The Ragnarök Conspiracy

24

A begrimed Caucasian stared across a dusty wooden table at the three Berbers. It was a blistering day, and the sands from the northern Sahara that seemed to invade so much of Algeria bordering on the desert dug into every crevice of his body. His face was deeply bronzed from his time in the sun — time spent coaxing, bribing, and leading these barbarians along the path required. It was one thing to work an act of public violence in a Western nation, or even in a South America nation like Venezuela. Even there, freedom to move around and the mixed-race nature of the population made planning and executing a mission far simpler. But here, in Northern Africa, surrounded by Berber Arabs in a strongly Islamic nation, where custom and language differed far more markedly, he could not work alone.

What one could always count on with these people was that they were as murderous toward each other as toward the West. He had been patient and resourceful. The young Ibadi radicals they had primed were perfect for achieving the mission. Better yet, this splinter group was so ignorant and detached from the rest of the world that the events of the last two months were not known to them, and the plan he proposed had not aroused their suspicions.

The Ibadi were a minority sect of Islam, centered in Oman with pockets in Algeria, with radically different interpretations of Heaven and Hell. They thought of themselves as the only true Muslims. All others were, as he had come to learn with amusement, kuffar, “unbelievers.” In the last ten years, increasingly radical groups had found inspiration from terrorist organizations like al-Qaeda, and now they desired to exert their violent influence over the world, to establish Ibadi rule. That this meant executing terrorist acts against other Muslims was exactly what he required.

“You will have the trucks ready on the night of the fifteenth,” said the American in his poor Arabic.

The older of the three men laughed and smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth. “My friend, you must learn to speak the language better. Without us, you would get not five steps. Yes, we will have them to transport your men. We will provide real clothes for you,” and he laughed again, “not these womanly things you have tried to wear and hide yourself under.”

“Then we are agreed, Aziri?” he pressed.

Another spoke. “We do not like that the Ibadi People's Army is to be kept so far from the attack. We are not to be considered children who cannot fight!”

“Aban, I have explained this as clearly as I can. My team works alone. You will bring us into the site. We will complete the mission, and then you will get us out. We are providing the funds, the expertise, and risking our lives for this. We won't do it another way. It is our way or no way.”

The three men looked at each other. Aban was angry, but his older brother put his hand on his shoulder. He spoke softly in a local Berber dialect. A back-and-forth ensued, but the older brother held the day. Over the reproachful look of his brother, Aziri continued. “We will accept your offer. The materials you will provide for us. With these things, we will strike again and again into the heart of the kuffar abomination. It will begin with what you will do. You are ignorant, but you do the work of Allah, unbeliever.”

“Then make sure it is settled,” he said standing, eyeing the three men. “Because we also will not hesitate to inflict a lesson on anyone who tries to interfere with what we do.” The three men nodded, convinced by what they had seen of his team to date that he meant what he said.

The American walked out of the small building and into the blazing summer sun. The fools would comply. They were young and filled with fire to strike at the majority Sunni population. This was a chance to do so in a way they could never have imagined before: in the heart of Algeria, at the Great Mosque of Algiers, Jemaa Kebir, built more than one thousand years ago. They dreamed to establish their Berber culture and small sect of Islam, and thereby opened their nation to a worse strike from within. He was happy indeed to hit the mosque, but the goal had been greater, and the Ibadi People's Army would soon find that they had opened Algiers to an attack on another landmark, one dear to all Algerians as a symbol of the defeat of the West. As such a symbol, Mjolnir would hammer it and crush it to the ground. He would see to that. He knew how much was being entrusted to him. He would not fail.

The winds blew, etching sand grains mercilessly over his face. He looked across the desert into the distance, seeing beyond it to the greatest goal ahead. Another step. Each step brings us closer. It was all coming together, despite setbacks and delays. He smiled, turned toward the main road, and began walking.

25

The flight to Sharjah was a rough one, far more turbulent than usual, so much so that even Jordan had passed on a recent offer of a meal. The triple-sevens of Boeing were usually smoother rides, and he wondered grimly whether it was a sign of things to come. It had taken him weeks to secure permission for this risky venture, putting his reputation on the line at the CIA. As July ended, he had finally gotten the needed permission, and he prepared his team for what was to come. As much as they can be prepared.

The trip was long, more than twelve hours in the air from New York to Dubai City, then a car ride from Dubai to Sharjah, and that was assuming nothing went wrong in between. Right now, his main concern was his team. They were men from every walk of life, from the street to the Ivy League, each a trained CIA operative. All were black; all dressed in Arab garb: white robes and a white African kufi with Muslim-style beards. They looked out of place alongside the Arabs onboard, some of whom were in traditional clothing, many in Western-style business attire; all very different than the African American men sitting together in a group in the middle of the aircraft. These were the men he had trained and honed for the last three years, who had traveled overseas countless times, risking their lives, leaving their families, to build piece by piece, deal by deal a reputation as trusted customers in a black market arms world where there truly was no trust. But where trust could not be found, money and arms did in their stead.

In the facade presented to the arms world, he was Yusuf Abdul-Rauf, leader of a new Muslim extremist group centered in the United States and composed solely of African American members. “A Muslim Black Panthers,” he had explained on several occasions, focused on the liberation of the black people from the oppression of the white Christian power structure “by any means necessary.” He sought arms and explosives through deals untraceable by investigative agencies in the United States. He planned to build an army, make a mark with terrorist attacks across the nation. Of course, the dealers cared little why he wanted their merchandise, only that he paid in full and on time. Jordan doubted they believed his organization would do much anyway. They were impressed, however, with his cash and clearly wondered who was bank-rolling his purchases. He only hoped none of them had begun to guess that it was the US government itself behind him.

He traveled with six others. Four of them were muscle, necessary for his real purpose as well as for this well-developed facade. His bodyguards in both worlds, these were operatives expertly trained in combat and defense, and Jordan was always glad to have them around on these missions. All but one were former gang members he had personally recruited. Two were his “money men,” operatives trained in finance who had studied the international arms market thoroughly. His Harvard Men, as he called them in jest. Jordan, or Yusuf, was the visionary, the leader who brought these men, and the imaginary hundreds back in the States who followed him, together under a unifying purpose and will.

This team had patiently worked to build respectability as a client in the illegal arms markets, focusing on the one led by the now imprisoned ex-KGB agent Viktor Bout. His team had played a crucial role in the capture of the Merchant of Death, although he had not mentioned this to John Savas and others at the FBI. It was the greatest success of his young career and had earned him respect and authority at the CIA. His infiltration of these networks promised to deliver much more than that over the coming years. Now he was asking his team to travel again and risk destroying years of work, placing all their lives in danger on a hunch that this new terrorist organization was something so threatening that it required drastic action. For all that he was doing, he had better be right. He remembered the prayer in the Koran, in the sura Maryam: My Lord! surely my bones are weakened and my head flares with hoariness, and, my Lord! I have never been unsuccessful in my prayer to Thee. He hoped Allah would hear his prayer now.

The final descent toward Dubai was always spectacular, as the golden-brown of the desert and the blue of the sea established a strong contrast, punctuated by the amazing sights of the Palm Islands. These enormous, human-made islands of nearly filigreed projections of sand were clearly visible from the cruising altitude of the plane and upon descent carved out a magnificent decoration in the Gulf spanning nearly three miles in diameter. Close by were hundreds of small sandy islands comprising “The World,” an artificial archipelago that re-creates the shape of the continents of the earth, and on which vacation homes, resorts, estates, and communal lands were still being built — a product of endless oil money, some imagination, and what Jordan considered entirely too much time on the hands of the populace.

Jordan and his team disembarked, completely jet-lagged, a strange troop of black Muslims walking like a pack through the Dubai International Airport to pick up a rental car for the drive to Sharjah. It amused him to see the familiar names and icons of Hertz, Avis, and Thrifty rentals amid all the flowing and ornate Arabic script. This part of the trip would be short, at least, and Jordan knew that he and his team would need to get some sleep soon. Tomorrow they would begin a most dangerous gambit.

They were mostly silent driving through Dubai City, each wrapped up in his own thoughts, each fatigued from the trip. Within half an hour, they had crossed into Sharjah proper and were approaching the Millennium Hotel on Corniche Road, its blue-glass face reflecting the bright Middle Eastern sun and the waves of the sea. Check-in was quick. Jordan's Arabic was extremely fluent after many years of training and practice on foreign soil.

In the hotel room, he dialed the number he kept security-locked in his smart phone. After three rings, he heard a tone and then entered a long eight-digit code. A second set of rings was heard, and another tone prompted a second code. A third set of rings was interrupted by a woman's voice speaking Russian.

“Yusuf Abdul-Rauf calling for Mikhail Kharitonov,” he replied in the same language.

“A moment, Puzhalsta,” said the voice. Jordan glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was eleven in the morning. He had called ahead of schedule.

“My American friend,” said a strong male voice in heavily accented English. “Happy for you to arrive very good.”

“Thank you, Mika. We are glad to be here. I hope things are on schedule for our meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, sounding almost amused. “We have all as you requested. It is very big order, my friend, and means Mika must work very hard to see all is delivered.”

“We understand, Mika. This is important for us. We have all that you asked for. Do not worry.”

The voice on the other end of the line laughed. “Yusuf, Mika always worry. That why Mika still alive. Tomorrow, as planned, time and place. You bring and I bring. All is then good, no?”

“Yes, Mika. All is good.”

Jordan closed the connection and took a breath of air. The madness would soon begin.

26

The ride down to the port was a quiet one. Jordan and his team had prepared for this moment for several weeks — in truth, for several years, considering all that had brought them here. After sleeping off the journey, they were up in the early morning considering plans and backup plans, countermeasures and options. Now all their planning came down to execution, and, Jordan knew in his heart, a certain amount of randomness, what others called luck. But luck favors the prepared. Part of their preparation was a visit last night from the CIA safe house in Dubai. Their visitors were kind enough to supply them with handguns smuggled into the country, as well as a set of disks, memory sticks, flash drives, and adaptors for the mission to come.

From Corniche Road, which ran through the sands by the Millennium Hotel in Sharjah, it had been a short hop on one of the area's main thoroughfares, Al Ittihad Road, a thoroughly modern highway. Then across a new fourteen-lane, sixteen-thousand-vehicle-capacity bridge, onto the Sheikh Zayed Road, which twisted its way southeast around the center of Dubai, soon to run parallel with the coastline southwest toward the harbor. They passed the World Archipelago on their right, which hardly made an impression this close to the ground. The second and much larger Palm Island loomed somewhere northwest of them as they approached the main port, Jebel Ali.

As they exited E11 and drove on 520th Street, Jordan was again struck by the scale of things in Dubai. With sixty-seven berths and a span of over fifty square miles, Jebel Ali was the world's largest artificial harbor, built over many years in the 1970s. More than five thousand companies from over one hundred and twenty nations made use of this port. A frequent user was in fact the United States Navy. There was hardly a sailor who served in the region who had not visited the port sometime during his tour. The great depth of the harbor and overall width allowed American aircraft carriers to dock, and it was not unusual to find a Nimitz Class carrier with several of its companion boats pier side. Jordan suppressed a laugh. How the arms dealers like Kharitonov loved to do business right under the noses of the United States military forces! How their pride blinded them to the fact that Uncle Sam was aware of everything they were doing, and was using them for the purpose of catching bigger fish — the clients on the other ends of their deals.

Jordan and his men pulled up to the dock number they had been sent and stepped out into the desert heat. Three vehicles were waiting, and Jordan could see the tall, lanky form of Mika Kharitonov standing beside an open car door, several bodyguards flanking him and positioned in the nearby vehicles. The cargo boat behind them, he noticed, was dotted with several shapes obviously toting weapons — what appeared to be automatic weapons. He knew the other guards would also be carrying weapons, concealed, just as Kharitonov knew that Jordan's men were packing. It was like a well-choreographed dance, only with less sexual tension and more potential for chaos and death. Jordan pretended to be blinded by the bright sunlight, taking that time to scope the scene. He spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth to several members of his team.

“Trouble perched high on the boats. We'll need to contain those.”

The man next to him smiled tightly. “Looks like we got trouble everywhere we look. We're going to get bloody on this one, Husaam.”

“Yeah, we might,” he said, feeling a sudden heaviness. The wind gusted and blew grains of sand across their faces. I'm responsible for these men.

“Mika, my friend!” Jordan boomed over the sounds of machinery, waves, and vehicles at the port, laughing in his deep bass as he walked rapidly up to greet the Russian. Kharitonov stepped slightly forward, enough to put his guards a few steps behind him — about the same distance that existed between Jordan and his men. They extended hands and shook.

“Good see you, Yusuf. I think you and your men bigger every year. Like Barry Bonds, no?”

“The brothers on the street don't have an easy life. We work hard for what is ours. It shows. You will help us do that.”

“Mika happy to help. But Mika more happy when paid. You understand?” he said, with a smile that made Jordan think of what a serial killer must look like before he struck.

“Of course, my friend. Friendship doesn't put food, or vodka, on the table. Kareem!” he shouted over his shoulder. A thinner black man with a goatee stepped up beside Jordan. He carried a slim briefcase, much too slender to contain any significant amount of money. He unlocked the case, opened it, and held it up level to show the Russian its contents. Inside was a small thumb drive.

“Codes and executable,” Kareem said flatly, an accountant presenting data. “You have your connection established?”

“Of course, of course,” said Kharitonov.

Jordan interjected. “Then why don't we have a look at the merchandise, and as soon as that's done, we'll go digital, my friend.”

Kharitonov nodded and signaled to his bodyguards. Kareem closed the case and stepped behind the troop accompanying Jordan as the Russian led them toward the dock and the ramp to board the vessel. As they passed underneath, the men holding automatic weapons gazed down on them and tracked their motion onto the ship.

The boat was enormous, a merchant container ship flying the Greek flag. Jordan knew that the ownership of the vessel was not related to the “flags of convenience” that allowed for easier and cheaper passage, and that the Greeks sheltered numerous such boats. These “box boats” had, over the last century, revolutionized world trade, allowing for highly efficient transfer of enormous amounts of cargo across the planet. More than eighteen million containers journeyed over two hundred million trips per year — and this was the legal material. This early form of the global economy had truly become international, highly dynamic, and adaptable to maximizing profit. This vessel could have come from anywhere, belonged to anyone, and only the arcane records of the companies using the ships could give any idea to the source of the materials onboard. That is exactly why Jordan was here in Sharjah and Dubai, and why today's deal was going to go sour very quickly.

While the boat looked big, Jordan knew that it was one of the smaller container vessels. The fact that it was docked away from the land-based cranes was enough to tell you that, even if the presence of its own small crane to offload the boat boxes didn't. Kharitonov had his trade down to a science. The forty-foot boxes were rigged with “quick-entry” latches that opened a specially designed section of the box, allowing rapid examination of contents. Kharitonov brought them to one such entry point, unlocked the container, and had his men pull out a large wooden crate. As they pried it open with crowbars, the submachine-gun-toting guards closed in behind Jordan's men, sandwiching them between Mika's gunmen and the large crate. The men pulled off the packing insulation, revealing rows of neatly stacked automatic weapons and magazine cartridges. Jordan approached the crate, reached in, and pulled out one of the guns. It was a sleek, black micro-Uzi submachine gun. He turned it over, played with the safety, gripped it in his hands to feel the weight and balance of the thing. Kharitonov and his subordinates watched in silence as their customer examined the product.

“The suppressors fit?” he asked himself out loud, removing a silencer from his robes and attaching it to the barrel of the gun. He again turned it around and examined it for several moments.

Jordan laughed and tossed the gun to one of his bodyguards, who caught it cleanly in the air and, as everyone watched, examined the gun himself, also breaking out into a smile. Boys and their toys, thought Jordan grimly, as he nimbly pocketed two ammo magazines and stashed them in his robes. One advantage of robes over pants, he thought — far easier to hide things in those inner pockets. Kharitonov glanced over at him as he turned away from the weapons container and motioned to Kareem. Kareem stepped forward and opened the case again. By now, Kharitonov's men had forged a satellite link to a bank account thousands of miles away.

“The executable runs automatically. You give it your routing numbers and account, and the money is transferred. As before, no strings and untraceable. You should be able to see it immediately. Half now, and half on delivery.”

Kharitonov nodded and handed the drive over to the man who set up his connection. He seemed relaxed. Jordan had groomed this man and his organization for four long years, and this was not their first deal. Jordan had been an exemplary customer, never missing a payment or canceling a deal. Kharitonov had grown complacent with him, as much as an international arms dealer could, and Jordan was counting on this. That was why the Russian did not watch Jordan carefully at this moment as he moved slowly along the open crate of weapons. That was also why the Russian did not immediately recognize his peril when his subordinate spoke quickly to him in concerned Russian.

“Yusuf,” Kharitonov said, staring at the screen, “transfer not going through.” Jordan looked at him, unconcerned, his arms behind his back as he stood at attention. The Russian looked down at the screen, and as he did so, Jordan made quick eye contact with his team. “Not understanding. Yusuf — there is problem?” he asked.

Jordan looked at the Russian grimly. “Yes, Mika, there is.”

Several things happened at the same time. Jordan whipped a loaded Uzi out from behind him, a second silencer already attached. He opened fire with several bursts at bodyguards flanking Kharitonov. One dropped immediately as a line of red stains erupted across this chest. The second dove to his right, pulling a weapon out from his belt and aiming toward Jordan. Before he could pull the trigger, his neck snapped back as flesh and blood ripped apart, a barrage of bullets fired by one of Jordan's bodyguards. Simultaneously, the other members of his team pulled out handguns, all with silencers attached, and turned toward the guards behind them. Although the guards held the advantage in firepower, they were too slow to realize what was happening, and Jordan's combat-trained operatives pounced on them like tigers.

The rear members of his team, nearest the guards, had chosen hand-to-hand combat. One had dropped to a push-up position and swung his leg around like a helicopter blade, catching the guard behind the knees and dropping him to the ground. The operative behind him fired four quick shots into the prone man, who did not move again. The second guard found his weapon kicked from his arms as the CIA man drew his right leg in an arc like a mace in front of him. The guard stood there stunned as he watched the man pivot on the foot that had just disarmed him, spinning and turning to bring his left leg like a battering ram straight into his face. A jawbone cracked loudly, and the man went down flat on his back, smacking his head against the boat deck. He did not get up.

Kareem had incapacitated the computer man with several blows, then had frozen Kharitonov by placing a gun to the base of his skull. Kharitonov, who had drawn a weapon and was aiming it toward Jordan, relaxed and dropped his firearm. The four remaining bodyguards, poorly positioned in the crowded region around the boat box, had all been either overpowered or killed by Jordan's team. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jordan grabbed Kharitonov's computer, placed it in the briefcase, and handed it to Kareem.

“You insane American!” Kharitonov spat as his hands were tied with wire behind him. “What is for? You get nothing from this!”

Jordan put the barrel of his Uzi under Kharitonov's chin. The Russian pulled up his head in pain from the hot cylinder. That seemed to get his attention. “Mika, what I get is my problem. But if you don't do exactly what I say, I can tell you exactly what you're gonna get.” He stared at the Russian coldly. “You understand?” Kharitonov nodded, fear in his eyes. “Right now, that means you make a sound we don't like, I fill you with holes. You try to escape, I, or one of my men, will fill you with holes. And if you don't follow as you are directed, right now, you get filled with holes. Got that?” Mika nodded again, sweat pouring down his face.

“Good.” Jordan turned to his men. “Take his cell phone. Get him to the car, grab several of these guns and clips. Load up. We're likely going to need them.” Jordan strode through the piles of bodies on the ship deck, and his team led Kharitonov at gunpoint down the ramp and to their vehicles. Two drivers were still in the other cars, oblivious in the noisy environment of the dock to the events on deck above them. They were listening to music and reading, one sending text messages to his girlfriend. Before they could do much more than look up, they were knocked unconscious and dragged aside.

“We go in these three cars, to lessen the suspicion.” Jordan designated his two Harvard Men to ditch the rentals. The rest of his team loaded up into the three vehicles of Kharitonov. Jordan sat in the back of one car, his Uzi trained on the Russian as they pulled out.

“Let's pay a visit to a little building in Sharjah,” said Jordan. The eyes of the Russian grew large as he understood.

“You have no place to hide. You never make deal again! We hunt you down, to America. You are dead man, Yusuf.”

Jordan looked out through the window of the speeding car over the bright sands and sighed. “So aren't we all, Mika.” He slapped a new cartridge into the Uzi. “What's important is what you do while it lasts.”

27

Some three thousand miles away, the August night was cool in Algiers. Despite its nearness to the desert, its location within the Tell Atlas Mountains and its proximity to the Mediterranean Sea dominated this coastal city, giving it a temperate climate that even in the hottest months was never too uncomfortable. The day's heat had abated by the predawn hours, and the wind that blew from the mountains dropped the temperature into the high sixties.

The cool night was a welcome relief to the American and his team, especially since they were dressed in bulky Arab clothing over their combat attire. They had ridden into the city late in the evening, disguised as migrant workers, in several trucks provided and driven by their helpful friends of the Ibadi People's Army. Of course, the man laughed to himself; no one had ever heard of the IPA, and they likely never would. But he humored its young and naive founders. They were a ticket through the Arab and Berber landscape in Algiers, a landscape that too easily could become problematic if they ran into any complications. But no one had paid any attention to yet another group of workers trucked into the city to do its heavy lifting.

