Jihad (22 page)

He seemed a thoughtful man, confident of his skills, not easily shaken. This had set the bodyguards on edge—they were used to cowing people, and anyone who did not show abject fear threatened them.

Asad felt just the opposite. He did not want to put himself in the hands of someone with no faith in his abilities. The doctor’s insights on human nature and the way of God were small but profound. Under other circumstances, Asad might have arranged for the man to be recruited. But there was much to do this morning.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked Katib after his morning prayers and tea.

“I am.”

Something was wrong with Katib, Asad sensed; the bodyguard was still brooding over the incident at the hospital the other day. Coming on top of the car accident, it had made him doubt his abilities.

“You should not do anything foolish,” he told his bodyguard when they were on their way to the airport. “You are needed for the long battle.”

Katib said nothing.

Asad stared out the window, thinking of what to tell his follower. So often in the past, words had flowed into his mouth, but today he still had not found any when they arrived at the airport for his flight.

“I will make amends,” said Katib, holding the door as he got out of the car. “My mistake will be erased.”

“Mistakes are to be expected.”

Katib stared at him. Asad considered whether he should order him not to do anything. But he sensed that Katib would not listen to him if he did.

Perhaps this is what I owe the man for his loyalty, Asad thought—approval.

Perhaps it was for the best. He was not taking any bodyguards with him to America, not even Katib. He’d learned that it was far safer to travel alone there, as foreigners in groups tended to attract attention. And action here might add to the crescendo effect of the attacks. Strike here, strike there, continue even as security was increased—the enemy would soon grow disheartened.

But he hated to lose Katib. He had known him since the Syrian since was thirteen, nearly a decade. Though young, he had a sharp mind.

“You have everything arranged?” Asad asked.

“I have friends. It will be done at noon. Taksim will be full then.”

His bodyguard’s solemn expression tugged at Asad’s heart.

“Go with God,” he told him. “We will meet in paradise.”

Inside, a woman took Asad’s bag and set it on the belt to go through the X-ray machine. She was a typical decadent Turk, he could tell, seduced by the West. He moved to the metal detector.

As he stepped through it, a buzzer sounded and the two guards crowded next to him.

“Here,” said one of the men harshly. “Spread out your arms.”

Asad felt a moment of fear. Stifling it, he raised his hands. The other guard began patting his clothes.

“Your watch,” said the first guard.

Asad started to take it off, thinking the guard was asking for a bribe. Then he realized that it was meant as an explanation—the steel band must have set off the alarm.

“Did you want to examine it?” he asked.

“When you go through the next checkpoint, place it in one of these,” said the guard, holding up a shallow tub. “Or you will set it off again.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” he said, passing through the gate.

CHAPTER 65

BESIDES HOLDING HIS post as National Security Advisor, George Hadash had served in the U.S. Army as a young man and received both the Purple Heart and Silver Star, making him eligible for burial at Arlington National Cemetery. But his daughter Irena held firm on that issue; her father had always wanted to be buried next to his brother, who had been killed in Vietnam and was interred with other family members at a cemetery in suburban Virginia.

The ceremony was a simple one, with family and close friends only. But as the President of the United States was among Hadash’s closest friends, there was no way to make it small, or truly private. The TV people kept a somewhat respectful distance from the gravesite, but their presence hung like a shadow in the distance.

“He was the pragmatist, I was the optimist,” said the president, speaking without notes in front of the open grave. “He was the teacher. I the student.”

Marcke’s modesty touched Rubens, as did his obvious grief; the president looked as pale and drawn as Irena. When he ended his eulogy by simply looking down at the casket and saying, “I’m going to miss you, George,” even Rubens felt tears slip from his eyes.

The minister read from the 23rd Psalm, selected by Irena with Rubens’ help. Then one by one they threw fistfuls of dirt in the grave—Irena, her daughter, the president, Rubens, the others.

And then it was over.

Rubens watched as President Marcke consoled Irena and her daughter one last time. When the president began walking toward his limo, Rubens went over to her. He had planned to give Irena and her daughter a ride back to their condominium, where she would host a few family members for a light breakfast. He couldn’t stay himself.

