. My mother married again when my father died. A Pakistani who was not my father. I was born here. In America."
"Your mother died and you inherited the business."
"Yes. She was killed in a car accident."
"Then you sold the business and took up fishing."
"Yes. I like to fish and the charters pay well."
"But you were never in Afghanistan."
"No."
"Then who's this?" Carlton took out a grainy black and white photograph and placed it on the table where Hemmings could see it. The faces of a dozen men stared out at him. Men whose faces were vague and unreadable under beards and turbans. Only Hemmings' face was reasonably clear. Snow capped mountains were visible in the background. Everyone looked grim. They wore bandoleers and brandished AK-47s. Two in the front row held a printed banner.
الموت لأميركا
Carlton tapped the photo.
"What does that say, Richard?"
"I don't know. I don't read Arabic."
Bozeman snorted in disgust. "You're a liar. We have your computer. And the sign says 'Death to America', you fucking traitor."
Carlton pushed the photo across the table. "That’s you, this skinny one here with the beard. Seven years ago. Those mountains are in Afghanistan. You still say you weren’t there?"
"I’ve never seen that photo. I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Outside the interrogation room, Monroe turned to Nick. "He never has. We made it up this morning." He put on a pair of sunglasses and reached for the door.
"Sunglasses?"
"Have to look the part." Monroe went into the room. He stood across from Hemmings. He said nothing.
"Who are you?" Hemmings' foot began tapping and his knee bounced up and down.
Monroe said nothing.
"Turn off the recording," Carlton said.
"Recording off." The technician's voice echoed through the speakers in the interrogation room. Outside the room, the cameras and tapes continued to roll.
Carlton said, "He's here to escort you to a different interrogation center."
"Where?"
Carlton shook his head. "I gotta tell you, Richard, you really don’t want to know. You don't want to go there."
"I say we hand the little prick over. It’s what he deserves. They’ll make him talk."
"Come on, Special Agent Bozeman, give Richard a chance. He wants to cooperate." He turned back to Hemmings. "Don’t you, Richard?"
"Why should I? I haven’t done anything."
"We’re wasting time." Monroe spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, menacing. Like black ice. Like a promise of pain. "Give him to me. The van’s waiting outside."
"Richard, Richard." Carlton shook his head and sighed. Carter thought it was a little theatrical. "Don’t you understand? Haven’t you heard of rendition? If you don’t play ball, you’re going to a place where the rules are different. You won’t like it. No one will know where you are. Who knows when we might get a chance to talk again? Maybe never."
Carter watched it sink in.
"I’ll ask you again," Carlton said, "only once. Will you cooperate?"
Hemmings looked at Monroe, who smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile.
"I’ll tell you what, Richard," Carlton said. "We'll leave you in here for a few minutes by yourself. Why don’t you think about it? Talk to us here, I’ll make sure there’s consideration for you when you’re sentenced."
"Sentenced?"
"Oh, yeah, you’re definitely going away. We’ve got everything we need. But you can make it a lot easier on yourself by helping us out now. A lot easier. Otherwise, we’ll give you to him."
He nodded at Monroe in his dark suit. Monroe looked at Hemmings with a cold stare that bored right through those shades.
"Then there isn’t any consideration."
Bozeman and Carlton stood and left the room with Monroe.
Outside, they watched Hemmings put his head in his hands.
"We've got him," Carlton said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hemmings' recorded testimony convinced a judge to issue the warrants. The Bureau had a free hand to raid the mosque. Selena, Carter and Monroe were in a black Crown Vic. Bozeman and Carlton were up ahead, parked in a black Suburban.
In front of the Suburban was the FBI SWAT van. The van was rectangular, big, unmarked, painted black and reinforced with stainless steel. It looked like it had just come from a fresh tune up with steroids. The vehicles were out of sight of the mosque, but Carter knew someone in the neighborhood would have spotted them by now and made it to the mosque to warn them.
They were along as armed observers and once again told to stay out of the way. They wore armored vests, courtesy of Monroe. No one gave them a neat jacket with FBI printed on it, like you saw in the movies. The Feds hadn't wanted them there at all.
"The papers will love this," Carter said. "The ACLU and every Muslim in the country is going to scream persecution. Any bets tonight’s lead will be about heavy handed profiling by the government?"
"Maybe here in California." Monroe adjusted his vest. "It’ll play better in other parts of the country."
The SWAT commander was a large, black man named Johnson. On their headsets they heard him say, "Everyone ready? Okay, let’s get this done. My wife’s waiting dinner. You all know what to do. Keep your heads down."
"Showtime." It was Monroe.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Selena said.
The van accelerated and tore around the corner, followed by Bozeman and Carlton, with Monroe close behind. The van braked hard in front of the mosque. The SWAT team boiled out of the back. They were dressed in black, helmeted, armored and armed to the teeth with MP-5s, stun grenades and a variety of other weapons. No one in their right mind would mess with them. They burst through the doors of the mosque and disappeared inside. Carter heard shouts.
