Sword of God

by Chris Kuzneski

  “It’s a take-out menu from the restaurant at Al-Gaim. We found it inside the envelope.”

  “Someone sent her a menu? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Like I said, it’s confusing.”

  Payne handed it to Jones, who stared at the menu with great interest. He studied everything, paying particular attention to the interior text.

  “Do you see something?” Payne asked.

  Jones nodded, smiling. “The club sandwich looks good.”

  Payne ignored the comment, knowing that he would continue.

  “Actually,” Jones said, “the menu doesn’t bother me. It’s what it represents that bothers me.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Whoever sent the envelope knew about Schmidt long before we did.”

  “How so?” Harrington demanded.

  “Two years ago, when Schmidt’s unit was killed at the hospital, where were you housing their families?”

  “Al-Gaim.”

  “And when Schmidt attacked the towers, what was his access point?”

  “The tunnel,” Payne answered.

  “Obviously that’s not a coincidence. Whoever sent the package knew about Schmidt, knew about his motivation, and knew where he was going to attack several days in advance. Of course, that triggers a floodgate of questions that I’d rather not think about until I know what else was inside the package. That might put things in a proper context.”

  Nodding in agreement, Harrington grabbed another manila folder. This time he handed it to Jones. “We found this taped inside the menu.”

  Jones opened the folder and stared at the image. It was a picture of an SD card, a computer storage device that was slightly bigger than a postage stamp yet capable of holding gigabytes of information. Some held more data than a DVD. “What’s on it?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Harrington admitted. “All of the files are encrypted, including one substantial video file that we’ve been working on all night. Once we crack the code, we should know a whole lot more. I’m expecting to hear something soon.”

  “In the meantime,” Payne suggested, “would you mind if we talked to Shari? Since we bailed her out, I’m sure she’d be willing to open up. Who knows what she might know?”

  Harrington smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. In fact, I’ve already set it up. She’s waiting for you down the hall.”

  Shari Shasmeen paced back and forth in the interview room. Her nose was covered in white tape; her eyes were black and swollen. She looked like a prizefighter the morning after a bad loss.

  When Payne opened the door, she stopped and broke into a huge grin. The stress that had been evident a moment before was replaced with instant relief. “Thank God, it’s you.”

  Payne smiled at her comment. “God’s a little formal. You can call me Jon.”

  Jones followed him into the room, closing the door. “And I’m D.J.”

  She gave each of them a hug. “It’s great to see you both. It really is.”

  Payne pulled out the chair that faced the video camera, mounted on the ceiling, and helped her sit down. “Are you okay? You seem upset.”

  “What can I say? It’s been a rough couple of days.” She took a deep breath, trying to relax. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. Things could’ve been a lot worse. I mean, I could be dead. But—”

  “But what?”

  “But I was this close to making a major discovery. This close to a fulfilling a dream. And right before I could grasp it, it was taken away.”

  “You mean the site?”

  She nodded, an aggrieved look in her eyes.

  “You know,” Payne said, “we still don’t know much about your time in Mecca. What you were looking for, how you were recruited, and so on. If you don’t mind, we’d love lo ask you some questions about your work.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  “Let’s start with the basics. Who hired you for the dig?”

  “His name is Omar Abdul-Khaliq, a wealthy Saudi with ii vast network of connections. A few months ago, he contacted me by phone and asked if I’d be interested in running a team in Arabia. He’d heard about my research and felt I’d be the perfect person for the job. Clearly, it was flattering—especially when he told me that the dig would he in Mecca. Until then, I never thought I’d have a chance in work there.”

  Jones asked, “Because of your religion?”

  “And my sex. Mecca doesn’t look kindly on either.”

  “But he got you inside?”

  “Me and the others. All of us were Americans. None of us were Muslims. He said he was looking for the strongest team possible and felt we would work well together. So he got us the appropriate paperwork and snuck us into the city.”

  “And you weren’t hassled?”

  “Not once. I’m not sure how Omar pulled it off, but we were never bothered at the site. At least not until recently. Obviously, things changed drastically over the past few days.”

  52

  Payne was known for his ability to read people. And in this case, he had nothing but positive feelings about Shari Shasmeen. She might have worked for Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but she sure as hell wasn’t helping him. At least not knowingly.

  “When did things start to go bad?” he asked.

  “About a week ago, I called Omar to update him on our progress. When I told him that we were getting ready to verify the site, he was thrilled with the news. At that time he was out of the country but said as soon as he returned he was going to stop by for the big unveiling.”

  “Did he ever make it?” Jones wondered.

  She shook her head. “A few days later he called to let me know that he’d been delayed. However, he was so confident that he’d make it to Mecca in the next day or two that he was going to have a package delivered to the site. He hinted that it was very important but wouldn’t tell me what was inside.”

  Payne asked, “When did it show up?”

  “On Saturday afternoon.”

  Payne nodded. That meant whoever sent it knew about the attack at least two days before it happened. “And what can you tell me about the delivery guy?”

