the Second Horseman (2006)

by Kyle Mills

  Of course, they had no proof those guys were terrorists, but they sure as hell fit the profile. And while he didn't completely trust Scanlon, it was hard to imagine him selling out Catherine and his country.

  "Richard isn't the only one running this thing," Catherine said hesitantly. "There's someone else."

  "Yeah? Who?"

  He still didn't know if Catherine had been involved in his being dragged out of her condo that night, and until now he hadn't wanted to know. But if there was any time to discard whatever illusions he was nursing, this was probably it.

  "Who, Catherine?"

  "I don't know," she said, refusing to look at him.

  "This is no time to --"

  "I'm telling the truth! The only thing I know is that some of the information we've gotten and some of the resources we've had access to . . ." Her voice faded for a moment. "Richard's well connected, but he's not that well connected."

  "So someone in the government."

  She nodded.

  "But you have no idea who. Richard never said a word about who was standing behind him on this."

  She looked a little uncertain.

  "Jesus Christ, Catherine. Spit it out!"

  "He never said anything directly, okay? But he told me that if I ever had a problem and I couldn't get in touch with him . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "He gave me an e-mail address and a password -- made me memorize them."

  Brandon let out a long breath. It wasn't exactly a presidential pardon and a SEAL team, but at least it was something. "Okay. Then we need to find a computer."

  She laughed bitterly. "We're not even sure what continent we're on."

  "Then we're just going to have to find out."

  "And how do you propose to do that?"

  He pointed and she followed his finger, squinting through the windshield at a distant figure riding what looked like a camel.

  Chapter FORTY-THREE

  After a lifetime of seeing the worst in people, Brandon was finally getting to enjoy a glimpse of the other side. Camel Guy -- he hadn't entirely caught the man's real name -- had been ridiculously helpful. After some rather obvious gawking at the fit of Catherine's sweaty turtleneck -- who could blame him -- and a few communication difficulties, he had gotten across that they were in Jordan. When directions to the country's capital degenerated into a frustrating pantomime, he had them follow him to his village, where he borrowed a car and led them through thirty miles of back roads to what passed for a highway. At the end of all that, he'd refused money, handed them some home-cooked food, and sped off back to his village.

  Their overdue good fortune had continued when a German couple had given them the heavily annotated tourist guidebook that Catherine was now immersed in. It would have almost been enough to make Brandon think there was hope for humanity if he hadn't been personally involved in dooming a large portion of it.

  He looked around at the little outdoor cafe, futilely searching for something familiar. There were no comforting smells, no intelligible sounds, no Western faces. Just a television endlessly repeating footage of Syrian children blown apart by American bombs and the curious stares of the people around them.

  He was having a hard time getting his balance. At least when he'd been on the run in Vegas there had been familiar tools to work with -- places he knew he could run to, a language he spoke, a system he understood and could subvert. Here he just felt helplessness.

  "Finding anything, Cath?"

  She froze for a moment, gripping her copy of the Lonely Planet Jordan like it was the cure for cancer.

  "We're going to have to call Richard."

  He let out a long, slow breath. "Then he'll know we're in Amman."

  "He'd have guessed that already."

  "Why not go to the American embassy and tell our story? You've got credibility."

  She shook her head. "We have no idea who in the government is involved in this and how much power they have. It's the first place they'd expect us to run."

  Of course, she was right. But their remaining options would barely fill a postcard.

  "What about getting out of the country?"

  "How? We don't even have passports?"

  "No," Brandon said. "But we've got almost two grand in U. S. dollars between us. I could make some calls and maybe get the name of someone here who can help us."

  "You mean a criminal."

  "I wouldn't be too snobby, if I was you."

  "So you're suggesting we just run."

  "Well . . . Yeah."

  "What about the warheads?"

  He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "What about them? I mean, I'm not any happier about this than you are, but what can we do? We're in the middle of fucking Jordan, and if it wasn't bad enough that the friends of those guys you shot are probably looking for us, we've got some government psycho sniffing around, too. I say we get the hell out of here, and when we've found some place safe, we call the cavalry. I'm not being entirely selfish here. If we get killed, then the game's over."

  "Well that is generous of you, isn't it?"

  she said angrily, then immediately fell silent. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Brandon. I'm really tired. And really scared."

  "It's okay." He nodded toward her book again. "Did you find a place we can get on the Internet?"

  She didn't respond, instead just staring over his right shoulder.

  "What," he whispered, adrenaline surging through him. "Is it one of the guys from the plane?"

  She just pointed.

  He turned slowly, but instead of finding a group of Arab men wielding those big curved swords he was certain people in this part of the world favored, he came face-to-face with himself.

  "You've got to be kidding me . . ."

  The photo on the television was his mug shot -- a typically dreary picture of him with bed-head and a serious five-o'clock shadow. He looked around, but no one seemed to be paying attention. And even if they had been, he doubted anyone would be expecting to find the man on television sipping coffee in Jordan.

  The Internet cafe was more high tech than Brandon expected. Of course, it was in a building old enough for Jesus to have worked on it, but the connection was reasonably fast and the computers didn't seem to be in danger of catching fire.

