Kill Alex Cross

Chapter 28

“At five hundred and fifty-five feet, the Washington monument towers majestically over the National Mall. Completed in December of 1884, it was formally dedicated on...”

Hala tried to tune out the tremendously irritating, prerecorded propaganda and other drivel as their tour bus rolled down Independence Avenue. It sounded like the tires of the bus were sticking to the littered street. Everything seemed dirty. What a disgusting city! And yet everywhere you looked, there was another hulking monument to American arrogance and power.

It was ironic, really. She hadn’t learned to truly hate this country until she’d come here for her education. Four years at Penn, and what had it taught her? Only that the United States was just about the biggest failed experiment in human history.

“As we cross the bridge toward Arlington, you can look back and see the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial...”

She looked down instead at the Tourmobile brochure on her lap. It had been slipped under their hotel room door with a few instructions. When the tour bus reached Arlington National Cemetery, they were to get off. And guess what? Here they were.

Tariq stood in the aisle, shifting from foot to foot. He looked odd, but oddly handsome this morning, with a Baltimore Ravens cap shading his freshly clean-shaven face. Hala’s own hair was now in a blunt cut around the nape of her neck and dyed as close to auburn as she’d been able to get it. She was still pretty, though, and she did like that about herself. Absolutely no ball cap for her.

“Please watch your step, and enjoy your visit to Arlington National Cemetery!”

They milled off the bus with the other tourists, onto a plaza in front of the white stucco and limestone Visitors Center. Hala looked around, unsure about what to expect next. Almost right away, a familiar face emerged from out of the crowd. It was the hippie girl from the museum. She was carrying the same brightly colored woven bag. Probably so that Hala would recognize her right away.

There was no dance this time, no slow approach. As soon as they’d seen each other, the girl came over and stood next to them, as if they were all waiting for the same bus.

“Hey, could I borrow your map for a sec?” she asked.

“Of course. No bother.”

This girl was good, actually. Very natural and fearless. Hala watched closely and still barely saw the disk as it came out of her bag.

What would it be this time? A high-rise in the heart of Washington? A government building? Another utility? More important eliminations? Kidnapping?

“Thanksalot,” said the girl.

“No problem. Have a nice day.”

The whole exchange was as quick as it was seamless. If anything, there was just the hint of a knowing smile on the girl’s face before she turned away. The mission was gaining momentum. The excitement was palpable between them, though only for a moment of shared expectations.

“Come on,” Hala said. Another red, white, and blue Tourmobile was pulling into the plaza. She took Tariq’s hand and started walking in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” he said. “The tour buses are over there.”

“To find a cab. If I have to get back on that bus for one more minute, I’m going to kill someone right here.”

Chapter 29

My car was quickly becoming my office these days, and there was no way around it. I was shuttling between some ongoing casework I wasn’t ready to drop and the Coyle interviews that the Bureau kept sending my way in a steady trickle. Most days, I worked with Sampson, but now and then I was on my own. The Dragon Slayer.

I kept myself updated on the fly, usually with a phone pressed against my ear — since my Bluetooth was on the fritz and who had time to go to Best Buy these days?

“So what’s the lab saying? They must have something?” I asked. I had my old buddy Jerry Winthrop on the line. He’d been my inside source on the water scare. The rest I got like everybody else — from CNN and the Internet. So far two people had died and the city was close to a panic state. Sampson was off checking other water sources today.

“Looks like the second district line was tainted with high-grade potassium cyanide,” he said.

“Isn’t that—”

“Yeah, it is. Same thing that killed the two suicides out at Dulles. What a coincidence.”

“And no one’s taken responsibility?” I asked.

“Beats the shizz out of me,” Jerry said. “FBI’s not exactly knocking down our door with useful information.”

That was typical. The “open” line of communication between MPD and the Bureau tended to be a one-way street. Jerry told me the official story to the press was that we’d had a chemical overspill and that the problem had been contained. Of course, that depended on what we meant by “problem.”

After I got off the phone, I stopped at a 7-Eleven for some much-needed caffeine. Inside, there was a hastily scrawled no coffee sign taped to one of the pots. I grabbed a Coke instead — and couldn’t help noticing the empty coolers where all the bottled water had sold out.