His phone began to vibrate just as he reached her. He stepped discreetly to the side, activating the phone.

“Red Lion plans to come to the U.S.,” Marie Telach told him.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. He just checked in for a flight to New York with a connection at Paris.”

Rubens clicked off the phone. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he told Irena. Then he started down the hill toward the president’s limo. Marcke was standing next to the open door with a group of aides, including Bing.

“Mr. President,” said Rubens as Marcke started to get in the car.

“What’s up, Billy?”

“We should talk—perhaps in private.”

Marcke slid into the car. Rubens followed.

“Red Lion—Asad bin Taysr, al-Qaeda’s number three—he’s coming to the U.S. We can arrest him here if you want. You’d spoken of wanting to put a top leader of the organization on trial, if possible.”

Marcke said nothing. Rubens guessed he was considering the political ramifications; putting a terrorist on trial was full of pitfalls and could easily backfire.

“We’re still not sure what he’s planning,” added Rubens. “I—we unraveled the plot in Germany as I told you earlier, but obviously there’s something here.”

“I want him, Billy. I want to put him on trial and show the world what slimes we’re dealing with. Can you get him?”

“Yes, sir. First, though—”

“First find out what he’s up to, absolutely. You do that. Then we nail him for it. You do it. Whatever it takes. I want that son of a bitch.”

There was so much emotion on Marcke’s face that Rubens felt his own flush. “I’ll get him. I will.”

As Rubens reached for the door, the president grabbed him by the shoulder. “George Hadash was a great man. I owe him a lot.”

“I do, too,” managed Rubens, nodding as the president released him.

BY THE TIME Rubens reached the Art Room, Telach had gotten one of the CIA backup people to the airport and over to the gate area. The flight was overbooked; the Art Room computer wizards were able to change the coding on both tickets to ensure that the men would not be bumped, making it appear that they had not only checked in several hours before anyone else, but that they had both paid the airline’s full fare.

“Where are Lia and Dean?” Rubens asked Telach as she pointed out Asad’s location on the screen.

“Lia is tracking the Saudis. There’s no way she can get there in time. Dean’s in the airport, but Asad just saw him. I don’t want to risk putting him on the same flight.”

“We’ll need someone in Paris—a full team in case he gets off there.”

“He checked his bag. If he doesn’t get on the flight, it’ll set off all sorts of alarms.”

“I find it interesting, Ms. Telach, that someone like you who regularly finds ways around security systems does not appreciate that someone else might as well.”

“I did plan on having someone there,” she said defensively. “Should I alert the French interior ministry?”

“The French will merely confuse things. Where is Mr. Karr? ”

“He’s wrapping up in Germany.”

“Have him proceed to the airport.”

Rubens turned to go.

“Mr. Rubens, wait,” said Telach quickly. “We think there may be some sort of plot involving the Taksim area of Istanbul. Asad’s bodyguard mentioned it just outside the airport. We think they’re going to strike around noon.”

CHAPTER 66

KARR’S TAKE ON the German mission could be summed up in one word: bust.

They’d been consistently one step behind the terrorists, hampered by German laws restricting investigations. Al-Qaeda had succeeded in disrupting operations at Europe’s largest refinery, which sent a chill through the commodities market, raising the price of oil twenty dollars a barrel.

The German point of view was considerably more upbeat. The terrorists had detonated their bombs inexpertly, causing far less damage than they intended; the plant kept its vital fuel operations going, and the damage done could be repaired within a few weeks. Meanwhile, a previously unknown al-Qaeda cell had been rolled up. The chemist had been arrested at the bar with the key to the tackle shop gate still in his pocket; he’d gotten it from a girlfriend who’d worked there some weeks before, probably at his urging. The chemist had not manufactured the bomb material—it was a plastic explosive traced to pilfered Czech military stores—but he had raw materials needed to create other explosives, a serious crime under German law. The authorities were confident he would implicate other members of the network in exchange for “consideration” at sentencing.

