The Seventh Pillar

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Lamont's arm stuck out at an odd angle, locked in a rigid cast. Ronnie's left hand was bandaged. Selena and Stephanie sat to his right.

"We know more than we did." Nick paused. "The man who attacked us in Mali was one of the assassins. Somehow it's related to Bausari and that cave. But al-Bausari is Sunni. The assassins are fanatics and Shia. They wouldn't work together."

"Why did he come after you?" Ronnie asked.

"He was in the library and saw Selena reading that manuscript."

"I'd like to know what was in that cave." Stephanie adjusted the pistol and pager at her waist.

"It must be a relic of Muhammad. A genuine relic could inflame Islam in the wrong hands. A sign of credibility, if you like. And now Bausari has it."

Selena crossed her legs, trying to get comfortable. "What worries me is it could be the sign the assassins have been waiting for all these centuries. It might be why they've come out in the open again. If it's really them."

"What kind of sign?"

"How's your apocalypse knowledge, Lamont?"

"Like in the Bible?"

"Right. In the Bible, you get all kinds of signs like earthquakes and plagues and famine and war that foreshadow the end. Like the world has right now. Then God sounds the Last Judgement and that's it. In Islam, it's similar but different, especially with the Shia theology."

"How so?"

"Those signs mean the Mahdi will appear, the Islamic messiah, to call in the Faithful. Christ reappears and converts all the Christians to the true faith of Islam. Anyone who doesn't convert is finished. Then Islam rules supreme."

Lamont rubbed the heavy cast on his arm. "Damn thing itches. Okay, but so what?"

"Anyone who doesn't convert is put to the sword. Do you know the seven pillars of Shia Islam?"

"No."

"They're pretty good, actually. The first six are about purity, prayer, charity, fasting, pilgrimage and a sense of oneness with God. It's the seventh pillar that can make trouble."

"Which is?"

"Jihad. Struggle. There are two interpretations of that. One is peaceful, the idea that jihad means struggling for a better life, a spiritual life, building the community, things like that. That's how most of Islam thinks of it. The other meaning is confronting enemies of the faith. All bets are off for the non-believer. Anything is justified. The non-believers can be killed."

"What are you getting at?"

"If someone who believes in Jihad as a call to holy war finds a sign that the Mahdi is about to return, and if that person has some kind of organization behind him…"

Everyone was silent for a moment.

Nick scratched his ear. "If it's a sign, we have to know what it is."

Selena brushed a hair from her brow. "I've got a feeling we'll find out soon enough."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The room was just another room on a ship. The ocean was visible through the porthole, an anonymous expanse of water. It could be anywhere in the world. There was nothing in the room to identify it. Al-Bausari sat cross legged on a low cushion, magnificent in his white robe and full beard. He wore a green turban, marking him as hajji, one who had made the journey to Mecca required of all the Faithful at least once in their lifetime. Behind him was a banner in Arabic, white letters on a green background.

ويوم المحاكمة قريبا

"Is all ready, Ghalib?"

"Yes, Teacher."

"Bring me the box."

Aban waited behind the camera as Ghalib reverently placed a wooden box at al-Bausari's feet. The wood was dark with the passing of the centuries. It was about three feet long, carved with scenes of Paradise, fruits and trees, vines and rivers.

The box from the cave. The Relic of the Prophet.

Al-Bausari nodded at Aban and the tape began recording. When they reached land, the tape would find it's way to Al-Jazeera and to the many websites preaching Jihad against the West.

"Praise God, the Day of Judgement is near. I have been given the sign. I bring His warning to the world."

Those words alone would guarantee rapt attention. Al-Bausari bent forward and opened the box and took out the relic and held it high.

Aban and Gahlib knelt and bowed their heads to the floor. The camera continued to roll as al-Bausari spoke.

Later he sat in a straight wooden chair as Ghalib prepared him for the next phase of their mission. He tried not to look at the hair falling around his feet. His face felt naked and strange without his beard. He’d begun that beard on the day his mind opened to the truth.

He’d been nineteen years old, a second year student studying law at Al-Azar University in Cairo. One day outside the lecture hall his professor called out to him to wait. Mullah Gamal Hasani was noted for his harsh rhetoric advocating strict Islamic law in Egypt. Everyone knew the secret police watched him.

Al-Bausari had been nervous. The Mullah was an intimidating man, but Hasani’s voice was quiet, inviting.

"I have been watching you in class, Jibril. You are not like most of the others. You pay close attention and you study hard."

"Yes, Teacher. I want to understand."

Hasani nodded. "Those who seek understanding are blessed. Allah calls to all of us, but few listen. It is almost time for the prayer. Come with me to the mosque and we will pray together."

That had been the beginning. Hasani had taken him under his wing, guided him as they studied the Book, helped Bausari see the true meaning of the Prophet’s writings, helped him see the threat to Islam poised by the West. Hasani had become a second father to him. Then one day Hasani disappeared as he walked to the mosque. Students said two men took him to a car and drove away. It was only God's will that Bausari was not with him. A week later it was reported Hasani had died of a heart attack.

On that day Bausari committed himself to the path of Jihad. Holy war.

"I am almost done, Teacher." The words startled Jibril out of his memories.

With a final flourish, Ghalib made the last cut. Bausari stood, brushing hair from his lap. The western clothes he wore were uncomfortable. The pants chafed. The shirt felt stiff and hot. The shoes were instruments of torture on his feet.

Bausari looked in a mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back at him. His hair was black again, with just a touch of gray, cut in a modern, western style. If he didn’t know who he looked like, neither would the Americans. They would never believe he would dare enter their country. If they did, they would look for the man famous for his white robes, green turban and magnificent beard.

Allah would forgive him. It was permitted to cut one’s hair in the cause of holy war against the infidel. Anything was permitted. It was something the people of the decadent western democracies still could not grasp or understand. That lack of understanding would hasten their destruction and the rise of the new Caliphate.

The slow journey across the Atlantic was nearly over. Bausari and Ghalib went on deck and walked past stacked cargo containers to the bow. For a few moments they watched the coast of Mexico coming closer on the horizon. In the distance a tall, snow capped peak rose against brilliant blue sky. The sun beat against Bausari’s newly minted face.