When I went to pay, the cashier, who had multiple piercings, chinned down at the badge on my belt. “So what’s going on out there, man? How screwed are we?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t close the store just yet,” I said with what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Problem’s been contained.”

The whole idea was to keep the peace — maximum public confidence, minimum panic. But I think that clerk’s real question was the same one we all had. What next?

About ninety seconds later, I found out.

Chapter 30

I was just pulling away from the curb when I picked up a call from Sampson. “Psych ward, hold please?” I answered with a bad joke.

“Alex, you heard the latest?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just talking to Jerry Winthrop.”

“He say anything about when they’re going to start the autopsies?” John asked next.

The word autopsies stopped me cold. “What are you talking about? What autopsies?”

“Two more bodies found. At the Harmony Suites on Twenty-second. I’m on my way there now. Appear to be Saudis. What are you talking about?”

“Not that. Keep going. Who was found, exactly?”

“It’s another couple. Middle Eastern. Two empty glasses on the floor. Nobody’s saying suicide yet, but I’ll bet money there’s going to be cyanide in the coroner’s report.”

I pulled back up against the curb. I needed to try and absorb everything for a half second. Coincidences like these are usually a leg up in an investigation, but the more this thing folded in on itself, the scarier it got, the more bizarre and unpredictable. And definitely unprecedented.

“It’s getting too weird around here, Alex,” Sampson said. “I keep thinking what they always say about the next big attack, you know? Not if but when?”

“I know,” I said. “I know.” It was starting to feel a whole lot like when. “I’ll meet you at the bodies.”

Chapter 31

It was hot and humid for one thirty in the morning, too hot for a jacket, but Hala needed something to cover the Sig holstered under her arm. She pulled at the front of the coat, to let in some air, for what it was worth. What she really wanted was to shoot somebody — anybody. She hadn’t known she had this much anger against the Americans, but clearly she did. It wasn’t just the wars they had waged in the Middle East, or the puppet leaders they had supported. It was the insults she had received as a student here.

“Who builds a city on a swamp?” she said. “At least the desert cools down at night.”

“Do you think something’s wrong?” Tariq hadn’t really been listening to her. He was pacing the sidewalk while Hala tried to keep as still as possible.

“They’ll be here,” she said. “Don’t worry the details. You’re the one who always says The Family knows what they’re doing.”

“The instructions clearly said one o’clock.”

“They’ll be here. You’re like an old woman.”

It wasn’t the hour that was bothering him, she knew. It was the sarin gas. They’d never worked with it before, but pointing that out now wasn’t going to do anything to calm his nerves.

Fortunately, the light blue Toyota minivan pulled up to the curb just a few minutes later. The side door flashed open, and a tall, gangly woman motioned for them to get in. They climbed into the backseat beside her as the door closed again, and the van took off. The whole thing took about fifteen seconds.

The feeling inside the vehicle was immediately tense. Besides the woman, Hala, and Tariq, there were three other men on the team. Actually, one man and two boys, Hala realized, each one as tall and thin as the other, with the same sharp, angular features as the adults. Two parents and their children.

Interesting group. To do what, exactly?

They all sat face front, not speaking, until Tariq broke the silence.

“We were waiting quite a while back there,” he said.

“Good for you,” the mother answered. “Here. Put these on.”

She handed back two tactical headsets with transmitters small enough to fit invisibly in their pockets. “Channel twelve. Stay on that station throughout the action.”

“Where’s my case?” Tariq asked. He turned around on the seat to look for it.

“Leave it alone,” the mother said. “It’s fine where it is.”

“I need to check it,” he said.

“I’m not going to have you opening that in here. You can check it when we arrive. Don’t be so nervous.”

Tariq ignored the woman’s suggestion as well as her insulting manner. He pulled a reinforced aluminum alloy briefcase from the back and set it on his lap.

Her hand flew across the space between them in a way that showed some training. In a moment, her fingers were locked around Tariq’s throat, pressing him back into the seat.

But Hala was having none of it. Her Sig was out and against the self-appointed queen’s temple almost as quickly.

“Get your hand off of him,” she said.

“I told you to leave it alone,” the woman said, speaking to Tariq, not Hala.

“Everyone calm down!” The father shouted at them from the front, while the two boys looked on with wide eyes and closed mouths. Tariq stayed where he was, both hands still on the case’s spring clasps.

