An Arab who worked as a snitch for the U.S. military aided Salaam along the way, feeding the Americans false information whenever he was asked. At the same time, he gathered intel from his real sources and sold it to Salaam for top dollar.
In the world of terrorism, the best information could always be bought.
Six months after Salaam launched his plan, an American soldier named Bender, a Special Forces operative who used to run missions out of Taif before most of his squad was killed in a terrorist attack, was spotted surveying the Cireat Mosque. A background check revealed the names of his entire unit, a group led by Trevor Schmidt. Deeper research showed that Schmidt was born in Ohio, trained as a MANIAC, and was a certified war hero. Not a hint of Middle Eastern blood in his family tree. Or in any other members of his crew.
To Salaam, these men would be the perfect scapegoats.
Now all he had to do was make sure they succeeded.
The guards had been gone all night. When they returned, they carried an assortment of tools.
Shari Shasmeen heard them as they clanked down the tunnel, metal banging on metal, their voices echoing in the darkness. They were speaking in Arabic, chattering on and on about timetables, delivery points, and all the money they were going to make for this job. None of it made much sense to her until she saw them coming her way.
As she focused on their pickaxes and crowbars, dread filled her heart.
They were coming to rob the site.
The click of their key as it turned in the lock felt like a death sentence. They guards were highly trained and accustomed to violence. Her only weapon was the small canister of pepper spray she clutched in her hand. They blocked the only way out.
At that point, she realized she had no choice; she had to hide. So she crouched in the back shadows, hoping they didn’t spot her, praying they just dropped their tools and went outside for additional supplies. If so, she could slip into the maintenance shaft that branched from the main tunnel near the bottom of the front incline. Then she could wait in silence until they returned through the metal gate and locked the door. If she was lucky, it would give her enough time to sprint up the ramp and call for help.
Then again, whom could she call?
The mutaween were just as likely to arrest her for being in public without a chaperone. Her colleagues were several blocks away, back at the hotel, and less accustomed to violence than she was. She knew she could always call Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but he had hired these guards to begin with. The one who told to her to get away for a couple of days while these men protected the site. Either that was a tremendous error on his part, or this was all his doing.
Shari wasn’t sure which.
Of course, that was something she could debate later. If she escaped.
The odds of that diminished when they entered the chamber and locked the gate. There were four of them, and they weren’t going anywhere. The lead guard ordered his men to get started while he set up some piece of equipment she couldn’t see, since her view was obstructed by her position on the floor. The biggest of the guards walked over first, putting his hand on the rocks, trying to decide where he should strike for the maximum amount of damage. He found a spot along the front edge and raised the pickax above his head.
In her mind, it was now or never.
She leaped from her crouch and sprayed the pepper spray directly into his eyes. He let out a loud yelp as he dropped the pickax to the floor. Before anyone could react, she grabbed its wooden handle and swung it at the next guard, a vicious blow that sunk into his left side and stuck there like a lawn dart. He twisted to the ground in a writhing heap of agony, generating so much force that it pulled the weapon from her grasp.
Suddenly she was unarmed and trapped.
Now it was just a matter of time.
Enraged, the lead guard charged forward, a combination of power and brutality. She raised her hands and tried to defend herself, but he was too strong—like a bull busting through the tiny red cape and finding the matador behind. But instead of gouging her with horns, he swung his right elbow, smashing it into the bridge of her nose with so much fury that she was knocked unconscious on impact.
41
On this day alone, more than four hundred thousand animals were slain in Mecca to celebrate Eid ul-Adha, the Festival of the Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham’s readiness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. After the ritualistic slaughter, Muslims distributed some of the meat to family and friends, but most of it was donated to the poor, symbolizing their willingness to give up something of value.
Charity was one of the five pillars of Islam, so generosity was expected.
Thousands of refrigerated trucks were driven into the city to pick up the animals, a variety of lambs, cows, camels, and goats. But not all of these trucks were alike. Two were designed with a different purpose in mind: dropping off was more important than picking up.
Payne and Jones sat in the back of one of these trucks, hidden behind a fake panel and several cardboard boxes that were filled with perishable food items and large bags of ice. It wasn’t the best camouflage in the world, but it was the best that Colonel Harrington could come up with on short notice.
Two bulbs lit their secret compartment, giving them time to study maps, memorize the dossiers of Schmidt’s crew, and formulate a plan of attack. Four other soldiers were joining them—two in the back of another truck and the two drivers, both Arab Americans with perfectly forged paperwork. Without it, none of them would be getting into Mecca.
Wrapped in a blanket, Jones tried to stay warm in the frigid climate. Thankfully, the ihram stage of the hajj was over, meaning they didn’t have to wear the traditional garments, consisting of two white unhemmed sheets and sandals, to blend in. Not only would it have been tough to conceal a weapon, but he blanched at the thought of going into a battle without underwear.