They had left the Ibadi drivers with the vehicles beside the foul-smelling piers. His team headed under cover of what darkness remained toward the Great Mosque of Algiers, Jemaa Kebir, a structure over one thousand years old. Two members of his team were posted to keep watch on their collaborators. The IPA members wanted credit for the destruction of this landmark of Sunni Islam. They had fought to be a part of tonight's efforts on several occasions in his presence. He would not have them interfering in what he and his men had to do.

Five commandos from his team were dispatched to the mosque. Among them were two weapons specialists, a communications officer, and two demolition men. They carried enough S-47 to take down five buildings this size. The explosion would ensure a level of carnage that would make a statement the world would notice. The men checked off with their leader and sprinted toward the historical shrine.

The rest had another plan. The American turned and gathered together the remaining seven of his team. This was the team that would be responsible for an act of terrorism even greater than that at the mosque, an act targeting an Algerian symbol of independence from Western powers that even the Ibadi held in high respect. They would never have allowed such an action. Had they known of his plans, they would have likely tried to kill him.

His team searched along the roadway hugging the coastline. Several blocks from the Great Mosque, they found what had been left for them: a van with keys inside, left by “tourists” that evening. They loaded into the van, each man with large packs of S-47, gripping automatic weapons. A driver started the engine and pulled out, heading nearly due south along the road. After a few minutes, they took a southeasterly turn through the nearly empty streets of the city and, within five minutes, pulled up several streets before coming to the square.

At night the structure was an awesome sight. Bright lights bathed the curving concrete arches, inverted so they turned inward, giving the imposing structure a solid and yet otherworldly presence. Maquam E'chahid, the Martyrs Monument, was constructed in 1982 to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of Algeria's independence from France. It took the abstract interpretation of three standing palm leaves, forming in their center a shelter beneath which the “eternal flame” burned. Statues of soldiers adorned the front of each leaf where it rested to find support on the ground.

He checked his watch. They were nearly late. In two minutes, team Beta would kill the power to this portion of the Algiers power grid, darkening the lights across a portion of town for a short period of time. Before technicians had located the problem and dispatched crews, their job would be done and the power restored, leaving nothing to trigger suspicion at the site.

Right on cue, the powerful searchlights went dark, and the lights in buildings and streetlamps for many blocks around them went out. The site was nearly totally black but for the light leaking its way over from other portions of the city. The team strapped on their night-vision goggles and sprinted to the monument.

With five minutes to spare on their tight schedule, they piled into the van, backpacks empty, magazines full, the job a silent success. They drove north, back toward the site of the Great Mosque, where they parked the car and left the keys. They sprinted back up to the rendezvous point where they were met by the remaining members of team Alpha. The news was good from both groups, and they returned to find their Ibadi friends waiting impatiently for them.

“This took too long!” whispered Aziri, his eyes flashing. “You are lucky no police came!”

“Relax, Aziri. The job went well. It is best to be sure about these things and take your time.”

The Berber grunted and started the truck as the rest of the team settled into the back of the flatbed. He pulled out along the road, taking the American and his men to the airport for the first flight of the morning. The light of dawn began to break on the horizon. “Yes,” he noted, “you are right. It is written: ‘Haste is of the Devil.’”

“Indeed, my friend,” replied the American, beginning to remove his robes and glancing over to the towering form of the monument silhouetted against the pale sky.

28

The three gray BMWs pulled into a parking lot behind a row of small sheds, which resembled the sort of structures that an army would throw up — cheap, easy to raise, easy to break down, and yet highly functional with amenities like electricity, heat, cooling, running water, and, in this case, Internet lines. The small buildings were in a fairly undeveloped region of Sharjah, with construction surrounding the lot and the ground dirty and paved only with gravel. Little traffic came in or out. It was a perfect location to escape notice and yet to be as completely connected to the world as any high-rise in Dubai.

Jordan marveled at the arrogance, or ignorance, of these dealers. Did they really believe that Viktor Bout had been apprehended at random, through some stroke of luck by the international community? Did they never consider that their entire operation may have been compromised? Yet they maintained their same base of operations, known for years now to the CIA through Jordan's efforts, and now also known to several international agencies when the CIA worked with them to apprehend their former boss.

He stepped out onto the gravel, hearing it crunch beneath his shoes. On the other side of the car, Kharitonov rose slowly, a pistol pointed at his head, and maneuvered awkwardly with his hands wired together behind his back. Two black men in white robes shepherded him toward the back entrance of one of the small structures. He glared at Jordan.

“I cannot feel my hands, you bastard!” he spat.

A gun tapped against his temple reminded him to speak more quietly, and more politely.

“Mika, let's go over this to make sure you don't make us have to kill you,” said Jordan, looking around the area. Thankfully, the building had few windows, and the back entrance was not easily visible from within. He stared at the Russian coldly. “You will enter as if nothing whatsoever is out of the ordinary. You will speak to us as clients, making up whatever excuse you have to as to why we are here. You will then take us to where you keep your records.”

Kharitonov squinted and eyed him darkly as Jordan's men untied the Russian's wrists. “You are police?” he asked.

Jordan nodded his head to one side, and a large man next to the Russian punched him in his right kidney. Kharitonov groaned but kept quiet as Jordan put his finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. No, we're worse, my friend. And that is the last I expect to hear from you except for what I have explained. If you alert anyone, if you take any action, or if the air in there doesn't smell right to me, I'll paint the walls with your brain. Understood?”

Kharitonov grunted between painful gasps of air. Jordan gave him a minute to regain his composure, then issued instructions for his team to conceal their weapons. The additional time allowed for the return of his Harvard Men, who had ditched the rentals, bringing Jordan's team up to full strength.

They all made eye contact, and Jordan turned toward Kharitonov. “The guns are out of sight, but don't let them be out of your mind. You saw what we did to your men. We'll do it again. Remember, my Russian is better than your English, so don't get stupid.”

He nodded toward the door, and Kharitonov pulled out a security card and held it up to a reader that beeped at the same time a metallic sound could be heard from the door as the lock clicked. He stepped inside, followed closely by Jordan and the other men.

For his part, Mika Kharitonov acted well. No Oscar, but the show and threat, and very real action he had witnessed, had brought out his inner coward. He led them through what appeared to be very ordinary office rooms, filled with clerks, mostly female, typing into computers and taking calls. Guns were good business, and like any modern business, there was a lot of administration. Several people looked surprised to see him, and even more so the entourage that followed him through the room and down the hall to another room where thousands of optical disks were filed and a lone archivist worked. As he had done in the other rooms, Kharitonov put on a pleasant, professional, if somewhat strained face, and told the archivist to leave them alone.

Jordan's team went to work immediately. Within minutes, they had located the records for all transactions within the last five years. These were no longer stored on the computer, so they pulled and pocketed the CDs from storage cabinets. A USB memory stick was used to store all the records that were present on the computer itself, although Jordan doubted that what they were looking for was there. Kharitonov was clearly as intrigued as he was frightened, but he was forced to chew on his questions as the operatives worked on in silence.

“OK, move it, move it. The clock's running on this one, and we don't know when time runs out,” Jordan said, pushing his team.

Within half an hour they were finished. Jordan rounded up his team, the precious data in his own backpack. They headed back the way they had entered, through what looked suspiciously like a call center, and out the back door. Kharitonov opened the door to the outside, stood upright, straight as a plank of wood, and dove to the right and outside the door.

Ambush! thought Jordan, and lunged to the left, pulling the Uzi out as he slid to the floor. The thin walls of the building exploded with sound as bullets tore through the siding and whizzed in through the open door. Two of his team fell with multiple bullet wounds, as did several phone operators near the door. Screams filled the room, and women dropped to the floor or dashed out toward the front of the building, sending papers flying through the office. Still the bullets blasted against the walls, and one shattered the single window on the side of the building where Jordan lay, showering glass over him and the unmoving body of a nearby office worker.

He knew things had been too easy.

29

The day was going to be hot, and the tourists squirmed awkwardly under backpacks, cameras, and overloaded shopping bags along the streets of Algiers. Street vendors hocked their overpriced items as locals smirked at the naive Westerners spending more money than could possibly be justified for the goods. Business was particularly good around the Great Mosque. The combination of history and its nearness to the sea made the landmark a must-see stop on the tourist run.

“Allahu Akbar!” Suddenly, a loud, static-filled call rose over the loudspeaker near the mosque. Heads of tourists turned toward the sound, despite having heard it several times in the day already, and five times every day of their stay; it was still an unusual sound to their ears. In contrast, the Algiers citizens seem to give a calm and familiar response, the pious slowly stopping their activities, pulling out prayer mats and laying them on the ground. A tight group of American tourists listened as their guide explained and translated.

“The muezzin is making the adhan, the call to prayer,” he said.

“Allaahu Akbar!”

“God is great!” he echoed in English to the wondering faces.

“Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah; Ash Hadu anna Muhamadar rasuulullah.”

“I bear witness that there is no other god but Allah. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God!”

“Hayya' alas Salaah; Hayya' ala Falaah.”

“Come to prayer! Come to Success.”

“Allaahu Akbar! Laa ilaaha illa-Lah.”

“God is great! There is no god but Allah.”

The echoes of the haunting Arabic chant rebounded over the streets and cement buildings, reaching out over the harbor toward incoming ships. After a moment of silence, as if in answer, the mosque exploded.

The sound was deafening, the shock wave injurious and stunning, citizens and tourists alike thrown to the ground as rock and metal hurled through the air at lethal velocity. The loudspeaker from the minaret arched high above the road as debris flew underneath it, then reached an apex and took its parabolic dive toward the street below, crushing a street vendor and his cart. The muezzin making the call to prayer, and all the worshippers within the mosque, were never identified in what remained.

Chaos landed along with the loudspeaker, as the able-bodied fled from the scene in panic, abandoning hundreds of injured and dying to their screams for aid. Time slowed down for all who remained, as a false evening fell from the smoke and dust obscuring the sun. Wounded shadows limped through the choking fog of grit, like undead creatures risen from the grave, the horror real and more terrible than any film director's vision.

Finally, muffled sirens were heard as emergency vehicles and military personnel arrived on the scene and worked to impose order over the chaotic remains. Just as they had begun to attend to the wounded and put out the fires, staring with wide eyes toward what was minutes ago the Great Mosque, a strong breeze from the sea sliced the cloud of dust blocking the view, providing a tunnel of vision southward to reveal the majesty and brutal artistry of the Martyrs Monument.

Under the shadow of the monument, a group of French tourists were gathered for a final photograph before returning home from their vacation. What had been a tightly pressed form with twenty smiles facing the camera became a dissolving clump looking toward the northern part of town as a thunderous sound reached their ears and a pillar of smoke began to rise several miles away. The photographer turned to face the chaos, and the sounds of her shutter firing rapidly stuttered in the growing silence. All conversation ceased for several moments, then rose to a higher level as concerned voices sought the meaning of the events. Many were running toward the northern edges of the park that rose up on a small hill above the port, seeking a closer and clearer view of the source of the smoke and noise. Cell phones were pulled out, more photos taken, and many left the monument site to head home or elsewhere.

The French tourists remained close to the monument. They were expecting their tour guide to return and meet them there, under the monument, and lead them to a bus for the airport. None of them would make the return trip.

Three massive explosions erupted around them, the blast ejecting building debris radially from the structure, flailing the tourists to death in milliseconds. Each explosion was centered on one of the three legs of the Martyrs Monument, placed strategically to sever the supports of the tower from its body like a giant's scalpel. Those watching at a distance stared transfixed as time crawled and the great tower appeared to shudder above the disk of debris beneath it, then plunge toward the ground like a spear. The concrete column crumbled as it smashed into the surface underneath, dissolving like dust and throwing a circular plume outward and upward. Within seconds, the great symbol of Algerian pride for independence from foreign rule was gone.

“Anything from Husaam?” Rebecca Cohen asked as she poked her head into John Savas's office.

“No,” he replied, sipping from his morning coffee. “The CIA is slow to update us, and they never released his precise schedule. He should have made contact with the Russian dealer by now. I guess we'll hear soon how that went.”

Cohen stepped into his office, partially closing the door. “John, I think morale is beginning to slip. It's two weeks into August, and we aren't any closer to finding out who is behind this. Frankly, we aren't sure where to look anymore. Manuel is down to ten percent confidence in his database associations — that's all that's left, and let me tell you, when you are at ten percent, it really is pretty random. J. P. and Matt have taken to bickering for the most part, and Angel has completely withdrawn.”

“Well, we need to keep focused on what this is about. They need to see beyond their own frustrations.”

Cohen frowned. “John, it's not that they don't. It's that they want this so badly. Larry picked us all in part because we had a commitment, an emotional one, to combating terrorism. That much has become clear over the years. In the past two months, we've seen two horrific attacks, one right under our noses. In our own city! That also brings back so many painful memories, as if it weren't bad enough by itself. The strain is coming because they want to bag these guys. But right now, it's starting to seem to them that their goal is somewhere way out of reach.”

Savas winced. He understood. He understood because that was exactly how he was feeling as well. Outside of a few small leads, they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. What few leads they did have were being pursued thousands of miles away by the CIA, leaving the FBI to await information, search databases, conduct late-night brainstorming sessions over stale coffee. Essentially, twiddling their thumbs. It was time for a mind clearing for all of them, a pep talk of some kind. Savas realized he needed to reset the course for the team.

A loud knock came at the door, and it swung open suddenly. Startled, Savas looked up. It was Rideout. His face was ashen and yet touched with fury. He spoke, slightly out of breath, clearly having raced over to the office.

“John, Rebecca — you'd better come. There's been another one.”

30

Cubicle dividers and desks continued to explode around him, and Jordan crawled toward the side of the building and away from the doorway. He placed his back against the wall and brought his Uzi forward, gazing through the room. Women were still running to the far end of the building. Dust and sparks filled the air from the massive weapons assault. He saw two of his men on the ground, likely dead, riddled with bullet holes. Others were crouched down, weapons drawn, looking over to him for guidance. His mind raced. To follow the women out the front seemed the easy solution and also provided the advantage of cover. He and his remaining team could race inside that crowd and seek to escape in the chaos, perhaps commandeering one of their vehicles and heading straight for the safe house.

He rejected that strategy immediately. He knew if he were leading the assault from outside, this would be the obvious response, and Jordan could expect a welcoming gunfire spray should he take that route. Less obvious would be to face head-on the devastating firepower that had just wreaked havoc in the building. He motioned to the back door. His men did not hesitate, he was proud to see. They moved forward with bursts of speed and crouched on either side of the doorway. The firing had stopped. The targets were out of sight, and no doubt an ambush was being readied at the front of the building. Jordan prepared to give the signal to rush through the door.

Suddenly, a man toting a submachine gun darted through the doorway, weapon aimed over the heads of those who crouched low to the ground. The man scanned the room as an operative to his left rolled onto his back into the line of sight of the door, less than a foot in front of the man, and opened fire from the floor. Three shots struck the man in the chest; he staggered backward in retreat and fell onto the ground outside the building. Jordan and his team then leapt through the doorway, weapons firing.

Shots rained around them. Several gunmen had taken cover behind vehicles parked directly in front of the entrance. Another trap, and his men paid a high price. They had the disadvantage in position but the advantage in skill. Jordan sprayed fire with his Uzi toward three gunmen behind one of the cars. Each fell back, one wounded and disoriented, spinning around and firing rounds into the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a figure and sensed a hostile intent. He dove to the ground for cover, feeling at that moment a sharp, searing pain in his right leg as the sound of a gun blast reached his ears. He looked down and saw blood darkening in crimson the white of his robes. Behind him he heard a laugh.

“You stupid man,” screamed Kharitonov, standing near the entrance with a pistol in his hand. “You think I have no way to send message?” Jordan tried to spin around to aim the Uzi, but his right leg was badly wounded, and he knew he would not make it in time as the Russian raised his weapon and fired. Jordan's shoulder exploded in pain as he twisted sideways. He was still conscious, however, and turned around in time to see Kharitonov arch his back as red bursts exploded out of his abdomen. The Russian dropped immediately to his knees, cradling his stomach and rolling over. The CIA operative who had shot him was then pinned by submachine gunfire against the wall of the building, shaking violently as multiple bullets wrecked his body. All Jordan's men were now down.

He grabbed the Uzi with his left arm and fired on the last of the men behind the cars. His aim was poor, but the Uzi made up in spray for what it lacked in precision. The man fell backward, moaning, crawled several feet, then did not move.

Jordan guessed he had less than a minute. The noise must have alerted the team placed at the front of the building, and they would be racing back at this moment. The bullet-ridden car of the dealer's hit men was less than twenty feet away from his current position. He raised himself to his feet using all his strength and willpower, the pain in his leg flaring bright like a nova in his mind, eclipsing that of his shoulder as he staggered toward the vehicle. It seemed to sway and tilt as he moved, and Jordan hoped he could cross this distance and remain conscious. He turned toward the other two cars and opened fire on them, the tires rupturing.

Reaching the open door, he dropped his weapon, stepped over a dead body, and clasped the frame with his hands, pulling himself around and into the driver's seat. He grimaced, realizing that his right leg was useless. He grasped it with his left hand and screamed in pain as he awkwardly shoved his right foot over into the floorboard of the passenger side.

He was lucky it was an automatic. He turned the ignition and the car started. Using his left foot on the brake, he closed the door and shifted into reverse, then gunned the car backward, smashing closed the door of another car and, after about thirty feet, turning the wheel sharply to the left. The car spun around, and he shifted into forward gear and hammered the accelerator. Shots shattered the rear window, but he was not hit, and within seconds, he was shielded by parked cars and other buildings on the left side.

With his left hand steering, he pulled out toward the highway. Blood covered his clothing, the steering wheel, the seats, and the gear shift. Jordan knew that he was losing blood quickly and would not be able to stay conscious for long. He also knew that men were soon likely to be following him. The safe house was where? His mind blanked, his memory blurry and threatening to fail him.

The backpack. He froze, remembering nothing of taking it or what had become of it. He glanced around the front seat of the car and breathed in relief. Somehow he had carried it looped over his left shoulder, and it was wedged in the car against the door. He had the records. The records that would show them the trail to those who had purchased the S-47, their only lead, their only hope to discover the identity of this new terrorist group. He tried to focus. The data in the backpack. It was everything.

Now he had only to reach the safe house before he was run down or bled to death on the highways of Dubai.

31

In New York, a crowd circled a large flat-screen monitor hanging from a wall in Larry Kanter's division. The news station played over and over the footage of the collapse of the Martyrs Monument, narrated by a quickly assembled expert commentary to put the significance in context for the American viewer. All watched in silence, memories of nearby towers falling close in their thoughts. The video was grainy and shook in a jarring fashion, shot from a tourist's handheld device, and yet all the more powerful for it. The footage cut from the tower collapse to the afternoon rescue efforts at the Great Mosque and around the monument. People who appeared to have been bathed in ash shuffled past the camera. Some fell to their knees with arms outstretched, crying up to the heavens. Bodies could be seen lining the roadway.

“Dear God,” said Kanter to the hushed room.

“It's them,” said Cohen flatly, not taking her eyes off the scene. Tears welled in her eyes. “I don't think there can be any doubt anymore.”

“Yes,” said Savas. “Same MO.”

“Yeah, I'd say,” said Miller. “Blow the shit out of some important Muslim building and leave bodies all over the place.”

Kanter let their argument pass.

“Someone's got to stop this, Larry,” said Rideout. “These are major, major hits, one after the other in a span of months. There's never been anything like this before. Al-Qaeda at their best needed years between each major terrorist attack. These guys are like fucking commandos or something.”

Kanter shook his head. “It's unprecedented.” The screen showed the wounded being loaded on stretchers, or, more commonly, carried by hand. The footage turned to showing angry crowds filling the streets in Algiers, chanting “Death to the infidels.”

“This will turn into World War Three if it keeps going,” said Savas.

Kanter turned to face his division members. “OK, everyone. If we all needed any reminders about what we're up against, or why we get up every morning, well,” he said, pointing back to the screen, “it's right up there for you to see in full color. Now, I want to call…”

He was interrupted by the sound of a woman shouting his name. Everyone turned to see Mira Vujanac running across the room, dodging personnel and desks in her black pumps. Breathless, she stopped near Kanter and Savas.

“Larry, I'm sorry,” she gasped. Seeming to recognize herself again, she straightened her blouse and hair quickly. “It's Agent Jordan. The CIA just phoned me. Their base in Dubai left a message. He's critically injured, shot up pretty bad. They don't know if he will survive. He is being flown to an army hospital in Germany.” She paused and caught her breath. “They also said he got the records.”

“Mira, come with me to my office. Everyone, back to your groups and back to work. Intel teams, we'll update you as soon as we can on this.” He took Mira's arm and led her toward his office.

King looked over at Savas. “What the hell did he get into?”

Savas could only shake his head.

“I hope he's alright,” said Cohen. Savas turned to her and saw the real anxiety in her eyes. He realized with some annoyance that he shared her concern.

“He's being taken to some of the best military doctors around. He'll be in good hands.”

Angel Lightfoote swept beside them and stopped as Savas finished. She turned her head slightly toward him and said in a distracted tone, “He's closer to God now. Much closer.”

With that, she turned and walked off toward her desk.