“Now,” Hala said evenly. “If he says he needs to check the case, he’s going to check it. We’re all here for the same reason. Isn’t that right, sister?”

She kept the Sig where it was, waiting for her answer. Finally, the mother bitch sat back, though not without a last, searing look at Hala.

“That’s much better,” Hala said. “Use that murder in your eyes for the benefit of The Family. Our enemies are outside the minivan, not in it.”

“Go to hell” was the answer she got.

It was a shame, Hala thought. Here was a woman she could respect on any other night. She was exactly the kind of soldier the movement needed. In any case, this argument meant nothing to the larger picture. It was time to focus, time to kill as many Americans as they could, time to send an unforgettable message.

Tariq worked slowly. He eased open the clasps on the case and gingerly lifted the lid. Nobody spoke as he began taking stock of the small metal canisters inside.

When the van bounced over a pothole on First Street, Hala saw the woman reach across for her younger son’s hand in the dark.

She’s just afraid for her children, thought Hala. She’s a good mother. Better than me.

Chapter 32

They came to a very sudden, jolting stop on a gravel utility road. Nerves on the part of the driver. To the right, a thick stand of hawthorn shielded them from traffic passing on New York Avenue.

To the left, Hala could see the rail yard through a chain-link fence. Dozens of dark-windowed subway cars slumped in rows on the tracks. Their deadly target for tonight.

Tariq kept charge of the aluminum alloy case. The mother, father, and younger boy each took a different piece of mismatched luggage from the back of the van, and then the older son drove off to circle the neighborhood.

Hala took up a position just to the west, on a pedestrian bridge that spanned the yard. She backtracked maybe thirty yards and climbed the winding metal stairs to the walkway above. Once she was up there, she found that the area was fully enclosed with more chain link. But the bridge still offered a perfect view.

From the center of the bridge, she checked once in each direction. “Clear,” she radioed softly.

It took a few minutes for the others to appear.

They looked like animated silhouettes as they moved out onto the tracks, laterally at first, and then up between the rows of train cars, where they disappeared. Sarin gas, Hala was thinking. This was impressive. It would resonate powerfully around the world.

Several minutes ticked by. Slowly, very slowly. There had been no word about how long it would take to install the material. Hala could actually hear them breathing as they worked, but conversation was held to a minimum.

She kept her eyes moving constantly. They swept the yard, over to Brentwood Road and T Street on the far side, then back again to the utility road nearer by, and New York Avenue beyond. It wasn’t difficult to stay alert. There was plenty of adrenaline for that.

So when a police cruiser appeared on the scene, Hala saw it right away. It eased down the utility road and came to a stop not far from their original drop-off location.

“Up near the bridge,” she said softly. “We may have a serious problem.”

Chapter 33

“Police at the south fence. One car so far,” Hala whispered. “Hold your positions. I’m watching them. I can take them out if I have to. I hope not to do that.”

The cruiser’s passenger door opened, and the shadow of a cop flowed out.

Hala leveled her Sig through the chain link, siting the man’s chest. He was as good as dead, if that was what she needed to do. Yet she felt nothing. As he stepped up to the fence, another surge of adrenaline ran through her. It felt as though her blood was running a race. She wanted to kill him.

The policeman stopped and looked around. As casual as a tourist. Then he leaned back slightly. When Hala saw the stream arcing away from his body, she almost laughed out loud.

“Stand by. He’s just urinating,” she said. “I’m watching the idiot relieve himself.”

As the cop finished up and turned to go, his partner called out something from the car. Whatever it was, the first officer stopped and turned back toward the rail yard. A flashlight came up in his hand.

He shone it through the fence and onto the tracks — where it caught a glimpse of a moving body. Hala saw it too — the younger boy. Just before he darted back out of sight. Imbecile! Amateur!

She didn’t hesitate, squeezing off three fast shots. The flashlight dropped first, then the cop himself. She was pleased with her shooting, the accuracy under duress. This was excellent practice.

“Everyone out of there,” Hala radioed. “Bring the van to the opposite side. Brentwood and T. Do it now!”

Another light, even brighter, came right up in her face!

