The Devil's Banker

Chapter 62

A soft, steady wind swept across the sand, driving the gnarled strands of dried acacia before it, singing the tremulous song of a coming storm. Omar al-Utaybi wrapped the tail of his khaffiyeh over his nose and mouth and hiked the last few steps to the crest of the southernmost dune. The sky was still dark, an effervescent canopy of stars. As he stared to the east, the sun’s first rays fired the horizon. A reaper’s blade sliced the world into two. Another day had begun. He shivered at the drama.

Utaybi had not slept the entire night. Televisions tuned to CNN, Al-Jazeera, and the BBC still burned in the command tent. As yet, there was no news on any of the stations, nor on any of a half-dozen radio frequencies being monitored, of an attack on the American Capitol.

It was nine P.M. in Washington, D.C. By now, Noor was to have completed her task. Her instructions had been precise. She was to wait until the Saudi impostor entered the White House and then detonate the device. If for any reason she was denied access or threatened with capture, she was to immediately sacrifice herself. If any other eventuality ensued, she was to position herself as close to the White House as possible and set off the weapon.

Noor had phoned two hours earlier in jubilant spirits. Glendenning was dead. She was proceeding to the White House. She foresaw no difficulties. In parting, she had wished him a prosperous life and many more children, and said she hoped to see him in a better world. There was no question of her will. He could not imagine what had happened.

Closing his eyes, Utaybi offered a silent prayer for his youngest sister. Yet even as he completed his blessing, his phone rang.

“Noor,” he cried, recognizing her number on his phone’s digital screen. “What has happened? I have no word of the attack.”

“Noor is dead,” said the emotionless voice of an English female.

“Who is this?”

“We have the bomb. You failed.”

“What do you want?”

“This is your wake-up call, Omar al-Utaybi. Time to go to hell.”

Desperately, Utaybi tried to turn off his phone. He could not. Somewhere high in the sky a satellite had acquired the signal and was jamming his frequency. It was too late. He knew the technology. They had triangulated his position. His fate was cast.

Dropping the phone, he turned to run down the hill. He had only covered a hundred yards when he caught the cruise missile’s silver streak, its blazing black-orange flame rushing at him.

The sun, he thought, reflecting off a limestone bluff.