He almost jumped when Adam Lyall, like the conniving son of a bitch he was, suddenly reappeared at his elbow, evidently with something important to say.
‘There’s been a bomb blast in Dallas, Mr President.’
‘Come again?’
‘A bomb in Dallas, sir. It completely destroyed a downtown parking structure and shattered windows along a quarter-mile stretch near the city’s main federal building. There’s 80 confirmed dead, over a hundred injured. They’re still looking for victims and survivors.’
Garner Brock stared down at Lyall in disbelief. ‘Dallas, you say? Our Dallas?’
‘Yes, our Dallas; I’m afraid so, Mr President.’
‘Oh my Lord. Oh no. How terrible. My God’, were the phrases uttered by Elaine Brock, Jane Buchanan, and the others around the circle. The President continued to look taken aback, until he found his indignation.
‘Well, what the…good God man. What the hell is going on? Do we know who did this? Has any group claimed, you know?’ Brock’s voice was rising in volume and hysteria with each question. ‘Do we know who’s responsible, Adam? Do you know?’
My God, POTUS in a panic! Lyall would have been tempted to laugh if the situation wasn’t so…public.
‘No, I don’t know, Mr President. I’ve only just taken the call from Aiden and Nate van Louden back in Washington. It happened about half an hour ago, just before 1 pm Dallas time.’
A shocked cry from someone standing near the plasma screen became a ripple of gasps as the rest of the 20 or so people still in the room realised there was a new disaster screening live; this time coming at them from the other side of the Atlantic.
Garner Brock cricked his neck. He hated live television news. He truly longed for the days when the President of the United States would get word of a disaster long before the general public and have plenty of time to compose himself while people wrote the best response he could give. He hated being out in the world and learning of bad things at the same time as everyone else.
‘I’ve alerted Air Force One,’ Lyall was saying. ‘The Prime Minister would, obviously, like to speak with you again before dinner.’
‘Are we leaving early?’
‘After dinner, Mr President. It’s only half a day early, but I do believe it’s advisable that we return home.’
‘Fine, but fill me in on what they’re doing back home, Adam. Are there suspects? Have they started rounding up any al-Qaeda members?’
‘I’m guessing any actual known al-Qaeda operatives in the US would be in detention already, sir.’
The First Lady placed her hand on her husband’s arm, partly to remind him of the others standing in their group, but mostly to head-off the usual testy exchange between the two men on her left. It was also as a courtesy to let everyone know they could pitch into the conversation if they desired.
‘What about the suspected cells? There have to be suspected ones,’ Brock insisted. ‘Because obviously, goddamn it Adam, someone is running around Texas blowing things up. Tell Nate to get the FBI and Homeland Security to lock up suspected cell member’s mothers and fourth-cousins if it will help get the information we need.’
‘Do you really think this is an attack by al-Qaeda, Mr President?’
Brock turned to his right to see who’d asked such a damn silly question. He had to swallow his caustic reply when he saw that it was Thorpe, top guy of Britain’s version of the CIA.
‘Well I don’t know for sure, Richard. It’s just that I can’t call to mind anyone else who hates us enough to do us harm on our own soil. Again.’
‘But Mr President sir.’ It was Rashid, the Arab with the American accent. ‘There are many other terrorist groups at large in the world today who - shall we say - don’t take kindly to westerners in general; and to we Americans in particular.’
The President wondered if the man had inside knowledge.
‘I’m sorry to say that Mr Rashid is right,’ Jane Buchanan said.
‘Just as we certainly have more than just Jeemah Islamiyah operating in our region,’ the Australian High Commissioner added.
God, here it comes. Lyall rubbed the back of his head.
‘As evidenced by the hostage situation this very week on Laui Island,’ Jennifer Leland continued. ‘Now, they were just local rebels with a local agenda but they still managed to create an international incident.’
‘And the Paris train already today,’ Thorpe said. ‘That could have been perpetrated by any of the countless European terrorist organisations.’
‘True. But I still say that the group most likely to attack us within our borders is al-Qaeda,’ Brock insisted. ‘It is their stated agenda after all.’