She realized it was the search beam on the side of the cruiser. Hala fired into it, two more rounds. There was a popping sound — and the night went dark again.

For a brief moment, she couldn’t see anything, but she could hear the second cop. He was radioing for backup even as he ran toward the bridge and his fallen partner. His dead partner, Hala knew.

“Shots fired! Officer down! Request immediate assistance at the Brentwood rail yard! Repeat: officer down!”

That was followed by heavy footsteps pounding up the metal stairs.

Time to run. Time to get everybody out.

The rest of the team was scrambling and directing one another to the pickup point in breathy, frantic voices. Hala ignored all of it as she made for the far side of the bridge.

Then the cop’s voice came again, directly behind her. “Freeze!”

She didn’t.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal cage just over her shoulder. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. Unless —

Hala stopped short.

She turned and dropped in one fluid motion, firing blindly down the alley of the walkway. Everything else disappeared for two very long seconds. Then the second cop dropped to the ground.

Dead? Almost definitely. She never missed. That was why she had the gun, not Tariq. Then Hala was up and running again.

She hit the stairs on the far side at full speed and almost barreled over the railing. Even now, she felt proud of herself. She was good at this, very skillful.

“We have to wait!” Tariq’s voice sounded over the radio as he scanned the area for Hala.

Then the mother bitch’s answer. “You wait,” she said. “We’re leaving right now.”

As Hala hit the sidewalk, she saw the van pulling away from the curb, its side door still open. A taxi swerved to avoid being hit. The van didn’t slow down. It ran a fast left turn through a red light and was gone into the night.

Tariq was still there, looking around frantically. The poor man seemed lost.

“I’m here,” Hala said. “To your left, Tariq.” Come to mother.

He ran toward her and they met in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What should we do?” he said. “They drove away. They left us, Hala!”

The sound of police sirens was already closing in around the neighborhood. They had no money for a cab, or even the subway, once it started running. If the van was apprehended, it could even be unsafe to go back to their hotel room.

Still, there was one place. Hala wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did. The question was, Which way from here? She was completely turned around in an unfamiliar part of this large American city, this enemy outpost, their capital. It was impossible to know which way to run.

But staying put was no option. “This way,” she said, picking a direction. They’d figure it out. “Just run. Run as fast as you can, Tariq. Follow me.” I will take care of you, as I always do, my love.

Chapter 34

It’s not like my phone rings in the middle of the night all the time — but I’m sure it does more than most. “Alex Cross,” I answered. There was a click, then two short beeps. That meant a secure line of some kind. Whose line?

“Detective Cross, this is Betty Chow with the CIA Directorate of Intelligence. I’m very sorry for the hour, but I’m calling to ask you to come to a meeting out here at the counterterrorism center in Langley.”

That woke me right up. What had happened now? And what was the CIA suddenly doing in the mix? For that matter, what was I doing in it?

“Can you tell me what this is regarding?” I asked while wiping the sleep from my eyes. “That would help.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss any details, but you’ll be fully briefed at the center,” she said.

I looked at the clock. It was just after four a.m. “When’s the meeting?” I asked.

“We’re set to convene at five-thirty, Detective. Can I tell them you’ll be here?”

I didn’t even know who Betty Chow meant by “them.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

“And, Detective? I’m to stress that this is a classified matter and that you’re not to tell anyone where you’re going this morning, under penalty of federal law.”

“Of course,” I told her, and hung up.

I thought about calling Bree anyway. She was still on duty, working the graveyard shift these days, and might even have some idea about what had happened to initiate all this. But then I thought the situation through again. If I was getting secure calls from the CIA on classified matters, there was a good chance — a very good chance — they were already listening in on my line.

I got dressed quickly and left the house in the dark.

Figuratively and literally in the dark.

Chapter 35

The usually long drive to CIA headquarters in langley took no time at all without traffic.

What I got off the car radio was that two police officers had been killed sometime overnight at the Brentwood rail yard. Was that why I had been summoned to the CIA? Doubtful. I figured it must be something even worse. But what did they know that I didn’t? I didn’t like being on the wrong side of this mystery again.

Bree, after so many nights on duty, would be exhausted when she got home and would wonder where I was. I missed her like crazy. That’s a good thing, but sometimes it feels so bad.