“You know,” he said, “we might be the first people in history to get frostbite in the desert.”
As a Pittsburgh native, Payne shrugged off the cold. “Pussy.”
“Wait! I’m sneaking into a forbidden city to save two million people and I’m a pussy!”
He nodded. “Bet it feels good to finally admit it, huh?”
Jones laughed. “Asshole.”
“Okay. Now that we have both sides covered, let’s get down to business.”
Payne held up an aerial view of the Great Mosque that was taken from a spy satellite less than two weeks before. He pointed to a stretch of land west of one of the main gates. “This is Omar Abdul-Khaliq’s property. From the air, it looks like a large construction site. However, upon closer inspection, it appears to be missing something important.”
“What’s that?”
“Construction.”
Jones grabbed the picture and took a closer look. He spotted giant piles of dirt and rock and several pieces of heavy equipment, but there was no foundation being laid.
No building going up. “Could be something, could be nothing. We won’t know until we get there.”
“Obviously, the connection between Schmidt and Omar is pretty thin. We can link Omar to Salaam through a money trail, and Salaam to Schmidt through his advisers at the cave. To be honest, I’m not sure if one has anything to do with the other. Actually, I’m more interested in the official from the Ministry of the Interior. What was he doing in Kuwait with Salaam’s men? And why would Schmidt torture him?”
Jones took a guess. “Could be any number of things. Everything from security at the mosque to police response times. Not to mention parts of the city’s infrastructure that could be useful: roads, water, power, telecommunications. If Schmidt grabbed the right guy, he’d have access to everything we don’t, including security codes and building schematics.”
Payne swore under his breath. They were already facing long odds—a battle against the clock and a highly trained unit that had worked together for years. Now it was even worse. Not only did his opponents have months to organize their mission, but they al
so had access to inside information. Somehow it didn’t seem fair.
Of course, despite all that, despite all the things that were stacked against them, Payne and Jones had one crucial thing that Schmidt and his crew didn’t.
The element of surprise.
Her nose had been shattered, filling her mouth with the taste of blood. The room was spinning.
Shari tried to stand but couldn’t get her legs to work. Everything was wobbly. Her body. Her brain. Her memory. Like waking up in an early-morning fog without actually falling asleep. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. Trying to focus on something that would allow her to remember what had happened. The ground. The ceiling. The throbbing in her head. But nothing worked. There was a giant void.
Squinting in the darkness, she could barely make out shapes except for a series of vertical lines in the murky distance. They were thick and sturdy, a mixture of shadow and light, black and white, alternating one after another. She stared at them, trying to understand their purpose. Trying to figure out what they were. None of it made any sense.
How long had she been unconscious?
How had she gotten there?
Why couldn’t she breathe through her nose?
Confusion reigned for ten minutes before details started to emerge.
The first thing Shari noticed was the cord. She felt it wrapped around her ankles, bound so tightly that she couldn’t separate her legs. Her hands were tied as well, pulled behind her back and attached to a metal loop that had been driven into the hard ground. No matter how hard she pulled or twisted, she couldn’t get it to budge.
Next, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, her vision started to return. She focused on the vertical lines and realized what they were: a giant iron gate backlit by a series of dim bulbs that provided the only light in her cell.
Wait. That gate looked familiar. She had seen it before.
Suddenly, memories came flooding back to her. She was in the tunnel, tied up in the back room, where she had been attacked by the guards.
The site!
Oh my God, they were there to rob the site!
Panicked, she tried to swing her legs around, tried to contort her body so she could see if the relic was still inside. Unfortunately, as she struggled to get a better view, she kicked up a swirl of dust that filled her lungs. Coughing was instantaneous. Blood and mucus sprayed from her nose as she gasped for breath. Pain erupted in her head, throbbing in unison with her racing heart.
Tears streamed down her face, clouding her vision once again.
Alone. In agony. In the darkness. Barely able to breathe.
She didn’t think it could get any worse.
But she was wrong.
Trevor Schmidt and his crew slipped into the tunnel, barely making a sound. All of them had packs slung over their shoulders and weapons in their hands. For big men, they ran silently. Years of training taught them how to move with stealth. The skill would serve them well as they strived to complete their mission.
From this point forward, noise would be kept to a minimum. Hand signals would be used when possible. Their watches were synchronized to the millisecond, freeing them of the need to speak. Some of their actions would be based on time, not verbal authorization. They would do what they were supposed to do whether the others were ready or not.
It was the advantage of a multipronged attack.
Even if someone was killed or captured, the survivors could still make a difference.
Schmidt led the way, creeping down the ramp at a steady pace. They followed him in single file, always keeping space between themselves in case there was an alarm or a mine or anything they hadn’t prepared for. The odds were against it—their source had been quite versed on the infrastructure of Mecca—yet they expected the unexpected. Ready for anything.