"When do we arrive?" Bausari ran his good hand over his newly shaven jaw.

"We reach Vera Cruz this afternoon. Then it is eleven kilometers upriver to Tuxpan. Overland transport awaits us there. We unload tonight. God willing, we will head north tomorrow morning."

"Our brothers in Mexico City have been informed of our arrival?"

"Yes, Teacher. There is much joy, there. They are eager for your blessing."

"It is Allah who blesses, not I."

"Yes, Teacher. But you are His instrument."

Al-Bausari walked back to one of the containers and patted the side. "Here is Allah’s blessing, Ghalib, the real instrument of His victory."

"Yes." Ghalib looked troubled. "There is news of our brothers in Mali and Mauritania. They were discovered and martyred."

"Ah. The Americans?"

"We think so. It is possible someone radioed from the plane we destroyed. The cave is destroyed. The house in Mauritania."

"There are other caves, other houses. They can never find them all. Allah surely opened the Gates of Paradise for them. As He will for us, Ghalib."

Bausari placed his hand on Ghalib’s shoulder. The two men looked into each other’s eyes.

"We will be remembered, Teacher," Ghalib said.

"Yes, Ghalib, we will."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Lucas Monroe had been an agent for twelve years. In that same twelve years many new stars had appeared on the memorial wall at Langley, one for each agent killed in the line of duty. Monroe wasn't as young as he used to be. He had no intention of becoming the next star.

After this mission, he was slated for a desk in the Counter-Terrorism Center on the sixth floor. Not bad for a black kid who'd clawed his way out of the ghetto and into the Ivy League school where he'd been recruited. Monroe was street tough, highly intelligent and ambitious. It hadn't been easy.

The mission was simple on the face of it. Grab the man living in the luxurious, fortified villa below. Yuri Azhrakov sold everything from assault rifles to jet fighters to anyone who could pay. You wanted a few Russian T-54s, a French Mirage, the latest in ground to air missiles or ten thousand AKs, you went to Yuri.

It would be easy to kill him. Monroe would have liked to kill him, but Langley wanted him alive. They wanted to ask him a few questions, someplace where they wouldn't be disturbed. They wanted to talk to him right away. It was a challenge. Monroe liked challenges.

The glorious blue of Lake Como stretched away beyond the red roof tiles and high stone walls of the villa. The scenery hadn't changed much since Pliny the Elder had built a vacation home here in the days of Caesar's Empire. A soft breeze off the lake made it pleasant in the shady olive grove where Monroe lay watching the villa. A sleek yacht cruised under sail in the distance. Monroe didn't notice the postcard picture of casual wealth. He focused on the walled compound below.

The heavy ornamental iron gates to the villa were closed. It would take a tank to break through them. A guard house by the gate was always manned. The guards inside the compound patrolled in pairs. They carried Czech Skorpion SA 391 submachine guns that fired eight hundred and fifty 9mm rounds per minute. Other guards covered the estate grounds.

Over the last two days Monroe had counted at least thirty security personnel. They all looked Serbian or Russian and moved with the alert tension of experienced military men. Monroe figured them for former Spetznaz, Russian Special Forces. As good as any in the world.

The walls surrounding the villa were topped with looping spirals of gleaming razor wire that would make you bleed if you looked hard at them. Monroe could see at least four cameras. There were sure to be more out of sight. The gate was the only entrance to the front. In back, a terraced patio and broad lawn landscaped with rows of tall Italian cypress and beds of flowers sloped down to the lake and a dock extending into the water. It was shielded by another high wall with observation posts that looked like Tuscan church towers on the ends.

There were powerful searchlights within the Italianesque architecture. There would be sentries with automatic weapons in the towers. The towers had an unobstructed field of fire. Graceful pieces of classical statuary were tastefully placed along graveled paths among the flowerbeds. There were certainly ground sensors and trip wires in the wide expanse of jewel-like green lawn. It was all very pretty. It would be suicide to come up from the lake.

Without a full bore military assault, the mansion was impregnable.

A broad, paved courtyard stretched in front of the house. A cobbled drive circled under a portico over the entrance and around a large, Neo-Renaissance fountain throwing rainbows into the bright afternoon sunlight. A five car garage sat to the left of the main entrance to the villa. Monroe watched a man walk out of the garage, cross the courtyard and go into the house.

Parked under the portico was a shiny black Mercedes limousine. A muscular man with close-cropped blond hair leaned against one of the fenders smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a gray chauffeur's uniform. He held the cigarette upright between his thumb and middle finger, European style. He looked bored.

Monroe knew the car was armored. Run flat tires with steel sidewalls. One inch thick bulletproof glass. Twelve cylinder, turbocharged engine that made over five hundred horsepower. Armored side panels, trunk and gas tank. Armored engine compartment. Only heavy weapons would do more than scratch a car like that. It would be armored underneath as well. But it was a car. It was still vulnerable.

Monroe thought about Azhrakov. These bastards were all the same, whether they were merchandising weapons, drugs or any other form of death. They relied on walls and surveillance and tough guys with lots of firepower to protect them. They relied on armored vehicles to travel in. Predictable. Predictability meant they were vulnerable.

Two men came out of the house, followed by Azhrakov. He carried a briefcase. He was a heavy man, built like a bear. He wore a goatee. Even from here, Monroe could see a flash of gold against his hairy wrist and the smooth ripple of fabric on his Italian suit. For a man responsible for the deaths of many thousands of people, he looked remarkably at ease with himself. He got in the back seat of the Mercedes. Sometimes the arms dealer liked to sit in front. In the back made things easier for Monroe.

Monroe had seen enough. He slipped from his lookout and walked down to where three men waited for him.

Enzio was from Brooklyn. He spoke fluent Italian. Louis was the driver. He could navigate the narrow roads of Lake Como and the nearby Alps at speeds that would frighten a Grand Prix professional. Eddie was the communications, ordnance and explosives expert. He was good at all of them.

