Memorial Day

Seventy-Eight

VIRGINIA

They left the jail, took U.S. 50 west and cut off on Highway 28 north. McMahon drove close to eighty mph the entire way. When they hit the Hirst Brault Expressway by Dulles they passed a State Trooper on the side of the road who started to pull out. McMahon hit his emergency lights that were concealed in the front grill and back window, and never slowed. The only thing Rapp had told him was that they were going to a place that didn't exist, that McMahon could never talk about to anyone.

Dr. Akram had always told Rapp that the threat of torture was often more persuasive than actual torture itself, and based on what he'd seen so far with al-Adel that theory was likely to hold true. Rapp had consulted briefly with Akram on how to proceed and he had given Rapp a protocol to follow. Don't let al-Adel sense that you are desperate, was his first piece of advice. Make him believe that you are a patient, fair, and in control person who knows far more about him and his operation than he could possibly imagine. Let the threat of torture hang ominously in the back of his mind. Make him feel that he is insignificant.

The only part of this plan that was difficult for Rapp was not laying a hand on him. McMahon had been right in his assessment that al-Adel had an infuriatingly smug air about him. In the twenty-some minutes that Rapp had been in the company of the Saudi-born immigrant, he had asked for his lawyer approximately once every minute. Each time the ludicrous request was made in the Saudi's arrogant tone, Rapp had been forced to resist the urge to break the man's nose. He knew that if they had to resort to torture, there were more subtle ways to hurt him, equally unpleasant, and even more important, fully deniable.

No physical marks could be left. If things didn't work out, and this second bomb was nothing more than a paranoid delusion, they would need to hand al-Adel back over to the Justice Department, and if there were obvious signs of torture, there would be an investigation. Physical abuse was very hard to prove if there were no marks. It would be Rapp's word against an Islamic radical fundamentalist who was involved in a plot to detonate a nuclear warhead in Washington, D.C. The public would undoubtedly believe Rapp was capable of such brutality, but everybody with the exception of the press and a handful of lefties and activists would be more than willing to side with him against the terrorist. Even if they left marks on al-Adel, the majority of Americans would probably give Rapp a pass considering what they were up against, but for now Rapp was willing to heed Akram's advice.

So Rapp sat in the backseat with the Saudi immigrant and spoke to him in his native tongue. He told him things that he knew would shock him. Rapp talked to him about his family, and even went so far as to say he had spoken to his father.

Al-Adel was unable to conceal his surprise at this. "You are lying to me."

Rapp shook his head. "I talked to him only an hour ago. Earlier in the day I placed a call to the crown prince and asked that your family be brought in for questioning. Even the women."

The look on al-Adel's face was one of both shock and disbelief.

Rapp said, "The crown prince and I have done a lot of business over the years."

"What kind of business?" asked a skeptical al-Adel.

"The business of eliminating threats, Ahmed. The crown prince profits from his business dealings with America. The eradication of people like you helps him ensure those dealings continue. He sees you Wahhabis for what you are...a bunch of backward religious fruitcakes who are embarrassed to admit you're wrong. Zealots who want to live in the past."

"I do not believe you. You do not know the crown prince."

"Think about it, Ahmed. The crown prince and the Saudi royal family have billions of dollars invested in the American economy. If you and your little band of whack jobs succeed in setting off a nuclear weapon in Washington, D.C.," Rapp paused when he saw a glimmer of recognition in the man's eye. "Yes, Ahmed, I know there's another bomb, and part of me hopes your friends succeed."

Al-Adel was caught off guard and showed it. "I do not know what you are talking about."

Rapp studied him intensely. He reached out and put his arm around the Saudi immigrant. Al-Adel closed his eyes tightly as Rapp whispered in his ear. "Yes, I really hope they succeed. Do you know why?"

Al-Adel shook his head.

"Because if they do, the United States of America will end this war in one fell swoop. We will nuke your beloved kingdom all the way back to the stone age. Mecca, Medina, all the holy sites gone just like that, and it will all be on your shoulders, Ahmed. You will go down in history as the man who destroyed a religion. The man who buried the Wahhabi scourge once and for all."

All al-Adel could do was shake his head in disagreement.