32

Late that evening, Savas was trapped in thought. Rain was pouring against the windows of his office, the darkness outside nearly impenetrable to the eye. As the night drew on, a weight increasingly settled on him, one he could not simply dismiss as related to the cloud fronts rolling in, plunging the city into blackness hours before sunset. The offices were emptied, and he felt a loneliness descend that he had not felt in some time. There were just too many reminders, too many conflicts stirring long-constrained emotions within him.

Jordan's heroics, his very existence, was like a stone kicked off a ledge, leading to an avalanche below. He triggered so many clashing thoughts in Savas's mind that it forced him inward, toward his own demons, monsters he had thrown into a pit and covered but that now stirred inside. My own private Tartarus.

He wanted to hate this man. He did hate this man in many ways. He could not wrap his mind around how an American citizen could embrace a religion whose practitioners around the world likened his nation to the Devil, burned American symbols, and supported and carried out murder against its citizens. Yet, here he was, this Muslim CIA agent, having risked his life on a lead. It was like an immovable object of prejudice was meeting the unstoppable force of a real man's character. In the middle of it was Savas's dead son Thanos and what had happened at the World Trade Center.

The rain worked in earnest against the windows of his office, like some maniacal typist drumming incessantly in the night. Savas opened a desk drawer and pulled out a fraying envelope. He opened its contents. Addressed to Thanos Savas from the NYPD — his letter of acceptance to the force. Savas was not sure who was more proud the day that letter arrived — him or his son. Not one year later, he was sitting next to his ashen-faced wife at the memorial service. He felt his eyes well up with tears.

A soft knock sounded on his door. His lights were off, the lightning like a strobe light flashing through his room. He got up awkwardly, rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, and stepped over to the cracked door.

It was Cohen. In the darkness he could not be sure whether she had seen his face, seen the pain etched across his features, but her expression told him that if she had not, she was clairvoyant. “John, are you OK?” she asked.

“Yes, Rebecca. Just tired is all,” he said with difficulty. Crazily, he felt his defenses dissolving, and his emotions, rather than demanding to be further suppressed, were raging all the more to be freed. “Not feeling well. I think I'll head home.”

Astonishingly, she placed her fingers to his mouth. Her soft skin brushed his lips, and a shudder ran through his body. He felt like a great wave was rising from the sea, and there was no place to flee from it. With her other hand, she took off her glasses and laid them on a shelf. Looking into her eyes, he saw what seemed to be an endless sea of compassion, focused on him, and it took all his strength to hold back the tears that wished to pour out. He could smell her breath, the scent of her body, its warmth like fingers stroking his skin. Her hair curled over her shoulders, spilling across her chest as she cupped his cheek in her hand and brought his lips to hers. For an instant, it was as if a creature, long split in two and languishing incomplete for an eon, had found its other half. He felt a life force rush through him, a force more than his life or her life alone. A force that promised magic and miracles.

John Savas pulled back, stumbling backward. Cohen looked into his eyes, her own eyes wide and concerned yet filled with longing. He grabbed his coat off the hook on his door and brushed past her, rushing down the corridor. “John, please!” she called out behind him, but he did not turn or respond as he cut past the elevators to the stairway and sprinted recklessly down the steps. When he reached the ground floor, his chest heaving, out of breath, he opened the door and stepped into the alley behind the FBI building. Rain rushed down over him, and he lifted his face to the skies to receive it.

The icon of Saint Nicholas glittered, reflecting the candle flames that lit it from below. A thousand shards of light from hand-placed mosaic pieces, each no bigger than the nails on John Savas's fingers, glinted in the smoky darkness. Each stone was a different color and had been collected by monks and shipped across the seas to churches during the Greek Diaspora: deep reds and blues, turquoise, magenta, gold-plated stones of yellow, white marble. Shaped and placed, up close resembling a pixilated image on a computer screen, merging from a distance into a unified whole. A window to the soul.

Father Timothy sat across from him, troubled yet purposeful. His eyes were like the mosaic stones reflecting the dancing candlelight, and his face was lit harshly by the flashes of lightning outside.

“John, I'm not going to quote to you verses on loving your enemies or forgiving your brother seventy times seven. You've read them or heard them so many times that you can't listen to them. But there is one thing I know, and that is that hatred eats at us from within, and if we let it take root, it will slowly burn away at everything we are, and the life-blood of our soul, our ability to love, will die. You have carried a hatred within you for too long. Inside, you know this; you can feel it. You are being asked now to make a choice, John, between taking your life and turning it into a sword, or letting the pain flow through you, so that from that place inside, a stronger love will be born.”

John Savas lowered his head to stare at the floor between his feet. He could not accept a sermon; no words would touch the place within him that burned. He knew the priest was right about something; he did burn, and choices were being asked of him. He wondered whether it wasn't, after all, about a choice between love and hate, as simple as it sounded. Tonight, he had turned his back on a woman who had opened herself in vulnerability to him, even for a short moment. It was the most beautiful moment he had known in many years, and yet the fire inside of him would not let him embrace it or accept her love and return it with his own. The fire demanded something different, something harder, where tears did not flow, where vengeance ruled. He felt the church walls closing in on him; felt that God Himself was probing with a scalpel, reaching out from the burning eyes of Saint Nicholas before him. Savas stood up, surprising the priest in the middle of a sentence that he had not heard, apologized, and quickly stepped through the church and into the rain.

The downpour seemed to have only intensified. He walked through the pelting drops and slumped into his car. Ten minutes later, he was standing at the entrance of his apartment building, the rain so thick he could barely see five feet in front of him. Water pooled in his shoes, seeping into every surface of his body. The sound of a car door closing was muffled in the storm. He pulled out his keys, fitting them to the lock, then turning to the side at the sound of approaching footsteps. The light above the door spilled directly over him, and he could see only partially into the shadows on his left. Squinting, he saw a dark form approach, and he tensed instinctively, expecting the worse.

She was as wet as he was, her brown hair turned black by the pouring water and the darkness of the night. Her clothing was completely soaked, her white shirt transparent, revealing the pink of her skin, the swell of her breasts taut against the rain-washed fabric. Even in the rain, he saw that she had tears in her eyes, and she stepped up to him with a sharp desperation cut into her face.

“Rebecca, please, you didn't—” and once again she placed her hand to his mouth to silence him.

“John, please. I shouldn't have come here, I know. But so much has happened, such madness. Let me speak, before I lose the courage. I know you have suffered, and you have tried to find your way back from this suffering. I've watched you, from the first day I came to the Bureau. I watched you try to turn your pain into something good. I've waited for you, John, at first only as a dream, and then with the growing realization that you wanted me, too. I tried to give you your time, but I am built of flesh and blood and needs, too, John. I have my own pains,” she spoke, choking back tears. “I can't wait anymore. Tonight I am here for you to make a choice. To choose me, all of me and what I offer you, good and bad, or find your own way in this world without me. I need to offer you my heart, John, to reject it or to take it. I've loved you for too long and for too many lonely days and nights.” She stood inches from his face, her eyelashes wet with droplets of rain. “I love you, John Savas. Will you love me?”

Savas felt her cut through him like a warm blade. In that instant, he understood what was being offered to him, and from deep within, he answered, without hesitation, with his whole heart. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and with his other hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her to him.

They embraced. The water poured over and between them, and he held her so tight he could feel her breath escape through her lips. For a short moment, everything that he had built around him seemed to collapse, and his shoulders shook from the muffled sobs he tried to suppress.

They kissed. With the thunder reverberating around them, they kissed deeply like two starved things, oblivious to the storm's rage, knowing a personal shelter, a space protected from all that assailed them from without. Entwined, hands exploring, lips uncovering, breath in gasps, in pain and in ecstasy, with joy and sorrow, swirling wildly in the evening gusts.

33

John Savas awoke to sunlight and a cool breeze blowing in through an open window. He lay on his back; Rebecca's head nestled into his chest, her arm draped over his right shoulder. Her breathing was soft, a rising and falling cadence that stirred him deeply. He raised himself slowly, carefully, afraid to wake her. He wanted to see her face, see that haunting beauty that he now let himself admit he had desired and fought against for years, see it as she slept and in the morning's fresh light.

“Finally awake?” she said, one eye half open like a cat, a playful smile on her face. She rolled off his chest and snuggled into the pillow behind her. He rolled onto his stomach toward her, gazing up into her brandy eyes.

“Yeah, getting old, I'm afraid.”

Savas looked at her face, beautiful, and sad, a distant look in her eyes. He thought back over the years and realized that he had been blind to so much. Blinded, he corrected himself. Consumed.

Cohen turned and tried to laugh. “Now, if you were rich, my inner shadchan would be pleased, but I have to quiet her, as things stand.”

“Shadchan?” he asked.

“Jewish matchmaker. Think Yente from Fiddler on the Roof.”

“Ah, OK.”

“But in the real world, it's just my dad now. I think he'd be happy that I'm interested in any biped with a Y chromosome. Even you.”

Savas smiled. “Thanks. Breakfast? I might have something you can stand to eat.”

She smiled. “A coffee would be great, actually.”

Savas grabbed a shirt, slipped it on, and went into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rebecca climbing out of bed. He pushed the button, the clashing sound of beans on metal filled the apartment, and the fresh smell of ground coffee struck him as it always did in the morning. Smells better than it tastes, he thought once again. He caught another glimpse of her in the bed. By that point, she had started combing out her hair. I could just watch her all day.

She left the comb on the dresser and walked over to the kitchen. The gurgling of the coffeepot was loud now; the pot filled with warm brew. She put her hands on his shoulders. Standing five-foot-five, she was nearly half a head shorter than he was, and as she kissed him, she rose up on her toes.

“Good morning,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.”

“It's the best morning I've had in a long time, Rebecca. I mean that.”

She squeezed his hand, and he embraced her. For several moments he held her close to him. “So,” she said, stepping back, “how's that coffee?”

“It's ready.” Savas grabbed two cups, quickly checked them to make sure they would pass some minimal health inspection, and, satisfied, filled each about three-quarters. “How do you take yours?”

“Black,” she said.

“Me, too.” He smiled back at her.

“Let me see what you have in this refrigerator of yours.”

Savas thought to dissuade her of the action but changed his mind. She might as well see that, too. He sipped at his coffee and walked over to the window, gazing outside and upward to the rising sun. The light was warm, the air fresh on his face. He felt something inside of him, an emotion long forgotten, crushed by years at NYPD, banished by the loss of his son. A feeling he immediately associated with his childhood, nearly excitement, washed through him now as it had not for long decades.

But inside, another voice arose in challenge, from a darker place, a buried place, and for a moment it seemed that the light outside faded and a chill had come into the air. He knew this voice, because he had listened to it for many years now. There was anger in its cry, a hatred that refused any solace or sense of peace. Leave me alone. For today, let me be.

He placed the coffee cup on the windowsill and turned to look at Cohen, bent over, head invisible, blocked behind the refrigerator door.

“Oh, wow, John. This is worse than I thought.”

He smiled, and for the moment, the angry voice was silenced. The older feeling swelled within him: Hope. That was the feeling. Simple hope. Could it last? The thundercloud deep inside waited, and he knew it would not be denied. He ignored it. For one day at least, he would remember what it was to hope.

34

Traffic on the FDR northbound was unusually bad. It was a constant stop-and-go, intermittent motion turning quickly into what looked like a frozen river of vehicles. Tugboats on the East River pushing box-laden barges overtook them on the right. A cabbie darted left directly in front of Savas, pushing his way into the middle lane and forcing him either to slow down or to plow into the yellow car. He felt the symptoms of road rage coming to the surface, but with Cohen riding shotgun, he sighed and let the taxi have its pointless lane change.

After nearly forty-five minutes, they reached the Sixty-Second Street exit and pulled off under the FDR, past a gas station, and onto York Avenue. They found a parking garage on Sixty-Third Street, then walked the five blocks to New York Hospital. Passing the small green oasis of Rockefeller University on the right, the pair turned down Sixty-Eighth Street toward the hospital. Within ten minutes, they were in a recovery room staring down at Husaam Jordan.

Savas's first thought was that he looked well. He had clearly lost some weight from his once hyper-muscular frame, and his right leg and shoulder were still bandaged, but he was alert. His eyes were bright, and he was reading a set of newspapers draped over his legs. As they walked in, he looked up and smiled. His basso profundo boomed throughout the small room.

“John. Rebecca,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Here to rescue me?”

Cohen smiled. Savas just shook his head. “Agent Jordan, from what I've heard, you do a good enough job of that sort of thing yourself.”

“‘Good enough’ is a relative term.” His smile faded. “It was not good enough for the men I took with me. Good men, who have served this nation well.” Jordan gestured to his arm and shoulder with his left hand. “More personally, it was not enough from the point of view of my leg and arm. They have been reminding me of this frequently.”

“I've heard that you will be released soon,” Cohen said.

“Yes, next week if I have anything to do with it. I have a very aggressive rehabilitation program planned, and I can't wait to start.”

A nurse dashed into the room and took the lunch tray he had cast to the side. “Well, you won't be doing anything aggressive as long as you are on my floor,” she scolded, giving him a disapproving glare. She looked over at the two visitors. “He's been nothing but trouble since he got here.”

Savas suppressed a laugh. “Yes, well, ma'am, he's been a load of trouble for a bunch of folks. But I think his heart is in the right place.”

Jordan looked directly at Savas, who returned his gaze. It was the closest he felt he'd ever get to admitting that he had changed his mind about the man. The nurse just grunted and took the tray out of the room.

Jordan changed the subject. “So, I hope you have brought me some news finally. After two surgeries, three hospitals, and a week under sedation, I'm trying to figure out where the world is again.” He held up a newspaper that showed schematics of the Martyrs Monument and an analysis of how it had collapsed. “I don't suppose our friends from Valhalla have blown anything else up?”

Savas shook his head. “Thank goodness, no, although given what's happened so far, we're all waiting for this month's attack.”

“Yes, so am I,” said Jordan.

“So is the rest of the world,” interjected Cohen. “The president has called a special meeting with representatives from the Arab League at Camp David. The Muslim world from Africa to the Middle East to Southeast Asia is in chaos. Conspiracy theories abound.”

“Has anyone warmed to your crazy theory?” Jordan asked.

Savas shook his head. “No. But the CIA death squad idea is slowly dying. They've rounded up most of those who participated. You can count on one hand those remaining.”

“Certainly they can begin to see the pattern? The similarities in the assassinations and the bombings?”

Cohen laughed. “Our governmental agencies might not, but the Muslim world sees the connection. They are blaming the Western nations. Prominent leaders in the major oil-producing nations are calling for an embargo unless this terrorist group is found and caught. OPEC has signaled that it is considering several of these ideas. The world financial markets are in complete turmoil.”

Jordan smiled. “Well, I guess I'll be trading in my Hummer for a Chevy Volt.”

Savas smiled as well, but Cohen frowned. “It's not just about gas. Few people realize how completely dependent modern society is on oil. Did you know that, at minimum, four out of every five calories we eat come from petroleum?”

Uh-oh, thought Savas, she's in Berkeley mode.

Cohen did not disappoint, launching into a lecture about the fragility of the modern fossil fuel economy. It amused him to see her take on the airs of a college protest leader. But her passion was always real, and he had learned to never challenge her facts. He also had to admit that she often had a lot to teach him.

Savas was curious. “What's food got to do with oil?”

Cohen sighed. “Food is oil, John. At least in this day and age. We have to plow the land to plant, water our crops, fertilize the ground, harvest the crops, process the food, and package and distribute it all over the country. Oil's the primary energy source for all of this. It's the basis for the entire modern world. Now the US and Europe are scrambling to ensure an uninterrupted flow of oil. China and Russia are turning paranoid fast about this.”

Savas nodded. “That's for sure. I've already heard talk about using military force to secure our supplies. We're still the biggest kid on the block, but things have changed.”

Cohen looked at Jordan. “This is quickly becoming one of the most dangerous situations in international relations in a long time.”

Jordan whistled. “So what are you two doing here visiting me? Don't you have some important work or meetings to be getting to downtown?”

Savas nodded. “Well, we did, but Rebecca insisted we come.”

“I know your wife and sons were here, but I thought that it was shameful that no one from the FBI had visited a hero after his return home,” she said with a smile.

Jordan bowed his head. “A noble woman, John. Don't you forget that,” he said, and Savas wondered if it meant more than it seemed on the surface.

“We have a big meeting with the CIA tomorrow,” Savas spoke over his own thoughts. “They will present to us the analysis of the shipping records you obtained in Dubai and Sharjah. I'm hoping something useful will come of that.”

Jordan gestured again to his wounded limbs. “You aren't the only one.”

Savas was silent on the drive back from the hospital. As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, the falling night in front of them was offset by the skyline of Manhattan behind them, a view always particularly spectacular when driving the opposite direction on the bridge. They were headed to a Greek seafood place he knew in Astoria, but he could not relax for an evening out. Too many things were burning in his mind as he drove. How came to be this man, Husaam Jordan, who practiced, even celebrated a religion that had spawned such hatred and monstrosities? How could any of them stop this new diabolic force that was shattering lives and peace across the globe before the stability of the world itself was threatened?

Not realizing what he was doing, Savas found himself taking the well-known streets in Astoria, but not in the direction of the restaurant. Instead, his car weaved its way to park beside the dome of the Church of the Holy Trinity. He stopped the vehicle and shut off the engine.

“We're walking from here?” Cohen asked.

“I thought we'd make a quick pit stop to see someone first, if it's OK.”

She looked over at him quizzically. “OK, who's that?”

Savas sighed. “Thought I'd see that priest I told you about. Father Timothy. You know, the one I almost shot during church service,” he said dryly.

Cohen stared at him seriously. “OK, John. I'd like to meet him. Anyone who can welcome you back after that is worth meeting.”

He laughed so hard he thought he might break a rib. “Yes, I suppose. He's the only one of the congregation. I tend to make secretive visits to this place.”

She nodded. “I can see why.”

They stepped out of the car, and Cohen followed him toward the church and up the stairs. Inside, it was mostly dark, the shadows deep in the dim candlelight. Holding her hand, Savas led Cohen through the church. It was completely empty and silent. She gazed with interest at the large mosaics of saints and biblical stories spread across the walls. As they passed the icon of Saint Nicholas, Savas whispered, “Santa Claus.”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling, “I'll tell you another time.”

He walked up to the left side of the iconostasis and knocked on the door. After several tries without an answer, he turned to Cohen.

“He must not be here.”

“Home?” she asked.

“Maybe. But he might be around back, in the garden. Want to go check?” She took his arm and smiled up at him. “Sure.”

He led her out of the church and down the steps again, turning toward the right and heading around the building. At the back, a fence ran around the church, perhaps eight feet high and made of metal. Apartment buildings stood on the other side of the fence. Planted at the base of the fence all the way around the church were rows of different kinds of plants — flowering bushes, grasses, even some vegetables. At a point opposite the front doors of the church, directly behind the building, lay a large stone slab with a stone cross at its tip. In front of the slab, on his knees with head bowed, was Father Timothy.

Savas stopped as soon as he saw him, hoping to turn around and not disturb the priest. But the old man had noticed them and stood up immediately, if slowly and painfully, brushing the dirt off his cassock. He looked up and smiled, walking toward them.

“Father Timothy, I didn't mean to bother you…. I can come back…” Savas began.

“Nonsense. John, good to see you,” the priest said, putting a hand on Savas's shoulder. The old priest looked toward Cohen.

“Father Timothy, this is Rebecca Cohen. She's part of my team at the FBI.”

“Pleased to meet you, Father,” she said, smiling.

“You two working so late?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, well, actually, we are done for the day, and Rebecca had heard me talk about this seafood place, Elijah's Corner, and…” He stumbled over the words.

“Well, I insisted that we go tonight to see if it's all that he bragged about,” she finished for him confidently. Savas looked gratefully toward her.

“Yes, yes. The best Greek food is in Astoria,” said the priest.

“So, I don't want to bother you…” Savas began again.

“No, no. Just praying at the grave of an old friend,” Father Timothy said. “Did you know Brother Elefterios?” Savas shook his head. “He was the priest of the church before I came here. He died nearly ten years ago. He was a monk and lived in that old shack there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.

Savas had always wondered about that small shack as a child. It hardly seemed able to keep the garden tools dry, let alone house a human being.

Father Timothy sighed. “Even after he got too old to run the church and I was brought in, he asked to continue to care for the garden. I said yes, of course. Over the years, this small old man would come out here every day, into his late eighties, tending this garden lovingly. I got to know him well, and came to miss his presence here after his death. Many times when there were problems in the world, or inside the church, I would come and speak to him. He seemed to have this stunning peacefulness about him, born out of prayer or temperament, I will never know.”

The old priest smiled sadly. “So, I still come here to speak with him. These attacks…” he shook his head. “The world seems poised to begin a terrible spiral of violence that will lead to great suffering. I talk to my old friend. I just wish I could hear him now.”

Savas and Cohen traded glances, unsure what to say. “That was why I came, Father. All this has been weighing on me, too. I wanted to ask you to pray for us, for what we are doing.”

“John, if you are trying to bring an end to this growing madness, you have my prayers, certainly. But more importantly, I think I can hear the host of saints praying for all the souls of the world as well.”

35

On the highest floor of a tower of glass and steel, a man gazed through a large window. His partial reflection displayed a tall and lean form, with pressed gray hair and sharp-rimmed glasses, peering over the sprawling city below him.