Azhrakov's villa was located on the southern tip of the inverted Y that formed the lake, near the town of Como. It was about thirty minutes north of Milan, where Azhrakov's private jet waited. There was only one way out of Como, but after that there were three ways he could go to reach the city.

Monroe wasn't sure which one Azhrakov would take. All three routes led to Milan, but two were inferior roads, twisting and scenic. Azhrakov always chose routes at random. Sometimes he took the improved highway that headed south, then turned southeast to the city. It was the fastest route. Sometimes he chose one of the others. Monroe had teams positioned on all three and spotters to relay which way the Mercedes headed.

The fast route was busy with traffic and exposed. That made things much more difficult and required precision timing. There was a high risk of collateral damage. There were too many uncontrollable factors. Monroe had already prepared for that eventuality. It was certain Azhrakov would choose a secondary route. In Milan the crowds and Azhrakov's security cordon would prevent success. On the road was the best spot for Monroe to take his quarry.

Monroe spoke into his headset.

"Alpha One to all units. Subject is moving."

His teams acknowledged.

Monroe and the others climbed into a Land Rover Defender painted military green. The plates began with EI, identifying it as a unit of the Carabinieri. No longer just a police force, the Carabinieri were professional, well armed and now a full fledged unit of Italy's armed forces. They also had an attitude. Everyone in Italy knew you didn't piss off the Carabinieri.

Louis got behind the wheel. He wore the standard issue police uniform, dark blue with red stripes down the trousers, black, high-topped shoes, flashes on the collar, a peaked military style hat with badge. A white, buckled strap crossed his chest. He wore a black patent leather holster with a standard issue 9mm Beretta 93R. Enzio wore an identical uniform. Eddie and Monroe wore dark colored, casual clothes.

Enzio and Louis sat in front, Monroe and Eddie in the back. It would have looked odd for a black man to wear the police uniform. Monroe didn't mind. He was comfortable. At his feet was an MP-5 submachine gun, everyone's favorite. Under his jacket he carried a .40 Glock. In the rear of the vehicle was an RPG launcher, but Monroe didn't plan on using it. He wanted Azhrakov alive.

Monroe had another toy to stop the Mercedes, a Barrett 82A1 CQ that Eddie carried in his lap. Fifty caliber, semi-auto, with a barrel just over twenty inches in length. It was a bear to shoot, but the grip on top of the barrel helped hold down the recoil and stay on target. A fifty would take care of that armored glass. Even Mercedes didn't plan on stopping something bigger than a .45 or a three fifty-seven, or a burst from a nine mil Uzi. When a fifty hit something, it landed with 5000 foot pounds of extremely destructive force. A glancing blow from a fifty would hurl a man into the air. A direct hit would leave pieces everywhere.

Eddie was six-two, two hundred fifty pounds and built like a tank. He was left handed. He could handle the Barrett without a rest or bipod.

What was that old saying? Man plans, God laughs? Monroe hoped God wouldn't be laughing today.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Why are we slowing, Grigor?" Azhrakov looked up from his papers at the back of the driver's head.

"Accident ahead."

Yuri was annoyed. He'd wanted to take the speedy route to town, but there had been a roadblock. He'd chosen the next best route. Normally he didn't mind the slower, scenic routes but he was anxious to get to the airport. He had a meeting with an important client at his Dacha on the Black Sea. It wouldn't do if he wasn't there to greet him.

Ahead, Yuri saw a blue Fiat with a crumpled hood and fender halfway across the road. Another car, a red Alfa, sat hanging over a broken guardrail, the grill and windshield smashed, steam rising under the hood. A motorcycle cop stood by his BMW talking to a man holding a bloody bandage to his head. An ambulance sat behind the vehicles, lights flashing.

There was a curve and a turnout here. On the left, the road fell away into the trees and dropped for hundreds of feet. On the right, the mountains rose in a sheer wall. The road was completely blocked, except for a small section to the right.

"Go around it." Yuri gestured. As the Mercedes moved forward the cop turned and held up his hand. Grigor slowed.

A green police Land Rover, lights flashing, came up behind. Then the world exploded.

Eddie fired as the Land Rover came alongside. The armored glass shattered. One second, Yuri was looking at Grigor. The next, Grigor's head disappeared in a red mist. Blood, bits of bone and gray, soggy clumps covered Yuri's two thousand Euro suit and carefully pampered face.

The fifty caliber round passed through Grigor as if he wasn't there. It mangled the second bodyguard in the front seat. It continued on through the passenger window and impacted against the mountain. The Mercedes slewed off the road and came to a jolting stop.

The last guard was named Alexei. He opened the door and rolled onto the road, firing his Skorpion as he hit the ground. The motorcycle cop had his Beretta out. The Skorpion cut him down. Alexei turned and had just enough time to see a black man pointing a sub machine gun at him. It was the last thing he would ever see.

Enzio dragged Yuri from the car and threw him down onto the hard pavement. Azhrakov felt a sharp pain as someone jabbed a needle in his neck. Then, blackness.

Monroe looked at his agent, the one Alexei had shot. Blood pooled around him. His vest had stopped two rounds but another had struck his neck. He was dead.

"Get him into the ambulance with Azhrakov. Throw the bike over the edge. Get the bodies into the Mercedes and push it over. The Alfa, too. Get the Fiat out of here."

The vehicles went over the edge, crashing down into the trees. Monroe got back in the Land Rover. They headed for Milan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Carter's important phone rang. The signal for the secured line to Langley flashed. He picked up.

"Yes."

"Director Carter?"

"Yes."

"Please hold for the DNCS Hood."

Carter knew who Hood was. Director of National Clandestine Services, one of the top four directorates at Langley. In charge of all clandestine ops worldwide, HUMINT and who knew what else. Carter pressed a button to alert Stephanie.

"Director Carter, this is Clarence Hood." The voice was warm, with a hint of southern accent.

"Yes, Director. What can I do for you?"

"Let's drop the titles, shall we? How about I call you Nick and you call me Clarence? Less formal."

Interesting, Carter thought. "All right, Clarence."

"I'm calling about Sudan, and your, ah, adventures in Mali and Mauritania."

"You're well informed."