An escort met me inside the main entrance to the agency’s complex. He took me up to one of the nicer conference rooms on the sixth floor, where most of the two dozen high-backed leather chairs were already taken.

I recognized only a few people around the table. Ned Mahoney was one of them.

He came right over and shook my hand. A little formal for Ned. “Alex. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I mean it. This’s been about the craziest week of my life.”

I hadn’t laid eyes on him since this roller-coaster ride had started. Part of me still wanted to be pissed at him, but what was the point? Ned was a friend.

“Any idea what we’re doing here?” I asked him in a quiet voice.

“I’m not sure. But listen,” he said. He turned me around so we were both facing a glass wall that looked out to guest parking and the rolling, deep green woods beyond. The sun was just coming up over the hills.

“I need to apologize for how this mess has gone down so far,” Ned said. He spoke quietly but still in that rapid-fire way of his. “It wasn’t my call, but I know that doesn’t mean anything when you’re at the shit end of the stick.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“I do worry about it. I think you’re a hell of a resource, Alex. And a friend, too. I don’t want to lose either one. We okay?”

“Just write me a nice check or something. Buy me a Philly cheesesteak and a beer.”

He smiled at that and I guessed we were already over the hump. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure they’d listen to me,” he said.

“About what?” I asked.

“About bringing you into the loop.”

Before I could respond, a voice behind us was calling the meeting to order.

“Good morning, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Evan Stroud, head of the Directorate here at the agency.”

Ned and I sat down at the far end of the table. I knew Stroud’s face, but only from the news. He’d made a blip in the media when he started this job, all of four weeks ago.

“If you’re here, you’ve already been cleared by the heads of your respective organizations,” he went on. “Beyond that, everything we cover is for the eyes and ears of this group only. You’ll find clearance credentials in the folders in front of you. You have to fill them out before you leave.”

Stroud made all the introductions himself. He impressed me by knowing everyone’s name and title without notes. It was a complete alphabet soup in that room — CIA, FBI, NSA, MPD. There were counterterrorism analysts, as well as reps from Secret Service and Homeland Security, and one exhausted-looking agent from the National Clandestine Service who had just arrived from Riyadh.

When he was done, Stroud sat down and nodded to the analyst on his right. “Let’s begin,” he said. “We have a hell of a lot of material to cover this morning.”

I raised my eyebrows at Mahoney. This was a big meeting. Ned made a little circling gesture with his finger, mouthed the words “in the loop,” and then pointed at me.

Yeah, I guess so.

Chapter 36

“At approximately three o’clock this morning, two DC metro police officers were shot and killed at the Brentwood rail yard in Northeast Washington,” the analyst started in. It wasn’t any easier to hear about the murders a second time. Both officers had families. I didn’t know them, but that didn’t matter. When another officer goes down, we all feel it.

“An indeterminate number of suspects were on-site, all of whom escaped. What we did find, however, was twenty pounds of Semtex explosives. And six canisters of aerosolized sarin. The sarin had already been deposited in the air-conditioning ducts of several Metro subway cars.”

My head was starting to buzz. That was a staggering amount of deadly material. A couple pounds of Semtex can take down a high-rise, and sarin gas is a nightmare at any dosage.

The professional decorum in the room began to break apart at that point. Several side conversations started up around the table, and the questions were flying all at once.

“Are we any closer to knowing who’s running this... this attack?” one of the NSA guys asked. He was bigger and louder than the rest of us.

“Actually, yes,” the analyst said. He looked across the table at his colleague from Riyadh. “You want to take that?”

The man from Riyadh’s name was Andrew Fatany. He was clearly running on fumes and needed a shave. His voice was disturbingly hoarse when he got up to speak.

“Here’s what I can tell you,” Fatany said. “We now have credible intelligence on the existence of a fledgling, independent terror organization based out of Saudi Arabia. Beyond that, we have several unconfirmed reports regarding the establishment of a multifunctional cell here in Washington, a very serious and deadly one, I’m afraid. They’re well financed and organized.”

It felt like half the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Nobody said a word now, just listened.

Fatany went on. “Our liaison with the Istikhbarat tells us they’re aware of the group but not of any criminal activity inside the Kingdom itself. That said, we’ve been moving as many operatives as possible out of the embassy in Riyadh and into the southern part of the country, where we believe Al Ayla is training its people before sending them abroad — meaning here, the United States. That includes Washington for sure, possibly New York and Los Angeles as well.”