Well, almost anything.
When they hit the bottom of the ramp, Schmidt sent one of his men to inspect the back tunnel while the other two worked on the maintenance shaft that branched in the opposite direction. The soldier clicked on a flashlight and disappeared into the darkness, only to return a minute later, confusion etched on his face.
“What?” Schmidt whispered.
“You have to see this.”
“What is it?”
“I have no fuckin’ idea. That’s why you have to see it.”
Intrigued, Schmidt signaled for the others to keep working while he investigated the rear tunnel. The passageway had been carved with precision, lit with the same bulbs that lined the initial entry ramp but protected by a giant iron gate that had been anchored in the ceiling and floor. It prevented them from going any farther. Why it was there, he wasn’t sure. But as far as he was concerned, it didn’t really matter. They would be heading in the opposite direction.
“You wanted me to see this?” he asked.
The soldier shook his head. “I wanted you to see this.”
He stuck his flashlight between the bars and shined it into the back room. Shards of broken bulbs littered the floor, intermixed with large chunks of stone and rubble. He tilted the beam upward, revealing a man-made stalagmite that had recently been chiseled to its core. All that remained was a large hole, several cubic feet of empty space where something had been stored.
Hoping to get a better view, Schmidt turned on his light, too. “What is it?”
“I’m guessing a tomb.”
“A tomb? Why do you say that?”
Instead of answering, he swung his beam to the rear corner of the room, where Shari Shasmeen lay motionless on the ground. Her eyes were closed. Her arms and legs were tied. Blood covered her face and clothes. She looked like a corpse.
Schmidt tilted his head to get a better view. “Is she dead?”
“Can’t tell from here. If you want, I can shoot her to make sure.”
He glanced at his watch. They had more important things to worry about.
“Why bother? If she’s not dead now, she will be soon.”
42
They parked their trucks in an alley, several blocks south of the Great Mosque.
It was as close as traffic would allow.
Mecca was a multiethnic city, filled with people of all colors and nationalities. Still, to blend in, Payne and Jones had to dress the part. They wore white Saudi thobes (full-length cotton gowns that nearly touched the ground when they walked) and white skullcaps. The Arab-American soldiers added some variety. One donned a red-and-white ghutra (headdress), held firm by a black igal (ropelike cord); the other covered his thobe with a light brown bisht (cloak). The remaining two wore beige taqiyah caps (brim-less and accented with white-thread embroidery) and thobes of the same color.
Ankle holsters, held in place by compression straps, were worn on both legs.
Extra ammo was stored in utility belts, concealed by their robes.
Wireless transmitting devices were discreetly tucked in their ears.
All other equipment was varied, depending on preference. Payne was partial to blades. He wore one on each forearm, tucked in black leather sheaths. Meanwhile, Jones carried a small set of tools, just in case he had to deactivate a bomb or pick a lock.
Walking briskly but never running, the men moved in pairs, weaving through the crowds of tourists that filled the sidewalks and ancient streets. The pilgrims would be entering the city from the east on the aptly named Pedestrian Road, trickling in at first before finally arriving en masse, a sea of white surging through the desert like a flood, monitored by thousands of guards and dozens of helicopters. Payne knew Schmidt would be somewhere else, probably concealed close to the mosque, patiently waiting for his prey to come to him.
Unless, of course, he had already planted an explosive device, one with a timer or a remote detonator, and was currently far from Mecca. If that was the case, then they were screwed because they didn’t have the time, manpower, or authority to conduct a search. Their only hope was spotting Schmidt and taking him out before he started his assault.
Jone
s said, “Omar’s place should be up ahead.”
Payne nodded as he scanned his surroundings, searching for trouble. People. Windows. Rooftops. Hoping to spot something that seemed out of place. The city itself was not as he expected. He had traveled extensively in the Middle East and usually felt as if he had stepped through a time portal, leaping back to another era. Ancient buildings. Ancient streets. Ancient everything. But here, there seemed to be an equal mix of new and old.
Ancient traditions, yet contemporary comfort.
Ironically, the closer they got to the mosque, located in the center of the old city, the more modern the infrastructure appeared. Building projects were popping up all over, areas fenced off for demolition and new construction. Dump trucks and bulldozers, cranes and scaffolding, rocks and sand. This closed city was definitely open for business— especially to American corporations. In one block, there were signs for Hilton Towers, Sheraton Hotel, and McDonald’s.
“Where would you like us?” asked the Arab soldier in l he middle pair, which was labeled team two. Payne and Jones were team one. The final duo was team three. The two Arab Americans, who could speak Arabic, were split up in case their language skills were needed.
Payne heard the question in his earpiece. “Team two, stay on the street. Team three, continue forward to the mosque plaza. But stay close.”
Sword of God Page 20
