And yet there he was. Staring at all the pictures, playing Kia’s game.
Looking forward to all the candy he was going to win.
In a complex world, sometimes it is the simple pleasures that get us through.
He studied the images for several seconds, choosing all I he people he saw in the cave. Selecting them in his head before he made his choices. Finally, without saying a word, he picked up a photo. Then another. And another. Two over here, three over there. Gathering them in his hands like a deck of cards. Tapping them against the table to make sure they were nice and straight. Sixteen photos in all. Some Americans. Some Arabs. A wide variety of ages.
When he was done, he handed the stack to Kia. It was much larger than she was expecting.
She said, “You saw all of these people?”
Yong-Su shook his head and pointed to the desk. “No, those people.”
Four photos were spread across the surface. Payne recognized them at once.
It was Trevor Schmidt and his crew.
“Can you tell us where you saw them?” she asked.
He nodded, then explained what happened that day.
Yong-Su had been playing in the woods when he smelled the blood. A strong, pungent odor that piqued his curiosity and gave him the courage to investigate the one spot he was forbidden to go. He knew he should have turned around and run in the opposite direction, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to the place. He had to see it for himself.
So he crept up the hill, carefully. Listening for the screams he sometimes heard at night. But on this morning, everything was silent. It gave him the nerve to continue.
The tunnel opening was dark. Almost black. The only hint of light was somewhere up ahead, cast by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He listened for voices but heard none. The cave was quiet, peaceful. The only sound was the occasional crunch of stone under his feet—and even that was just a whisper. The lone thing that stood out to him was the smell. The air was thick with it, filled with the putrid odor that reminded him of a hunting trip he once took with his dad.
The first chamber was unlike anything he had ever seen. Much of the floor and some of the walls were dripping with blood. Not smeared with it, but actually leaking it. Like the earth had been gashed and was starting to bleed. He walked over to the closest wall and touched it. Ran his lingers through it. The light was faint, yet bright enough to prove he wasn’t imagining it.
His hand was now crimson. His face was now pale.
That was the moment he heard the voice. Initially, he thought he was just spooked by the liquid that covered his hand. Then he heard a second one. And a third. Voices emerging from the depths of the cave. Panicked, he turned to run outside but slipped on the slick floor. Soon his skin and clothes were covered in red—a color that saved his life.
He scampered to the far corner of the cave and curled into a tiny ball, partially hidden by a crevice in the rock, partially camouflaged by the blood. In the faint light, he was nearly invisible to the naked eye, especially since no one was looking for him. If they had been, they would have found him immediately. No doubt about it. The chamber was small and they were trained soldiers, but at that moment they assumed they were alone. It wasn’t until much later when they saw his footsteps that they realized their facility had been breached and their secret had been spilled. That’s when they were forced to invade the nearby village and kill everyone they found.
To them, their mission was too important to be derailed by sympathy.
From the back corner, Yong-Su saw four men as they approached the table and chair that were anchored to the middle of the floor. Each of them carried a small box. Each box was filled with three plastic bags. Each bag was filled with blood. The men laughed and joked as they punctured the bags with their knives and squirted the blood everywhere for the second time that day. On the floor. On the ceiling. On the walls. Bag after bag, squeeze after squeeze, until the cave glistened like a ruby in the faint light of the bulb.
There was no violence or torture on that final morning. Just a bunch of clever men who faked their own murders with bags of their own blood, liquid that had been collected over several days and stored in the cave.
DNA evidence that would prove their deaths while actually giving them life.
Payne excused himself from the interview and met Jones in private, both of them stunned by what they’d just heard. For the past two days, they were under the impression that Trevor Schmidt and his crew had been murdered inside the cave. Butchered and brutalized by some unknown group that was trying to rescue a terrorist. But now, thanks to the testimony of an eight-year-old boy, they knew the truth about the cave. Not only was Schmidt alive, but his team was probably responsible for the massacre in the village.
One minute Payne wanted to avenge his friend’s death. Now he wanted to kill him.
Payne said, “Schmidt was already running a black op. No one knew where he was or what he was doing. So why in the hell would he fake his own death?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say to hide from the man he was working for.”
“Colonel Harrington?”
Jones nodded. “Think back to our time with the MANIACs. We were given a lot of latitude when it came to our missions. If we didn’t report on time, no big deal. They came to expect that from us to a certain extent. But deep down inside, we knew there was a line we couldn’t cross. And if we did, they’d send someone after us—whether we wanted them to or not.”
“And Schmidt’s death erased that line.”
“No more Harrington. No more checking in. He’s a free man to do whatever he wants.”
“Which ain’t a good thing.”
“No, it’s not. One of my instructors at the Academy told me soldiers should fight for freedom but they shouldn’t have it. I never knew what he meant until I went overseas mid saw what happened when no one was watching.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Structure is in place for a reason. Commanding officers are there for a reason. Without them, a soldier like Schmidt is capable of doing a lot of damage.”
“I’m assuming he already has.”