Contrasting with the open expanse through the glass pane, where a step would drop him hundreds of feet to the concrete below, he sensed behind him the solidity of his grand office. It was the size of a tennis court, decorated and trimmed with the best that was to be had. Like an anchor, the presence of his enormous cherry-wood desk rooted him inside the room, its bulk framed by the solid sheet of glass revealing the heart of the city.

He pulled on the cuff of his expensive suit, glancing at a timepiece of Swiss manufacture. With mild annoyance, he returned his arms behind his back, clasping them tightly, military-style. The lights were off in his office; he required time for contemplation. Staring into the sky, he counted more than twenty planes in the air at once, small dots like yellow stars moving across the night sky over the three local airspaces. The city appeared like some pharaoh's tomb decorated in one hundred thousand jewels of light, the bridges as streaming necklaces across the waters.

His computer blinked and issued an alert tone. He turned around and stared at it. The screen displayed a security code algorithm, establishing an untraceable connection. Events were moving forward. He took several steps toward his desk and sat in his chair. He pressed ENTER and waited. The image of a chiseled face filled the screen, blond hair and crew cut etched like stone into the LCD.

“Connection is secure, sir,” said the blond man.

“You're late, Rout,” snapped the older man.

“I was delayed.”

“You are ready to proceed, I assume?”

“Yes, sir. Phase One was maximally successful. All targets were destroyed without compromise of personnel or mission. World media and governments have reacted in a panic, and this has had the intended effect. Training for the next several missions has nearly been completed, and all resources and elements are in place. We await your word on this.”

“Investigations?”

“There are too many to name or for us to keep track of. Notable are CIA, FBI, MI6, SIS, European groups — China, you may be interested to know, along with Russia and some others. Everyone is scared shitless, and it's not clear if it's the Arabs, or the Western governments that need them, who are more worried. This is threatening to blow up into a real international situation.”

“Then let us pour gasoline on this small fire we've kindled. Proceed to Phase Two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finally, the broken arrow in our quiver. We need to make sure there are no connections to us, no way to surmise how we plan to end this. He has gone his own way for too long now.”

Rout stared coldly into the screen, no movement of flesh betraying his inner thoughts. “He will be missed, sir. He was a real soldier.”

The gray-haired man nodded imperceptibly. “It is a link that must be cut. We cannot afford to leave any bridges intact behind us.”

“Understood, sir. I'll see to this one myself.”

“As you see fit. We have to make hard choices, Patrick. Good-bye.”

The man broke the secure connection, and the screen went dark. He pressed his fingertips together and rotated his chair around to face the skyline once more. Clouds had moved in slowly from the west, and the orange-light pollution from streetlamps seeped upward, giving them a slightly hideous color, like sick flames descending.

It was appropriate, he thought. Ragnarök is coming.

36

The morning broke with the last clouds from the evening storm trailing out to sea. The sun rose, slicing through them to give a multifaceted spray of red and orange rays across the sky and water. Philip Jeffrey rolled up the mooring rope and pulled on the halyard, raising the mainsail. The white sheet climbed slowly, and he trimmed the sail to catch the wind, filling and driving the boat forward as the airfoil and dagger boards combined to produce the force of motion. He was quickly under way, as the sun reared powerfully over the cloud line and sprayed its now golden radiance over the harbor.

Jeffrey smiled as the spray of water caught him unprepared. Thank God I bought this boat. The irony was that he thought he'd never have time to use it. That was before Liam had called him one fateful night in 2003. He shook his head. Liam's nickname had come from his Irish mother, even though he resembled in appearance and character his father, a Swede; an immigrant family whose son had done more than well.

They had gone way back, to some of the early days of Liam's rise in business, when he still controlled half of the defense contracts for the air force in one way or the other. It was more than just a profitable business relationship — the money to Liam, the promotions to Jeffrey — but a friendship had developed, based on a mutual connection that was rare for men of their ambition. How many nights along the Sound had he entertained Liam and Judy on his older vessel? And the long cruises to the Virgin Islands — those had been special times.

Then a Tuesday in September 2001 had changed everything. Nineteen terrorists flew two planes into the World Trade Towers and brought those buildings down. Everyone changed after that day, but some more than others. Liam became estranged. He had stopped calling and had hardly spoken to him at the memorial service. Rumors circled that he was retiring or had suffered a nervous breakdown. Jeffrey could only guess. After nearly a year and a half of silence, he had begun to wonder whether the pain of that loss had forever separated him from his friend.

But a phone call in late February changed all that. Liam had called and asked to visit Jeffrey at his beach house on Long Island. Like old times. But the Liam that appeared the next weekend was a creature different from the man he had known before. This was a man with a fire lit within that made his previous ambition to succeed seem a faint light. Liam spoke passionately that evening about the world, the evils of nations, and our need to fight, of not using the outdated strategies of the past. He scoffed at conventional war and diplomacy, convinced that radical efforts were demanded.

And Philip Jeffrey had been converted.

Truth be told, he was never a good fit at the Pentagon. His hard-line beliefs about the changing nature of conflict, so in harmony with Liam's own, did not buy him popularity within the changing power structure in Washington. The neocons had such a naive faith in technology! Jeffrey knew that it was men's hearts, as much as their weapons, that dictated the course of battle. What he and Liam saw brewing in the world was a conflict of men more than machines.

“Patrick believes he can lead the final mission, Philip. I think he may be right.”

Jeffrey winced at hearing that voice again. The man haunted him, the force of his personality like some apparition scarring his memory. But he knew better than to fight it. It would have its due. For all that Jeffrey knew, all that he had done, his mind needed to wrestle with what had happened. His soul could find little peace.

“This will take some doing.”

“Yes, it will, Philip,” Liam said, rising and lifting a small object from his desk. He passed it between his hands, the metal glinting in the soft light. “Are you ready to put this in motion?”

“This will not be so easy, my friend. And in the end, my career, a long and honorable one, might I add, will be destroyed.”

Jeffrey closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his face, salt spray crusting his skin. He lost himself in time.

“Do you doubt our plans?”

Jeffrey laughed briefly. “No, of course not. The top brass have all checked their minds at the door of the Pentagon, anyway. I don't belong anymore. Any day now they will give that fool Texan his war.”

Liam straightened quickly, then took the metal object and hurled it against the wall. It struck the paneling and entered, splintering the wood and lodging deep like an arrow.

“We have a blind cowboy for a president!” he spat. “A puppet advised by slow-minded and greedy fools. They cannot even focus on the abomination that orchestrated these acts of murder! They chase and they chase after dreams inspired by their politics. And miss the larger target! The heart of evil of which this diabetic coward is only one foul seed.” He walked over to the wall, grabbed the object, and pried it free with a single, swift tug. “No, my friend, we will not aim so low as that.”

Liam's eyes burned into Jeffrey's mind. His words seem to reverberate and echo. “It is said one must beware the vengeance of a patient man. Philip, we will be very patient. Our organization will be hidden, slowly established in every major target nation on earth — no matter how difficult to penetrate. Only when we are ready, when we have trained an elite force, acquired the weapons and tactics we require, and developed our plan thoroughly, will we strike. And by then, it will be almost impossible to stop us. Then blood will be had for blood, and more. Then fire will rain from the skies.”

Jeffrey stared grimly forward. “Yes, and like Prometheus, I will bring you that fire. Hell, my liver's shot anyway. I'm ready, Liam. You will need patience. This will take time. But it will be done. You know my beliefs.”

Liam nodded and returned to his desk, placing the metal object back on its stand. The light glittered off the glass bottom, serving to highlight the metallic arms on which the object rested. The arms came together at the top, forming a cup-like loop, from which the thinner end of the object hung. The metal of the tip thickened from the stem to a much wider girth near the end of the shape, flattening, forming a sharp point in an otherwise flat surface. Carved into the face of the metal was the head of a raven. Jeffrey looked at the object and felt vaguely troubled. From this angle, it did indeed resemble a hammer.

A seagull's cry startled him, and he broke out of his reverie.

“I'll never be free of you, Liam,” he spoke to the depths of the sea.

Liam's proposal was audacious, insane, and brilliant. Jeffrey was swept up by it and terrified at the same time. But when his old friend left, he knew that he would help fulfill that plan. He had engineered his transfer to Ward County, North Dakota—North Dakota! Minot Air Force Base was the perfect seat of operations for what he needed to do. For four years he worked to engineer one of the greatest betrayals in the history of the United States. A betrayal of the country he had fought for, and would die for, because to save it from itself, from its foolish citizens and leaders, drastic action must be taken. And he had pulled it off, an act that had cost him his job and his honor in the military community. Now he was a disgrace, the truth of his crimes hidden from the public. Were Jeffrey in medieval Japan, he would cast himself on his sword.

Instead, he sailed. At sea, the land faded and the world of men became something that seemed almost small. When the waves rolled on and on to the edge of sight, it was almost possible to forget the shame, and perhaps even the guilt, for what was done, and what was to come. Every great action extracts a terrible price. On the waters of the Atlantic, Philip Jeffrey was sailing to find his soul.

The wind was a strong ten knots north by northwest. He tacked his course northward, seeking the middle of the Long Island Sound. The July sun was already beginning to warm the boat and his skin considerably. Damn the melanoma, he thought and steered his course.

Behind him rose a disturbance in the peace he had found at sea, and he turned toward the sound. A boat could be seen at some distance, closing in on him quickly. It was odd. Powerboats didn't usually come out this far, and rarely had he seen one moving at such high speed. As the boat approached, he could see it wasn't the coast guard but what looked like a dock-bound party boat, right down to the tinted windows. Whoever was piloting the thing was reckless as hell. While he couldn't imagine that his good-sized catamaran was not visible to the other boater, he wasn't taking any chances. He went into the spacious cabin and sat down at the two-way radio, powering up to contact the other skipper. The radio was malfunctioning, issuing only static. Odd. He had checked it only last night. After several minutes of fiddling with the knobs, he gave up. Electronics were not his strong suit.

The sound of the other engine was now very loud, and, as he exited the cabin, he could see the boat slow down and approach the left side of his own boat, matching course and speed, much too close for comfort. A figure could be seen standing on the starboard deck, grasping something in his hands. What in the world is he up to?

The sounds of automatic fire erupted from the motorboat. Philip Jeffrey arched back, his face in shock, his chest and neck exploding in bursts of clothing and crimson. He fell backward, close to the cockpit, hitting the wheel and causing the boat to lurch. The powerboat pulled aside as the catamaran turned sharply into the wind and the sails began to luff. Jeffrey lay in a growing pool of his own blood, grasping at the railings. A searing pain across his midsection, chest, and neck clouded his vision, and he slipped and struck hard against the deck.

Time streamed at the surreal pace of a dream. Sensations were confused, as if he were cast into the sea itself, drowning and sinking, unable to stop falling. After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes and found himself clutching the railing, the open sea beneath him. He realized that the boat was no longer moving. Fighting against weakness and a terrible nausea, he turned over on his back. The sky was a bright-blue now, the sun sweltering, and he squinted at its light. For a moment, the light was blocked, and Jeffrey saw a shape above him, broad shoulders and a head in the way of the sun. The figure raised his arm, pointing a dark object at Jeffrey's head. A gunshot rang out over the open sea.

The gray-haired man tapped his keyboard, and the screen in front of him went dark. He swiveled around in his chair and faced the window and the city once more. There were choices to be made, and only some were able to make them. With those choices came sacrifices. In the end, that was how wars were won.

“Good-bye, my friend,” he whispered to the darkness.

37

The rising sun cast a light that seemed harsh and unforgiving. The three agents were exhausted. Coffee mugs and scattered boxes of Chinese food and donuts littered the desktop. Hernandez brushed his long hair out of his face to better see the screen. Savas thought his computer whiz looked like a particularly disheveled tumbleweed after a windstorm. Cohen rested her head on her hands, her mouth pursed.

The eyes he saw reflected in the screen told a different story. Dark circles and bags hung under them, yet each pair burned with the intensity of a hunter on the chase, catching the scent of prey. Their bodies were slung at angles showing fatigue, but they willed their minds into focus after an elusive target that was for the first time coming into view.

“I'll be damned,” said Savas.

Hernandez whistled. “Yeah, man, crazy shit. I thought it was too much that those records connected the dealers to GI, but this…” He chuckled. “Husaam hit the jackpot.”

Cohen nodded. “I'd say we now have motive with the means and opportunity.”

Savas agreed. “One hell of a motive. I didn't think it would be like this. You two did some good work digging this out.”

“So, what do we do now?” asked Cohen.

Savas straightened up and sighed. “It's time to bring this to Larry.”

“He's got a big powwow with the CIA this morning, dude,” said Manuel.

“I know. All the better.” Savas stood up, still staring at the photograph of a woman on the computer screen. “This changes everything.”

“John, what's going on? I'm in the middle of a meeting!”

Kanter stood up from his desk with a look of intense displeasure on his face. Across from him sat Richard Michelson, the lanky and pale head of the CIA's Crime and Narcotics Center. At Kanter's right was Mira Vujanac, who looked startled and concerned. Next to Michelson sat a thick black man in a white robe and kufi — Husaam Jordan. Jordan seemed fatigued, sporting a sling and a cane beside him.

“Larry, this can't wait, and it's for everyone present to hear,” said Savas, casting his gaze across those gathered. He ushered in Cohen and a nervous Hernandez. Kanter let out an exasperated sigh.

“This better be important, John.”

Savas stared back. “It is. Manuel, can you pull up the data on Larry's screen?”

The wall beside Kanter was essentially one large LCD monitor. Savas knew his boss was an information junkie, constantly monitoring the work of Intel 1, especially during a crisis. He hoped to fully engage him now. Hernandez activated the touch screen, and Kanter enabled access. Soon a list of cargo manifests and other shipping records were displayed, along with photographs: a man with silver hair and a stunning woman in her late forties.

“Let me just clarify this for you,” began Savas, as the others in the room strained to decipher the details on the screen. “As you know, both of our agencies have been poring over the records obtained from the Dubai arms dealers.”

Jordan rumbled, “The CIA hasn't made very much progress.” Savas saw Michelson's face tighten. “I'm glad Mira's efforts have helped distribute those files. I was beginning to think I'd taken metal in vain.”

“No, not in vain at all. It's buried, but it's there. A clear connection. The S-47 was sold in bulk three times over the last five years. In each case, a maze of shell business and offshore bank accounts, all essentially untraceable and bearing the mark of a highly organized operation, transferred money to our recently deceased arms dealers.”

Irritably, Michelson interrupted. “Yes, this is nothing new. The CIA has identified these money-laundering fronts as well. They've buried their tracks in that labyrinth.”

Savas smiled. “Not well enough, Mr. Michelson. Guess they didn't count on anyone turning Rebecca loose on the data.”

Cohen smiled a little shyly as Savas continued. “It took some doing, but together with Manuel they found their way through the false accounts and companies. The sales are linked to something very real. Bottom line: these explosives were moved to cargo ships flying various flags, but each and every one of them was sailing under the management of Operon Shipping.”

Kanter frowned. “What's Operon?”

Savas walked to the screen beside Manuel. “That's where this case takes a big turn, Larry. Operon Shipping is a company wholly owned and managed as a subsidiary of Gunn International, the single most powerful defense contracting corporation in the world.” For emphasis he tapped his index finger next to the photo of the man on the screen.

Eyebrows across the table were raised. Everyone had heard of GI, or Gunn International. GI handled everything from weapons shipments to aircraft design, a multibillion-dollar enterprise headed by the reclusive William Gunn, a man legendary for his iron-willed governance and secrecy. Linking GI and William Gunn to the terrorist attacks was like shaking a can of nitroglycerin. The stunned expressions from everyone in the room reflected this.

“GI?” said Kanter, as much to himself as to Savas. “Wait a second. John, that's a big jump from Operon to Gunn International.”

Michelson nodded. “Based on circumstantial evidence.”

“There's more. Manuel, pull up the construction site images.”

The screen filled with satellite images of desert lands. Two photos, dated more than a year apart, were juxtaposed.

“These are images from the Nevada desert, taken of identical sites. Notice the buildup and subsequent erasure of structures?”

Kanter nodded. “Yes, and so? Why are you focusing on these? What led you to these images?”

“The phony shell companies. Once we had the link to Operon Shipping, we searched for any other activity from these entities. Turns out they outsourced several construction projects in the American Southwest, but the records are another wild goose chase. Nothing tied to anything concrete. Oh, to be sure, there's work that was done. Up pop buildings and landscaping a year or so ago, but now it's all gone. Erased. Like it never happened.”

“What the hell, then?” asked Kanter, perplexed.

“Military exercises.” It was Jordan.

Savas smiled, exchanging a glance with Cohen. The man was quick!

Michelson stared at his employee. “Military exercises?”

Jordan shifted his weight to reposition his healing leg. “What do you do before you rig international monuments with S-47? To pull those missions off — complicated, secretive missions of high precision — you have to be prepared. You have to run simulations. These people are military-level precise in what they do, and I'll bet you that they train like Special Forces as well. For all we know, most of them are ex-Special Forces troops.”

“I'll be damned,” Kanter whispered absentmindedly, staring at the images.

“What are you saying?” Michelson asked with poorly concealed irritation.

Savas turned to the CIA official. “That these ‘construction jobs’ are terrorist training sites. Like those in Afghanistan used by al-Qaeda, but right here at home, hidden in our own backyard, run by Americans, and at a far higher skill level.”

“That's crazy,” began Michelson.

Jordan decided to up the ante. “And, furthermore, funded to the hilt by none other than Gunn International. I think you'd find, if there were any trace left, which there won't be, that these construction companies were all assembled, equipped, and run by personnel from former GI subsidiaries.”

“You don't have any evidence for this!” shouted Michelson, to everyone's surprise. He paused to collect himself. “As you are all likely aware, Agent Jordan is an excellent field man, but one that I and many of his superiors feel is too often overzealous in his pursuit of action in his nation's interests. We should all step back and realize that at present, there are no ties whatsoever with Gunn International or any illegality. There is no reason to believe there would be any motive for there to be one.”

Mira cut in. “Exactly. What's the motive here? Why on earth would one of our biggest military contractors be transporting illegal explosives and training terrorists to attack Muslims?”

Savas stepped back to the board. “It turns out that there might be a motive.” The image of the striking woman grew large on the screen. Savas swallowed. He felt vertigo descend on him again. Images of falling towers and the face of his son threatened to paralyze his thought processes. Focus, damn it!

“On 9/11, an accountant with J. P. Morgan traveled to the former World Trade Center,” he stammered, finding it difficult to get the words out in a professional manner. “She was in a meeting in 1 WTC on the 102nd floor when the plane hit. She made a series of calls to a cell phone number listed to an owner in New York City, and then to the police and fire departments. Due to volume, her calls were not answered at police or fire, and the private number she called did not pick up. At approximately 10:28 a.m., the time of the North Tower collapse, all calls from that number ceased. Her name was Judith Rosenberg. She was the wife of William Gunn.”

There was a long silence.

Kanter shook his head, his expression sympathetic. “John, there are a lot of people in this city, and I'd wager at many international corporations, who lost someone they loved that day.” He looked uncomfortable saying this to Savas, but he continued. “Do they all have motive? Do you? We can't go all wild conspiracy theory here and tie rogue shipping companies to terrorist training camps for a vengeful CEO.”

Savas felt crestfallen. Kanter wasn't buying it.

“Well, I say we can,” boomed Jordan.

“Agent Jordan,” began Michelson, “we have already—”

“I say we can and should,” interrupted Jordan. “Something smells wrong here. Whoever is bankrolling this thing has the pockets of a bin Laden, and his fanaticism, too. I think GI has something important to do with this, and I think William Gunn needs to be examined more closely than he has been.”

“Nonsense!” shouted Michelson. “We are professional organizations — both the FBI and the CIA. We don't try to muscle powerful companies or individuals — companies and individuals, I should remind you, who have served their nation well and helped to protect us from these threats from abroad for years! Certainly not because of some half-baked hunch!”

Mira tugged at her diamond pendant and glanced up. “John, I don't want to be difficult, but, assuming you are right about this, where would we even start? And how? Gunn is a Howard Hughes — secretive, paranoid, and retaliatory. His ruthlessness is legendary. And GI is a giant octopus. It's like saying this case has something to do with China. How do you find a needle in that haystack, the proof you need? This haystack is a powerful force that isn't going to let itself be searched, especially if there is a chance for legal action and embarrassment.”

Hernandez, quiet until now, fired back. “We have shipping records linking GI to an international arms dealership! That's a place to start.”

“Not realistically,” said Kanter. “You have to see the legal angle, Manuel. So what if these gunrunners used an Operon ship? How much did Operon know? Was it a local smuggling problem or something broader? Nothing connects this in a way we can pursue right now, to GI or to anything else. Hell, I'm not convinced GI had anything to do with it. Do you know how many boats they run at any given time? It must be huge. If we move now, we'll just make fools of ourselves.”

Savas felt the moment slipping away. “We can at least follow up on the shipping leads! We know where these boats docked; we can try to trace the shipments from there.”

Kanter nodded. “We can certainly do that, John. Our good friends at the CIA can help us here, as this goes outside the country and our jurisdiction,” he gestured with his eyes toward Michelson and Jordan. “From that we can get names and locations, hopefully trace these things back to the buyers. This will get us closer, and, I think, provide us with harder evidence should we need to move on GI in a more serious manner. Whatever the circumstantial story you've put together,” he said, gesturing to the flat screen, “there is nothing, no reason to think GI was involved beyond being duped, and it would be impossible to take that company on without a powerful case to give us powerful warrants.”

