Jihad (27 page)

“The operation is proceeding, but it is at a difficult stage,” said Rubens. “We still do not know what the American target is.”

“An attack on the Alaskan pipeline would be on par with an attack against the Saudi oil fields,” said Defense Secretary Blanders. “It’ll be on that sort of scale.”

Rubens listened as other possible targets were named: natural gas pipelines, large oil fields in Texas and the Gulf of Mexico. But the target did not have to be bigger than the Saudi oil fields to have a large impact on the U.S. Striking even a small American facility would send tremors through the commodities market. Hurricane Katrina had proven how sensitive the system was to disruption, and while that disaster had by now been accommodated, the market was still shaky. The price of oil had jumped twenty dollars a barrel following the attack in Germany. A successful strike in the U.S. might be triple that, at least in the short term. The successive attacks, fully successful or not, would make it seem as if al-Qaeda was gaining momentum in its war on the West. Within weeks it would cost over two hundred dollars to fill an economy car with gas.

“Rather than guessing or waiting for Red Lion to tell us what he has in mind,” said Bing, “we should arrest him now and find out what the target is.”

“I doubt we could break him in time,” said Rubens. “I doubt we can break him at all.”

“Maybe arresting him will stop the operation altogether,” she said.

“Arresting al-Qaeda’s number three man last year didn’t stop the attack on our embassy in Pakistan. I doubt it would work now.”

“These points were discussed during the planning stage,” said Blanders. “I seriously doubt any interrogation will be as effective as the implanted bug. And if we want to put him on trial—”

“We can’t put him on trial,” said Bing. “If it comes out that we implanted a bug in him, we’re finished.”

Rubens didn’t particularly relish the idea of a trial; too much could go wrong, and inevitably some information about the operation would slip out. Still, he resented Bing’s implication that Desk Three was operating illegally, and her insistence on revisiting decisions that had been made before she was appointed.

He resented Bing, period.

“The legal issues were thoroughly researched beforehand,” said Rubens. “This is just another instance of electronic information gathering.”

“I’ve read the background legal papers, thank you, Mr. Rubens,” said Bing. “And in no case do they mention what would happen in a U.S. court. The idea was
always
to render Red Lion to Yemen for justice. Assuming he was alive.”

“We’ll have the lawyers work this bullshit out,” said the president angrily. “I want the bastard to pay for what he’s done, and I want him to do it here. I want a trial—I want to show the world exactly what kind of slime advocates killing innocent women and children. Bitty—have your people stay on him until they know exactly what the target is, then I want him in custody. The bug won’t be used to make the case. The attorney general assures me we’ll have plenty of evidence without it.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” said Rubens as Marcke rose and abruptly left the room.

CHAPTER 83

FRIDAY AFTERNOON PRAYERS were held in a storefront mosque, a humble, shabby building at the outer edge of Detroit. The brothers, about two dozen in all, were mostly young men whose fathers had immigrated; to a man they were struggling to find their way in their ancestors’ faith.

Asad, who had passed through a similar challenge himself, noted how carefully the imam answered their questions. The man was not the most eloquent—he rambled and at times lost the thread of his thoughts—but he had studied with the right teachers and lived in Afghanistan for a time, before the triumph of 9/11 had brought the struggle to the next phase. His message to the small congregation was a strong one, even if his sentences were not: the Followers of God must do all that they could to survive the Devil’s onslaught.

A call to arms, yet one that could not be faulted by the most severe police spy.

“This way, sheik,” Kenan told Asad as the others began filing out.

Asad followed him to a back room and then down a set of creaking steps to a dank basement populated with cobwebs. For a moment his faith deserted him. Asad worried that he had been betrayed, brought here to die. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow even as he followed Kenan into a pitch-black room.

The young man retrieved a small flashlight from his pocket. Its dim beacon fluttered across a floor of bare dirt, picking its way across cement blocks and an assortment of dilapidated pieces of wood.

I am walking through the outer precincts of hell, Asad thought. The devil will tempt me and test my courage, but I will not fail.