“You mean the village?”
Payne nodded. “Less than an hour after he faked his death, he killed how many innocents? And for what reason? To make sure no one knew he was alive?” He paused. “Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Maybe he didn’t kill them to protect his death. Maybe he killed them to protect his mission. Obviously he saw Yong-Su’s bloody footsteps outside the cave. That’s probably what led him to the village. And if Schmidt was discussing the mission while the boy was in there? You know damn well he would’ve been forced to plug the leak before anyone could talk about it.”
“The black stone,” Jones suggested. “The boy kept muttering something about the black stone. Maybe that has more significance than we think.”
Ten minutes later, they’d realize how much more.
35
Payne walked into the interview room with a bagful of candy, the first time in his career that he’d ever resorted to a confectionery bribe. Yong-Su’s eyes lit up when he saw the wide assortment of sweets that Payne had borrowed from Crawford’s desk.
“Now, don’t get too excited. You earned only four pieces.”
Yong-Su nodded and smiled, practically knocking over the table as he reached for the bag.
“Wow! You really like candy, don’t you?”
He nodded again, grinning.
“In that case, how would like to make a deal?” Payne glanced at Chung-Ho, seeking his permission. “If it’s okay with your dad, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. If you get them right, we can double your reward.”
“Do you know how many pieces that is?” Kia asked.
Yong-Su held up both hands, spreading his fingers wide.
“That’s right! Eight whole pieces!”
“Sir,” Payne asked, “is that all right with you?”
Chung-Ho nodded, th
rilled that Yong-Su was happy about anything.
“Great!” said Payne as he shook the bag for emphasis. The boy stared at it like a pit bull eyeing a pork chop. “Then let’s get started.”
The photographs of Schmidt and his crew were still on the table. Payne pushed them closer to the boy so he could get a better look. “When I was talking to your neighbor Mr. Kim, he told me that you heard the men talking in the cave. Do you remember what they said?”
Yong-Su nodded.
“Do you remember who was talking the most?”
Yong-Su nodded again, this time pointing to one of the photos. It was Trevor Schmidt.
“That’s good, real good. That’s what I figured.”
Payne collected the other three photos and moved them out of the way so Yong-Su could focus on the only person that mattered. “Okay, now here’s the fun part, the part that’s going to double all your candy. I’d like you to tell me what this man was talking about.”
Yong-Su glanced at his dad, who whispered something to him in Korean. Whether it was fatherly advice or a reminder of what Yong-Su had told him earlier in the week, Payne wasn’t sure. But whatever he said, it was effective, because Yong-Su started to talk.
“Man say black stone.”
“Black stone?”
“He say black stone come from heaven.”
“It came from heaven?”
“But he send it to hell.”
Payne grimaced. “He wanted to send the black stone to hell?”
Yong-Su nodded. “Me get candy now.”
“In a minute,” Kia said, giving Payne a chance to think. “As soon as he’s done asking you questions, you’ll get your candy.”
“Okay. Me wait.”
The problem was Payne didn’t know what to ask next. He didn’t know what the black stone was or why Schmidt wanted to send it to hell. Obviously he wasn’t talking about the hotel on Jeju, but it could have been anything else— maybe even a code that only Schmidt and his crew understood. For all he knew, Black Stone could have been the name of Schmidt’s mission.
But if that was the case, what did heaven and hell have to do with anything?
Payne paused for a minute, glancing through his small notebook. He had jotted different phrases in his personal shorthand, his way of guaranteeing secrecy, although with this mission, it wouldn’t have mattered who read it. There were too many holes to make sense of anything. Thankfully, just as his frustration was starting to build, he was saved by a knock on the door.
Handing the bag to Kia, he told her to give Yong-Su one piece for good behavior. Otherwise he knew the kid might start gnawing on the table. Never in his life had he seen a kid who liked candy that much. He figured it was probably the reason he was missing three teeth.
Anyway, Payne opened the door and was surprised to see Jones standing there, smiling wider than Yong-Su with a Tootsie Roll. A grin that told him something good had happened.
“You gotta see this.”
“See what?”
Jones led him next door, where he’d been watching the interview on one of the monitors. “While you were glancing at your notes, I cross-referenced the black stone and the word heaven. And guess what? I got a hit. Something that makes a lot of sense.”
He pointed to the image on his computer screen, an ancient stone building surrounded by a sea of people, all of them dressed in white robes. “What do you know about Islam?”
Payne shrugged and took a seat in front of the computer.
Jones said, “That’s the interior of the Great Mosque in Mecca. To put it simply, it’s the center of the Islamic world. When Muslims pray, that’s what they face. Not the mosque itself, but the ancient stone building in the middle. It’s called the Kaaba. It’s their most sacred shrine.”
Payne stared at the picture, focusing on the massive granite cube that towered above the thousands of people who filled the courtyard. It stood close to fifty feet high and was covered by a black silk cloth, decorated by gold calligraphy embroidered in Arabic.