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember. “Middle-aged. Tan complexion. Probably Middle Eastern. But no trace of an accent. I’m guessing American.”

  Jones glanced at Payne. “What’s with all the Americans?”

  “I was wondering the same thing.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out the significance, before he returned his attention to Shari. “What happened next?”

  “He gave me the envelope and left.”

  “No conversations. No clues about who he was or where he was going.”

  She shook her head. “We found him about an hour later. Someone had slit his throat and dumped his body by the exit. There was blood everywhere. After that, I did the only thing I could. I called Omar and told him what had happened.”

  Payne nodded. “How did he react?”

  “He was calm. No hint of panic. He said he’d take care of it. Less than an hour later, a team of guards showed up and removed the body.”

  “Were they Americans?” Jones asked.

  “No,” she said. “They were Arabs.”

  She gave them a basic description of the guards and explained how Omar ordered her to leave the tunnel until the hajj was over. He said the Arabs would protect the site while she explored the city or stayed in the safety of her hotel room, which was a few miles away.

  “Yet we found you in the tunnel,” Payne commented.

  “What can I say? I’m stubborn. I stopped by to get some work done late Sunday night, and the place was empty. No guards in sight. They didn’t show up until Monday morning. And when they arrived, they were carrying tools.”

  “And that’s when they attacked you?”

  She nodded. “After that, everything’s fuzzy.”

  Harrington watched the interview from an adjacent room. Much like Payne, he believed everything that Shari said. Her answ
ers were straightforward. She never stammered or avoided a topic. She constantly looked her questioners in the eyes.

  In some ways, he was disappointed. Things would have been much simpler if she had partnered with Abdul-Khaliq. In that case he could have put the screws to her, getting as much information as possible before he sent her to military intelligence, who would have treated her even worse. Before they were done, she would have confessed to everything, including Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.

  Unfortunately, as things currently stood, it was his ass on the line. Not hers.

  From the moment he notified the Pentagon about a possible attack, he knew his career was going to be put under a microscope. Committees were currently forming, all of them designed to look into his recent operations— including the black ops run by Trevor Schmidt. All things considered, Payne and Jones had done a remarkable job cleaning up his mess in Mecca. However, they didn’t have the time or the resources to be perfect. By now, the Saudis were sorting through all the evidence at the towers and had recovered the bodies, which meant they were one step closer to figuring out their true identities: non-Muslim American soldiers.

  No matter how Harrington tried to spin it, he knew that he was screwed. American troops plus explosives plus the Great Mosque meant an international crisis. Not nearly as bad as if the attack had succeeded, but bad enough that he would be relieved of his duties.

  At this point, the only thing that could save him was a miracle.

  Or help from an unexpected source.

  After the interview with Shari, Payne and Jones were summoned to the conference room, where Harrington was waiting for them. A day before, photos of the Great Mosque filled the large video screen while an expert lectured on the events of the hajj. Today there was a single image—a freeze-frame of a Middle Eastern man sitting in a dilapidated warehouse.

  “Gentlemen,” Harrington said, “Christmas just came early.”

  “Crap!” Jones joked as he took a seat. “I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Actually, you did. You got me the best gift in the world. You brought me the disk.”

  “The disk?” Payne asked.

  “The SD card from the take-out menu. My tech boys finally cracked the encryption. It took all night, but it was worth their effort. That thing was filled with all kinds of information. Building designs for the towers. Escape routes from Mecca. American contacts in Riyadh and Taif. The type of intel that would’ve been hard to explain if the Saudis had recovered it.”

  Payne rubbed his eyes. “I don’t get it. Why would someone send that to the tunnel?”

  Harrington grinned. “If you’d like, I can sit here and explain it to you. Or if you’d prefer, you can hear it straight from the Arab’s mouth.”

  “Which Arab is that?”

  He pointed toward the screen. “Earlier today, I mentioned there was a large video file on the SD card that we were trying to crack. Turns out it was a video message. One I think you’ll enjoy.”

  Harrington hit play, and the video sprang to life.

  Filmed with a webcam in poor lighting, the man’s face dominated the screen. He had dark skin and five-o’clock shadow. His lips were dried and cracked. When he spoke, he whispered in serious tones, like everything he said was a matter of life and death. His English was fluent, yet tinged with a slight Arabic accent.

  “My name is Raheem Al-Jahani, and I am twenty-six years old. I was born in Medina, not far from the final resting place of the Prophet Muhammad, sallallahu alayhi wasallam. For the past four years, I have been an active member of the Soldiers of Allah, an organization that strives to make the world a better place for all Muslims. Until recently, I was proud to call myself a Soldier. But that pride exists no more.”

  During the next few minutes, Al-Jahani explained how he was recruited out of college, where he’d earned a computer degree, and slowly proved his worth to the Soldiers by running a terrorist cell in London that was responsible for several bombings. Eventually he moved higher and higher in the network until he was contacted by one of Hakeem Salaam’s top advisers, who asked him if he’d be interested in working on a mission that would utilize his technical expertise. Al-Jahani was honored, especially when he discovered the project had been planned by Salaam, a man who rarely showed his face and trusted no one.