Mira finished. “Besides, it is not as if there are many options with respect to Mr. Gunn at our disposal, as it is.”

Jordan smiled. “Sure there are. Walk up to the man and lay the cards on the table. Call him out. In that moment, you'll know from the eyes.”

Michelson sneered and laughed. “A lot of good that will do. Your antics in Dubai wrecked a decade of CIA operations and left a trail of bodies that we are still trying to smooth over with the UAE government.”

“He got the records, didn't he?” Savas found himself speaking, to his own surprise. Jordan eyed Savas, more intrigued than grateful.

Richard Michelson flashed an angry glare toward him. “Indeed he did, Agent Savas. So might have ten other plans he ignored in his anxious pursuit of the mission. The CIA is not in the habit of inducing international incidents for small gains. Nor will anyone authorize any such rash actions on American soil, I would wager.”

Savas smiled. “But the CIA doesn't have authorization on US soil, if I remember correctly.”

“No, it doesn't,” said Kanter firmly, his tone imperial. “But I do. And I say this line of discussion has gone too far.”

38

Savas paced silently in his office. They were moving through September without an incident, and the stress of wondering if another attack would hit had him exhausted. There were long hours poring over the shipping records, information on Operon and GI, William Gunn and several other executives, other CIA and FBI information. Correlating, looking for patterns. Finding curious hints but nothing solid.

Kanter had decided to take the conservative approach and continue to follow up on the shipping information. This was the rational move and would certainly lead them eventually to the buyers and the source of the explosive orders, one way or the other. It was the “eventually” that had Savas worried. How much time and how many more attacks could the international community take before something cracked? Wars were often started for the stupidest of reasons, when international tensions were high and mistakes in judgment were made. As Cohen had made very clear, oil was the lifeblood of the modern world, and if its flow was impaired, nations would respond as they felt necessary to preserve it. If things did not resolve soon, John Savas knew, there would be war.

Just thinking about Cohen, even in this context, was comforting. She had left earlier, keeping to their plan of schedule separation at work. Savas was pleased that, despite the fact that they were together nearly every night, it seemed no one had an inkling of the situation. And while it rankled him to have to hide their affection, the time wasn't right, and it was the last thing they or the group needed.

There was a knock, and he half expected to see Cohen's silhouette in the doorway. Instead, it was Larry Kanter. He looked exhausted. “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

“Sure, Larry. Have a seat.”

Kanter walked over and dropped into the chair. “This has been a real pain in the ass working with the CIA, John,” he began, tilting his head back onto the chair and staring up at the ceiling. “It's an expensive deal, in terms of how much information we get and how many years of my life are lost.”

Savas chuckled. “I'm glad it's you and not me.”

“Well, truly, pity Mira. She has to act the diplomat with that zombie Michelson nine to five. Only through men like him can bureaucracy prevail.” Kanter laughed. “Although it is a kick to watch him and Jordan have their polite disagreements. I tell you, if I were in a tight spot, I know who I'd want next to me.”

Savas listened attentively, wondering what had really brought Kanter to his office this night. He didn't pay social visits, and he didn't need to talk to the crew to unwind.

“But a man like that,” continued Kanter, “a good man, it should be noted, whatever you think, John — he can undo himself. Especially in a job like this. If he transgresses too many unspoken or, in his case, even spoken rules, he can find himself moved to the agency equivalent of Siberia, or even out of a job.”

Kanter paused and leaned forward to look at Savas. “Take, for instance, that scandal a few years ago with that guy, what was his name? Herr. Dale Herr.”

Savas felt an iced blade softly scrape up his neck. Dale Herr? The man who scandalized FBI with sex tapes with coworkers? Is this example a coincidence, or is he trying to tell me something?

“Wow, did that thing ever blow up in our faces! Taxpayer money not catching bad guys, that was for sure. Since then, it's gotten worse than having the Bureau run by nuns as far as how forgiving they are of in-house romances.” Kanter looked him in the eyes. “You know what I mean, John?”

This was no coincidence. Kanter was sending him a message, a very strong one. How did he know? Who else knew? If the Bureau knew, Kanter wouldn't be here now: some random cog would be announcing to him a formal investigation of policy violations. He could take some comfort in that, at least. But for how long? He brushed that aside; Kanter needed a clear response. Savas had to make it very clear.

“Yes, Larry, I know exactly what you mean,” he said, not taking his eyes off Kanter. “But a man like that, he's a free man, not a wheel in the machine here, like Michelson. He won't sacrifice who he is for the agency, for any agency, any government or any man. That can spell trouble sometimes. But, it is also the reason he has been so spectacularly successful. Like you said, he's the kind you want with you when it's bad.”

Kanter looked at him for several moments, nodded his head, and stood up. “Yeah, that's it, alright. I like the man, in all honesty. Reminds me of you a bit, if you don't mind me saying. I don't want him to change, either. The only thing I'd say to him, if I had the chance, is be careful, and don't give the zombies any more reasons to take you down.”

Kanter walked to the door, opened it, and was halfway out when he stopped and turned back. “Oh, I've been meaning to ask — how's Rebecca?”

“Rebecca?” said Savas. “She left some time ago, I think. She's a workhorse, as you know, a real asset in everything we do. Why?”

“Oh, it's just I haven't seen her for a while. She used to work late a lot more often. I could always count on you and Rebecca being here late into the night trying to crack a case.”

Savas smiled. “Well, she's been turning in earlier. I think the stress of this case is getting to her some.”

“Well, I think that's true for all of us, John. Good night.” Kanter stepped out into the hallway and walked down the corridor.

39

Headlights and the growl of an engine cut through the peaceful sounds of a forest in upstate New York. A dark Hummer bounced along a gravel roadway that hugged the shore of an expansive lake, the water black and silver as it reflected the moonlight. The large vehicle came to a full stop, small rocks raining in soft sounds as they fell from the deep tire treads. At the edge of the roadway was an old wooden bridge, supported in part by metal girders underneath, yet sagging all the same and seemingly too fragile to handle the weight of the vehicle.

Inside the truck, behind dark tinted windows, a blond man frowned. His harsh features and short-cropped hair added a stern frame to the scowl he wore. He always hated playing dice with that bridge. It should be modernized, brought up to specs. But the man he had come to visit had always refused to do anything about it, for sentimental reasons. That was the problem with him, his great weakness and strength, the driver told himself. His heart gave him the power of vision and steadfastness to do great things, but it also clouded his mind and made him vulnerable to attack or wrong decision. The scowl turned to a sneer that was almost a smile. That's why I exist. Patrick Rout knew he suffered from no such vulnerability.

It was a spectacular property. The bridge led out over the water to a small island in the lake. Two houses, a main structure and guest lodge, had been built on the island over one hundred years ago. They sat surrounded by trees and well-manicured shrubbery. Several docks extended into the water for recreational activities, and the western end of the island had a small boathouse. This is where his commander had come with his wife on many occasions. It was her favorite retreat, and it was still a special place for him because of that. Isolated, unusual, pristine, and beautiful. The driver scoffed. That's what you do when you've got more money than many nations. Buy your own damned island!

He shifted, accelerated, and drove across the bridge. Within thirty seconds, he had entered the circular driveway, passed the spraying fountain filled with live fish, and pulled up to the porch that framed the front entrance. A trim man with gray hair and glasses was already waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.

The CEO greeted him. “Thank you for coming. I know this is an inconvenience at this time, but with things moving as fast as they are, I wanted to speak to you personally to consider these new developments.” Rout nodded and let the man lead. “Please, it's a nice evening; why don't we talk outside?”

Outside? Perhaps these new developments had spooked him more than he let on. Is he really worried about surveillance? Or is this part of his vacation home persona? It was better that his wife had died. The man needed the edge her death had given him to lead this battle.

They walked along the side of the small island, a path having been made for lazy excursions, and the wooded regions stopped some twenty feet from the edge. The stars shone very clearly and brightly this far from any streetlights, forming a milky whiteness in the central band across the sky from which the galaxy had gotten its name. There were few sounds: a soft wind, the water lapping the rocks ringing the island, and the insect sounds of the night.

The CEO continued. “Things have been penetrated faster than I had expected. The probing of the Operon businesses — this was FBI?”

“As far as we can tell, but they are not the only ones.”

“Meaning?”

“We aren't sure. Someone, not FBI, and not easily marked. Perhaps an international group, but it's not Interpol.”

“Then who?”

“It might even be the CIA,” he said. “Recent events point that way.”

“Explain.”

“The Russian dealers, the ones in Dubai, they have had a major incident. We just learned of this. Many in the leadership are dead. Our contacts — and a lot of money between parties — heard rumors that their operation there was hit recently, very violently. If that is true, records may have been retrieved, connections revealed.”

The CEO stopped near one of the rickety docks and turned to face Rout. “CIA?”

“There is no hard evidence, but there is enough circumstantial that it has me wondering. There is an active field house there that many have speculated was involved with the Dubai government in the arrest of Viktor Bout. There has also been a lot of chatter from sources about CIA involvement. But nothing solid. Even if they weren't involved, if the records were stolen, they could simply have been sold.”

“Can they trace Operon back to us?” asked the CEO, staring out over the lake.

Rout frowned. “I don't believe so. The bank trails are all but impossible to follow: no connections to anything illegal. Operon is a subsidiary. Even they can't know all the smuggling that occurs inside their system.”

The CEO turned quickly, his expression suddenly hard. “What worries me is not the likelihood of exposure. We've controlled for that as well as possible. What worries me are the people searching. I'm sure we are insulated from the organizations — bureaucracies are lumbering and clumsy. But individuals within the organizations, well, that is a different story. All it takes is one devoted person, and they can unravel the best defenses. We need to find out who is looking and why. We need their names, their histories, where they live, and what shoe size their children wear. Do you understand what I mean?”

Rout kept his smile in check. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. See to that, then. We need to contain this and not lose our focus on the next mission.”

“Regarding the mission, sir, the Brits have begun guarding the site.”

“How many?”

“We aren't certain yet, but it appears to be a British Section — a small infantry unit of about eight soldiers.”

“Soldiers?” he asked with interest. “They are taking this seriously.”

“Indeed, and it will complicate the mission significantly to have to neutralize that many trained men readied in defense of the structure. But we are making plans to solve that problem, and to do so without alerting their command structure, which, as you realize, is the complicated part of this.”

The CEO's face hardened. “I don't care what it takes. I want that target hit, and hit hard.”

“It will be, sir.”

“New York?” he asked.

“No, sir. Nothing. Since when did Homeland Security anticipate anything real? The other sites show no suspicions.”

He nodded curtly. “It would not do to lose even one. A harsh statement will be made. The map will continue to be drawn all the way to the desert sands.”

He paused, looking out over the water, the soft breeze ruffling the gray hair that shone in the light of the rising moon. His more kindly smile returned. “Now, come inside, and have something to eat.”

Rout suppressed a sigh. He'd rather get back to work.

40

For Savas and Cohen, things had become far more difficult in Intel 1. Their everyday interactions had always been somewhat restrained, a tension constantly between them, but it was one they both controlled within their separate and private shells. Intimacy had unleashed emotion that was freely expressed outside the office but that was caged again each morning. She passed by and he smelled her, heard the fabric of her clothes rustle as her body shifted positions, caught a glimpse of her eyes or saw her smiling and laughing with others. Each time it was a struggle to remain detached and distant. He longed to put his arms around her, both to relieve his need for her touch and also to claim her as his in front of others. It was primitive, and it was sublime.

Savas did not know where this would lead. His life was complicated enough without a constant deception. They agreed to keep their affair secret until she could transfer to another department, and that would not be until this case had reached some kind of ending point. For each of them, it was too important.

At the end of the day, the pattern was reversed. Each left separately, trying to stick to previous work patterns. This was difficult, because in the past, they had both tended to work later than the others and would often find themselves the sole members of Intel 1 working into the night. With their new circumstances, this was a dangerous pattern, so one started leaving earlier than the other, and both, despite their desire to work on the case, ended up spending less time at work and more time with each other. Competing needs, to be sure, but intimacy had been denied both of them for so long that it took some precedence.

This night, Savas had arrived an hour after Cohen. Her apartment was a mansion compared to his tiny studio in Queens. She swooped out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. Savas heard the sound of her closet door opening, unmistakable rummaging noises, an object falling and a grunt, then the door closing once more. She came out toward the dining table, her hair somewhat disheveled, grasping an old bronze candlestick holder. It was unusual, a style Savas had never seen before. There were two holders for candles, spread apart by about a foot and a half, each supported by a curved and decorated arm that arched up like the beginning of a heart-shaped form from the base. The base itself was also highly decorated, with prominent symbols carved into the bronze. He was sure they looked like Hebrew letters.

Cohen looked toward him expectantly. “So? Do you like it?”

“It's pretty. Is it something special?”

“It's a Maurice Ascalon, an original.” She took some candles she had shoved into her pocket and set them in place. She frowned at his lack of understanding. “Maurice Ascalon was one of Israel's most famous sculptors. He was famous in many areas but especially decorative arts. This was my mother's. She gave it to me a few years before she died.” Her voice trailed off, and she stared into the distance for a few moments.

“Anyway, they were packed up in the closet, and I haven't used them since. It's not that I would have had a reason anyway. I don't really hold to much tradition — something that always made her sad.”

Savas could see the pain in her face but did not understand. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, John. These are Shabbat candles.”

“Like Sabbath?”

She smiled. “Shabbat is the Sabbath, John. The Jews invented it, so we ought to know,” she said in an amused voice. “It's nearly sunset, so I got it about right, even if I forgot the flowers. She always had flowers. Friday evening meals, my mother lit the candles. We would have a special meal, and, when we were little anyway, we couldn't do anything fun. All the electricity was off, so no TV! My father, as man of the house, would say the prayers to welcome the day of rest after the candles were lit.”

Savas looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Cohen laughed. “Don't worry! My feeling all nostalgic doesn't mean you have to get religion tonight, John.” She lit the candles and whispered something he could not catch. She stood tall and recited.

“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat.” She paused and closed her eyes.

“It means: Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the Shabbat candles.”

She turned quickly and went into the kitchen, returning with a tray holding the food she had been preparing. “And now, we eat.”

Cohen placed the tray on the table and looked at him. There were tears in her eyes and rolling down her beautiful cheeks.

41

The September night was cool and misty in Morden, a southwestern suburb of London, home to the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community. A cloud sat on the earth, and the air was a prickling vapor of water droplets that obscured vision beyond ten or fifteen feet. Street-lights seemed to be standing at attention with ghostly haloes around their heads.

Situated on more than five acres of land, the Baitul Futuh Mosque displayed a proud and powerful facade. Able to accommodate over ten thousand worshippers per day in three prayer halls, its interior filled with a gymnasium, multiple offices, a library, and television studios, it held claim to being the largest mosque in Western Europe. It was a statement to the people of London, and the world, that this Muslim community was to be taken seriously. The Ahmadiyya faithful represented a splinter sect of Islam, condemned by orthodox Muslims as heretical, and also by Western groups as harboring fanaticism and anti-Western sentiment. The Baitul Futuh, or House of Victories, was a defiant answer to all these doubters.

The parking lot in front of the mosque was deserted. Only a single military-standard personnel truck was parked in front of the structure, its color faded to gray in the darkness and fog. A minaret drove skyward for over one hundred feet, but this evening it was lost as it plunged into the gray, and the top of the silver dome began to blur. Several weary-looking soldiers stood at positions around the structure, weapons in hand or lighting cigarettes and cursing their foul duty to guard the property of a group many considered to be enemies of their nation.

One soldier cupped his hand over his lighter and puffed. He glanced toward the parking lot as streetlights suddenly went dark, plunging the area into near total blackness. As the flame went out, a small red circle the size of a pencil eraser danced over his forehead. For a moment, the laser light hit his eyes, blinding him as had the flame. Before he could understand, a soft pop was heard some thirty yards away. Instantly his head arched back, blown open, and he dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Several of his mates turned toward the sound, but before they could even complete the motion, a near simultaneous group of muffled retorts sounded around the mosque. Each of the soldiers fell. A sudden rush of dark shapes flooded over the steps like a polluted tide. Dressed in black from head to foot, only their eyes showing through masks, they quickly grabbed the downed soldiers and dragged them off the concrete around the mosque, several bending down and washing the ground of blood and remains. Riflemen rose from the fields and parking lot around the mosque, shouldered their weapons, and approached the others.

At that moment, two soldiers stepped out from inside the mosque and froze before the sights and sounds of the shadowed men around them. One grabbed for his weapon, but a shadow was on him from the side. The dark shape seized the soldier's gun arm in one hand, extending it with the weapon grasped tightly, then drove his palm into the back of the elbow, breaking the joint. The soldier screamed and dropped the weapon just as the dark figure drew back his palm and struck the soldier in the neck, shattering his windpipe. The man dropped to the ground, choking and gasping for air, unable to scream further. Beside him lay the other soldier who had stepped outside with him, an empty expression in his eyes, his neck twisted strangely to one side.

“Move these two out!” hissed one of the cloaked figures. Like the others, the two bodies were dragged away from the structure. A van had pulled up next to the military vehicle, and the bodies were loaded into it. Black bags were taken off the van and distributed to several masked figures who busied themselves pulling out dark bundles from the bags and stripping off their clothes.

Others moved around the mosque, placing devices that they camouflaged in various ways — with mortar and tile that matched the surface of the mosque or as electronic devices, some even resembling the cameras that were already in place around the building but that had ceased functioning several minutes previously.

Within thirty minutes, the scene had nearly returned to normal. The dark shapes were gone from the deep fog, like undead wraiths that crept back into the mists. A small group of false soldiers in uniform patrolled the site, glancing up only momentarily as streetlights winked back on, throwing a ghastly light over the building. Cameras mounted around the mosque turned on and began to transmit once again. At the end of the parking lot, a brown van turned out onto the road, its headlights off, only the red of its brake lights flashing momentarily like two grim eyes fading in the mists as the first light of dawn began to pale the evening sky.

Across the Atlantic, in Manhattan, the sidewalks were almost empty after midnight, and the streets around Ninety-Seventh contained only a handful of cabs and late-nighters. Few noticed that the streetlights along this side of the block up to Third Avenue had gone out. None noticed the darkly clad figures passing by a large structure, quickly darting out of sight, one by one over a span of five minutes. Inside the high fences, a building at a twenty-degree angle from the Manhattan street grid loomed upward yet was still dwarfed by taller apartment buildings around it. The building was squat, broad at its base, with sheer walls and a modern style tapering to a large black dome. It had been said that the geometry of the structure, founded on a repeating pattern of square units, followed Islamic law, which forbade the representation of natural forms. Atop the dome, on a spire, rested a crescent moon. A minaret rose next to the building, nearly in the middle of the block of land but open and easily visible to Ninety-Sixth Street. A sign outside read: “Islamic Cultural Center of New York,” but the place was better known to many as the Manhattan Mosque.

Within the fences, no one from the streets could see the dark figures quickly traversing the traditional exterior court that led to the entrance of the mosque, or the shapes gathered around the minaret, placing objects along its sides. Shapes entered and exited the mosque carrying loaded backpacks that appeared to be much lighter on their way out. Within forty-five minutes, all activity ceased; the dark figures were gone, and the corner displayed nothing out of the ordinary. Even the streetlights were back on.

Finally, across all of Europe and Africa, the morning sunrise drenched the lands. In a suburb of London, a tired-looking troop of soldiers drove off early, a little before the arrival of the morning shift, and disappeared, never to be seen by any regiment in England again. In Finland, Friday worshippers prepared to make the long trek to one of the handful of mosques in this northern country, grateful for asylum and a chance to worship in this new land. In Nigeria, the spires at the tops of the four minarets of the Abuja National Mosque lifted majestically toward the heavens in the orange light. Approaching from the main highway, the sun rose behind the stunning building, casting it in a dark shadow, a silhouette of a giant dome and four spears. Morning sounds played over the capital of Abuja and mixed in with the sounds of the adhan called out over the city by the muezzin.

42

Cohen sat down beside Savas at the table and smiled. By the calendar, it was nearly a week since he had shared that special Sabbath meal with her, but in the growing madness around them, his sense of time had begun to blur.

However absurd, he knew she loved the way he looked in the mornings. His hair, flattened and disheveled from the night's sleep, had always refused to obey even the roughest of brushings. Only after he had showered and shampooed could there be any management. Coupled with his unruly hair, she noted impishly that he had the shell-shocked look of being half-asleep. She said it gave him the expression of a little boy just slightly lost. She kissed him as he grumbled and drank his coffee, and stretched over to turn on the television.

Savas's face hardened almost immediately, and the boy and the lovable expression vanished, replaced by something hard and hurt.

The scenes on the television were horrific. The British police and military had carved out a zone beyond which the public and press were excluded. Inside this region, the remains of a large structure could be seen burning brightly and belching skyward a plume of black smoke. Emergency responders rushed back and forth, carrying body after body. Pools of blood were easily made out as the runoff water from the fire hoses diluted them. Crumpled figures, blasted and burnt carcasses littered the site — men, women, children.

Children. Savas stared at the horror in front of his eyes as a reporter gasped out words in a British accent.