Across the street pedestrians stopped and stared. Selena, Nick and Monroe waited. Then they heard the sound of automatic weapons. Two kinds. The fast, ripping sound of MP5s. The distinctive bark of AKs. Once you heard an AK, you never forgot what it sounded like.
"Shit," Monroe said.
The three of them got out of the car and ran into the mosque, pistols ready.
The bottom part of the building formed a large, open space. The floor was carpeted in a red and blue and yellow geometric pattern. Lamps of cut glass hung at measured intervals from a high ceiling supported by rows of wooden columns. A long green banner scrolled with Arabic letters in white hung behind a dais scattered with a few cushions.
The raid was timed between prayers. The large room was empty except for Carlton and Bozeman and a SWAT Team member lying face down on the floor. Blood pooled under his body. Two dead bodies in loose garments lay in contorted positions across the room.
Carter heard more shouting and shots from upstairs.
A man came from a hall on the left, firing an AK. There was no cover, only the tall columns. Carlton spun and fell. Carter pointed his H-K and pulled the trigger fast,
three times. The shooter went down.
Another man appeared from the opposite side, AK held high against his cheek. A sledgehammer blow hit Nick and drove him into Selena and knocked them both to the floor. Monroe and Bozeman were shooting. The man with the AK flew backwards flat against the wall and slid down. His loose white shirt turned red with blood.
A booming explosion rocked the building. Smoke and dust billowed down the stairs. Part of the second floor came down in a cascade of plaster and wooden beams. A body in black hurtled through the air, thrown from above. For a moment there was silence. Then shouts and screaming.
The room was full of dust and smoke. Nick's shoulder hurt like hell. He couldn't lift his left arm. Selena got to her feet. Carlton lay crumpled on the floor, Bozeman sat up, shaking his head. Nick couldn't hear. Monroe and Selena were saying something. Nick shook his head, pointed to his ears. They helped him to his feet and walked him outside.
There was a wide splotch in his armor where the AK round had glanced off. A medic helped him out of the vest. His hearing was coming back.
"Carlton," he said.
Monroe shook his head.
Four hours later, Selena and Carter sat with Monroe at a dark table in a dark bar, drinking whiskey. Neat. Doubles. Johnson and two men with him were dead. Four others on his team were dead. Carlton was dead. Thirteen civilians were dead. The Imam’s head had landed in an alley across the street, still wearing his turban. Something had separated the head from the body and turned it into a high kick soccer ball. That told Nick what had happened.
"Suicide vest?" he asked.
"The son of a bitch had it under his robes." Monroe wasn’t wearing his shades. His eyes were tired and sad. "It could have been worse."
"It’s a fucking disaster," Nick said. "How could it have been worse?" His left arm was in a sling. His shoulder felt like someone had soaked it in super glue and nailed the bones together for good measure. He couldn't lift his arm higher than his waist.
"It would have been worse if we’d been killed. It would have been worse if we hadn’t recovered any intel. But we did."
"Was it worth it?" Selena asked.
"We’ll know more tomorrow."
"Eight of our guys," she said.
Monroe drained his glass. "It's a war. People die in wars." He looked at his watch. "I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. I’m going to my hotel."
"What’s next?" Carter asked.
"Briefing. 0900 at the FBI field office."
"Will they have anything new?"
"Those guys were their own. They’ll have something."
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Bausari contemplated the view from the apartment window. So much water. So unlike the vast sands of the Egyptian Sahara, where he'd spent his childhood, before he realized Allah's will.
It was time. The signs were obvious to anyone who was a true student of the Book. Even the Infidels. They spoke of it, but their blindness to the teachings of the Messenger and their belief in a false messiah kept them from seeing the truth.
There were many signs the Day was at hand, all prophesied centuries ago. The destruction and chaos in Baghdad. The raging civil war and devastation in Syria. Earthquakes. Volcanoes. Floods. Violent storms. Fish dying by the millions. All signs of the Day.
Al-Bausari had brought the Holy symbol of judgement to America from the cave in Africa. He'd brought the substance from Sudan. Now both were here, in this Godless city, in this great whore of a country.
Soon, the world would see. Soon, the tide of Islam would sweep all before it. A thousand years of peace would begin, the world at last united in the one, true faith.
Aban brought him a tray with juice and the medicines. The pain was increasing. Even the pills didn't help much now. Worse, Bausari felt himself growing weaker. But he would live long enough.
"Thank you, Aban."
There was a knock at the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"Bausari went north?" Carter and Selena were on the satellite phone with Stephanie.
"Unless Hemmings is lying. He says Bausari's men planned on driving up the coast."
"Where?"
"We don't know. He could be anywhere from LA to Canada."