Hood chuckled. "That's my job. I'd like to get together with you. Share a little information. It's time we cooperated more closely."

When CIA offered cooperation it meant something big was in the air. It meant they were worried. Nick thought of the old warning to beware the Greeks bearing gifts.

"I'm sure the President would like to see more cooperation. What did you have in mind?" No harm in reminding Hood of where the Project's authority came from.

"How about lunch up here on the Seventh Floor? They do a great prime rib. At one, if you can make it."

Nick rustled papers on his desk. "One is tight. How about one-thirty? I can make that work." Through his office window, Nick saw Stephanie nod her approval.

"One-thirty, then. I'll have a car pick you up. I'll look forward to it." Hood ended the call.

Stephanie came in and sat down.

"My, Nick. Welcome to the big time. Prime rib, no less."

"Yeah. I'm looking forward to more cooperation. What do you think they're playing at?"

"They're worried about something. If they're laying out the red carpet it means they want something from us they can't do themselves."

"Something that might get them in trouble if it came out?"

"Maybe. They might need someone to do their dirty work for them."

"They're pretty good at that. Why us?"

"I guess you're going to find out. Nice move with the papers and the time change."

"Let's see…says here I have a beer with Ronnie around one. Tight schedule."

Stephanie laughed. "Seriously, watch your step. That's the lion's den over there. No one's better at half truths and misleading information."

"Hood wants to talk about Sudan. Remember you said you thought they knew more about that truck than they were letting on? Then they laid on the plane and weapons. Cooperating."

"See if you can find out why. What they know that we don't."

"Hey, I'm just an amateur. New kid on the block, hired gun. I'll bet they think I'm in over my head. It gives me an advantage."

"Well." Stephanie toyed with a bracelet. "It wouldn't be the first time someone underestimated you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

An earnest man in a dark suit met Carter at Langley. He introduced himself as George Burch. Burch gave Carter a visitor's pass, had him leave his pistol with security and escorted him through the lobby. Their footsteps echoed on the granite floor. They walked across the CIA seal, a sixteen pointed compass star with shield and eagle. On the north wall, rows of stars memorialized agents killed in the line of duty.

On the south wall a life-sized bronze figure of William Donovan, leader of the World War Two Office of Strategic Services, kept endless watch on those who passed. Wild Bill would have been astounded at what his OSS had become.

They walked down a hallway lined with portraits of former Directors of the agency. At the end of the corridor Burch used a card to bring down an elevator from the Seventh Floor. It was always the Seventh Floor, capital S, capital F. The intelligence empire of the U.S. was largely run from there. Every career CIA officer wanted to make it to the Seventh Floor.

Burch showed Carter into the executive dining room and left. DNCS Hood rose from a comfortable leather chair and came forward, hand outstretched.

"Nick. Thank you for coming."

"My pleasure." Hood's hand was dry, his grip a practiced firmness.

Hood was lanky and tall, cadaverous in his look, with watery blue eyes. He was sixty-four years old and in less than the best of health. His skin was dry and colorless. He wore a plain suit that failed to reflect his position of power.

Carter considered Hood brilliant and effective, a five star general in a dirty, undeclared war that operated far outside the convenient fictions of public thinking about right and wrong. He was ruthless in his pursuit of America's enemies.

The DCNS was career Agency, like his boss. Unlike his boss, he had put in a lot of years in the field before he'd been given a series of bigger desks. He'd been boots on the ground in the bad old days of Vietnam, East Germany and the Russian war in Afghanistan. He looked like what he was. An old spy come in from the cold, near the end of his career.

Hood and Carter had common ground between them. No one knew what it was like in the world of clandestine ops unless they'd been there. They shared a mutual desire to protect the country. Nick was prepared to respect him. He didn't know if he would like him.

They sat down at the table. Two place settings of linen, white china, crystal and silver shone against the polished walnut surface. A steward entered, poured coffee and water and set a fresh salad in front of each man.

Carter waited.

"This thing in Africa." Hood sipped his water. Right to business.

"Yes. Thanks for your help in getting my team out of Khartoum."

"Khartoum is one reason I wanted to chat with you today."

Nick took a forkful of salad. "They were determined to protect that truck. My team saw something loaded on it before the fireworks started. We think it might have been VX."

"A reasonable assumption. However, it wasn't VX."

Hood waited while the steward placed plates of thick prime rib before them. Nice potatoes, greens. Fresh horseradish. Sprinkles of something green. All very nice. Nick noticed the bulge of a pistol under the steward's jacket. The steward left the room.

"If it wasn't VX, what was it?"

"Bausari has gotten his hands on a WD-54 SAM. A big one. Six kilotons."

Nick set his fork down. He'd just lost his appetite. SAM. Special Application Munition. "A backpack nuke? One of ours?"

"Yes."

"Didn't we stop making those?"

"We did, in '88. But several were kept in storage at Ramstein. One went missing sometime in '93. An arms dealer named Yuri Azhrakov ended up with it. We've learned he sold it to al-Qaeda."

"Why the hell didn't you let us know? For that matter, why didn't you have your own guys on it?" Nick felt his blood pressure rising. "You told us you weren't interested, that you didn't think that truck was important."

"We didn't know, then. We weren't sure. We knew that plant wasn't making VX…"

Nick was angry. "So you let us go in there and, as far as you're concerned, waste our time and resources. Put my team in danger. Why?"

Hood shrugged. "Wasn't my call, Nick. For what it's worth, I apologize. But when you called for help, we did our best to back you up. Please, let's not get into blame here. We're both on the same side. We need to move on. We need to work together. Someone's got it who doesn't like us. You seem to have a lead on that. We need your help, now."

"Does the President know about this?"

Hood looked at Nick. "No. Director Lodge has decided we need to get more information before we inform him. The DCI doesn't want to unduly alarm him."

"You have got to be kidding." Nick forced himself to be calm. "Six kilotons. If something like that went off in Washington or New York…"

He left the thought unfinished.

Hood cut a piece of rib, chewed. "What did you discover in Mali?"

Nick briefed him.

"You think this secret order of assassins is back in business."