“Go on.”
Jones tapped a few keys, zooming in on one of the cornerstones. “According to Islamic tradition, the Kaaba was built by Abraham and his son Ishmael, the same prophets from the Old Testament. While searching for rocks in the hills of Mecca, they came across a pure white stone and immediately recognized its worth. To them, its greatness was so obvious they used it to anchor their building.”
He zoomed in closer, focusing on a black stone that was embedded five feet above the ground in the east corner of the Kaaba. The stone was roughly twelve inches in diameter and framed by a silver band that was fastened to it with silver nails.
“Remarkably, the stone has turned color through the centuries. What used to be pure white is now pure black. Some true believers attribute it to all the sins it has absorbed over the years. Of course, most scientists have a more pragmatic view.”
“Which is?”
Jones leaned back in his chair. “It’s a meteorite.”
“They worship a meteorite?”
“They don’t actually worship it. But it is sacred to them.”
“An actual meteorite?”
“That’s the theory. Then again, there’s no way to know without testing it—something the guardians of the mosque won’t allow. Still, it fits all the facts. Over time, a lot of meteorites change from white to black because of oxidation. Plus there’s a major impact crater at Wabar, which is close to Mecca. When it hit the desert, it blasted molten sand high into the air, where it cooled, then fell back to the earth as chunks of glass. It was literally raining glass.”
“Glass?”
“Some scientists think the Black Stone is mat substance, known as impact glass. Meanwhile, others feel it’s part of the meteorite itself. Either way, the Black Stone fell from heaven.”
“Just like Schmidt said.”
Jones nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s not everything he said. He also mentioned that he wanted to send it to hell. And that’s the part I’m worried about.”
“How so?”
“This stone is in the middle of a massive mosque in the center of a protected city. It’s constantly surrounded by armed guards and thousands of devout Muslims who would fight to the death to defend it. No way he’s going to get into a gunfight.”
“True.”
“Therefore, in my mind, that leaves Schmidt with only one viable option.”
“Which is?”
“He’s gonna blow it up.”
36
In Saudi Arabia, where oil is the lifeblood of the economy, tanker trucks are a common sight, rolling throughout the region both day and night, a constant reminder of the nation’s wealth and its place in the global market. The trucks are so commonplace that they blend into the scenery like desert wildlife, barely registering when they stream past in large convoys.
Even when they are driving somewhere they don’t belong.
Trevor Schmidt and his crew had counted on this when they took over the Abraj Al Bait water facility the night before. Their assault had been remarkably easy. One armed guard during the takeover. Another guard during the shift change. No other workers were present due to the hajj celebration and because the facility was not scheduled to open for another six months. Everything about the place was functional—the generators, the reservoirs, the compressors. The only thing missing was the liquid to pump.
But that would soon be rectified.
A member of Schmidt’s team, the one they called Matthew, had earned an engineering degree from Stanford before he’d entered the military. His background was all the training they needed to complete this task, especially since everything had been planned out weeks in advance. All they had to do was follow simple step-by-step instructions, then get to the tunnel in Mecca, where the final phase would be completed.
But that would be the fun part. First they needed to finish their work here.
Matthew went into the control room and checked the gauges. As he did, the tanker trucks p
ulled through the front gate and drove to the rear of the facility, where they began pumping their flammable cargo into a system that was designed for water. The chemical itself, contained in cylindrical tanks that held eighty-five hundred gallons each, was a petroleum-based product comparable to jet fuel, although it had been modified in several crucial ways. To curtail the effects of static electricity, they added dinonylnaphthyl-sulfonic acid, hoping to eliminate sparking and premature combustion. Corrosion inhibitors, a common ingredient in military fuel, were introduced in small concentrations to prevent damage to the piping system and possible seepage underground. And antioxidants were added to minimize gumming.
Using the video monitors in the security office, Schmidt watched truck after truck empty their tanks into the system, double-checking all the numbers on a small sheet of paper. From his aviation experience, he knew that larger commercial jets, such as Boeing 767s, carried approximately twenty-one thousand gallons of fuel on takeoff. That meant five trucks equaled two planes, the amount that brought down the Twin Towers in a giant ball of flames.
And thanks to one of their contacts, they had more trucks than that.
Looking through a telephoto lens, the Arab smiled.
He was paid top dollar to document everything, and so far no one suspected a thing.
He had followed Fred Nasir to Taif Air Base, snapping dozens of pictures along the way. Candid shots that his boss would love. Nasir talking to the American soldiers. Nasir visiting Al-Gaim. Nasir driving into Mecca. And, finally, entering the tunnel near the mosque.
His job was so easy it felt like stealing.
That sentiment continued at the water facility. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect, worried that the isolation in the middle of the Meccan desert would pose a problem. But as it turned out, it was easier than expected. He covered himself with a tan blanket, matching the color of the surrounding terrain, and used a special lens that compensated for the darkness.
He snapped pictures of Schmidt and his crew.
Sword of God Page 17