Monroe had vanished back into wherever spooks vanished to. The FBI was busy trashing al-Qaeda cells in Southern California. The intelligence recovered from the raid on the mosque was good news for Homeland Security. It didn't help the families of the agents who'd died. A folded flag made a poor substitute for the man who'd earned it.
Nick rubbed his shoulder. "Why up there?"
"Could be lots of reasons," Stephanie answered. "Busy ports along the coast, high population, lots of hi-tech and defense industries. High symbolic as well as practical value."
Stephanie continued. "He wants high casualties. All he needs is a battery for a power source and someone with the right kind of electronic knowledge. If they don't know the activation codes, they can bypass them. If they make a mistake and it goes off, Bausari doesn't care. Those meds Selena found in the cave are for terminal cancer. He's a dead man walking and he knows it."
They contemplated that.
Steph said, "The video has gone viral. The Islamic world is in an uproar."
"Again." Nick shook his head. "We just got through that."
Selena spoke. "Are we sure the sword is real?"
Steph's voice sounded clear on the satellite link. "It appears to be. It doesn't matter. People think it is. It gives a lot of credibility to Bausari. It symbolizes the Red Death in the Islamic prophecies."
"Red Death?"
"Literally, death by the sword. Or you could just say it symbolizes death." She paused. "Nick, you can't cover LA and there's a huge presence there looking for him. I think he went farther, but I admit it's a hunch. I think you should go on to San Francisco. There's nothing between LA and there that makes for a big enough target. I sent a car for you. Your plane leaves in two hours and your tickets are at the counter. You're already cleared with security for your weapons. By the time you get to San Francisco we might have a better idea of where he's gone."
"Does the video give up anything?"
"Not yet. It was done on a ship, probably the one that brought Bausari to Mexico. Langley's working with the Mexicans to see if anyone in the cell they broke up knows more than they told us. The Bureau is about to raid a cell in LA. Something may turn up."
"We'd better hope it does," Nick said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A black Lincoln limo took them to the airport. They watched the video of Bausari on a television in the back of the car.
"What's the story on this sword?" Carter turned off the TV.
"Mohammed had nine swords that we know about. You can see them in Turkey and Egypt. They're venerated in Islam. Kind of like being able to look at Christ's sandals or robe, if you were a Christian."
"How do they know they belonged to Mohammed?"
"All well documented, associated with famous battles when he was uniting the desert tribes, or given to him in presentation or tribute. Mohammed was a hands-on warrior. He led his troops and slew his enemies and those swords of his are drenched in blood. They're as much a symbol of Islam as anything else. It's sometimes thought of as the religion of the sword."
"Convert or get your head chopped off?"
"Yes. The Qur'an is filled with references and commands from Allah to spread the religion in every way possible. It was a bloody time."
"You said there were nine. What's this one Bausari has?"
"That's what's got everyone upset. There's a legend about a tenth sword. It's supposed to remain hidden until the Day of Judgement and the coming of the Mahdi. It's associated with a prophecy of war and upheaval before the Last Days. Usually it's seen as a story predicting a leader will act as the 'tenth sword' of Islam, conquering everything and slaying unbelievers. There was even a ruler in tenth century India who took that name. But I don't think anyone thought there was a real, physical t
enth sword that belonged to the Prophet. In Islamic prophecies there's the Red Death and the White Death. The Red Death is war and slaughter, symbolized by the sword."
"And the White Death?"
"That's plague. Think two of the Four Horsemen in Christian tradition and you've got the picture. We're talking about the Apocalypse."
"And Bausari thinks he's meant to start the ball rolling."
"That's right. He thinks he's going to open the path for the Mahdi's appearance and initiate the Day of Judgement."
"With the tenth sword."
"Yes."
"Which means with death and war. Like setting off a nuke."
"That's right."
"Shit."
"That sword will start trouble everywhere."
"When will he do it? Set off the bomb?"
"Soon, I think. There's a solar eclipse later this month and a lunar eclipse two weeks later. In the prophecies, if that happens during the month of Ramadan, it's a sign the Mahdi has come. An eclipse of both sun and moon within a month."
"But this isn't Ramadan."
"No," Selena said. "But it's probably close enough for Bausari. I think he'll wait until then."
"Then we'd better find him before that."
They headed into the airport.
Neither noticed the dark complexioned man in the ill-fitting suit who followed them in. His name was Nine. He stood two places behind them at the ticket counter and heard the agent confirm their flight and gate. Nine stepped out of the line and walked over to the windows and speed dialed his cell phone.
"They're going to San Francisco," he said.
"What flight?"
Nine gave the number. "Shall I kill them?"
"We'll have someone there."
Nine closed his phone and walked back out into the LA smog.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The flight was smooth. They came in over the Bay and landed at San Francisco International. It held bad memories for Carter. This was where Megan had died, at the end of the same runway where their plane taxied toward the terminal. He hadn't thought about her much, lately. He wasn't sure what to make of that. For now, he put the thoughts aside. He knew they'd come back and haunt him later.