"It doesn't make much sense, but that's our conclusion."

Hood seemed thoughtful. "Shia. Bausari is a Sunni. They don't cooperate."

Nick drank some water. "This cult thought of itself as guardians of the pure Faith. True believers. They thought everyone except them was a heretic."

"I hate true believers," Hood said. "They make so much trouble. Unless they're on our side, of course."

Hood paused as the steward cleared the plates and poured fresh coffee.

"That will be all, Robert."

"Yes, Director." He left the room.

Hood said, "Someone killed Imam Ahmed Sahar in Kabul this morning. They left one of those tokens on the body."

"That's bad news." Nick toyed with a spoon. "He was our last hope for a negotiated peace over there. It throws the whole thing back into the fire."

"Exactly. What is your analysis?"

"Without more info? If they found one of those discs, it's the assassins. Taking out the Imam is a strategic move. The killings of Senator Randolph and the Brit make it look like Iran is behind it. Off the cuff, I'd say we're dealing with an organized and well-funded group of terrorists we haven't run into before. They're doing a pretty good job of fanning the flames. If they're working with Bausari it makes them an even higher priority threat with that nuke loose."

Nick picked up his coffee, drank, set the cup down.

"We don't think it's Tehran. Our reading is the deliberate clue that this is a Shia op, meaning Iranian, is misdirection."

Hood nodded. "That is my analysis as well, but you and I are in the minority." He sipped coffee. "This artifact in the cave. Do you have anything else?"

"Not yet. It's probably a relic of Muhammad. From what we know about the assassins, it could be the sign they've been waiting for. One of my team has been digging into that. If it turns out to be the sign, the assassins will think it signals the imminent coming of the Mahdi. That's bad news for everyone who's not Muslim."

"Like Chinese Gordon."

"Gordon?"

"The British general commanding Khartoum back in the nineteenth century. He was besieged and those idiots in London dithered over whether or not to reinforce him. He was fighting someone who claimed to be the Mahdi, a tribal leader with an army. They took Khartoum and slaughtered the British. The rebellion was crushed, but it was a little late for Gordon."

"If someone shows up with a sign from Muhammad and says he's the Mahdi, he could kick the Jihadist war up to a different level."

Hood nodded. "Indeed. Especially with an atomic bomb."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"A suitcase bomb?" Stephanie went pale. Selena and Ronnie were stone faced. Lamont was at Bethesda, but Nick knew he'd have something to say about it when he found out.

"More a backpack than a suitcase. With the shielding, it must weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds. Not your average carry-on."

"Hood is certain of this?"

Nick nodded. "Yes. He's nervous."

"Gee, I wonder why? Rice will put Langley's balls in a wringer when he finds out. And we have to tell him."

"Nice turn of phrase, Steph. Warning Rice, yes, we have to do that. But what do we tell him? And if we tell him, there goes our new found love affair with Langley."

"We have to get them to do it. That way it doesn't make us rat them out."

"Langley? How do we do that?"

Stephanie was silent for a moment, thinking. Carter waited. "If we give Rice a big problem like that," she said, "then we have to come up with a solution. It could be a joint CIA/Project op. DCI Lodge might go for that. Rice longs for more cooperation between the agencies. Langley's been a pain in the ass for a long time. Lodge would score some points if it looked like Langley wanted to work with us. It would validate Rice setting the Project up in the first place."

"You sound like Harker."

"She was a good teacher." Steph twisted a bracelet on her wrist. "I wouldn't mind it if she came back."

"I wouldn't either. But we've got it now." Nick scratched his ear. "I think Hood will go for it, to cover his ass if nothing else. Shared responsibility means shared blame if it goes south. So we'd better have a damn good plan. Which means we need a clear mission. What is our mission, Steph?"

Steph faced her computer. "Let's break it down. What do we need to accomplish?"

"Find Bausari and the bomb. Find out where the assassins are hiding out. We find them, we might find out what was in that cave."

"And we do that by…?"

Selena sat up in her chair. "I found hints of a refuge for the assassins in one of those manuscripts. If there is such a place, it's in the northwest mountains of Pakistan. We could look for it."

"Wait a minute," Nick said. "Mali's one thing. That part of Pakistan is another. That's the Hindu Kush."

"You have a better idea?"

"These guys have been hidden for centuries," Ronnie said. "How are we going to find them?"

"I admit, it's a needle in a haystack. There were just a few vague landmarks in that manuscript."

Nick considered for a moment. "We could come in from Afghanistan, disguised. Avoid the checkpoints. Selena speaks the language. Ronnie and I know a few words. But we can't go in blind and wander around."

The voice of Steph's assistant sounded from the intercom on her desk.

"Director, turn on CNN. You need to see this."

Steph turned on the screen.

Al-Bausari, dressed in white robe and green turban, sat on a low dais. At his feet rested a dark wooden box, carved with designs of trees and vines. The box looked old. A broad banner hung behind him.

"What does the banner say, Selena?" Ronnie asked.

"The Day of Judgement is Soon."

"This can't be good."

"My brothers," Bausari began. A simultaneous translation ran across the bottom of the screen. "I speak to all true believers. It is time to set aside differences, shadows sent by the Evil One to cloud our minds and turn us one against the other.

"Allah is the Protector of those who have faith: from the depths of darkness He will lead them into light. The patrons of those who reject faith are the evil ones: from light they will lead them into the depths of darkness. They will be companions of the fire, and dwell there forever."

"That's from the Qur'an," Selena said.

Bausari reached down into the wooden box and lifted an object into the air with both hands. It was an ancient sword, almost perfectly preserved, cruel and beautiful. The blade widened in a sweeping, upward crescent and ended in a sharp, lethal point. The hilt was made of heavy silver, engraved with elaborate swirling patterns that continued partway down the blade. The guard at the hilt seemed almost delicate for such a deadly weapon. The sword looked like it could take off your head in a single stroke. The camera zoomed in on the blade. A word scribed in Arabic was clearly visible.

القيامة

Selena pointed at the inscription. "That's what was written in the cave. Judgement."