‘Me, I believe that al-Qaeda has become the bogeyman,’ said Rashid, rather bravely considering his audience.
‘Some damn bogeyman, young man. Those bastards are as real as my Aunt Hilda.’
‘I don’t mean they are not real and a very real threat Mr President, but they are simply not alone in the world.’
‘And that’s some kind of understatement,’ Thorpe said, nodding.
‘What I meant,’ Rashid continued, ‘was that the name al-Qaeda has become something of a euphemism for the thing that most frightens us - like the bogeyman.’
‘Good point Darius,’ Lyall agreed. ‘The very name al-Qaeda does say it all doesn’t it. Terror, fear, car bombs, suicide planes, kidnappings, beheadings, you name it: al-Qaeda.’
‘Well I’d like to point out, in support of that theory…’ Mrs Buchanan began.
Has everyone gone doo-lally? The President looked from once face to another. Or are they all just trying not to offend the Muslims in the room?
‘We currently have 49 proscribed terrorist organisations in the UK,’ the PM’s wife was saying, ‘as well as over a dozen groups in Northern Ireland still outlawed under legislation made prior to the Terrorism Act of 2000.’
‘You have that many terrorist groups in England?’ the First Lady was astonished.
‘Good heavens no, Elaine,’ Mrs Buchanan declared. She beckoned two hovering waiters carrying trays of drinks and canapés.
‘They are the international terrorist groups outlawed in the United Kingdom,’ Thorpe explained. ‘You have most of the same ones on your watch list, Mrs Brock. Groups like al-Qaeda and JI of course, but also Al Ittihad Al Islamia in Somalia, Islamic Jihad in Egypt, and the Groupe Islamique Combatant in Morocco.’
Rashid reached for a glass of orange juice and added, ‘Also there’s Hamas, the ANO and Hezbollah, for instance, who want to annihilate the State of Israel, but who are also hostile to any Arab states that support Israel or have ties with the West.’
‘And let’s not forget that strange hodge-podge of a group that were caught in India last year, Richard,’ Mrs Buchanan said. ‘You know the Asian militants from which that mercenary group managed to save several Commonwealth Heads, when they uncovered the assassination plot.’
Thorpe smiled. ‘They weren’t really mercenaries, Mrs Buchanan. The Titan Guards are a British-American security firm. They were providing protection for a number of the delegates in New Delhi when they stumbled across the plot by members of Groh Sitaarah.’
Thorpe held up fingers to demonstrate his next point. ‘There are also at least seven different factions in Kashmir alone, including the Harakat Mujahideen, HUJI and Jaish e Mohammed, who all fight for the liberation of their tiny disputed region from Indian control; although JeM also wants the destruction of America and India.’
‘Yes, well, we all know the subcontinent is something of a mess when it comes to insurgent groups,’ Mrs Buchanan stated, taking her first glass of champagne for the evening. ‘Quite apart from the Kashmiri ones, there are at least six others in India, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. And, of course, any number of tribal terrorist bands or guerrilla groups operating in the mountains of Pakistan and neighbouring Afghanistan. And heaven forbid that we should ever forget the Taliban.’
‘This is giving me a headach
e,’ the President announced.
Thorpe pressed on, regardless. ‘Then there’s the Armed Islamic Group in Algeria; Basque Homeland and Liberty in Spain and France and various armed organisations in Libya, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Chechnya and Iran.’
‘Not to mention,’ shrugged Rashid, ‘that the sheer number, nature and changing names of the anti-coalition, anti-US, anti-each other, even anti-anti groups in Iraq mean that even trying to keep a tally there doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Precisely, and that’s all just the northern hemisphere,’ Jennifer Leland stated.
‘Quite frankly,’ the First Lady said, ‘I’m beginning to wonder why any of us bother to get out of bed. This is a never-ending nightmare.’
‘And, just in case anyone is still feeling complacent,’ Thorpe announced, ‘I tabled three new international groups for inclusion on the proscribed list, just this last week. Baluchis Jihad, Atarsa Kára and Golden Crest have all made it to the big leagues.’