Kenan stopped before a large metal door. He held up his hand to Asad, gesturing that he should be silent. Then he knocked twice. The door swung open; light flooded into Asad’s eyes. When he blinked, a man with an M16 stood in front of him.

“Muhammad’s Lion is here to join us,” Kenan told the man with the gun, his hushed voice full of reverence.

The man stepped back.

The room looked like the inside of an expensive coffee-house in Egypt. It smelled of sweet tobacco, though none of the dozen occupants were smoking. As Asad entered, all of the men rose quickly, bowing their heads and even closing their eyes in respect. Asad had personally chosen only Kenan and Nathan Green; the others had been selected by the imam, with some additional vetting by another al-Qaeda operative.

“Sheik, we have waited night and day for your return!” thundered Nathan. A short and stocky man whose light-skinned face had the look of a jester, Nathan was given to overblown rhetoric and superlatives. But he was dependable, and as far as Asad could tell from their encounters, sincere though emotional.

They embraced.

“We are safe here,” said Nathan. “Let me show you.”

He gestured at one of the brothers nearby, who produced a small radiolike device and began waving it around the air. “For bugs,” added Nathan.

Asad, appreciating that his host was attempting to be discreet, smiled and held out his hands. “You must check me like you check everyone. There should be no margin for error.”

CHAPTER 84

“CHECKING HIM FOR bugs,” Karr told Dean. “Think they’ll find any?”

Dean ignored his partner’s laugh, studying the satellite locator map on the PDA. The meeting was being held two blocks away in the subbasement of a building across from the mosque Asad had gone into for services earlier.

The Art Room was feeding the intercepted conversations back to them; it played like a low, slightly off-tune radio station in the background.

“Ranting about oil again,” said Karr. “At least it’s in English.”

“Tell me if he explains why he murdered people.”

“You think he’s got a good explanation?”

“It’s not something to joke about, Tommy.”

“I’m not joking,” said Karr—but he laughed anyway, a habit he couldn’t avoid, Dean realized. “He’s a psycho. He doesn’t have an explanation. Not one that makes sense.”

“I guess,” said Dean. “The problem is he feels compelled to share his insanity with the rest of the world.”

CHAPTER 85

THE MESSAGE ON Rubens’ secure BlackBerry consisted of two words: “Call me.”

Not unusual in the least, except that it had come from Debra Collins at the CIA. Collins almost never used the secure instant messaging system to contact Rubens.

Rubens went to one of the consoles at the back of the Art Room with a secure phone. To his surprise, Collins picked up right away.

“That was quick.” she said.

“I gathered it was important.”

“Lahore Two says the network’s target is Houston. Al-Qaeda has purchased somewhere over a hundred tons of commercial-grade explosives and can use them in the operation.”

Lahore Two was a CIA source in Pakistan who had an en-viable track record predicting al-Qaeda moves. While his identity was a secret to Rubens, the pattern of his revelations made it obvious he was a triple agent in the Pakistan intelligence service—probably a Pak “turned” by al-Qaeda and then turned again by the CIA. Rubens did not concern himself with the details; the source’s true allegiance would be to himself in any event.

“Nothing more specific?” asked Rubens.

“He’s promised a diagram or a map. I’ll have a copy sent to you as soon we get it. Assuming he carries through,” added Collins, her voice making it clear that the source didn’t always deliver on such promises. “They’ve been planning this for some time. No target date. Oil or energy is somehow involved. I gather that meshes with what you’ve already heard from Red Lion. I’ll send you a copy of the officer’s report, if you’d like.”

“I would. Do you see a link?”

“Don’t you?”

Rubens saw many; that was the problem. Raw intelligence was a Rorschach test, subject to the preconceived notions of the tester as well as the viewer.

“We’re of course passing this along to the National Security Council. I thought you’d appreciate knowing before they did,” added Collins. In effect, she was telling him that she would have to pass the information on to Bing—and more importantly, that she didn’t want Rubens blindsided by that.

Collins an ally? It hardly seemed believable. But perhaps Bing was moving against her as well.

“Thank you,” said Rubens. “I appreciate it.”