  They settled into a station near the back, as far away as they could get from a young couple arguing in French. Catherine punched up a Web mail account and typed in her password. She moved her hand to the enter button and let it hover there. "What?" Brandon said. "Richard said to look at this account if I couldn't get in touch with him. We haven't tried."

  Brandon responded by slapping her hand out of the way and pushing the enter key himself. The screen went blank for a moment and then a simple in-box appeared with one unread e-mail. Honestly, he'd expected some techy video of Scanlon to come up like on the old spy shows, but it was just text. It wasn't even all that long.

  Catherine:

  I know that if you're reading this, something's gone very wrong. Despite that, if you haven't done everything you can to contact me, I'd urge you to stop reading and do so immediately. You know that I will do everything in my power to help you.

  She tapped the screen above the sentence about contacting Scanlon and shot Brandon an irritated glance.

  If you have tried to contact me and I haven't responded, I'm probably beyond being able to help you. So all I can do is tell you as much as I know about what's happening.

  As I know you suspected, I was never the sole driving force behind this -- I have a strong ally in Washington. His name is Edwin Hamdi.

  "Shit," she said quietly. "What?" Brandon said. "Who's Edwin Hamdi?" "The national security advisor." "Is that a big deal?"

  "You don't follow politics much, do you?" "Not really."

  "The president probably has Hamdi's home number on his speed dial." "Great. That's just great."

  It's likely that there are other people high up in the various intelligence agencies involved as
well, but I've been insulated from them by Hamdi and so I can't give you their names.

  I don't know what's happened to you, Catherine, but it's possible that Hamdi can help. On the other hand, he could also hurt you. I've never entirely trusted him, but my suspicions were never very well founded. It's possible that he might want to use the retrieval of those weapons to propel himself politically. I don't know.

  If Brandon is still alive and still with you, he should give Hamdi a very wide berth no matter what you decide. Without me to stop him, I imagine he'll have Brandon killed if he has the opportunity.

  You, on the other hand, need to calculate the risks and benefits of keeping Brandon with you. I believe he can be trusted and, as you already know, he can be quite resourceful.

  I've left five million dollars in an account in Argentina with both your names on it. I was extremely careful, but I can't guarantee that Hamdi doesn't know about it.

  I'm sorry I got you involved in this, Catherine. I hope you understand that I felt I had no choice. You're the only person I've ever completely trusted, and I think the only person I've ever really loved.

  At the bottom was the information for the bank account Scanlon had mentioned. Catherine scrolled down looking for more, but there wasn't anything.

  After one more read, she finally deleted the e-mail and then went to work on the browser's history, clearing every trace of them ever having been there. By the time she was finished, a tear was beginning to work its way down her cheek.

  Chapter FORTY-FOUR

  "Turn right at the next cross street," Ramez said, looking out at the poverty-stricken Tel Aviv neighborhood. The crumbling concrete dwellings that lined the narrow street were quiet during this part of the day, with most of their Arab inhabitants gone to work cleaning Jewish toilets. Manicuring Jewish lawns. Groveling for the privilege of living on land that had been theirs for so many centuries.

  Despite the fact that Muhammad's knees were jammed up beneath the steering wheel and his head was scraping the roof, he was manuvering the car smoothly, ever vigilant of the speed limit and traffic laws.

  Ramez concentrated on his side mirrors, looking for police and military but seeing only the still, empty street.

  "Here. It is here," he said, pointing to a house distinguishable from all the others only by the wooden bay door in its facade.

  Muhammad eased to a stop in the middle of the street and Ramez stepped out.

  The key he had been given worked with surprising ease in the old lock, and the door slid up on a well-oiled track. He had to fight to stay calm as he directed Muhammad inside. A few more seconds and it would be done. God be praised, just a few more seconds.

  When he finally pulled the door closed, everything went dark. He listened to his breathing for a few moments, the tension he'd felt since Yusef s death beginning to release him. He'd been shocked and deeply saddened by his friend's courageous death and had been proud to take on the responsibility for this mission. But he hadn't been completely prepared for what it would feel like to be solely responsible for carrying out God's will.

  Muhammad turned on the car's headlights and Ramez examined the cluttered space around them. They weren't in the middle of the city -- not even close. But proximity didn't matter to what they had in their car. The destruction would spread from this point like the hand of God. In an instant, everything that men had spent so many centuries building would be gone.

  He squinted into the bright light coming through a crack in the door and imagined the neighborhood later in the day when it would be transformed by children returning from school and parents from work. How many would die? How many would disintegrate in the unimaginable heat and force that the Americans had created so many years ago to exterminate the Japanese?

  They would meet God as martyrs. Unwitting warriors in the final battle against the Jews. The battle that would carve out the cancer that had infected their ancestors' land for so long.

  "Our time is now," Muhammad said, unfolding himself from the car.

  But not really a car anymore. It had been transformed. It was God's will made tangible.

  "We can't risk leaving here," he continued. "We can't."

  "You understand the plan," Ramez said, watching the much larger man come toward him. "You understand what is expected of us."