‘Good, it’s about time Atarsa Kára got noticed,’ Rashid said. When each person in the circle either looked puzzled or concerned, he added, ‘Well, they’ve allegedly been setting off bombs in Istanbul, Cairo and Kuwait City over the last few months, yet it seems they’ve been running under everyone’s radar.’
‘There was also a car bomb attributed to them in Jakarta last month,’ Leland added.
Rashid nodded at her, and then turned to his colleague. ‘Perhaps, Michael, we at Telamon should put our minds to developing an orbiting recording system that downloads data from the previous 24 hours, after pinpointing any explosion. That way the perpetrators can be backtracked. Mind you, we would have to exclude actual war zones to avoid confusion.’
‘Now Darius,’ Thorpe smiled, ‘don’t you think we might already have something like that?’
‘Perhaps you do, Mr Thorpe,’ Rashid smiled back, ‘but ours would be available 24-7 and planet wide.’
Jane Buchanan noticed Hargreaves waiting patiently in the doorway and understood it meant her husband would soon expect the President to join him. She caught the First Lady’s attention and shared the information by means of a slight tilt of her head towards to exit.
‘The fact is,’ Adam Lyall said, returning to his point about the threat of worldwide terrorism, ‘that while most of those groups have agendas that have nothing to do with the world outside their own borders, too many of them also happen to hate our guts. But it doesn’t mean they’re all part of, or even linked to, al-Qaeda. And if we start believing they are, we’re going to get smacked from behind by someone or something we never saw coming.’
‘Quite right,’ Thorpe agreed.
‘My point exactly,’ said Rashid.
‘So what are you trying to tell me, Adam?’ Brock asked.
Both First Wives caught the signal from Hargreaves in the doorway and Mrs Brock squeezed her husband’s arm. ‘I believe the Prime Minister is waiting for you,’ she said.
Oh thank God; or the Queen. Lyall breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapter Twenty
Houston, Texas
Tuesday 2.30 pm
Nathan West sat behind his cedar desk, his back turned to the room. He stared out the great bay window at the trio of elm trees that had been planted in the south garden the day he was born. They too would be celebrating 41 years on God’s earth next week and, not for the first time in his life, he wished he could swap places with them.
He’d not long escaped from the family room where his mother and aunt were still glued to the television coverage of the day’s two tragedies, one of which was way too close to home. Nathan had been calling friends and business associates in both Dallas and Houston to find out if anyone they knew had been caught in the bomb or its aftermath. The news was so far not good from his old school friend Charlie Abeling, whose brother was lawyering in Dallas, in Griffin Street where the blast had occurred.
There was a soft knock on his open study door. Nathan turned his chair to find his housekeeper frowning in a way most unlike her. Angela, the youngest 72-year-old he knew, had reminded him his whole life ‘to keep a pleasant countenance so the changing wind could never set grimness nor fear in place’. He’d normally repeat her words back to her, except the worry in those green eyes was disquieting.
‘Angela dear, are you okay?’
‘I’m not sure, Mr Nathan. There’s two gentlemen from the Department of State here to see you.’
‘The State Department? You’d be meaning Uncle’s Defence Department surely.’
‘No sir, I mean the State one, and they’re very official looking for folks just paying a visit.’
‘Well, you’d best show them in,’ Nathan said, his curiosity an equal match to her worry.
Angela left the doorway and returned a moment later with two suited strangers wearing identically sombre expressions. By the looks of them, their business with him was private and serious, so Nathan indicated that Angela should close the door on her way out.
Angela was halfway across the marble foyer on her way to inform the ladies about their unexpected visitors when a howl of such animal anguish came though the walls at her that it stopped her dead in her tracks. She scuttled back to the study, almost falling over her feet in her haste.
One of the visitors opened the door in search of her. ‘It’s his family, ma’am.They were on that train in Europe.’
