Shadow Maker (23 page)

Washington, DC

I
n a small rental in Hillcrest Heights, south of the beltway, a young woman with big brown eyes and a sullen disposition was dragged out of bed by a phone call from her boss. Molly had only been off for a few hours, but Colonel Walker had reopened the chase.

The colonel declared this massive course reversal only minutes before, announcing his defiance of presidential orders from the top of his wrought-iron staircase with his most officious scowl in place. In attendance were two security guards and a SATCOM tech, the only three people on the command center floor at two o'clock in the morning. There would have been four, but the third security guard had gone to get coffee.

By way of justification, Walker cited self-defense. A longstanding American tradition held that military units always had the right to defend themselves when attacked, and one of Walker's people was just struck down within these very walls. Unacceptable. Whether the commander-in-chief liked it or not, the Triple Seven was back in. The colonel had walked thinner lines to circumvent more well-founded orders in the past. Besides, he had never liked this president anyway.

Fueled by the twenty-ounce nonfat mocha that met her at the door, pale skin glowing in the light of her four monitors, Molly set about the task of finding Kattan's mosque.

Immediately, she encountered the first barrier. There were more than 2,200 mosques, worship centers, Islamic institutes, and prayer rooms in the British Isles. The task of narrowing the field looked insurmountable.

“Confine your search to greater London,” said Nick. Both operatives still stood at the desk with Rami's book, watching a transmission of Molly's screen on their phones.

The analyst followed Nick's command and her map zoomed in from all of Great Britain to London alone. Red dots appeared all over the city. “Three hundred fifty-four remaining, Nick. What else?”

“The Hashashin are an Ismaili sect. Eliminate all potentials without Ismaili affiliations.”

Molly complied, and the red dots rapidly dropped away until only four remained. Suddenly the problem looked manageable.

She started digging. The largest of the four mosques—the Ismaili Center of London in Cromwell Gardens, dated back less than thirty years to 1985. The Ismaili Community Center in Croydon was founded in 1979, and the Institute of Ismaili Studies on Euston in 1977. The Ismaili Jamatkhana on Fleet Street—a stone's throw from the ancient Templar stronghold at Temple Church—dated back only a few years to 1990.

Drake frowned at his screen. “None of these are old enough. They're nothing like the thirteenth-century catacombs we saw in Ankara.”

“Great Britain wasn't always the bastion of religious freedom it is today,” said Nick, glancing up at his teammate. “We won't see any religious records for a mosque dating back more than a century, but it doesn't mean they weren't there. Molly, focus on the history of the structures themselves.”

Their shared feed flickered through Molly's data searches. “The buildings at Cromwell Gardens and Croydon both were built on empty lots,” said the analyst. “Prior to that, one lot was a park and the other was a square.”

That left Euston and Fleet streets, and both appeared to have changed hands several times over the centuries. Prior to the great fire in the 1600s, the address on Fleet Street belonged to a shipping company, dealing exclusively in goods from the Ottoman Empire.

“Bingo,” said Drake.

“Circumstantial,” countered Nick. “If we keep digging, I'm sure we could find a Middle Eastern owner for the property on Euston at some time in its history.” He sighed. “One of these two buildings was a mosque long before mosques were all the rage in London. We have no way to tell which.”

“Oh! I do.” Molly sputtered the proclamation, like she was halfway through a sip of coffee when she made it.

Nick's screen flashed, and the subterranean-utility plans for both structures appeared side by side. On top of these, Molly laid in the city utilities—electric on top of gas on top of sewage—and then she rendered them all in 3D. Finally, she reversed the image, eliminating everything but the dead space to produce a ghost footprint.

“Oh, she's good,” said Nick, smiling at Drake. By seeking dead space, Molly had just produced a map of the earliest stone foundations for each structure.

The stonework beneath the Euston mosque was shaped like a simple unadorned wedge, slightly askew from the current building. The Jamatkhana on Fleet Street, however, still matched its original footprint, down to a bulbous protrusion on the southeast corner of the building.