Bausari was still speaking. "Those who reject Faith and deny Our Signs, they shall be companions of the Fire. I hold before you the sword of the Prophet, blessings be upon Him."

"Muhammad's sword?" Nick said.

"He had nine. Eight are in Turkey, one in a museum in Cairo." Selena stared at the screen.

"Looks like there were ten. It must be what they found in the cave."

"The tenth sword of Mohammed is a legend. He can't be serious."

"Shhh," Steph put her finger to her lips.

"The final hour is fast upon us, my brothers." Bausari stood and held the sword high. "The last hour will not come without much bloodshed. Judgement Day is soon. I proclaim it. Hasten to the mosques and beseech Allah for guidance, for when your heart is pure you will follow. Then Allah will sweep all before us."

The transmission ended.

"Did he say what I think he said?"

Selena let out a long breath. "Yes. He did. He thinks he's going to bring about Judgement Day. A lot of that was from the Qur'an."

"And he has a nuke," said Ronnie.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Richard Hemmings felt good. The ocean was calm, the sun sparkled from the blue Pacific. The twin diesels of his charter fishing boat, the Mary Lou, rumbled along. There wasn’t any Mary Lou in his life, but Richard felt it was a good, American name for a boat.

Another hour, they’d be tied up in the private marina at San Diego.

He looked back at the three men sitting near the stern. His heart beat with pride. He’d longed for the day he'd be permitted to justify the trust placed in him.

He’d been suspect from the start, an American. The training compound in Afghanistan had been hard. He’d had no friends. In the field with his brothers, he’d been watched. The final test was the death of the captured American soldier. Richard didn't hesitate. While the camera rolled he hacked off the head of the screaming man. There was no danger of being recognized behind his mask.

After that, he was accepted. A few months later he’d been given his instructions. Return to America. Funds would be available. Build a business. Wait. Be ready.

Six years ago. Since then there'd been little contact. Always, he’d been told to be patient. Now the wait was over.

Richard hated the American way of life. For Richard, America was a licentious, greedy society that assaulted his senses at every turn. The shameless women in their whorish dress. The loose morals. The glorification of drugs and alcohol, the relentless pursuit of material things. His mother and step-father would have approved of his feelings, if they were still alive.

Richard had been instructed to stay away from the Islamic communities, to pray at home and keep out of the mosque. The Imam had given him dispensation. He must not appear to be anything but another unbeliever.

As far as anyone knew he was only another charter boat captain, his beard a part of his persona. Like a friendly pirate, some said. A real character, his clients said. He joked with his customers. He turned down offers of drinks with a story about his alcoholic father and bad genes. The part about his father was true. It was one of the things that had driven him to Islam. The story always worked. Americans understood about alcoholism. Richard had joined AA and used it as part of his cover.

The ways of Allah were indeed mysterious.

The phone call a week ago was the payoff for all the years of waiting. He’d picked up three men for a fishing trip south. He had three men coming back. They just weren’t the same ones who had boarded in San Diego, though they appeared much the same to anyone who might have seen the Mary Lou leaving the Marina.

Richard made regular trips south to the fine fishing off the Mexican coast. The Coast Guard knew his boat and knew he was no drug runner or immigrant coyote. There'd been no problem getting past the patrols. The package was inside a large cooler, covered with fish and ice. His passengers and their cooler would never be noticed when they docked. Just another successful charter.

It was dusk when they reached the marina. Al-Bausari took Richard aside in the cabin. He spoke softly to him in Arabic.

"You have done well, Abdul." Bausari addressed him by the name he had been given in Afghanistan. "Allah is surely pleased. Watch for what will come."

"What do I look for, Teacher?" Richard’s Arabic was halting. Years since he’d had to speak it, but he’d practiced with his computer.

"You will know. You have been faithful with your prayers?"

"Yes, Teacher. Teacher, I long for the company of believers and the peace of the mosque."

Bausari nodded. "Then I give you permission. Allah is pleased. You have earned this reward. But be careful."

"Yes, Teacher. Thank you."

Bausari blessed him, then turned and climbed on deck. He stepped onto the dock. Onto American soil.

CHAPTER FORTY

FBI Special Agent Mike Bozeman was bored. He sat at a wooden table in a dingy apartment peering through a flyspecked window. Next to the table stood a video camera with a telescopic lens, mounted on a tripod. The camera pointed at a three story building across the street that had been converted into a mosque.

The mosque was in a run down part of San Diego tourists never saw, far from the luxury oceanfront homes and condos and sunny beaches. As far as Bozeman was concerned, the whole area could benefit from forceful remodeling with a lot of heavy equipment. Starting with the building across the street.

Mosques were places of peace and compassion, spiritual community and learning. The mosque across the way was a place to find anything but peace and compassion. The Imam there preached hatred of the Jews, America and the West in general.

Bozeman had nothing against Muslims or Islam, but he had a hell of a lot against the Jihadists and their insane version of religion. He didn’t think God wanted His followers to murder children, or mutilate teenage girls because they ran away from home.

The room was stifling. His partner, Andy Carlton, dug into the bottom of a bag for one last Cheeto, crunchy style. He drew it out and popped it in his mouth. His fingers were stained bright orange. Orange crumbs dribbled down onto his shirt, past the .40 Smith tucked away in a shoulder holster. Carlton looked into the empty bag, sighed, and began licking his fingers.

"Jesus, Andy, don’t you believe in napkins?"

"Got to get them wet before the color will come off."

Carlton crumpled the bag and tossed it at a wastebasket overflowing with wrappers, snack bags and cardboard coffee cups.

"Ten days looking at nothing. I wonder how long they’ll keep us at it?"

"It’s always the same bunch," Bozeman said. "I haven’t seen a new face since we’ve been here. Not even a pizza guy."

"They eat pizza?"

"Sure. No sausage, though."

"You profiling, Mike?"

"Not me. I don’t care what they eat."

"Hey," Andy said. "There’s a car we haven’t seen before. He's parking up the street."

Both men sat straighter in their chairs. Probably nothing, but so far the most exciting event of the day. Bozeman set the camera rolling. They watched a Caucasian male with a full beard get out of a brown Taurus. He looked up and down the street and paused, as if uncertain where he was going. After a moment, he walked toward the mosque. He reached the recessed doorway and ducked inside.