CHAPTER 86

AS ASAD FINISHED his speech, he turned and looked at each of the men in the room, holding their gaze for a few seconds before turning to the next. Two blinked and looked to the ground when he made eye contact. He decided they couldn’t be trusted and would be removed from the operation. That left him four to choose from for the assignment.

Kenan had to go. Only he or Nathan could work on the bridge, and the charismatic Nathan would be more valuable recruiting more brothers and organizing cells; the man was clearly a leader. Kenan wasn’t, but he would be working under the guidance of another brother who was already in place.

So one from the other three. The short one seemed a good match, bulky where Kenan was thin. But no, there was something weak in his face.

None of them, then. He would send Kenan, and another brother from New Mexico, his next stop.

Yes, that was the way to proceed.

“A message will be sent if you are needed,” he said. “If you are not called today, you will be called tomorrow or the next day, or the next. May Allah guide your steps.”

The men nodded. Asad turned to Kenan, whose round blue eyes locked onto his. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, sheik.”

The youth remained fixed in place, still under the spell of Asad’s speech, possibly even awed by his presence. It struck Asad that such devotion in one so young was dangerous; it meant that his judgment was impaired by emotion. Such a person’s faith, seemingly rock solid, could be shaken by events. Better that one come to believe through a long, difficult process, wrestling with his faith so that his will was tempered and strong.

Finally Kenan snapped out of it.

“This way,” he said. “Come.”

They walked back into the dank basement. To Asad, the route seemed the same, but instead of the mosque they emerged on the first floor of an apartment building. He smelled something frying as they left the building. A sharp pang of hunger followed.

“Could we get something to eat before you take me to the airport?” he asked Kenan.

“Yes. Yes. I know a very good restaurant, owned by an Egyptian. A reliable man. He is not a brother,” added Kenan quickly. “But very religious. Four or five blocks away.”

“Let’s go.”

The day had begun dark and threatening, but the sun had gradually chased all of the clouds away. They turned the corner onto a wider avenue, filled with people. The facades were noticeably brighter, the area more prosperous than the one they had just walked from.

It had always been a mystery to Asad why the Lord had allowed the infidels to become so powerful and prosperous. Asad had been fortunate in his life to meet many devoted brothers, men of devotion and good will. What plan did Allah have for them? Where was the suffering to lead?

The thought occurred to him as he saw the shiny stone facade of a Christian church across the street, its bell tower rising high above the main building. It was a sharp contrast to the dilapidated mosque where he had just been. He was not jealous, and he did not curse or berate God as a sinner might. But he wondered why the Lord allowed the nonbelievers this moment of prosperity.

Perhaps to provide the proper challenge to people like Asad himself, the chosen ones who would establish the new order. The idea was heady and full of conceit, and yet it was only logical.

Asad began to smile. As he did, pain seized his chest, powerful pain that dashed him to the pavement and pinned him against the concrete.

Kenan stared down at him. Asad struggled to get up, but all he could do was ask, “Why?”

CHAPTER 87

DEAN SAW THE commotion a few seconds after the Art Room told him that Asad had collapsed.

“We have an ambulance on the way,” said Rockman. “There’s an emergency trauma center three blocks away.”

“Do you have somebody there?”

“Ambassador Jackson and Dr. Ramil are on their way. Tommy’s coming up behind you on foot.”

Dean stayed on the edge of the crowd, eying the young man kneeling next to Asad. While he’d seen the kid’s face in the video captures plenty of times by now, it was shocking to see how young he looked in person—seventeen or eighteen at most, as young as he’d been when he’d gone into the marines.

“All right, let me see if I can help,” yelled Tommy Karr, pushing through the crowd from the opposite direction. “Back up—let’s give the man some air.”

“You a doctor?” asked the young man with Asad.

“Paramedic.” Karr flashed a quick smile and dropped to his knee. The op wasn’t lying—he’d had to take advanced medical training to join Deep Black’s operations team. Tommy being Tommy, he’d gone beyond the basic requirements and was fully qualified as a paramedic.