Jihad (26 page)

If it became necessary to grab Asad, Dean and Karr would be the tip of the spear in the snatch plan, backed by several dozen federal agents shadowing Asad in helicopters and vans. In the meantime, their main job was to stay awake.

Which wasn’t difficult in their less than comfortable Ford Focus, especially with someone like Tommy Karr at the wheel, who managed to find every pothole in the pavement. By nine A.M., they were on the New York State Thruway, heading westward toward Rochester a half mile behind Asad’s light blue Buick Regal. The posted speed limit was 65 miles per hour. Most vehicles did about 80. Asad’s driver was going a steady 56.

“He’s gonna get pulled over for obstructing traffic,” Karr complained. “Ten bucks.”

The Regal pulled off at a rest area just beyond Batavia. Dean and Karr followed, taking a spot near the very end of the lot. Both Asad and his driver got out.

“I hope he’s changing cars,” said Karr. “Or at least drivers. Want to get something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Dean told him.

“Hey, suit yourself,” said Karr.

Karr trotted in the direction of the snack building. Dean got out and stretched his legs, walking toward the grass beyond the lot. This part of New York was farmland; ignore the cars and squint into the distance, and it looked much as it had nearly two hundred years before, after pioneers had cut back the trees to plant corn and let their cows graze.

Dean turned around slowly, pretending to be absorbed in the view, though he was really trying to spot a substitute car. There were about thirty other vehicles here, and more on the other side of the building where the gas pumps were. Any one of them could be waiting for Asad. Any one of them could be filled with explosives, ready to be detonated at Asad’s whim.

He folded his arms, waiting.

“Charlie, Asad is coming out of the building now,” said Rockman. “All right, we have a good view of the driver. Same guy.”

Dean walked slowly back to the car. He was surprised to find Karr already inside, a McDonald’s super-size box of french fries in his hand. The small Focus smelled like the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant. “Big Mac?”

“No thanks.”

“He’s moving,” said Rockman. “Sounds like they’re going to Detroit. The driver mentioned the interchange there.”

“You ID the driver yet?” Dean asked.

“Negative. The closest match is a Jewish guy in Hemp-stead; funny how computers work, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He’d have to remember Rockman’s remark ; the runner generally put a nearly blind trust in the high-tech gadgets he controlled from his bunker.

“They’re on the highway. You guys should get going, right?”

“We’re on it, Rockman,” said Karr, chugging the french fries and then backing out of the parking space. “Detroit or bust.”

CHAPTER 79

“YOU DIDN’T EXPECT Saudi intelligence to apologize, did you?” Pinchon plopped down in the sofa of the borrowed embassy house and threw his head back on the cushion. “Being Arab means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Lia pursed her lips. She didn’t want the Saudis to apologize ; she wanted them to turn back the clock and not have tried the raid in the first place.

“I don’t blame them,” continued Pinchon. “They figured their oil fields were threatened and they dealt with it.”

“Oh, yeah, like they had enough information to go on.” Lia stalked back and forth across the empty living room. She’d turned her communication system off so the Art Room wouldn’t hear her venting. An embassy driver was due to pick her up and take her to the airport at any minute.

The house they’d been watching had been leveled by the explosion, which had undoubtedly been rigged beforehand to prevent capture. Besides the al-Qaeda operatives, three women and two servants who’d been inside at the time, as well as two Saudi policemen, had been killed; another cop had been seriously wounded. The house was a charred mess of rubble and ash.

The Saudi intelligence officer in charge of the raid claimed that one of the suspects had sent a message to a worker at the state oil agency implying that there was a plan to detonate the doomsday device protecting Saudi oil fields from foreign attack. The device, a network of explosives rigged across the wellheads and pipeline systems, would have been a major terrorist prize.

The NSA had also intercepted the message. It was far from clear that the doomsday safeguard had been the target. If it was, there must be at least a dozen more al-Qaeda operatives in place to carry it out. It seemed unlikely now that they would be caught.

“The Saudis blew it,” said Lia. “They should have known the house would be rigged to explode. They went in there without even talking to us. Your boss—”

“My boss?”

“The station chief was supposed to get them to cooperate, not play cowboys. We could have gone in there ourselves.”

“Then we would have been the ones blown up,” said Pinchon. “And I don’t work for Riyadh, thank you very much.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re just mad because they didn’t ask us. Come on, Lia, what’d you expect them to do? Wait around until it’s too late to act? Besides, the world’s better off—two pests have been exterminated. Good riddance.”

Pinchon got up from the couch. “You’re pretty when you’re pissed off, you know that? But then again, you’re always pissed off.”

He put his hands on her hips. Lia tensed but didn’t push him away.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“No.”

He leaned to kiss her. She moved away.

“Hey, hey, I’m not going to bite,” he told her.

“What happened to you, Terry?”

“Come on, Lia. Obviously I can’t talk about it, right?”

“That’s bull.”

He smirked and held up his hands.

“I don’t mean just on the mission,” said Lia. “You changed.”

“Changed?”

“You couldn’t have let me know somehow that you were alive.”

Pinchon shrugged. That was all the explanation she was ever going to get. But it said it all, didn’t it?

No, the killer was that she had felt something for him, and that even now her heart was pounding—if he stopped smirking, if he came clean, if he said he loved her, what would she do?

Pinchon reached for her, but she backed away.

“This isn’t the place,” she told him.

“Where, then?”

“Nowhere.” Lia turned on her com system. “Where the hell’s that car to the airport?”

CHAPTER 80

“I THINK DR. RAMIL could certainly use some rest,” Kevin Montblanc told Rubens after he returned from the White House. “On the other hand, I think he feels embarrassed by what happened and wants to make amends. He asked about his patient—he still calls him his patient.”