“Al Ayla,” Stroud repeated for him.

“Right. Sorry.” He got a few grim, sympathetic smiles as he took a long swig of coffee. “Al Ayla is the purported name of this organization. It translates as ‘The Family.’”

“Which may or may not have something to do with the use of married couples at the operational level,” the first analyst said. “It could also just be a coincidence.”

“But I sincerely doubt it,” Fatany said, half to himself.

“Excuse me.” Ned raised his hand. “Not to get too far ahead of ourselves here, but do we know anything about Al Ayla’s larger objectives? Current targets, future targets, ideology, anything like that? Anything useful to us on the ground.”

Both analysts automatically looked to the head of the table.

“No,” Stroud answered for them. “Nothing at this time.” It was less than subtle code for the fact that we’d reached a wall in terms of what they were prepared to tell us. At least on the topic of Al Ayla, The Family.

“But we do have one other important piece of intel to throw into the mix. This could be useful,” Stroud added. “It’s about Ethan and Zoe Coyle.”

Chapter 37

One of the assistant directors from the Bureau, Peter Lindley, took over now.

“We’ve received a second package from Ethan and Zoe’s presumed kidnapper,” he said. “At a minimum, this is someone who has or has had access to the children since they were taken from the school grounds.”

Everything about this was news to me. Two packages? What packages? I could tell I wasn’t the only one playing catch-up at the table. Lots of frowns and head shaking around the room.

“The first came to us several days ago,” Lindley said.

He pulled a pair of eight-by-ten photos out of his briefcase and started them around the table. “The little black case you’ll see is known to belong to Zoe. And the note in the other photo was folded up inside.”

A respectful silence followed the pictures as they were passed around. When I saw what was in that note, I understood why.

“There is no ransom. There will be no demands. The price, Mr. President, is knowing that you will never see your children again.”

You can’t read something like that and not feel compassion for the victims — the kids and their parents. I have an unfortunate tendency to take these things personally, as if my own family had been harmed. That’s my strength, and my weakness.

“And yesterday, we received these,” Lindley said, passing around two more photos. “They’ve already been DNA-tested and matched to Ethan and Zoe, respectively.”

The new images were of a boy’s white oxford shirt and a pair of thick-soled red boots, the kind a girl like Zoe might wear to school.

“Any formal theories?” someone asked.

“Actually, I was going to ask Detective Cross for his take on all this,” Lindley said. Everyone turned to look at me, probably in time to catch the surprise on my face. “I know you’ve only been working around the edges so far,” Lindley said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot here.”

“It’s fine,” I said. At least I knew why I’d been brought in now. I’ve done as much profiling for the FBI as anyone in Washington. The pictures were all passed back my way, and I looked at them as a set.

“First thoughts?” I said. “The note’s unequivocal — no ransom, no demands, period. So then the next question, Why send the second package?”

“Maybe just to string us along?” one of the Bureau wonks contributed the obvious. “Flaunt an advantage. Hang it over our heads. Show off.”

“I think that’s probably true,” I said. “But there’s a personal element here that’s directed at the president. He’s the one named in the note. If someone wanted to make him suffer, the best way to do that would be to draw this search out for as long as possible.”

“Go back a second,” Stroud said. “When you say this is personal, are you suggesting it’s also an individual act? Is this one man’s vendetta against the president?”

I thought about it before I answered, but my first impulse didn’t change.

“If you want my best guess,” I said, “yes. That’s what this feels like to me. But for the sake of argument, terrorism can be very personal, too, even in the name of a larger cause.”

“Especially in the name of a larger cause,” Fatany said. “Most of these shits take what they’re doing very personally. They’re willing, even eager, to die — as we’ve already seen.”

Lindley started to move on, but I jumped back in when one other thing occurred to me.

“This is above my pay grade — but I’d also recommend keeping President Coyle out of the public eye, if that’s not already in the plan,” I said.

“Why is that?” Stroud asked, although I think he already knew the answer.

“If I’m right, it deprives the kidnapper, or kidnappers, of a primary motivation. Don’t let them see the president dealing with this. That’s probably exactly what they want. To humble the United States president in front of a world audience.”