  To protect the sanctity of the mission, Al-Jahani was transported to a secret location, where he was housed in seclusion for months. No phone. No Internet. No access to the outside world. He was given a brand-new computer, pre-installed with some of the best encryption software available, and several pieces of hardware. Every few days a guard would drop off food and an envelope filled with the materials for his next assignment.

  In the beginning, the information was mostly American. Names of soldiers. Locations of contacts. Ways to manipulate them. To Al-Jahani, the prospects were thrilling because he longed to launch an assault against the country he hated the most. Unfortunately, as his work continued, the focus of the mission began to shift. Before long he started to see Arab documents. Maps of Mecca. Permits for digging. Diagrams of the towers complex.

  None of it seemed to fit.

  Several weeks passed before Al-Jahani pieced everything together. Hakeem Salaam, a hero to all Soldiers, wasn’t attacking the United States. Instead, he was helping them stage an attack of their own—one that threatened the Kaaba, the most sacred landmark in all of Islam, and the millions of pilgrims who honored it—by providing them with information through his vast network of Arab contacts, some of whom had worked with the Americans for years but, in actuality, were supporters of Salaam. The ultimate goal was to unite Islam against a common enemy, but millions of martyrs would die in the process.

  The realization made Al-Jahani nauseous.

  At that point he realized he had two options. He could stop working for Salaam, which would result in his swift execution, or he could try to sabotage the mission. Obviously, the latter seemed the more promising of the two. The only question was, how?

  He had no connection to the outside world. No way to communicate the threat to anyone.

  All he could do was sit and wait, praying that an opportunity would present itself.

  His big break finally arrived in late December, when he was ordered to take all the data he had been working on— the blueprint for the terrorist attack—and store it on a SD card that would be delivered to a team of Americans who were working in the tunnel. To Salaam, they were the perfect people to frame. Non-Muslims. Fake paperwork. Access to the towers. Once Saudi officials were tipped, they would find the SD card filled with all the damning evidence, and accuse the Americans of aiding the terrorists.

  On the surface, it seemed like a good plan—another way to link the United States to the attack, thereby demonizing them as the butchers of Islam.

  However, Al-Jahani viewed it differently. This was his chance to reveal the truth.

  “As you have figured out,” he explained, “my computer is equipped with a webcam. No one thought to remove it, since I have no connection to transmit a video feed. Yet this camera has many functions. I am using it to record this message. Earlier today, when the guards came in to give me my final assignment—to encrypt all the data for delivery—I filmed the entire conversation. It will be included on the disk.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, afraid that someone might be listening.

  “As the guards left, I heard them talking about a pickup they would be making at a tunnel in Mecca and a delivery to Jeddah. I do not know what this means. It could be nothing. It could be everything.”

  He paused again, searching for words.

  “For all I know, this message might never be seen or heard. Either way, I am confident that it will survive longer than I will. After today, they have no reason to keep me alive.”

  He took a deep breath, realization in his eyes.

  “In my heart, I know what they are doing is wrong. My only hope is they will be stopped.”

  53

&
nbsp; Shari Shasmeen sat in the lounge for more than an hour, staying as close to the interview room as possible in case Payne or Jones had any more questions. To her, the furniture looked like it had been donated by Goodwill. Mismatched chairs, a badly scratched card table, a coffeepot that was older than Juan Valdez. She tried to get comfortable on the lumpy couch, but it felt like it had been stuffed with straw.

  “I’m guessing you’ve never been in the military,” said Kia Choi as she entered the room. “Otherwise you’d be used to our opulent accommodations.”

  Shari smiled. “I’ve spent the past few months in a tunnel, and it was nicer than this.”

  She reached out her hand in introduction. “I’m Kia, by the way.”

  “I’m Shari.”

  “Actually,” Kia admitted, “I knew that already. I work with Jon, and he told me all about you when he returned from Mecca. How are you feeling?”

  She touched the tape on her broken nose. “About as good as I look.”

  “Can I get you something? Some aspirin or—”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m tough. I can take it.”

  Kia smiled. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course not. I’d welcome the company. It’s been a while since I’ve talked with a female. All of my coworkers are men, so our conversations were somewhat limited.”

  “In that case, I’m kind of hesitant to ask you my next question.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I wanted to ask you about your job.”

  Shari laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’m happy to talk about it. What did you want to know?”

  “Well, as I mentioned, Jon told me about finding you in the tunnel. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough time to tell me about the site. So I was wondering—”

  “What we were looking for.”

  Kia nodded. “Is that too personal?”

  “A few days ago, I probably would’ve played stupid and said, What site? But as things stand, I guess there’s no harm in talking about it now.”

  “Just so you know,” Kia said, “I work as a translator for the military, and Arabic is one of the languages I speak. So I’m not a total novice when it comes to Islam. I know some of the basics about its history and culture.”