Six terrorists who had taken part in the operation had died, either by killing themselves or failing to surrender when ordered to. Only two of the men had been identified so far.

Marid Dabir was missing. Fingerprints and hairs matching those in the house the al-Qaeda organizer had rented were found in an abandoned car near the plant. German intelligence was convinced that he had died in the operation and was planning DNA tests to confirm this.

“Except that it’s extremely out of character for an important al-Qaeda lieutenant to kill himself,” Karr told Hess. “They get other suckers to do the dirty work for them. I’d be searching under every rock and in every sewer for him if I were you.”

Hess answered by asking if she could get him a ride to the airport.

HIS MISSION IN Germany over, Karr was due a good hunk of R&R time, and he knew just where and how to spend it—in Paris with his girlfriend, who was going to school there. But the Art Room had other plans.

“Tommy, we need you in Paris,” Marie Telach told him when he checked in from the Munich airport. “We’re looking for a flight now.”

“What a coincidence,” he said. “That’s why I’m calling.”

“Asad is going to de Gaulle Airport. We need you to trail him from there.”

“In Paris. Cool.”

“No, probably not. He has a connecting flight to the U.S. We’re going to get you a seat. In fact, we’ll get you a seat on every plane coming out of that airport, just to be sure.”

Anyone else would have groused. Karr, being Karr, laughed, then asked if he had time for lunch before making the flight to France.

“Better eat on the plane,” Telach told him.

CHAPTER 67

“WE ADMIRE AMERICANS here in Turkey, truly admire them,” Istanbul’s deputy police chief told Charlie Dean when he showed up to brief the police on the information the Art Room had gleaned from its bug in Asad’s skull. “I myself have been to New York and San Francisco several times. And Washington, D.C.”

Dean glanced at the head of the Terrorism Section, who was nodding briskly. It was obvious that neither man really believed him.

“My government wouldn’t have sent me to talk to you if they didn’t think it was a credible threat,” Dean said. “I realize that the information is sketchy, but it’s derived from a conversation between two al-Qaeda members. Something is going to happen in Istanbul, probably at noon, probably at Taksim Square or nearby.”

“And you can’t identify the sources?”

“We only have a photo of the person we believe involved. He’s a Syrian. He uses the name Abd Katib Muhammad. He may be working with one or two other people whom he knows.”

Desk Three had forwarded video captures of Katib, along with other information about him and a transcript of the conversation regarding the attack. While the information had been sent through normal high-level channels, Rubens had ordered Dean to talk to the “people on the frontline” to make sure it arrived in time to do some good.

“How do you even know this man is in Turkey?” asked the deputy chief.

“We believe he is,” said Dean, treading carefully because he couldn’t acknowledge the Red Lion operation.

“We have been very aggressive against extremists here,” said the terror chief. “Even before your 9/11. I myself took part in the raids at Beykoz, striking the heart of the Hezbollah conspiracy.”

“I’m sure you do a very good job,” said Dean. “That’s why I know you’ll take this seriously.”

“We are always watching Taksim Square,” said the deputy police chief. His English had a vaguely American accent. “There are many businesses nearby, and tourists on Istikal Caddesi. A car or truck bomb—it will not get close, I assure you.”

“That’s a good start.”

“We will increase the police presence and take precautions,” added the deputy chief, rising to dismiss him. “We appreciate your personal attention. Perhaps tonight you will be my guest for dinner?”

“I’d like that,” said Dean. “But I’m supposed to head back.”

“You came just to tell us this?”

“It’s why I’m here,” hedged Dean.

The terrorism supervisor gave him a wry smile, indicating that he suspected there was considerably more to the story but wouldn’t press as a matter of professional courtesy.

“I don’t think they believe me,” Dean told Marie Telach a few minutes later. He’d gotten into a taxi and was pretending to use a cell phone.

“They do believe you, Charlie. The Interior Ministry has issued an alert,” she told him. “They’re sending more police over to the area and a bomb detection unit from the airport. Your job there is done; we’ve done all we can. Your plane’s waiting—please proceed.”