"Ahmed," Rapp laughed, "that puny twenty-kiloton bomb you tried to pick up down in Charleston is nothing. We have a single submarine sitting in the Arabian Sea right now that has enough nuclear missiles on board to destroy all of Saudi Arabia, and that's only a tiny fraction of our nuclear arsenal."

Al-Adel tried to show some confidence by smiling, but he was less than convincing. "Your president is too weak. He will never authorize such an attack. And even if he wanted to, the United Nations and Europe would never let him do it. And what about the oil?" he said in a taunting tone. "You will never bomb our country. You would be slitting your own throat."

"Oh, Ahmed, you really are stupid. The U.N. and Europe will have absolutely no say in the president's decision. France and Germany will publicly plead for restraint, but only because they have to. This will be a history-changing event. They will privately agree that a precedent must be set, that those who trade in terrorism will be dealt with in the most extreme way possible. And as far as the oil is concerned, we would never be so foolish as to nuke your oil fields. More than eighty percent of your population is along the Red Sea and in Riyadh. The oil fields will remain unscathed, and the crown prince knows this. That is why he is having your family tortured as we speak. He knows if you fools succeed, his kingdom will be taken from him."

"My father is a respected man. The crown prince would never torture him."

"For starters the crown prince will do whatever it takes to save his own ass, and that includes torturing your little pissant father. Fortunately, though, your father is cooperating. He says you are an embarrassment to your family."

"You are a liar." Al-Adel refused to look at Rapp.

"We'll see." Everything Rapp had said was a bluff, but not an outright lie. He did know the crown prince, and he knew if the president called him and laid all his cards on the table, the crown prince would gladly round up al-Adel's family and begin torturing them. He also knew that if these guys actually set off a nuclear weapon on American soil the president would be under immense pressure to nuke somebody and something, and Saudi Arabia would be at the top of that list.

The driveway to the facility was blocked by a twelve-foot steel gate with an all-weather camera mounted off to the side. After only a second the gate opened and they made their way down the long, winding tree-lined drive. The main house was a two-story redbrick federal style with matching wings on either end. When they pulled up to the front door Dr. Akram was waiting on the front step looking dapper in his dark suit and red tie.

Rapp, McMahon, and al-Adel got out of the car. Rapp did not bother to make any introductions. Dr. Akram politely greeted al-Adel in Arabic, but said nothing to McMahon. He then turned and entered the house, expecting the others to follow. They continued through the house and out the back door to a slightly elevated terrace that looked down on a long rectangular pool. Akram walked over to a table where a tray of food and a pitcher were waiting.

He pointed to a chair and said, "Mr. al-Adel, if you will kindly sit." Akram looked to Rapp and McMahon, "I would like to have a moment alone with Mr. al-Adel."

Rapp and McMahon walked to the far end of the patio, where McMahon asked, "What in the hell is this all about, and who's the guy in the fancy suit?"

"Don't ask. Just observe. He's going to get him talking and if he doesn't learn anything of value he'll turn him back over to us and we'll get to play bad cop for a while."

"Good. I can't wait."

Rapp wasn't sure if McMahon was serious or not. "Skip, you don't have to participate in this. In fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't."

McMahon looked past Rapp at their prisoner and the man in the suit. "No. I'm not going to ask you to do anything I'm not willing to do myself."

"You're not asking me to do anything."

"You know what I mean."

Rapp nodded. "It might get ugly."

"I'm no boy scout, Mitch."

Rapp's phone rang and he snatched it from his hip. Before opening it, he looked at the tiny display. He hesitated for a second and then decided reluctantly to answer. "Yeah."

He held the phone to his ear and listened. After about five seconds he said, "I'm the middle of something right now. I'm going to have to call you back." Not waiting for the other person to respond he closed the phone, and said to McMahon, "We're going to have to work fast."

"Who was that?"

"Irene." Rapp winced. "Somehow the word's out that I pulled al-Adel out of the Fairfax jail."

"We've only had him for a half hour!"

Rapp shrugged. "Irene says that Justice Department is furious. She started to say something about Valerie Jones, and I just hung up."

Rapp's phone rang again. It was Kennedy trying to call back. He stared at the phone for a moment and then silenced the ringer and put it away. "We'll have to hurry. We don't have a lot of time."