Angela felt the chill of his words in the marrow of her bones. Her knees bent, her hand reached for the steadiness of the wall beside her. She wanted to wail, to succumb to the news. Instead she pushed past the visitor and in a stride was by Nathan’s side. She knelt in front of his wheelchair and held her favourite boy’s head as he cried.
Peshawar, Pakistan:
Wednesday 12.30 am
Mudge and Brody, jammed into the back of an auto-rickshaw, were doing their seventh circuit of almost the same route around the cantonment. They’d gone up and down Qasim and Khyber roads a few times, then down Hospital Road to do several blocks, around either Saddar Road or through The Mall to Sir Syed Road.
Along the way they’d parked on corners, lurked in alleys, dropped into cafés and tried their best to blend in.
The shops and businesses in the area had mostly been shut for hours, but the food stalls in Saddar Bazaar were still running hot and there was a heap of traffic around - both two-and four-footed, plus a horde of mad bastards in cars and trucks. As usual there were hundreds of blokes moving a hell of a lot of shit around, mostly on vehicles not nearly big enough to take the loads.
Brody couldn’t recall a single decent sized town on the subcontinent, or anywhere in SouthEast Asia for that matter, that ever shut down completely, yet he’d often wandered the centre of Melbourne in the early hours searching for any signs of life. He loved this part of the world and dreamt of retiring to a big hill town in India or Thailand where day or night, just like here in Peshawar, there was a constant dynamic vibe of motion and enterprise. It was as if half the inhabitants were insomniacs who believed that if everything stopped, they would all cease to exist.
Brody tried to shift on the too-small seat, then glanced at Mudge who was devouring his second mutton-burger. ‘Mate, you’re gonna be shitting through the eye of a needle tomorrow,’ he said. Despite eating barbecued chicken, a bowl of liver and tomato kaleji and a dozen samosas - all since dinner - as well as enough cola to float a boat, the human disposal unit next to him had then spotted a chapli kebab stall just after midnight.
‘Not me Spud, got guts of steel you know that,’ Mudge said.
A stifling whiff of diesel fumes from the farting truck beside them brought Brody’s attention back to the traffic and the reason they were roaming the streets of Peshawar under a high full moon. Unlike the Pakistani truckies and Afghan refugees carting stuff here and there around town, the two blokes in the auto-rickshaw up ahead had been moving only themselves around and around the streets for three hours now. This was odd for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that Pe
shawar was not the kind of place where hoons did blockies to show off to the girls. In fact, any women around these parts were all burqaed-up or home in bed.
That Ashraf Majid and Bashir Kali were up to no good was obvious, but so far there’d been no clues as to what that might be. A couple of local lads doing a three-hour chai shop crawl wasn’t that unusual, except that these boys weren’t locals and their night on the town seemed to be more about the crawl than places they were visiting.
Brody was starting to wonder if maybe Bamm-Bamm Kennedy was right and the best thing might be to take the bastards off the street before they could do any damage.
Yeah right. He knew a summit would need to be convened to get a decision on whether the in-country SASR and/or Special Forces could even let Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence know they were, in fact, in the country. So he could forget joining any official round-up of the bad guys, assuming that the ISI took advantage of its own green light.
So far things were not looking good. Already today, their cavalry had arrived too late to pick up Jamal Zahkri and his crew. Brody’s phone tip-off had given them a rare porthole of opportunity to snare one of the world’s Most Wanteds, but it had clearly not been enough.
According to Mudge, a truckload of ISI guys had storm-troopered around from the Storytellers’ Street nearly 14 minutes after the surprise high-level Atarsa Kára convention in Café Baba had broken up and ten minutes after Brody had set off to tail their original mark, Ashraf, and his boyhood mate.
By that time, in a bid to have his action plan supported, Bamm-Bamm was half way out to Himalaya Trek & Tours near the Pesh Airport. There, in the backrooms of what was a front for their covert mission in this lawless frontier, Kennedy planned to (a) set his own Agency straight about who was really turning up in the street where they’d been told to expect low-level al-Qaeda operatives, and (b) secure permission to detain all these damn terrorists himself.
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