“Simply unimaginable carnage at the former site of the largest mosque in Western Europe. The mosque, the entire structure, is completely gone and burning as I speak to you. The death toll appears to easily be in the thousands. This attack happened on the holiest day of the week for Muslims, Friday, during the mosque's busiest time at noon prayers. Men, women, and many, many children lie dead behind me at this horrific, horrific site of England's, of Europe's, most terrible terrorist attack in history.”

“Oh, God…John?” Cohen reached over and took his hand. He held hers but did not take his eyes off the screen. Savas reached over and turned up the volume.

The reporter continued. “Sources have reported that a section of British soldiers has been in place for several weeks guarding the mosque. Like several other Islamic sites in and around London, the government has acted proactively to try and protect them from the new and terrifying terrorist organization that has been targeting Muslims. Many are asking how anyone could have planted the enormous amount of explosives needed to destroy this building under the noses of the military.”

Savas looked at Cohen. “You know what today is?”

A dawning of understanding lit her eyes.

“Rebecca, today is September 11.” Savas looked back at the screen. “This attack has been very deliberately chosen for today. My God, Rebecca, this isn't going to be the only one. I know it. I feel it in my bones. They will hit multiple targets today to make a point — remind the world of the multiple attacks on 9/11. Today is going to be from hell.”

As if to respond to his terrible intuition, the coverage cut from the scene of devastation in England back to the station's main desk. A well-coiffed woman with blonde hair and a fashionable scarf spoke almost hesitantly.

“Sorry to interrupt, Donald, but we have breaking news. Reports are pouring in that there have been two more bombings. I repeat, two more bombings of mosques in different parts of the world. Several reports are coming in from Nigeria, that there has been a bombing there. We also have word of a bombing in Finland. A mosque there has been attacked. We have a report live from the capital of Nigeria….”

“John…” Cohen looked at him, pain in her eyes.

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to be right. But I knew I was. I'm going to get showered and dressed. We've got to get in. I won't be long.” Savas stood up from the table and headed down the hall and into the bathroom. He shaved quickly, not bothering to notice the nicks and blood. He showered even faster and was out and dressing before ten minutes had passed. It dawned on him as he buttoned his shirt that he was processing sounds, sounds invading his swirling thoughts of past and present, death and destruction. Sirens. It sounded like ten or twenty police cars. He darted to the window but could see nothing. However, it was unmistakable — the well-known Doppler shift of a siren approaching, then drawing away as it passed. One after the other after the other.

“John,” Cohen called. “You'd better get in here.”

By the time he reached the kitchen, he did not need to see the scenes of destruction at the edge of Harlem to know what had happened. The target he did not guess. He had forgotten about the Manhattan Mosque — the Islamic Cultural Center of New York, thought by some to be a potential incubator for radical Islamic elements. No terrorists would be stepping forth from Ninety-Sixth and Third anytime soon.

A reporter spoke hurriedly, shouting over the sounds of a helicopter. “This is the Traffic Cam in the Sky, news every hour, on the hour. We have diverted location to the Upper East Side.” A camera showed the geometric lines of the New York City grid, and at one corner of a block, what seemed to be a volcanic eruption of smoke pouring into the sky. Around the site like bugs circling honey, a flashing light show of fire trucks and emergency vehicles contrasted with the dark cloud climbing from the blaze below. A voice cut in over the reporter in the helicopter.

“We are going back to footage in Nigeria….” On the screen appeared a split image; on one side, the giant mosque as it had appeared before the explosion, with its four minarets intact. The other side showed the same building, live, now with a single minaret standing and the rest of the structure reduced to rubble, fire, and ash. More scenes of carnage followed from the capital city of Nigeria. Savas stood nearly breathless watching the wild, panicked expressions and motions of emergency workers tending the wounded, many beyond help, scattered over the field of vision provided by the camera. The news reports darted back and forth, from Africa, to Finland, to England, and back to New York. It all began to blur in his mind, rubble and smoke, sirens, hysteria, blood, and fire. So much death. Men and women struck down. The old and the young. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons.

Sons. The images before him began to merge with his own memory — two towers falling like sand to the earth, burying thousands, choking downtown Manhattan. The death of sons. The death of a young police officer who had made his father proud, giving the greatest sacrifice for his city and never knowing why.

His fists were balled tightly, and tears dropped from his eyes, yet his eyes still had nothing soft in them. A wildness burned there, a primitive urge to strike at the creature attacking the young, stealing life from those who should never have been buried by their parents. A shout broke him out of his trance.

“John, please!” Cohen was standing next to him, shaking him. “John, stop this; come back!”

Savas fought through the nightmare in his mind. He turned to the counter and grabbed his wallet and keys. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, I've got to go.”

“To work?” she asked, hesitantly, afraid of the look in his eyes.

“No, not to work.” He looked forward, seeing something far off. “I'm going to Gunn International. I'm going to do what Jordan said we should do. I'm going to confront that bastard and look into his eyes. I have to know, Rebecca. I can't wait for the wheels to turn in this matter.” He motioned toward the television. “I don't know if the world can wait for this damn machine to do its job. These guys are ten steps ahead of us. If we play inside the rules we've set for ourselves, it will stay that way.”

“John, please, think about this,” she said, grabbing his face in her hands, staring up toward those wild eyes. “You'll have no authority; you'll be potentially in violation of the law, vulnerable to charges of harassment. They might not even let you in. What are you going to do, break down the doors?”

“If I have to.”

“John, even if you find something, these actions might sabotage any legal recourse we have against this man and whatever organization he might be running. You know this, John. You can't do this.”

Savas smiled bitterly. “Rebecca, what I know is that we are losing badly, and while we lose, people are burning alive. I can do this. I have to do this. Someone has to.” He stared at her silently for a moment.

“Until today, my damn rage and quest for revenge blinded me to seeing what was so obvious. Every time these bastards would take out some jihadist, I was cheering them on. They were doing what we could never do. I didn't want to know what I should have known, to see what is so clear.” He grabbed her shoulders firmly but not forcefully.

“They were destroying the monsters and becoming themselves the very things they sought to destroy. I hated the jihadists for taking the lives of the innocent. Of my son. But God, Rebecca, look at this,” he said, gesturing toward the television. “The streets are lined with children's bodies. They are no longer fighting the enemy. They are the enemy. They have become everything they seek to destroy.” He let go of her shoulders. “Someone has to stop them.”

She stared a moment into his eyes, shaking her head, but she knew what she saw. “Then I'm coming with you.”

Savas looked at her in disbelief. “Absolutely not! It's enough for one of us to go crazy and jump off the cliff. I will not let you endanger yourself, your career, for what I'm forced to do.”

Cohen slipped on her shoes and grabbed her bag. “If you don't let me come with you, I will call the FBI, the NYPD, and Gunn International and warn them of your coming. They'll wall you out before you get into the building. Take me or forget going, John.”

Savas didn't know whether he felt angry or touched by her hard-headed bargaining. “All right, you crazy woman. Let's go. But you let me do all the stupid stuff.”

“Agreed. And I'm your crazy woman, stupid man. Don't forget that.”

43

The ride through Midtown was eerily devoid of the usual traffic. Two terrorist attacks in four months in Manhattan had had a profound effect on the city. Within ten minutes, Savas had parked his car in one of an unusual number of open spots along the side of the street, a block away from the fifty-five floors of steel and blue glass that was Gunn Tower.

He was curious to find himself putting money in the meter. He had the quarters piled high in the small storage area underneath the CD player and radio. The human mind was a mess of contradictions. He was about to enter without a warrant and confront one of the world's most powerful CEOs. Rationally, he knew that he might walk out under arrest and would no longer need his car, perhaps for a long time. But he found himself unable to let go of the old habit of tending to the vehicle. He looked over at Cohen, who gave him a quizzical look as he paused, staring at the meter.

“Well, we don't want to get a ticket or anything,” he said dryly as she put on her sunglasses.

They entered the enormous lobby of Gunn Tower, passing through a revolving door set in a solid wall of glass. Inside, the ceiling was at least fifty feet above their heads, with stairways and escalators leading to multiple overhanging layers that held general social functions, including restaurants and stores. The floor was of polished blue-green marble. Light poured into the lobby from outside, filtered into a bluish hue. Savas felt like he was in a giant aquarium. On the open second floor, a small museum dedicated to the Gunn family and their accomplishments was advertised by a sign. Modesty was not on display.

One hundred feet in front of the entrance was a security checkpoint that screened those headed back toward the main elevators. Armed security guards flanked the metal detectors. Pleasant-looking women stood on each side, checking ID cards for personnel. Cohen looked over at Savas, her glasses hiding the anxiety he could feel emanating from her.

“OK, now what?” she asked.

“We exploit the power of the federal government.”

Savas walked up to the long marble counter beside the security checkpoint and addressed a young woman who smiled and welcomed him to Gunn Tower. Savas opened the leather case for his badge and showed her its contents.

“Agent John Savas from the FBI,” he said curtly, pleased at the instant shift in demeanor from the woman behind the counter.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

“I've been sent from the downtown division to follow up on a lead. It involves some international shipments by a company owned by Gunn International. This is a sensitive matter, and I am instructed to speak only with Mr. Gunn himself. Could you please tell me how I can go about seeing him immediately?”

The woman stared dumbly, clearly out of her element. Her mouth hung open for a moment; then she closed it, shifting weight to one foot and pushing her hair back behind her head. She glanced at the unmoving, expressionless figure of Cohen in her sunglasses, then back at Savas.

“Sir, I really don't know how to help you. I just work for general Lower Floor Management. I can't connect you with Mr. Gunn or anyone in his level. You'll have to make an appointment with him yourself, sir,” she finished, her long nails playing with her buttons, her expression anxious.

“Ma'am,” began Savas, “I hope I've made myself clear. I am from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, here to chase a lead on a very important international crime case. My superiors here and in Washington believe that Gunn International can shed light on a series of heinous crimes, including those of murder and terrorism. I am expecting full cooperation from Mr. Gunn and his company. Why am I not receiving it, Ms….?” Savas nodded toward Cohen, who reached into her purse, pulled out a small voice recorder and clicked it on. “Of course, you have the option to call a lawyer before speaking with us,” Cohen added dramatically.

Whatever calm the woman had imperfectly maintained was shattered. Savas doubted she felt her job was worth this sort of trouble. “Please wait a minute, sir,” she said, staring at the voice recorder. “I'll get my superior.”

Three minutes later, a harried-looking man stepped over with the young blonde and stared skeptically at the FBI agents. He took off a pair of glasses that then hung from his neck. “Marcia tells me that you are FBI? Can I help you?”

Savas again held out his badge, which the man examined, and repeated his story. The man shook his head. “Agent…Savas? Yes, well, certainly there are more formal ways to establish a meeting with Mr. Gunn rather than traipsing into his building and demanding an audience. Why don't you have your bureau chief call over and do this properly?”

Savas leaned forward and put on his irritated face. “I'm sorry. I did not get your name.” Cohen leaned forward slightly, pointing the voice recorder toward the man.

“Richard Carter, but I don't see how—”

“Mr. Carter, I don't think your employee here has impressed upon you the seriousness of this case,” Savas interrupted forcefully. “We are pursuing time-sensitive leads in an international arms smuggling and terrorist case, linked, if you must know, to a series of attacks around the world in the last few months, including two here in New York City. One of those attacks happened today not forty blocks north of this grand tower. We have reason to believe that other attacks are planned, and that they may be prevented only by timely action. So don't tell me that we need to waste the precious time we hardly have to follow a train of niceties to speak with your lofty CEO!”

The man's faced turned ashen as Savas mentioned the links to the terrorist attacks. Savas saw this and acted quickly to exploit it. “Things are moving too fast and are too dangerous to play games, Mr. Carter. We need all citizens to work with us on this, or the next attacks will be worse.”

The man put his glasses back on and nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, I apologize. Horrible, what has been happening. Please, this is unusual. Let me contact Mr. Gunn's department and convey your request.”

Savas nodded in a satisfied manner. “Mr. Carter, that is the right thing to do. What a true patriot would do.”

The man nodded awkwardly and hustled over to a set of phones. The woman apparently felt more comfortable with her supervisor and followed him closely, leaving Savas and Cohen alone.

“You get all that?” he asked quietly, motioning with his head toward her voice recorder. “That was sheer genius.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I don't think I've changed the battery on this thing for two years.” Savas made a quick face indicating how disappointed he was. Cohen stared at him through her dark-brown sunglasses. “What a true patriot would do?” Savas waved her off as Carter hurried back over.

“Agent Savas. I have spoken with the floor administrative assistant in charge of general issues for several offices, including Mr. Gunn's, sir. She was most upset with this request, I must say,” he continued, sweat now beading on his forehead. “However, I managed to impress upon her the seriousness of this matter. She has agreed to speak with you upstairs, although, regrettably, she cannot offer you a meeting with Mr. Gunn today.”

Savas smiled at the man. “Mr. Carter, you have done a service to your country, a country that is under attack. Thank you for getting us this far. I will remember your help in this matter.” The man smiled both anxiously and modestly, then turned toward Cohen, his smile fading under the relentless gaze of her sunglasses and expressionless face.

“Please, right this way, follow me.” Carter gestured, stepping toward the security line. It was the express route through the line, up the elevators, and to the fiftieth floor of the building. The doors opened revealing a lower, standard-height ceiling, fluorescent lighting, and a large desk not more than ten feet in front of the elevator doors. Behind the desk sat an older woman with a stern face, talking into a Bluetooth headset and typing on a computer. She motioned for them to wait.

Carter led them up to the large wraparound desk and waited quietly. Savas was in no mood to wait. He checked his watch and spoke to the woman.

“Ma'am, which way to Mr. Gunn's office?”

She continued talking and typing but held up one finger, indicating for him to wait. Savas began to walk around the desk toward the hallway on the right. “It's alright, ma'am,” he said, as her eyes widened and she began to spin around in her chair to follow him. “I'll find it myself.”

Richard Carter looked stunned, and Cohen made a motion to follow Savas. The woman at the desk stood up and called after him. “Sir! You cannot go back there! Sir! Stop! Mr. Gunn is busy! He cannot see you now!”

Savas turned to Cohen. “Stall her.” The hound at the desk would not be so easy to cow as Carter had been. Savas knew she would have security on him within a short span; Cohen might buy him a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Cohen moving to intervene as Carter was speaking excitedly to the woman, waving his arms.

Savas strode purposefully down the hallway, passing offices and conference rooms. Always appear confident. A lesson he learned bluffing his way to buy booze as a teenager and as a cop in an armed standoff on the streets. The big man's office would be easy to find, likely at the end of the hallway, most likely protected by another guard dog. There. The hall opened to a larger space filled with another large desk. Behind it sat a young woman. Behind her and to the left was a magnificent door, cherry wood by the look of it, built thick and carved with adornments. The woman was on the phone, a concerned expression on her face. Word has come from the front lines, thought Savas.

She stood up, the phone still to her ear. “Sir, I'm afraid I will have to—”

Savas flashed his badge. “FBI, ma'am,” he said pushing past her and her objections and opening the door.

It was a magnificent office. Larger by far than anything he had seen or even imagined at the FBI, decorated with very expensive furniture and paintings. The wall opposite the entrance was not a wall but a room-length window opening out to the heart of the city. Behind an enormous and beautiful wooden desk sat a man Savas had only seen in FBI photos and on the Internet. Tall, thin, silver hair framing a hard and handsome face. Set in the middle were two burning gray eyes.

“Mr. William Gunn?” asked Savas, bursting into the room.

Gunn glanced up from his computer screen with an angry look. He hit a key sharply and stood up to face Savas.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

Savas heard a fluttering behind him, and the young woman from outside rushed in front of him and faced Gunn.

“Mr. Gunn, sir, I'm sorry!” she began breathlessly. “I tried to keep him out. He's come through Jennifer and from below and won't listen and…”

“Calm down, Marianne,” he said, turning toward Savas. “Who are you, and what is going on here?”

Savas smiled. “My name is John Savas, Agent John Savas from the FBI.” He went through the age-old movie scene and flipped out his ID. Gunn registered no distress and appeared, if anything, intrigued.

His assistant chirped behind Savas. “Mr. Gunn, sir, security is on its way. They already have the other one.”

“Marianne, please, a servant of the people is here. Call off security. Another agent?” The woman nodded. “Please go and bring him here as well. Something important must be on the minds of these agents to have gone through such trouble to speak to me.” He turned toward Savas. “I wish you had contacted me first and avoided all this bother. I am a rather insulated man. It helps me maintain my focus.”

He motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, won't you have a seat?”

This is one cool customer. Savas nodded and sat down as Gunn moved back around his desk, entered a few keystrokes into his computer, and sat down.

“Please tell me how I can help you today.”

Savas stared directly at him. “Today, in four locations around the world, terrorists struck mosques, blowing them to bits along with all the people in and around them. One of those attacks happened just uptown from here at the Manhattan Mosque.”

Gunn nodded slowly, eyeing Savas coldly. “Yes, I have seen the footage. Terrible. The second attack in our city in just a few months.”

“Yes, one of many since the first attack in June that have been linked to a terrorist organization called Mjolnir.”

Gunn stared silently. “I'm not familiar with the name.”

“Few are.”

“How have you traced this Mjolnir to the bombings, Agent Savas?”

“Not only bombings but a series of assassinations of prominent Islamic radicals, as well. They are a very busy organization. One thing that we have linked them to through our forensics team is the plastic explosive S-47.”

Gunn shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “S-47? I'm sorry, Agent Savas, I don't know much about explosives.”

“It's a very new form of Semtex, more powerful, more versatile. The details are not important. Traces of this material have been found at every bombing site associated with Mjolnir.”

At that moment, Savas heard sounds at the door behind him. Gunn rose and asked his secretary, “Marianne — this is the other agent?” Savas turned to see Cohen standing in the doorway, her hair disheveled, her blouse untucked and wrinkled. He winced to think of the security guards manhandling her.

“Yes, Mr. Gunn. She was in the custody of our guards, and I brought her back up as soon as you requested.”

Gunn walked chivalrously toward Cohen and motioned to the seat beside Savas. Cohen, her glasses gone, straightened her clothes and walked stiffly over to sit next to Savas, never glancing in his direction. He understood. She couldn't look into his eyes and maintain her composure.

Gunn returned to his seat in front of the enormous window. Savas motioned toward Cohen. “This is my colleague at the FBI, Rebecca Cohen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Cohen. I am sorry about our security personnel. They are often overzealous in keeping the peace in my building.”

Cohen glanced quickly around the room and over his desk. She focused momentarily on an object at his side, then looked into Gunn's eyes. “No need to apologize,” she said. “We have been in a great hurry today, and our lack of standard protocol has created some problems.”

“Yes,” said Gunn, “Agent Savas here was explaining to me. Something about explosives?”

“This S-47 is easily traceable material in many ways, because it is so rare. It can only be found with US military personnel or on the black market in the international arms arena.”

Savas stared intently at Gunn, but the businessman showed no reaction. Savas continued. “Agents with the CIA recently ran a sting operation in the Middle East and identified the source of much of the black market S-47. This source had been sold repeatedly to a single buyer, of unknown origin and identity, but the goods were always shipped in the same way, by boat — ships owned and operated by the Operon Company.”

“Operon?” Gunn said, searching his memory. “That's one of ours. I see. You have connected the supply of this explosive to one of my companies, and you now wish to trace it further to attempt to identify the buyers, and thus, presumably, the terrorists themselves.” He glanced momentarily at each agent before continuing. “Of course, the FBI will have full cooperation from Gunn International on this. Unfortunately, I know little of the day-to-day operations of the many subsidiaries and contractors we have. But I will personally see to it that those who do, will work with the FBI and the CIA and whoever requires information from us to help apprehend these terrorists.”

Savas stared at the man. This was not what he had expected. He had been so emotional this morning, he believed he would confront the man, and the truth or an obvious lie would come out, be forced out. He had come here, navigated the obstacle course on passion and adrenaline and street smarts, and hit Gunn with the facts, only to find a calm and cooperative citizen. Was Husaam wrong? Am I wrong?

He looked into the eyes before him — cold, icy-gray, and unrevealing. Eyes of a predator, he thought. No, his intuition, his gut, whatever it was that had saved his life on many occasions on the street told him otherwise. There was something profoundly unsettling about William Gunn, and Savas felt that he was sitting only feet away from someone calculating and murderous.

Cohen spoke up. “We were concerned that this connection to your company, Mr. Gunn, might go further than the use of a shipping company.” The CEO turned slowly toward Cohen, and Savas felt his stomach tighten as the cold eyes fell on her.

“I'm sorry, Agent Cohen, could you be more explicit?”

“Yes. There have been enormous financial transfers in these arms purchases. These levels of monetary exchange and the financial machinations that made them possible, and difficult to trace, could only have been accomplished by individuals with enormous capital and financial dexterity. We are concerned that perhaps someone within your company, at a much higher level than that of a shipping organization, might be involved.”

My God, this is bold, Rebecca! She faulted him for being reckless today?

The CEO eyed her very closely. “That is a very serious concern you have raised, Agent Cohen. Rest assured that we will seek to root out any such person, should they exist, and work closely with you to do so.” He looked at his watch, then back at the two FBI agents.

“I'm sorry to be rushing you, but I have a very important meeting with the visiting ambassador from China. As you know, China is becoming an increasingly important business partner for much of the world, and Gunn International is no exception. I cannot keep the ambassador waiting. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“One other thing,” Cohen continued. “This terrorist organization has a fascination with the Nordic myths. Do you know of any such people or organizations within your company who might be involved in such neo-paganism?”