“That's it. The
mihrab
is still there in the ancient footprint.” Nick tapped the picture of the protrusion, centering all their screens on that section of the structure. The mihrab was a niche that pointed the way to Mecca, a telltale sign of a mosque.

“If my footprint is correct,” said Molly, “this building on Fleet Street was serving as a mosque for several centuries before it was officially declared a Jamatkhana. I think we found London's Hashashin stronghold.”

—

They had no weapons, save for Nick's Hashashin knife. Rami's .357 and the Vector submachine gun were both at the bottom of the Thames, and Walker had no way to smuggle guns to them within any reasonable timeframe.

On the bright side, their clothes had dried, and Nick was happy to return the hand-me-downs to the church clothing bank. Drake opted to keep the blue and white Hawaiian shirt. He called it a one-in-a-million find and promised Nick that he would send Youssef a check that more than covered it.

The plan was to hot-wire a car, but neither wanted to set out without first saying good-bye to Rami and offering their thanks to Youssef. They walked the narrow hall until they came to the church's small sanctuary. Here, the flooring between the two stories had been removed to make space for a traditional arched ceiling and a ten-foot-tall stained-glass window. The bright light of the rising sun shone through a depiction of Christ suffering on the cross, casting multicolored beams down on the mournful trio at the altar below.

Rami and a frail woman of the same age knelt on stools facing each other, heads bowed. Tears flowed freely down from eyes closed in prayer. Youssef stood over them, a hand on each of their shoulders, his eyes lifted to heaven and his mouth moving in quiet supplication. After a few moments, the priest lowered his head and whispered some unheard encouragement. Then he stood and raised them to their feet.

The woman left the altar first. Nick knew who she was—the mother of the girl he had left in a pool of blood in Rami's hall, the girl whose body he had shunted aside with Rami's door out of cold tactical necessity. He suddenly had the urge to fall at the mother's feet, to beg her forgiveness for letting her daughter pay the price for the father he had killed, but his knees wouldn't bend.

She stopped when she reached him and looked up, and in her swollen eyes, he saw the forgiveness he had not found the strength to ask for. She clasped his hands, patting them softly, and offered a brokenhearted smile. She did the same for Drake. Then she walked deliberately, step by step, into the hall.

Rami waited until she had gone and then turned to the two operatives. “You found it?” he asked, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. “The stronghold you were looking for?”

Nick nodded. “The Jamatkhana on Fleet Street. It's very close to Paternoster Square, an ideal staging point.”

“Then I'm coming with you.”

“Out of the question.”

“You've already done enough,” added Drake.

The professor pursed his lips. “I see. I suppose that means you plan to sit outside the mosque and wait for Kattan to appear, because you must realize that two big white men will not get past the front door.”

“And you can?”

Rami nodded.

Drake cocked his head. “This doesn't have anything to do with a plot to avenge the girl, does it?”

“That is in the past now,” the professor assured him, slowly shaking his head.

Nick glanced down. His skin still remembered the soft press of that frail woman's hands, hands that would never hold her daughter again. He looked back up at Rami. “Maybe for you.”

Israel

The Hebrew University of Jerusalem

T
he applause wasn't exactly thunderous, but at least they were still awake.

As the lights came up, Dr. Kurt Baron smiled and gave a modest nod to the clapping students, scattered among the rising rows of seats like scrub dotting a rocky mountainside.

Avi Bendayan applauded, too, as he strode out onto the stage. “One moment,” he called, beckoning to the students who were heading for the doors. “One moment, please. As this is the last installment of Dr. Baron's series, we must take a few extra minutes to bid him farewell.”

The Israeli professor produced a plaque from under his arm and presented it to Kurt—the usual fare, a shining blue aluminum plate set on a piece of cherrywood, laser-etched with the school emblem and a word of thanks. There was also a scripture from the Talmud—Bemidbar 6:24–26. The two shook hands amid a final smattering of applause.

“Any chance of getting some brunch together?” asked Kurt, shutting down his laptop as the students filed out.

Avi sat down on a stool next to the lectern. “That would be nice, wouldn't it? But I'm afraid I have a class next hour, and I'm booked solid for the rest of the day. What about dinner?”