"He doesn’t look mid eastern to me," Carlton said.

"Now who’s profiling? That guy’s American, or at least European. Let’s run the plate."

Bozeman entered the license plate number of the Taurus into his laptop. The laptop linked through a headquarters mainframe directly into a national database with information on every American citizen. It took just a few seconds for the information to pop up on the screen.

"Richard Hemmings, age thirty-six. He lives on a houseboat parked in one of the marinas. Let’s see what else we can find." He tapped a key.

"He’s a charter fisherman. Works out of the same marina where his houseboat is. Owns his own boat, a nice one, not cheap. He’s clean, not even a parking ticket."

"What’s a fisherman doing over here?"

"Good question. Better one is why a guy like this shows up at a mosque that preaches holy war against people like him."

"Maybe he knows someone in there. From fishing."

"Maybe the Imam is really Ernest Hemingway. Run his financials."

A moment later Bozeman said, "Wells Fargo, same bank for the last six years. Around three thousand in credit card debt. Forty thousand due on the boat. Looks like two large deposits made the first month he opened the account, one for thirty thousand, another for seventy."

"A hundred grand? Where does he get that kind of money?’

"IRS says he declared it. Income from sale of a building left to him by his mother."

Mike worked the computer. "Hemmings financed his business with the money and bought his houseboat. Records on the building he sold…it was originally owned by an import-export company. Guess where? Pakistan."

The two agents looked at each other. "How does his mother end up with it?" Carl asked.

"Left to her by the husband. Title transfer to Hemmings dated six years ago. She died three months later."

"Convenient for our fisherman."

"Yeah. I wonder if we’ve got a sleeper here? Smells fishy." He grinned.

"Christ, Mike."

"We’d better phone it in."

When Richard Hemmings drove back to his houseboat after the evening prayer he never noticed the battered Ford three cars behind.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"Bausari went to Mexico. We traced the ship to Tuxpan. From there he went to Mexico City and then to the Pacific coast."

"How did we get the information, Steph?" Selena brushed her hand across her forehead.

"Tuxpan is an entry port for illegal arms and dope. The Federales watch everything. Sometimes they turn a blind eye or someone's been bought off, but terrorism isn't like drugs. We get better cooperation. The Mexicans busted an al-Qaeda cell in Mexico City. Bausari wasn’t there, but he had been. Their anti-terrorist squad interrogated the cell members, with CIA observing. They talked."

Carter imagined how they had been interrogated.

Steph continued. "Bausari headed for the Pacific coast with two others. He had a foot locker with him."

"The nuke."

"Probably. After the coast we don’t know where he went. We think he was picked up by a boat near Ensenada."

"Near California," Selena said.

"My guess is he’s now in the States."

"That’s not good news." Selena rubbed the back of her head.

"No. But we might have a break. The FBI has been watching a mosque in San Diego where they preach radical Islam. They’ve identified a Caucasian American male who just happens to be a charter fishing boat captain. Maybe two and two will make four."

"Are they going to pick him up?" Carter asked.

"Well, that’s the question. They can if they want. The interagency thing has been spotty. The Feds are protective of their turf. They’re don't want to haul him in. They want to see if he leads them to anyone."

"But what about Bausari? If he’s got a nuke doesn’t that trump their turf concerns? Hell, they’ll take the credit if he’s captured."

"They think their suspect could lead them to Bausari."

"I don’t believe it. Bausari isn’t going to hang around or go near that mosque either. They need to get this guy to talk. The bad guys trusted him to bring Bausari here. Arrest him."

"What if he’s innocent?"

"What if he is? If he is, he gets an apology. If he isn’t, we need to know what he knows."

"Langley thinks so, too. The Bureau is about to get a reminder that Homeland Security means security now, not in the future. They won't like it, but they’ll pick him up. You and Selena are going out there. Don't expect a warm welcome."

"What about our assassins?"

"Langley is searching the area of Pakistan Selena identified for any sign of them. They've got a lot of surveillance in place anyway. Now that there's a different mission, their analysts are looking at everything from a new perspective. If they turn something up, we'll have a better idea of how to deal with it. Meanwhile Bausari takes priority."

That was how Selena and Nick found themselves on a flight to LAX that afternoon, connecting to San Diego.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Richard was nervous. He couldn’t say why. It felt like Afghanistan again, like he was being watched. It was how he’d felt until the day he'd proved himself with his knife.

His visits to the mosque restored him. Listening to the Imam rail against the Americans and the Jews, Richard felt he had come home at last. There'd been suspicion at first, just like in Afghanistan. But the others were quick to recognize his devoutness and his knowledge of the Holy Book. He was accepted.

He was on his houseboat. A frozen chicken dinner circled in the microwave. Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck outside, then sudden, loud banging on the door. It opened before he got to it.

"Richard Hemmings?" The man held up a credentials holder. It had a gold badge with an eagle on it. "Special Agent Bozeman, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Richard’s heart jumped. He swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Are you Richard Hemmings?"

"Yes, but…"

"Richard Hemmings, I am detaining you under authority of the Patriot Act."

"On what charges?"

"You’re not being charged. You are suspected of aiding a terrorist conspiracy. Hook him up, Carl."

A second man pulled Richard’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. It hurt.

"Wait a minute, I’ve seen you. You were sitting in a car across from the mosque this afternoon. This is harassment, discrimination. I want a lawyer."

"I don’t think so."

Richard didn’t like the way the agent looked at him.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The interrogation room at the FBI field office in San Diego had a large, one way window taking up part of the wall. From inside the room it appeared to be a mirror. A man sat alone in the room, drumming his fingers on a metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs were placed across from him. Microphones and a camera relayed everything that happened in the room to recording equipment and monitors outside.

Aside from the technician handling the recordings, there were three others present besides Nick and Selena. Agents Bozeman and Carlton were about to start the interrogation. The third person was a black man from the Agency, who introduced himself as Lucas Monroe.