One of the Secret Service reps cleared his throat. “The president and First Lady are in a secure location,” he said. “We’ll keep Detective Cross’s recommendation under advisement, but any decisions about that kind of thing—”

Just then, a familiar voice came into the room from an unseen speaker.

“Excuse me. I’d like to say something.”

It was coming from the wall, or the ceiling, or maybe even the table itself. I couldn’t tell. But there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

President Coyle was there with us, and apparently he was ready to make a statement.

Chapter 38

Two wide screens flicked on, one at either end of the room. Suddenly President Edward Coyle was there, sitting at a generic-looking desk, with a set of plain blue drapes drawn behind him.

For all I know, it was a set piece, a bit of theater meant to hide any clues about where he actually was at this time. Still, it gave me a chill. Probably did the same for everybody in the room.

“We have you, sir,” Stroud said. “Go ahead. We’re here and we’re listening.”

Coyle looked bone-tired, and his face was drawn. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I also got the impression he hadn’t been planning on doing this, speaking to our group right now.

“Let me state the obvious first,” he said. “I have two separate and distinct obligations here. One is to Ethan and Zoe, and the other is to this country.

“Right now, we don’t seem to know how enmeshed those obligations might be. But I do know that by all indications, and according to the best advice I can get, our capital city is under attack.”

The president was incredibly focused. I thought of the eye of a hurricane as I watched him. He was obviously a strong man and it was no fluke that he had risen to this position.

“I’m not saying that we’ve reached some critical point at which a decision has to be made between my children and our nation’s security—”

“No sir, not at all,” Stroud cut in.

The president immediately put up the flat of his hand to quash any discussion. “I need to make one point very clearly,” he went on. “With all due respect to the opinions in the room, if I have to show my face to lead the country through this crisis, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Sir—”

“That’s all for right now. Carry on,” he said. “Evan, I’ll expect my next briefing by ten o’clock. I should be back in the residence by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Stroud said.

There were a few more mumbled “thank you, sir”s around the table before the screens went blank again, and the president was gone. He’d said all he needed to say.

I looked down at my watch. It seemed impossible, but it was only a few minutes past six a.m. Bree would be getting off work about now. The kids would be waking up and starting to get ready for school after their day off. It sounded like President and Mrs. Coyle would be headed back to the White House. And two murdered policemen’s families were going to have to start piecing their lives back together this morning.

It was another day in Washington, DC, and none of us — the ones who were supposed to protect the city — had any idea what it would bring.

Chapter 39

Hala woke up first, as she almost always did. But something was different, she sensed. No, she knew something had changed. For the better?

It was the sound of the adhan. The sound of home, ringing out from somewhere nearby. She raised her head to see where she was.

Tariq was still asleep on the metal cot across from hers. Shelves of paper towels and toilet paper, the most pedestrian materials imaginable, lined the corner space above his bed. Where were they?

Her clothes were the same as the night before, except for a slight stiffness where they’d been sweated through and dried again.

How many miles had they run? It had seemed as if the night would never be over. But now they were here. Safe for the moment, in a new hiding place.

“Tariq?” She swung her legs out of bed. It was stuffy in the room, and the cool cement felt good underfoot. “Wake up. Tariq. Tariq.”

His eyes fluttered open just before he sat up fast. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened? Are the police here?”

“No. Nothing like that,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

This wasn’t a place they were supposed to know about. A dear friend at the camp outside of Najran had given her the name of the mosque. Just in case, he’d said. And use the back door in the alleyway. Hala hadn’t even told Tariq about the location until last night.

It had been pitch-dark when they came in, and lights were prohibited. Now a single high window was letting in just enough gray dawn to show her details she hadn’t seen before. This was a storage room, wasn’t it? There were boxes of paper and other office supplies. Some canned goods. An enormous wooden lectern, listing a bit to the side, like an old person who needed to use a cane.

And what was this? She saw that their things had been brought from the hotel. Both suitcases, Tariq’s laptop, and the black weapons case were stacked neatly by the room’s only door.

“Is it safe to move around?” Tariq asked.

“I suppose it is. Let’s see.”

Hala stood up. They could at least change their clothes. She was halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened from the outside. Had someone been watching them all night?