“Was the incident in Istanbul an anomaly, or can he no longer take the pressure?” Rubens asked Montblanc.

“I don’t know. I’d recommend giving him a few weeks off. When he comes back, I could reinterview, observe him for a while. We might even send him on a training exercise to see how he holds up.”

The problem was, Rubens needed him right now. The doctor who had been standing by with the team in Detroit had come down with the flu and had a 104° fever. The Art Room had two military doctors available as backups, but Rubens much preferred using one of his own people for security reasons.

Still, if Ramil wasn’t up to it, there was nothing he could do.

“What if I needed to use him right away?” said Rubens.

“Well, in that case I’d keep an eye on him. If you really needed him.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs in the squad room. I said you wanted to talk to him.”

“Very good.”

RAMlL SIPPED THE iced tea, letting the cold liquid fill his mouth before swallowing. The squad room—the ops’ nickname for the large lounge where Desk Three missions were debriefed—had the air of an English country club, with thick leather furniture and a variety of amusements. It was also quiet, off-limits except to Deep Black ops and the few people who worked directly with them. Ramil felt quite comfortable here, calm and alone. Safe.

What would a mental breakdown feel like? Something similar to what he had experienced in Istanbul, he thought, but it would last much longer. His was only temporary, a burp—he’d been tired.

“Doctor, I’m glad to see you made it back,” said William Rubens, striding into the room. He pulled a leather club chair over and sat on the edge, pitched forward like a dentist on a stool about to examine his teeth. “How are you feeling?”

“More relaxed. I think I was overstressed by the heat and the jet lag.”

“It was considerable stress.” Rubens nodded. “Perhaps you’d like a long vacation.”

“No.” Ramil felt his heart begin to race. “I’m fine. Where do you need me to be?”

“I don’t want to push you beyond your means.”

Ramil felt angry, as if Rubens had called him a coward.

“I’m quite capable,” he said. “It was a temporary glitch. You know the brain is a sensitive organ. Too much stimulation—too much adrenaline, a change in the blood flow—we react. We have to react. I’m over it.”

Rubens stared at him.

“I’ve been through much worse situations,” Ramil told him, striving to make his voice as conversational as possible. “I can’t tell you how many times I had to operate while we were being shelled.”

Actually, he could—fifteen in total, though only two had been truly scary.

“Morris is sick, I heard,” added Ramil. “So I should be there, in the background, in case anything goes wrong. I’m familiar with the patient. He has a heart condition. We don’t want to lose him.”

Rubens frowned, ever so slightly, but Ramil had seen that frown before; it meant he agreed, though with reservations. Desk Three did not have unlimited resources; it carried as many doctors as Art Room supervisors, and the latter were considerably more important to the success of any given mission. If Ramil didn’t go, Rubens would have to bring in a doctor who, even if he was on active military service—not likely in the States—would not have passed the rigorous security and background checks the NSA routinely required of even contract employees. Worse, Rubens would have no direct control over the doctor, since he would answer to a military commander. And Rubens was nothing if not a control freak.

“Ms. Telach will make the arrangements,” said Rubens finally. “If possible, I’d like you to leave within the hour.”

“Where am I going?”

“Detroit. Asad bin Taysr arrived there an hour ago.”

CHAPTER 81

“THE BROTHER SAYS the imam requested a special meeting after Friday prayers.”

Marid Dabir nodded, carefully controlling the expression on his face. While he trusted his informant, prudence required that he not give any sign of emotion. And besides, the fact that there was a special meeting did not necessarily mean Asad was in Detroit. Dabir would have to continue methodically, discovering where the traitor was and then delivering justice.

Dabir had arrived in the city from Ontario the night before, riding the bus through the tunnel between the two cities. The passport formalities were trivial. His prematurely gray hair made him appear too old to be a threat; the al-Qaeda organizer did not fit the profile of a terrorist.

Nor did Asad.

So how would Dabir find the so-called Red Lion of Mohammed, Islam’s most perfidious traitor?

Dabir could not confront the imam, who owed his allegiance to Asad and would surely believe him rather than a man known to have fallen from favor before being banished to Germany. Nor could he send one of his people to the mosque; with the exception of his informer, they were unknown to the imam and would not be trusted with important information.

He would have the mosque watched from a distance. Sooner or later, Asad would show himself.

And if he didn’t?

Then it would mean that he wasn’t here. At that point he would formulate a new plan.

“Brother, have I done well?” asked his informant, snapping Dabir from his contemplative daze.

“Extremely,” Dabir told him. “Extremely.”

CHAPTER 82

THE AIR CONDITIONING in the secure conference room in the White House basement was on the fritz, and Rubens estimated that the temperature was no higher than sixty-five degrees. CIA Director Louis Zackart and Debra Collins huddled around a carafe of coffee for warmth. Even Secretary of Defense Art Blanders, who made a habit of attending even the most formal cabinet meeting in shirt sleeves, had left his suit jacket on.

Bing entered the room with the president. Rubens reminded himself not to read anything into that; the national security advisor might very well have been stalking him in the hall.

“Gentlemen, ladies, good morning,” said Marcke, his tone as brisk as the air in the room, “thank you for getting up early for me. Let’s get going. Where are we, Billy?”

“The Saudi situation is stable,” said Rubens.

He ran over the highlights quickly, indicating that the Saudis had moved after tentatively linking the two al-Qaeda contacts to the oil fields; more arrests were expected and the entire military was on alert. He then moved on to Asad—identified even here only as Red Lion—noting that he had spent the night in Detroit.