  Muhammad put a key in the trunk and pulled it open, moving old blankets and other carefully arranged debris that hid the warhead. His eyes burned in the reflected light.

  "Once we leave, there is no certainty, Ramez. The warhead could be found. It could malfunction. But we're here now. We have the power to be certain. We have the power to do God's will. You know how to do it. To reset the timer so that --"

  "Yes," Ramez said. "I know how to do it."

  It was hard to discern what was more destructive to Islam. The Jews? Or was it Muslim men with minds so paralyzed by hate that they would fight endlessly for an undefined future that could never exist. Men like those in Iraq who wanted so badly for the Americans to leave but then created such violence and instability it ensured they would stay. Or Yasser Arafat, a man who had existed not to serve God and his people, but only to feed his own thirst for power.

  If this conflict continued on the same path, the end of the Muslim people was certain. They had to come together as a unified front against America and the Jews. They had to strive for real strength and to recognize acts like the destruction of the World Trade Center as the meaningless tantrums they were. Cohesiveness, discipline, and a common goal. With those things and their oil reserves, they would have the power to force the rest of the world to its knees.

  Muhammad continued to stare down at the promise of death and glory contained in the car's trunk as Ramez reached for a two-by-four leaning against the wall. "You're right," he said, using both hands to raise the board above his head. "It is your time."

  Chapter FORTY-FIVE

  "Edwin Hamdi is not some kind of terrorist mole," Catherine said, pacing as manically as the tiny hotel room would allow. "He's a former college professor who's worked for several administrations and has direct access to the president. He's been checked out in every way possible -- particularly because of his Arab background. Can you imagine the scrutiny?"

  Brandon fell onto the bed and propped his head on a pillow. Catherine had stopped in front of a cracked window, backlit by the desert sun. They'd bought clothes more appropriate for the climate and culture, so she created a rather formless silhouette that was still strangely beautiful.

  "Who are you trying to convince here, Cath? If you think Hamdi's so trustworthy, then let's give him a call. Tell him what happened."

  She wrapped her arms around herself, then let them fall to her sides again. "We could . . Her voice faded for a moment. "We need to find a phone. We need to try to get Richard."

  Everyone had limits, and as near as he could tell, she'd reached hers. The chain of command she'd relied on, the moral certainty she'd become so accustomed to, were all gone now, and she was grasping at just about anything.

  "You know that's not a good idea, Cath."

  "You still think he did this? You think he betrayed us?"

  "No. I don't. I think this Hamdi guy has his own thing going on and . . ."

  "And what?"

  "And I think Richard's dead. Anything we do to try to contact him is only going to hurt us."

  The silence that ensued was long enough to suggest that she knew what he was saying was true.

  "I still have friends at the NSA. What if we call them? Tell them what's happened?"

  "That would be an interesting conversation," Brandon said. "Hi. I just bought a bunch of nuclear warheads and gave them to some crazy-looking Arab guys so they could load them into cars and drive away."

  "Do you have a better idea?" she nearly shouted. "Or do you think we should just sit here?"

  "Hell no, I don't think we should just sit here. I think we should get the fuck out of here. Look, Jordan's no different than anywhere else -- money talk
s. When we had two grand between us, getting out of here was gonna be a trick. With the five million Richard left us, not only can I get us out of here, I can get us out of here with cocktails and air-conditioning."

  "To do what?"

  He propped himself up on his elbows. "I say we go to South America. If Hamdi is involved in what just happened, he's going to do everything he can to make sure we can't hurt him. And that means we have to get as far off the map as we can."

  "Nothing you can say is going to make me believe that Edwin Hamdi is a terrorist."

  He fell back on the bed again, a loud rush of air flowing from his lungs. "Kind of a subjective label isn't it, Cath? If the British had won, George Washington would be a terrorist. Maybe it's more complicated than you're thinking. What if he just doesn't feel like the American government is taking the terrorist threat seriously enough? Maybe he's gonna have one of those guys set off a bomb in a not-so-populated part of the U. S. and then lead the team that finds the rest of them? I don't know much about politics, but I'll bet at that point the American people would let him fight the war on terrorism any way he felt like. Or maybe he wants to use them on one of our enemies -- North Korea or Iran or something -- so America won't be blamed. There are all kinds of things that could be happening here. But none of them have anything to do with us."

  She looked vaguely panicked as her eyes darted around the room. "How sure are you that you can get us out of here?"

  He fought the relieved smile that was in danger of spreading across his face. "I'm a little out of my element here, so it might take some time. But I'm sure."

  "And that's what you want to do."

  Hell yes, it was what he wanted to do! The image of an anonymous little hut in Paraguay was so beautiful right now it nearly made him want to cry. And if he ever got there, he was going to pay someone to repeatedly hit him in the head with a brick until he forgot all about Richard Scanlon, Jordan, warheads, and just about everything else from his recent past.

  That's what he wanted to say. What he should say. What he would say if he wasn't completely nuts.

  "It's your call, Cath. I'll do everything I can to help you, no matter what you decide."