A portly woman, somewhere between middle-aged and old, walked in on them.

“You’re awake,” the woman said in Arabic. “Good. We brought your suitcases here.”

She had a basin of water in both hands, still steaming hot. There were two hand towels on her shoulder and what looked like a blue silk hijab for Hala. Clothes from back home.

“As soon as you’re ready, you can come have breakfast with him,” she said. She set the basin and towels on a chair, then turned to go. “I’ll just be outside.”

“Excuse me. Breakfast with who?” Hala asked.

The woman stopped, but only to look them over again, assessing them in some way. “Don’t be too long,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

Chapter 40

They were brought around through the darkened back of the mosque. Hala could hear the Fajr prayer coming through the walls as they moved quickly along, carrying their shoes.

The housekeeper, or whatever she was, stopped at a tall carved door and let them inside, but she didn’t follow. The breakfast was already set.

“Brother. Sister,” the man at the table greeted them, also in Arabic. “Come and sit. The coffee’s getting cold.”

He was squat, like a man crossed with a toad, but his face was open and seemed friendly. He watched them come into the room with the kind of amused curiosity one usually reserved for a visit by children.

It was only when they came closer that Hala noticed the wheelchair. The heavy table and his long shirt had obscured it until now.

“Thank you for having us, Sheikh,” Tariq said. “We’re very sorry for the imposition. We apologize.”

He waved their concern away. “You were right to come here,” he said. “And I’m not the imam of this mosque. Just a Family member like yourselves. You can call me Uncle. Now, please, don’t be so polite. I know you must be hungry.”

She was, but Hala still paused to take stock. The man — Uncle — had scrambled eggs, pita, and jam on his plate. There were several other untouched dishes on the table.

He picked up on it right way. “Smart,” he said. “But completely unnecessary. What would you like me to try?”

“The labneh,” she said. “And the date spread.”

She didn’t back down, and it seemed to please rather than antagonize Uncle. His grin only broadened as he took large bites of both, then poured coffee for all three of them from the same pot.

“Very good. I’m impressed. Now, enough antics. You can relax,” he told them in a quiet voice that was also firm and reassuring.

As they loaded their plates, Hala’s mind came back to the night before. “What about the others?” she asked. “Is everyone—”

“Perfectly safe, thanks to you,” Uncle said.

It seemed imprudent to complain about the mother bitch right now. “The assignment didn’t come off,” she said instead.

“Yes, but not without some impact all the same,” he answered. “Two of their police officers are dead. That’s a powerful symbol to the Americans. They both hate and love their police. The authorities are terrified, mostly because they don’t know what to make of us. The kidnapping of the children has them baffled as well.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “Of course, we are responsible for that.”

Tariq passed her a piece of bread, smiling with his eyes. He was obviously proud that The Family had already accomplished so much.

Hala sipped her coffee. It was Arabic, and not entirely hot, but delicious. She wanted to ask more about the president’s children but thought it would be wise to let Uncle take the lead on that subject.

“There will be other important assignments,” Uncle went on casually. “In fact, we’d like to reposition you. We’re prepared to do this now, the sooner the better. As you know so well, we are at war!”

The words hung there in the air.

“I’m sorry? Reposition?” Tariq asked.

“Take charge of the next phase we have planned for the Americans. Part of it, anyway.” He took a large manila envelope from the pocket on the back of his chair and slid it across the table.

“Go ahead,” he said, smiling as though it were a personal gift. “Take a look.”

Tariq tilted the envelope to empty its contents — a disk in a thin jewel case, two American passports, a car key, and an engraved hotel folio with a room entry card inside.

“There’s a list of our targets there,” Uncle said, indicating the disk. “We will assemble a team for you. Whatever you like, whatever you need.”

Hala took it all in, searching her mind for an appropriate response. “Thank you, Uncle,” she said finally. “We’re honored.”

“Don’t be.” For the first time, there was a scowl on the man’s face. “This is about The Family, not some American version of self-glorification.”

Hala felt embarrassed. “Of course. I understand,” she said.

Then the man’s face turned again. He grinned that grin of his, and winked as he took another bite of breakfast.

“But I do think you’ll like the Four Seasons,” he said. “It is a very good hotel.”