“Can't. My daughter-in-law got us reservations for a dinner theater for our final night in Jerusalem. Comedy with a Hasidic Jew or something.”

“Ah, yes,” said Avi. “You brought young Nick's wife along. How is she working out?”

Kurt slid his laptop into his leather portfolio and smiled. “This is the most time we've spent together since the two of them were married. She's grown strong, Avi. Much stronger than I would have guessed.”

“As do they all once they have weathered a few of life's storms.” Avi lightly slapped his knees and stood. “Well. This is it, my old friend. You are here, and then you are gone. You'd think we would have remembered to schedule a dinner together.”

Kurt followed Avi down the stairs from the stage. “We're old men now. We're lucky if we remember our keys when we leave the house.” He stopped at the base of the steps. “Speaking of forgetting. I never thanked you for bringing me out here.”

“You're most welcome.” Avi patted him on the shoulder. “I must apologize for taking so long to extend the invitation. It was long overdue. Had it not been for the hint in your last letter, I might never have realized my oversight.”

Confusion clouded the older Baron's face. “My hint?” He and Avi maintained a tradition of writing pen-and-paper letters to each other every few months. But Kurt would never dream of dropping a hint that he wanted to come speak at the university. His sense of propriety forbade it.

His hesitation caused the smile to slowly fade from Avi's face.

Then again, Kurt decided, maybe his subconscious desires had overcome his sense of propriety. “Of course,” he said, playing down his confusion. “My hint. Well, we absentminded professors need to help each other along sometimes.” He winked at his old friend. “What was it the old rabbi said would be the first sign of old age?”

Avi hesitated a moment and then grinned and winked back. “I don't remember.”

They laughed as they climbed the carpeted steps between the rows of seats. At the top, they stepped through double doors into a sunlit hallway. “You know,” said Avi. “Your flight is not until the afternoon. How about an early breakfast in the courtyard at the American Colony, just like when we were students? The sunrise, a little scripture. For once we could both forget that we're old men, rather than forgetting our keys. Say, six thirty?”

Kurt smiled. “Six thirty it is.”

—

Out on the university plaza, a young man in black jeans and a faded black T-shirt left the shade of a bushy olive tree and fell in step behind the American professor. The kid placed one earbud of his iPhone headset in his right ear and bobbed his head, moving his lips as if singing along to the music. He spoke so softly that none of the students passing him could hear. Even if they had, they could not have understood the unique conglomeration of Turkish and Farsi that he spoke.

“Position Two, we are on our way. Target is ten meters ahead of me, west side.”

“Position Two copies. Leaving now,” replied a voice in his earbud.

The American entered a narrow walkway, shielded from the desert sun by more olive trees and thin towering cypress. Ahead of him, another young man came into view, strolling in the opposite direction. This one, bearded and wearing a yarmulke, had his head buried in a thick black book. He seemed so absorbed in his studies that he did not notice his path drifting toward the oncoming professor.

The two collided, not hard enough to knock the American off the walkway and into the trees, but enough to give him a good jolt and knock the student's book from his hands. The kid apologized in Hebrew as he scooped up the book, keeping his eyes low and patting the professor's arm. The professor assured him he was all right, also in Hebrew, though his pupils drifted slightly up and right as he searched for the proper words. The student patted his arm once more and then continued on his way.

The professor paused and smiled, watching the young man go. As he did, the kid in the black jeans passed in front of him and kept walking along his original path, still bobbing his head to the imaginary music. He continued in this manner down a sidewalk until he reached a beat-up green Mazda RX-7. The moment he plopped into the driver's seat, his cell phone rang.

“Is it done?”

“Yes, Emissary. We planted the device in his portfolio, the one that never leaves his side.”

“Excellent. His son will try to call him soon, but from this moment on, Dr. Baron will only receive and transmit the communications that we allow.”

“Emissary,” said the young man, his tone cautious, “the battery will not last much longer than twenty-four hours.”

“Do not worry, young one. I have seen Armageddon, and it will come much sooner than that.”