Savas stared at her in confusion. Rebecca, where are you going with this?

“Agent Cohen, I would expect every sort of person from the wonderfully diverse city of New York to work under the umbrella of my organization. Such interests do not concern me in general as long as each employee does his or her job.”

“We understand that, Mr. Gunn,” she continued, “only in this case, such individuals would be highly suspect. You come from a Northern European background, Scandinavian, I believe?

The CEO focused on her impassively. “Yes. My father was an immigrant from Stockholm.”

“Do you know what the name of this organization, Mjolnir, means?”

Gunn shook his head. “No. I mainly studied the Greek myths in school.”

“It is the name of the hammer used by the Norse god of thunder, Thor.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. I do remember reading that somewhere.”

“If you were to see or hear this name in any context, in the English translation, or as Mjolnir, or depicted in any symbolic form, please let us know.”

Savas nearly wanted to jump over and shield Cohen, so hostile and intent were the eyes that looked her over. “Yes, Agent Cohen, you can rest assured that I will.”

As they walked out of the skyscraper and into the bright midmorning sunlight, Savas felt the adrenaline rush out of him and the world speed up again. It seemed that he had passed out of a dream state. It was always like this after confrontation. He sat in the car next to Cohen and exhaled, not starting the engine.

“I can't believe we did that, and I can't believe we did it for nothing!”

She turned toward him, her sunglasses back on, and her shaking hands withdrawing from her face. “What do you mean, ‘for nothing’?”

“We go there, risk our careers, potentially blowing the entire case if he is the one behind this, and for nothing! He turns out to be happy as a clam to work with us! So cooperative! He played us like fools. And, I swear, all the time I felt like I was sitting across from a serial killer laughing at us.”

Cohen stared forward, her face still ashen from the encounter. “We didn't fail, John. His cooperation saved our careers, for one thing. For another, he is the one behind all this. Trust your feelings.”

Savas shook his head in confusion. “Well, that is something! How on earth do you conclude that? My feelings agree, but we came away with nothing.”

“Did you look at his desk?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Sure. Hard to miss. Big giant thing, expensive wood. Cost more than my car.”

She shook her head, still gazing forward. “No, not the desk itself, but what was on it.”

Savas didn't know what she was getting at. “Papers, a computer…a few executive playthings?”

“Like the little toy on his left in front of you?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't see what it was.”

Cohen paused. “Well, I did. Small little metal thing, hanging from two metal rods that almost meet. The small little metal thing, John — it was a hammer.” She turned toward him. “It was Thor's hammer.”

“Oh, my God.”

William Gunn returned to his desk after locking his door behind the departing FBI agents. He sat down and typed in several keystrokes. The black screen lit up, revealing the familiar face of Patrick Rout.

“Mr. Gunn? What the hell was that all about?”

Gunn gazed sideways, away from the screen. “Well, it's obvious, isn't it? You were right about the hit on the Russians. They have the connection, and they suspect. My concern was right about fearing someone passionate about this. You didn't see his eyes, but this John Savas is a driven man. And Cohen, well, she knows.”

“They have no proof! Nothing to go on!”

“No. Of course not, and they will not get that, certainly not in time to stop us.”

“We need to make sure of that, Mr. Gunn.”

Gunn turned toward the monitor, his expression grim. “Yes, my friend, we do. We need to find out who these agents are. We will have to make some decisions about them soon.”

44

John Savas stepped out of his office and nearly crashed into the muscled figure of Husaam Jordan standing outside his door. Jordan had made a rapid recovery. He still limped slightly and favored his shoulder at times, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell that he had been through the ordeal in the desert. Savas assumed that in another month or two, he would be almost fully recovered. He apologized for his carelessness, caused by distraction over events following last month's insane visit to Gunn International. The large CIA agent smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“So, how is the investigation going?” he called out.

Savas smiled ruefully. “Which one?”

Jordan nodded back. “Indeed. But I am more interested in one than the other.”

Savas could only agree, except that the FBI inquiry into his trip to Gunn Tower was occupying increasing amounts of his time. He had managed to convince all those involved that Cohen had been dragged along with him, and, for now at least, she had been spared the paperwork, meetings, and constant interruptions that an internal investigation entailed. He had also been spared any suspension of his duties or privileges — a rescue effort by Kanter. That was after Kanter had first threatened to kill him.

Savas nodded toward Jordan. “You were right.”

Jordan cocked his head to one side and half-smiled. “About which investigation is more important?”

“Yes,” said Savas, “but more than that — about following the trail of Operon and the shell companies.”

Jordan became serious. “That trail is getting cold as we speak. The CIA isn't going to listen to the ravings of two mad FBI agents who stormed an American icon. Gunn practically ran a monopoly in the defense industry for two decades. He's owed more favors in Washington than we can guess. They've tied my hands, John. And it's been too long. Weeks and weeks have gone by. They aren't going to leave anything standing, or anyone connected alive.”

“The FBI has twisted itself into a tangle of internal investigation,” said Savas with obvious irritation. “Everyone is scared shitless now about moving on this guy. Larry's frustrated as hell, but he is protecting his division. Until this blows over, we're left doing research reports on the Internet. Meanwhile, we wait for the next fall of the hammer.”

“Don't give up hope, John,” Jordan rumbled. “It is written in the Holy Koran, ‘When a man dies, they who survive him ask what property he has left behind. The angel who bends over the dying man asks what good deed he has sent before him.’ You have worked for justice.”

Savas stared at the black man standing before him, an American, a former gang member, and now a Koran-thumping Muslim. Yet he had come not only to respect Husaam Jordan but to feel a tug of affection for a person who clearly sought justice, who had disregarded career and safety in the service of justice. He just could not reconcile the different parts.

“Husaam, I don't want this to go the wrong way, but there are some things I don't understand.”

Jordan stared straight into Savas's eyes, his expression unflinching yet knowing. Savas pressed forward anyway. “I like you. I didn't at first, I have to be honest. Well, I couldn't at first.”

“You could not separate me from the Muslims who killed your son.”

Savas winced. “You're a good man, a man who sees right and wrong and risks his life for what is right. You can't find one out of a thousand men like that. How can you be part of this religion that gives birth to all these crazed murderers who kill in the name of this damn book you keep quoting? How can Islam be anything but evil for the wars and bombs and wrongs it has caused? I just don't understand it.”

Jordan smiled, his white teeth set in his strong jaw, bright against the darkness of his face. “The Abuja National Mosque was a gift from the heavens. If you had seen it, with open eyes, John, not eyes colored with anger, you would have seen its majesty rising into the African sky, its four minarets reaching toward God. Its beautiful dome was a bright star in the daytime sun or a powerful silhouette in the setting orange light at day's end. Muslims have made some of the most beautiful religious houses in the world. For hundreds of years, they preserved knowledge while Europe sank into the Middle Ages and burned witches at the stake, tortured innocents with the Inquisition, and converted by the sword many of the pagans of central and northern Europe. Science, mathematics, and philosophy were preserved, developed, and passed on to an awakening Europe by Muslims.”

Jordan opened his hands in a questioning gesture. “When you listen to the great composers of Germany — Bach, Mozart, Beethoven — do you also see in their music the ashes of the Holocaust? When you gaze at the religious sculptures and paintings of Michelangelo, do you see in them the blood-soaked lands the Crusaders marched across? America was founded by people fleeing persecution at the hands of fellow Christians. For the centuries of Christians doing evil in the name of God, how can you be one?”

Savas shook his head. “You're using this argument on the wrong man, Husaam. I'm not sure what I believe. I very nearly became violent with the priest of the church where I was an altar boy, and this crazy man still hears my confessions. Confessions mostly about how much I don't know, and how I can't see God.”

Jordan nodded. “But my point is that if we are to judge a belief system by the actions of any group that claims to act in its name, every creed that exists or has existed will fall. Just as great beauty and selfless service to humanity has come from Christianity, so, too, from Islam.” He paused for a moment, considering his next words.

“John, Islam is very personal for me. I grew up in poverty, abandoned by my parents, rejected by society — both black and white. I joined a gang before I could shave. At least there I mattered, I had a family. There was a code of honor and loyalty. The gang gave me a sense of worth and purpose society had denied me. But it was a life of sin. In prison as an adolescent, an imam who had emigrated from Africa was making the rounds. I was ready to hear what he had to say. I was ready to open myself to something larger and to find my place with God.”

His eyes had a faraway look. He smiled softly.

“Do you know what the al-Hajar-ul-Aswad is?”

Savas shook his head.

“It is more commonly known as the Black Stone.”

“Yes,” Savas dredged his memory. “The meteorite in Mecca. Where the pilgrims go every year.”

“Yes. It is one of the Five Pillars of Islam to make at least one pilgrimage to Mecca in a Muslim's lifetime. There the pilgrims congregate at the al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque in Saudi Arabia, and in the center of this mosque is the holiest site in all of Islam — the Kaaba. The Kaaba is a cube carved out of granite from the hillsides, covered with a black silk curtain decorated with gold-embroidered calligraphy, its four corners pointing in the four directions of the compass. It is the site to which we Muslims pray five times a day.”

Jordan's eyes appeared to gaze far off, as if trying to glimpse the site itself. “At the eastern-most corner of the Kaaba is the Black Stone. According to our tradition, it fell from Heaven during the time of Adam and Eve. After the Fall, it was hidden by the Angels until Abraham rebuilt the Kaaba, and then the Arch-Angel Gabriel brought it to him from its keeping place.”

Jordan paused for emphasis and turned toward Savas. “Muslims believe, John, that when the Kaaba fell to the earth from the heavens, the stone was not black but a blinding white. It has since absorbed, year after year, the crimes, the lies, the pain, the torture, the murder, poverty, and starvation — in short, the sins of mankind. The white stone from above turned as solid black as the evening sky from our sins. So you see, Muslims do not turn away from this truth, that we are all both light and dark. Someday, I will make the pilgrimage, the Hajj, and I will walk around the Kaaba, find my way to the Black Stone, and kiss it as did the Prophet.”

He nearly recited. “I believe that there is no god but Allah, and that Mohammed is his Prophet. Not despite any evils of Islam, but because of its beauties, and its call to submission to God in the face of the evils every nation, every creed, and every person has committed.”

Savas held his gaze. “How do we know that the evil itself isn't somehow built into many of the beliefs that claim to save us from them? For all the talk of salvation, there seems to be scant evidence that anyone has been saved by any of these faiths. We keep repeating the same old evils, in old as well as new forms. If religion and faith are real, and change us, and heal us, and remake us, then I have to ask why this is the case. I've called to God, and listened, but so far I haven't heard anything.”

Jordan smiled. “But you are honest! How much closer to God you are than so many who deceive themselves. When Muslims, Christians, or Hindus, whoever, do evil in the name of God, they listen not to God but only to themselves, their fears, their inadequacies. At least you will not create a false god to serve your own needs. I will have hope for you yet!”

“That's fine. Hope is good,” said Savas with resignation. “Just let's keep the volume down on all this religious hoping, if you would.”

Before Jordan could speak, Manuel Hernandez came crashing down the hallway, his awkward gait nearly a full run. Too many long hours hunched over a computer screen had given him the dough-boy physique of a programmer, and he panted, struggling for air as he leaned over to catch his breath, his long brown hair hanging over his face and covering it, his brushy beard the only part sticking out from under the hair. He gasped out anxious words.

“John, we've got a situation.”

45

Savas rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure he even knew what that meant anymore. “What, another one? Get back to me after the other twenty-three clear, Manuel. I don't have time for another one.”

“No, I mean a situation,” he wheezed out the last word, trying hard to place emphasis.

Savas opened his palms toward him. “OK, shoot.”

“We've been hacked.”

Jordan glanced toward him, his eyebrows raised. Savas stood there stunned for a moment, trying to come to terms with the implications. “What? I thought you said your security setup was like Fort Knox.”

“No, not us directly. Someone hacked into Personnel, Accounting, perhaps a few other departments. I don't know the extent of it yet. Hell, they don't even know it happened yet.” Hernandez stood straight up now, hands off his knees, recovering from his sprint to John's office. He saw the confusion in the other two faces in front of him.

“See, they did try to hack us, and then when they failed, they tried to go through other internal servers — hack into those, use internal networks to find security holes, break into our stuff that way. Well, that didn't work either, as I've walled us off even from the FBI.”

“You're one paranoid geek, Manuel.”

“Yeah, thanks. So, we're not compromised. But just about everyone I've checked in the building is.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Ten minutes, John. I ran over here as soon as I was sure and had some idea about the extent of it.”

“Well, that's ten minutes too long. You get up to Larry's office. Tell that bulldog guarding outside I sent you priority. Get Larry to write you a get-out-of-Intel-Free pass, and get up to those departments and try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Timing's what's worrying me,” interrupted Hernandez. Jordan looked over at Savas and nodded.

“I mean, right when we start to get a lock on this guy, this Gunn-dude, we get hacked. And, let me tell you, they were aiming for us, John, following the tracks, I mean, of all the offices and groups. These were black hats on a mission. They wanted us.”

Savas nodded. “Get up to Larry and find out all you can. Track them through this if you can. Maybe we can find out who or where they are.”

“OK. I'm on it. But I'm done running for the day.” Hernandez turned around and walked briskly back down the hallway.

“You think it's Gunn?” asked Savas.

Jordan nodded. “This looks like a pro job, and if there's one thing we know about Mjolnir, it's that they are professionals. Only the connection with Gunn would lead a bunch of skilled hackers to focus on you and your people. In some ways, it's just more evidence that we are on the right track.”

“Not some random cyber attack?”

“Sure, could be. How many of those do you get a month, and how many get this close?”

Savas nodded, then looked up in exasperation. “I was supposed to meet Frank and Matt downstairs — our last hot dog — stand lunch before the new security regs force the carts a few blocks up. At least the food's fast and I can march them back up here. Care to join me before I run back up into this insanity?”

“Sure,” said Jordan. “But I'll go with the potato knish.”

Savas groaned inwardly. Pork and Muslims, oil and water. He smiled to cover for his gaffe.

“OK, let's go. I've got to eat something before we go into red alert again.”

It was a sunny, early-October day, crisp and even slightly warm under the sun. Savas stepped out of the FBI building, squinting in the bright light. If it weren't for all the chaos, it would have been nice to be outside on such a beautiful fall afternoon. Jordan followed him down the stairs to the pavement, his eyes scanning the area, an old survival instinct that would never leave him, no matter how safe the neighborhood. Savas spotted Frank Miller first. That was always easy; the ex-marine was about as wide as a standard refrigerator. Matt King provided a striking contrast. His lanky form, slouched posture, and bookish demeanor set him apart. However, both were equally enjoying the hot dogs on this fine day. Each was looking toward Savas with an air of feigned annoyance.

Miller waved them over. “I thought you said you'd meet us down here at noon, John,” he said, ripping off about half the hot dog and bun, then speaking through a full mouth. “We've been here twenty minutes waiting for you. The hot dogs were getting old, I'm afraid.”

“I thought they weren't biodegradable,” mused King.

Savas smiled. “I'm sorry, guys, but we have a small situation upstairs.”

Both rolled their eyes and groaned, almost in stereophonic harmony. King shook his head. “I think making partner would have been easier than this job. What now?”

“We were hacked.” Savas paused to let it sink in. King nearly choked on his food as Savas continued. “From what Manuel says, half the building was hacked, and actually, we were not, thanks to Jesus's ultraparanoid, super firewall. But someone, according to him, someone good, got into several systems in the building, trying to use those to get to us.”

“To us?” said Miller.

“Apparently, yes, we were the target. Manuel is running around up there trying to get a handle on it, and that is what we all get to go do as soon as we insert those indigestion tubes,” he said, waving toward the hot dog stand. Jordan came toward them, holding a knish.

“Holy shit,” said King. “This is pretty freaky stuff, John. This, and all the Gunn stuff; you think it's connected?”

“Yes,” said Savas. “So does Agent Jordan.”

“I don't think too much of coincidences in this business,” Jordan said.

Frank Miller nodded. “Well, that raises the stakes some. Cops chase robbers, but these guys are scary folk. They chase back.”

Savas was momentarily aware of a flash of light, a movement of red across his chest. Miller, closest to him, focused intently on the red circle. Suddenly, he lunged toward Savas like a lineman about to pummel a quarterback. Time seemed to grind to a stop. Stunned, Savas saw the huge former marine actually become airborne as he dove toward him, his coffee and hot dog seemingly suspended in midair.

There was a soft whizz through the air and a simultaneous explosion of fabric over Miller's shoulder. A cloud of red mist burst into the air. Miller crashed into Savas's chest, smashing the wind out of him and sending them both plummeting toward the hard pavement below. Miller landed on top of him and rolled to the side, clutching his right shoulder. It was soaked red with blood. Savas struggled to catch his breath.

“Ahhh, fuck!” screamed Miller, raising himself to a crouch and motioning with his good arm for Savas to stay down. “Keep low, John! Sniper!” Miller gasped out. “Crawl behind that parked van! Damn!”

The pavement exploded as several more rifle shots were fired. People were screaming and running in various directions. Jordan had pulled out a pistol and was crouched beside the FedEx van, looking up toward a building across the street.

Miller screamed out, “Damn it, John! Move to the curb, by the van. The shots came from that building across the street!” Miller paused, inhaled sharply through his teeth. “He can't hit you if you move. So move!”

Savas came to himself enough to get on his hands and knees and crawl over to the van. He heard Miller and Jordan talking rapidly.

“I think it's the roof of the corner building,” Miller gasped.

“Yes,” said Jordan, “I saw the gunman. He took two more shots and that exposed him. He ran back from the roof after that. He's either going down through the building or going to hit the fire escapes on the older structure around the back. I think it's the last — too easy to get caught inside.” Jordan looked over at Matt King, who had also taken refuge behind the van and was shaking violently even as he held out a weapon.

“Matt — stay here with John and shoot anyone we don't know or who gets close to him. He was the target, and we don't know if there are other snipers. Meanwhile, call an ambulance for Frank, then your offices. Get some people down here if they aren't already on their way. I'm going after this guy.”

King had only a second to respond with “OK, but…” when Jordan, gun still in hand, sprinted off across the street with his slight limp, leaped onto and across the hood of a taxi barring his way, and was out of sight.

Jordan crossed Broadway — not so broad this far south on the island and down to a one-way street — and ran across the opposite sidewalk, crossing Duane Street and heading toward the corner of Broadway and Reade. People jumped back from him, a sprinting black man dressed in Islamic garb, gun held aloft and pointed toward the skies. Who knew what was going through their minds? I just hope the cops don't arrest me, he thought.

He darted around the corner and sprinted up Reade Street, his mending leg stiff and throbbing. Dropping from the fire escape halfway up the block, a man landed on the pavement, hitting hard and catching himself with his hands. As he regained balance, he looked down the street and saw Jordan; their eyes locked. The man turned, drawing something dark from his belt behind his back, and sprinted up the street. Lost the rifle, heading toward Church Street, armed with handgun. Jordan sprinted after him.

The figure crossed Duane on the east side of Church, then disappeared, hidden by a building. Jordan sprinted harder. Every second out of sight meant the suspect could be lost. Jordan nearly crashed into a couple pushing a stroller. The woman screamed, but he pivoted out of their way and continued toward Church Street. The alley was in shadow from the buildings, and Church was lit brightly from the sun in comparison. Instinct took over as he approached the corner. He raised his gun, and as he stepped into the light, he crouched and scanned around him.

The crouch saved his life. A retort from a gun sounded as he heard the bullet whiz over his head, a store window next to him shattering, screams and an alarm filling the air. His prey had waited, expecting a figure the height of an average male to emerge, and in haste had not adjusted his aim properly, missing Jordan by inches. He rolled across the pavement, shielding himself behind a parked car. Fool! If the man had used his time getting away and not trying to kill him, he might have escaped easily. Jordan darted up, just in time to see a figure sprinting across the road and heading south. Chambers and Church subway stop! Jordan knew where he was headed, and if he made it there, he'd be lost in the underground labyrinth.

Jordan was nearly out of breath when he reached the subway station. He leapt down the stairs, sending one man flying and cursing behind him. When he reached the turnstiles, his heart sank. A figure had jumped them and was racing down the steps. If a train was waiting or came soon, he'd be lost. Jordan darted forward, screaming at people and waving his weapon. It was very effective. He moved through the dividing mass of people in line, jumped over the turnstile to several angry cries, and flew down the steps at a reckless and dangerous rate. His leg was on fire, the pain beginning to distract him. Jordan pushed it away, focusing on the chase.

The subway stop was a flood of humanity, like sardines in a can. He scanned the area, back and forth. He knew he wouldn't be able to see the man he was chasing, but if his quarry continued to panic, he would be doing the one thing he shouldn't in a crowd like this — he would be moving. There! He saw first the ripples in the crowd as someone pushed his way forcefully through. The sniper was about halfway to the next stairway, but Jordan knew that this was not his goal. The tunnel wind had begun, indicating an approaching train. In this density of people, Jordan realized that he would never reach the killer in time, and if he got on the train, the odds of continuing the chase successfully would drop precipitously. So he did the only thing he could think of in the moment.

“Allah be praised!” he yelled, springing on top of a bench and brandishing his firearm. “Everyone down, down or I will kill all infidels!” He fired his weapon at the ceiling. People screamed, and a great horde of them dropped straight to the ground. His quarry continued to panic, and instead of dropping as well, concealing himself in the crowd, he reached behind his back to pull out his weapon. Jordan crouched on the bench, steadied, and aimed. The man raised his weapon. Jordan pulled the trigger twice in succession.

Both shots were true. They struck the man solidly in the chest, and he shuddered, disoriented, discharging his weapon into the air and crying out as he fell. Several more people screamed, as did the train brakes as the lead car blasted out of the tunnel and into the stop, a rush of air flowing into the chamber. Jordan leapt down from the bench and raced across as people crouched in terror. He kept his weapon turned on the man but drew it up as he came close.

The gunman had collapsed and was sprawled on his back, blood soaking his chest and sputtering out of his mouth as he coughed. One of the bullets had hit the heart or a major artery. No longer a threat, his gun lay beside his hand on the ground. Jordan felt his stomach turn. The man was near death. His shot had done more damage than he had intended.

He bent down on one knee and grabbed the man's denim jacket. “Who sent you?” he barked out.

The man looked up, his eyes swimming at first, then focusing for a brief moment. “You will lose, Muslim,” he whispered, the word a curse in his mouth. “Mjolnir will strike, and strike soon. Burn, and burn again in hell.” His eyes rolled back, and he became heavy as his muscles completely relaxed. Jordan let go of him and clenched his fist. No! It was not to be helped. He had done all that he could. But it had not been enough.

“NYPD—freeze!” the shout was from behind him, the sounds of shoes running toward him unmistakable. “Hands up in the air! Now! Now! Now!”

Jordan placed his gun down and raised his hands slowly over his head. As the officer threw him on his face and cuffed him, he had a brief flashback to the many arrests he had endured as a young gang member, the last one leading to his imprisonment — and to his salvation at the hands of a Muslim cleric. It didn't matter, he thought, as he felt blood leak from his nose. He had failed today. What will tomorrow bring?

“You terrorist bastard,” said the officer standing over him, with his knee in his back. “We'll soon have you shipped somewhere nice. Where I hope they electrocute your fucking balls off.”

“I don't believe this! Right in our front yard!” said Larry Kanter, standing outside the FBI building, watching the ambulance pull out with a sedated Frank Miller inside. “Is he going to be OK?”

Savas followed the flashing lights. “Yeah, Larry. It ain't pretty, but it's only a shoulder injury. He's lost some blood, but Matt's the same type, and he insisted on riding with them just in case. The emergency responders gave Matt some flack, but took one look at him and his badge and eased up.”

Kanter nodded. “Good, good. Let's get back up now and figure out what the hell is going on. We've got an assassination attempt at our front door, hackers breaking into FBI networks — this is going down as one of our really good days.”

“You believe me now?”

Kanter scowled and looked away. “I guess I don't have much choice. These bastards pretty much made the argument for you. Damn! I should have listened to you earlier, but I just couldn't swallow something that big, that impossible. I don't think the powers-that-be will either, not even after this. But we'll deal with it.”

Savas didn't respond immediately. Finally, he looked at Kanter. “The bullet was meant for me, Larry. Frank stuck his shoulder in the way, threw himself in the way to get me out of the line of fire. He's bleeding now instead of my heart being blown out of my chest.”

Kanter's jaw tightened. “John, we all know the job brings dangers. We might think as analysts we are protected from the worst, but today you see differently. We are fellow soldiers in this war, and Frank has seen enough war for all of us. There are two kinds of soldiers, John. Those who will take a bullet for the platoon, and those who won't. You see which one Frank Miller is.”

Savas nodded. Kanter motioned for him to walk in. “Now, we've got some responding to do on this. First, we've got to put a security team on you right way. More than ever it looks like Gunn must be behind this. You were the one to confront him. He's focusing on you.”

Savas's stomach tightened. “Larry, I wasn't the only one there that day.”

Kanter looked him in the eye. “Yes, John, I know that. I've got men heading over to her apartment as of fifteen minutes ago.”

46

William Gunn switched off the television feed and glanced out over the sea of clouds below. The white ocean seemed to stretch forever, even to the edge of the horizon as viewed from this height. Waves seemed to be embedded in the cloud blanket, giving it the appearance of some heavenly body of celestial water, frozen in the moment. He glanced up above the plane, where the sky seemed to darken ever so slightly and lose its blue, and where, if he looked closely enough, he imagined, one might make out the brightest stars.

A man approached Gunn's private section of the aircraft and knocked on the wall next to the curtain separating the compartments. “Come in,” said Gunn.

It was Rout. “Mr. Gunn, sir. We will be arriving in half an hour. We have arranged for several different limos to depart simultaneously, and will switch vehicles three times, with cars following behind to search for tails.”

“Good. Have you seen the footage from today's missions?”

“I have, sir. Spectacular successes both in Sudan and on the airliner. The preliminary work has now been set, and every mission a success. The pattern is in place, and the final point is waiting to be added.”

“It is time we revealed ourselves, then. You have the press package readied?”

“Just give the signal.”

“Today. Send it to all the major news organizations. It is time to prime the trap for the final stroke.”

“It will be done.”

Gunn nodded. “Have you been debriefed on the failure in New York last week?”

“Yes, sir. A poorly executed mission. The resource was apprehended, but he died of wounds before he could be brought into custody. He was a blind and could have told them little of practical use.”

“We will make another, more thorough effort soon.”

“Sir?”

“The information we obtained from the FBI — a break through their computer security — has proven very useful. We were unable to penetrate his division, however. There were some very significant security safeguards in place. But we were able to reconstruct the organization and obtain extensive information from other computers about all personnel of relevance.”

“He will be a much harder target now. There will be security on his person and place of residence, and he will scramble his travel and schedule.”

The CEO nodded. “Yes; that is to be expected. A harder target but not unreachable. They still cannot connect things to us, and our friendliness with the FBI allows us to steer the research into Gunn International and Operon, effectively slowing them down considerably. Besides, the list of targets has expanded dramatically. I think another strategy is in order.

“We will need more assets in New York,” Rout added.

Gunn sipped from a glass of brandy. “It would be better to bring in our mission units.”

Rout nodded curtly. “Yes, but we cannot bring them back for this mission without jeopardizing the other.”

“I understand. They are to return for the final mission training. We'll run New York with what we have here. The primary teams need to be fully briefed on the details of Ragnarök.”

“Yes, sir. You will oversee the transfer to Mexico?”

Gunn smiled. “Yes, personally. When the day comes, I will also see that ship launched toward its goal. I want to be there, close enough to touch the thing.” He laughed. “Consider it the closest I get to superstition. A blessing, if you will.”

Rout responded with little more than a raised eyebrow. “Understood, sir.” He then spun around and walked through the curtains back to his seat.

47

Savas finished cutting the tomatoes and tossed them along with the cucumbers into the large wooden bowl. He quickly diced an onion and sprinkled the bits over the growing salad. Going to the fridge, he pulled out the large white tub of feta cheese, opened it, and cut out a medium-sized hunk that he placed on a plate. With his bare hands, he crushed the cheese into small morsels over the salad, washing his hands afterward. Finally, he grabbed the olive oil and spread it luxuriously over the contents of the bowl. A country Greek salad with make-do, store-bought produce. Nothing would come close to his grandfather's garden in Thessaloniki, where the bright Greek sun, the earth, and the green hands of a man who cared would always yield crops far superior to the products of agribusiness that landed in the supermarkets. But it would have to do.

He gazed outside the window in the kitchen, and, not for the first time, wondered when a coherent red light of a laser targeting scope would dart across his chest, the glass in the window exploding, and a bullet tearing through his flesh. The night was silent except for the muffled roar of a motorcycle and the sounds of Cohen showering in the next room.

He placed the salad on the table and returned to the kitchen to check on the lamb. It had a bronzed texture, so he turned off the oven and the oven light. The sound of the water faded, and he heard the shower curtain slide open. He resisted the urge to go see her. There was nothing sexier or more beautiful than a woman wet and dripping from the shower. Or from a rainstorm, he reminded himself.

Following the attempt on his life, much had changed — seemingly for the better. The investigation of his conduct toward William Gunn had ended, as enough of the decision makers at the FBI had decided that perhaps all this was not so coincidental. The cyber attack on the FBI had certainly helped his case. Once it was clear how much confidential information had been breached, an entirely new investigation into lax computer security had begun. By the time Jordan had obtained a governmental get-out-of-jail-free card, Savas was off the hook internally. But the relief was muted. He had a price on his head.

The FBI decided to keep a constant watch on both him and Cohen. This had at first panicked them both, as they thought it meant they would not be able to see each other for the duration. But it had turned out wonderfully once Kanter had suggested that it would conserve resources to keep them together at all times. This was something of a double-edged sword: they had a complete lack of freedom in their activities outside the apartment and the FBI, but a freedom from the constraints of hiding their relationship. Cohen had suggested that they hole up after work at her place. While the guards outside the room were a nuisance, they were finally afforded a strange sort of normalcy in their relationship. “Now we can finally go to work together, darling,” she had joked one morning. Yes, with the caveat that they go together with the hulking shapes of Agents Robertson and Smith.

Breaking him out of thought, Cohen walked into the kitchen, and once again, John Savas felt the complete power of her beauty reduce him to a small singularity that radiated only awe. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she had quite unfairly worn the “monkey shirt”—a tight number with a brightly colored monkey spread in undulations over her chest. Once, when they had walked through a park in late August, she had worn the shirt, and he had asked that night whether she had intended it to draw his attention to her breasts. She had laughed at him. “John, not everything revolves around sex.” He had tried hard to digest that one.

She saw his admiring gaze and smiled. “OK, this time I did wear it for you to look at my chest,” she said impishly.

Savas smiled. “So, I have permission?”

She laughed and kissed him. “Let's try some of that salad.”

Cohen walked to the table as Savas brought out the salad and the lamb. “It's too much for the two of us, but I'd rather save some for tomorrow and not invite in our well-armed shadows.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, each content in this mundane activity that nonetheless seemed as deep as any world event that had crashed on them in the last five months. Finally, Cohen spoke through the stillness.

“Frank is going to be OK?”

Savas put down his fork and exhaled. “It looks like he will. There was a lot of deep-tissue damage, so his racquetball game is never going to be the same. But he'll get most of his range of motion back, or so the doctors tell me anyway. At least we got Husaam out of lockup without too much trouble. What a mess!”

“God, John, it still runs through my mind every day. If it weren't for Frank…”

He cut her off. “But he was there, love. It's torture to think through the possibilities. I'm here, and we just have to keep our wits about us now.”

“Nothing more from the sniper?”

Savas shook his head. “No. Same pattern as the other one. Ex-military, served in an antiterrorism unit. There were reports of behavior toward enemy combatants that led to formal disciplinary action. Seems that lots of these Mjolnir soldiers have some strong hatred for Muslims, Rebecca. Gunn must have recruited such men.”

“So we just play it cool with Gunn?”

“That's how they want it. Filtering it through Larry's evasions, it seems there is still enough debate higher up about messing with Gunn that they are going to slow down, which makes sense from another angle — he's still working with the FBI. The hope is to find enough about Operon, or get lucky and strike gold in looking into Gunn International itself, that we'll find what we need to take this thing down and stop whatever they're planning next.”

“John, something is troubling me about all these attacks.”

“You mean besides all the death and destruction?”

She gave him her sharp look. “Yes. They don't make sense. OK, sure, they are all Muslim targets and Mjolnir is out to destroy Islam — motive is there. But why do you go out bombing random mosques across the world, or, come on, a civilian airliner? How is this going to bring down a religion of over a billion souls?”

“I don't know, but it's sure shaking up the world. The Islamic nations have gone ape-shit, embargoed us, and we've sent a bunch of ships toward the Gulf threatening them and scaring everyone that World War Three is on the horizon. That part of their plan seems to be working.”

“OK, yes, that is something, but couldn't that be done while still hitting more strategic targets? Government buildings? Leaders of nations? These targets are so random, so haphazard. Why not more professional-type targets for such a professional group? They began with assassinations that followed such a pattern. Then this.”

“Maybe we don't know what their aims are.”

Cohen shifted her weight forward, put her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands under her chin. “That's exactly what I am getting at, John. We are missing something. These guys are too smart, too careful, too thoughtful to appear so scattershot.”

“Sometimes revenge isn't logical, Rebecca. Sometimes it's just mean and crazy.”

She shook her head. “John, I don't think so. They are too cruel, too ordered, for simplistic revenge. You said it best — Gunn is like a serial killer. There is something cold, calculating alongside all that hatred. Some pattern, however demented. We're missing something that is pointing somewhere.”

Savas heard the anxiety in her voice and reached out to take her hand. “Where then? What do you mean?”

Cohen stared out across the room. “I don't know. Somewhere dark. To something bigger, much bigger.”

She squeezed his hand so tightly it nearly hurt. “John, I'm scared.”

48

Michael Inherp watched the docked boats bob in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Night had fallen on New Orleans. Not the old New Orleans, he reminded himself, full of swagger and slum, of music and magic, of Mardi Gras and murder, of artists and pimps. It was a wounded shadow of the once great city, left alone to rot after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Lights danced on the sea stretching out before the dock like those in a van Gogh painting, the rigging of sailboats nearby like muffled bells playing to the rhythm of the waves. Calm before the storm. He closed his eyes, thinking about the tempest to come.

A small freighter waited hungrily at the dock. It was an unusual vessel, thoroughly modernized, down to tinted black windows and highly sophisticated and expensive radar and communications equipment visible from the outside. Inherp had seen the inside and knew the outside told only a superficial tale. For several days, he and other soldiers of Mjolnir had passed on and off the boat. Men with purpose and haste and intensity foreign to the rhythms of the port.

Inherp continued to scan the port as part of his guard duty. He watched an old fisherman prepare his boat for the night's expedition. This was not the first time the old man had worked his boat during Inherp's watch. Stooped, a gray beard visible from a distance, he had seen unusual activity at the strange boat. Inherp doubted the fisherman thought long on the issue. This was New Orleans, after all. He displayed no real curiosity. He prepped his boat and cast out. Night after night. The old man seemed to have a different pace, a sense of the sea, its rhythm, its long heartbeat and toll of a lifetime. Inherp suppressed a bitter laugh. Not like us, are you, Gramps? With our machines and power, flaunting our disrespect for the great waters of the world.

This night, the activity was particularly brisk, and Inherp knew the man had seen much, even inadvertently. Seen too much. The old fisherman had been working when the very large crate was pulled along the dock on an extended trolley. The old man had perked up when the crate rolled by, its mass flanked on each side by armed men. He had cast a glance or two as the men wheeled the crate to the freighter, which was equipped with a small crane. The men had secured the crate to a harness, and the crane had pulled the crate upward, out of sight. The old man had worked late one night too many.

It happened so quickly the old fisherman never understood. Inherp watched a shadow rise behind the fisherman. He had only an instant to recognize the broad end of a silenced weapon raised as several muffled spits sounded over the splashing of waves against the dock. The old man lay on the deck of his boat, nets tangled around his arms, a pool of blood forming around his head.

Inherp bowed his head for a moment. The rigging of the sailboats rang like church bells in the thickening night.

Later, onboard, he was ordered to sequester the large crate below deck. He and his fellow soldiers worked very carefully and secured it tightly. Next to the crate, he and the others stood at attention. A tall, thin man descended a narrow set of stairs above him, bowed to fit within the lower ceiling, and straightened to full height when he reached the last step and entered the room. He wore a dark-gray suit, his silvery hair set tight on his head. Money, power, and influence seemed to radiate from his person, as well as something more feral, something that Inherp could feel and that kept him even more tightly at attention. William Gunn. Inherp felt stunned to be in his presence. Following behind, a powerfully built figure with blond hair emerged and now stood a few feet to Gunn's left. This man had a sharp crew cut and the face of a tested warrior.

“Open it,” said Gunn.

Inherp jumped to obey, and within moments, he and the others had revealed what lay within. Gunn stared at the long, black object inside with a terrible fascination that sickened Inherp. The CEO stepped up and rubbed his hands along its smooth contours. It ran nearly twenty-one feet in length with a diameter of about two and a half feet. Wings jutted outward from its midsection, spanning over ten feet. The very design of the thing reeked of threat and death. It was a predator like the world had never seen.

“AGM-129 ACM cruise missile,” said the older soldier, matter-of-factly. “Average speed that of a jet plane at five hundred miles per hour. Range — two thousand nautical miles. Payload — a W80-1 variable yield. She flies fast, she flies low and unseen, and delivers one hell of a punch at the end.”

Inherp noticed that Gunn did not take his eyes off the black missile. The men around him looked distinctly uncomfortable. Finally, the CEO stepped back and addressed the soldiers.

“When you have delivered the package and it is secured, we will begin training for our most important mission, one that will spill fire on our enemies and forever change the world. You men will be part of that mission, a strike at the heart of fanaticism in the world with a weapon the gods themselves didn't possess.”

He glared intensely across the faces, and Inherp felt the man's eyes burn into him. Gunn turned and marched quickly up the stairs. Although Inherp felt a massive tension leave his body, the night had only just begun.

After the leaders had left the room, Inherp and the other young recruits assembled the crate again. As the wood began to cover the black monstrosity within, Inherp hung back from the others, using the crate's sides to partially shield himself from their view. In his hand he held a small metallic and plastic object, and he pointed it at the missile several times discreetly, finishing quickly and ensuring that he remained hidden from the other two soldiers. Finally, he pocketed the object and assisted in the final steps of securing the crate, boxing in the beast once more.

Afterward, he ascended and stood looking across the bow to the waves below. He felt sick inside and turned his face to the wind. Cool air swept across his face as the ship motored out to sea in the quiet of the night. He touched the cell phone in his pocket. It held information that the world had to see — and had to see soon. He knew that somehow, he had to live long enough to make sure that they did.

49

Savas entered the Operations Room. As always, there was an assault of visual information from the many monitors mounted on the walls — a strange FBI version of Times Square. J. P. Rideout called to him from across the room.

“John — we've got the specs on that plane and the initial analysis of the explosion. This came from the US Navy. They were right on the scene and recorded most of the useful data we've got on this.” He called up several figures on one of the screens showing a large commercial jetliner, 747, and several incomprehensible schematics depicting the analysis of the blast.

“J. P., can you give me the Cliffs Notes version?”

“Yeah, sorry. I don't understand half this stuff myself. Bottom line — this was not an accident. A high-yield explosive device was employed, likely contained in the baggage compartment. How it got past security is anyone's guess. S-47 isn't easy to detect, but they wouldn't have needed anything so sophisticated to bring that plane down.”

“Was there any wreckage recovered?”

“That's still ongoing. There will be some, but that Boeing was blown to bits. There appears to be some remains of the tail section, but it's deep now, and it will take at least another few weeks until the navy can get the necessary equipment out there — that is, if they aren't diverted to the Gulf.”

Savas shook his head slowly. “Yeah. It's a magnet right now for large ships with men and guns. This whole thing is starting to reach critical mass over there.”

Rideout looked up from his terminal. “You think this is going to lead to war?” Several heads swiveled over in their direction. It was a question on everyone's mind.

“Well, it doesn't look good, but I'm not the one to predict the choices of nations and armies. I sure as hell hope not. If it does, it won't be some little police action like Nam or Iraq — no offense to you guys, who saw blood spilled there. This is going to be something big, something where we can't even bring the bodies back. If Russia and China get involved, who knows where it will go. Mjolnir's wet dream.”

Matt King piped up. “The mosque in Sudan — same MO. Same results from forensics. Your little visit didn't dissuade them from using S-47, or from anything else, it seems. There were riots again in Khartoum, and the American Embassy was firebombed. Molotov cocktails and the like. Luckily, we evacuated our people last week. It's definitely not a good time to travel with a US passport.”

“Or to live near any Muslim holy site of any significance,” said Savas.

Frank Miller nodded, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, his arm in a sling. “That sure as hell is true. The question is, where will they strike next? We've been banging our heads against this for months, but there's no rhyme or reason, no pattern.”

Savas and Cohen exchanged glances. “No,” Savas said. “Nothing. No structure, pattern, nothing we can get our hands on to predict and prepare.”

“There's something…” Angel Lightfoote whispered as much to herself as to anyone in the room.

“Angel?” asked Savas. “You think you see something?”

Lightfoote stared forward, shaking her head. “There's always something.”

He sighed. They remained in the dark, powerless, while a panther stalked the world — and stalked him and Cohen. They kept waiting for the hammer to fall.

Husaam Jordan stepped into the room and approached Savas. “John, we think that Gunn has left the country, probably for Mexico or somewhere in Central America.”

“What?” William Gunn leaving the country, and not flying to a big bank in China or Europe, made Savas very uneasy. “Field agents last had him in New Orleans!”

“He lost them quite effectively, it seems. He's been using a number of decoys. Our contacts at the ports place a man who fits his description, as well as an unusual amount of activity, at a cargo ship several days ago. Right around that time, there was a shooting at the same port that occurred the night that ship left harbor. We've been able to track the numbers on the boat back to an old discarded model once used by Operon several years back.”

“We need a better team down there,” Savas said dejectedly. “You spooks are doing our job for us. OK, assuming that this is not a coincidence, why does that mean he's out of the country?”

“CIA contacts in Mexico, John. This boat docked several days after departure, south of the border. We've sent a team, and they will check it out, but I bet all traces of Mjolnir will be gone.”

“Assuming he was on the boat, what the hell is he doing there?”

“Not vacationing,” the Muslim said flatly.