Monroe was wiry, about five ten. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, black shirt and dark blue tie. He looked like he’d be right at home working security in a casino in a small foreign country with unrestricted rules of engagement.

They shook hands.

"What’s your brief on this?" Carter asked.

"Same as yours, I expect. Observe and advise. The Bureau is in charge of this one."

"You have no operational control?"

"Of course not. This is now a domestic issue."

Yeah, Nick thought, and world peace has just broken out.

"We’re ready," Bozeman said. "He’s been in there long enough." He turned to Nick and Selena.

"You two are here strictly as a courtesy. Stay out of the way."

The two agents entered the room and closed the door. They took seats across from Hemmings.

"It's a male thing," Carter said.

"What is?" Selena looked puzzled.

"Marking the territory."

Monroe laughed.

For the next half hour they watched Bozeman and Carlton. They were good. Carlton did most of the talking. Bozeman confined himself to occasional unfriendly comments. Carlton was the good guy. It was Carlton who sent out for coffee and sandwiches and gabbed about fishing. In general he appeared to think this was all an unfortunate mistake. Of course, there were a few questions that needed to be answered.

"Why did you convert to Islam?" Carlton asked.

"Now they’re getting to it." Monroe clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was guided to do so," Hemmings picked at a hangnail.

"Guided? Who guided you?"

"Allah. Only He can open our hearts to the truth."

"But you were brought up as a Christian, right?"

"Christ was a great prophet, but he was only a forerunner, like Moses."

"I guess I’m not asking the right question," Carlton said. "Maybe I should have asked what you were doing in Afghanistan seven years ago. Is that when you converted?"

"I was never in Afghanistan."

"I was," Carlton looked him in the eye. "And so were you, Abdul."

Hemmings tried to cover his shock. Carlton knew his name.

"See, we did some checking on you. You were in Pakistan on and off for two years, more or less, according to our friends in the ISI over there."

"Yes, I was in Pakistan. My mother had an import-export business in Islamabad. Is that a crime? But I was never in Afghanistan."

"You're part Pakistani?"

"No. My mother married again when my father died. A Pakistani who was not my father. I was born here. In America."

"Your mother died and you inherited the business."

"Yes. She was killed in a car accident."

"Then you sold the business and took up fishing."

"Yes. I like to fish and the charters pay well."

"But you were never in Afghanistan."

"No."

"Then who's this?" Carlton took out a grainy black and white photograph and placed it on the table where Hemmings could see it. The faces of a dozen men stared out at him. Men whose faces were vague and unreadable under beards and turbans. Only Hemmings' face was reasonably clear. Snow capped mountains were visible in the background. Everyone looked grim. They wore bandoleers and brandished AK-47s. Two in the front row held a printed banner.

الموت لأميركا

Carlton tapped the photo.

"What does that say, Richard?"

"I don't know. I don't read Arabic."

Bozeman snorted in disgust. "You're a liar. We have your computer. And the sign says 'Death to America', you fucking traitor."

Carlton pushed the photo across the table. "That’s you, this skinny one here with the beard. Seven years ago. Those mountains are in Afghanistan. You still say you weren’t there?"

"I’ve never seen that photo. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Outside the interrogation room, Monroe turned to Nick. "He never has. We made it up this morning." He put on a pair of sunglasses and reached for the door.

"Sunglasses?"

"Have to look the part." Monroe went into the room. He stood across from Hemmings. He said nothing.

"Who are you?" Hemmings' foot began tapping and his knee bounced up and down.

Monroe said nothing.

"Turn off the recording," Carlton said.

"Recording off." The technician's voice echoed through the speakers in the interrogation room. Outside the room, the cameras and tapes continued to roll.

Carlton said, "He's here to escort you to a different interrogation center."

"Where?"

Carlton shook his head. "I gotta tell you, Richard, you really don’t want to know. You don't want to go there."

"I say we hand the little prick over. It’s what he deserves. They’ll make him talk."

"Come on, Special Agent Bozeman, give Richard a chance. He wants to cooperate." He turned back to Hemmings. "Don’t you, Richard?"

"Why should I? I haven’t done anything."

"We’re wasting time." Monroe spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, menacing. Like black ice. Like a promise of pain. "Give him to me. The van’s waiting outside."

"Richard, Richard." Carlton shook his head and sighed. Carter thought it was a little theatrical. "Don’t you understand? Haven’t you heard of rendition? If you don’t play ball, you’re going to a place where the rules are different. You won’t like it. No one will know where you are. Who knows when we might get a chance to talk again? Maybe never."

Carter watched it sink in.

"I’ll ask you again," Carlton said, "only once. Will you cooperate?"

Hemmings looked at Monroe, who smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile.

"I’ll tell you what, Richard," Carlton said. "We'll leave you in here for a few minutes by yourself. Why don’t you think about it? Talk to us here, I’ll make sure there’s consideration for you when you’re sentenced."

"Sentenced?"

"Oh, yeah, you’re definitely going away. We’ve got everything we need. But you can make it a lot easier on yourself by helping us out now. A lot easier. Otherwise, we’ll give you to him."

He nodded at Monroe in his dark suit. Monroe looked at Hemmings with a cold stare that bored right through those shades.

"Then there isn’t any consideration."

Bozeman and Carlton stood and left the room with Monroe.

Outside, they watched Hemmings put his head in his hands.

"We've got him," Carlton said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Hemmings' recorded testimony convinced a judge to issue the warrants. The Bureau had a free hand to raid the mosque. Selena, Carter and Monroe were in a black Crown Vic. Bozeman and Carlton were up ahead, parked in a black Suburban.

In front of the Suburban was the FBI SWAT van. The van was rectangular, big, unmarked, painted black and reinforced with stainless steel. It looked like it had just come from a fresh tune up with steroids. The vehicles were out of sight of the mosque, but Carter knew someone in the neighborhood would have spotted them by now and made it to the mosque to warn them.

They were along as armed observers and once again told to stay out of the way. They wore armored vests, courtesy of Monroe. No one gave them a neat jacket with FBI printed on it, like you saw in the movies. The Feds hadn't wanted them there at all.

"The papers will love this," Carter said. "The ACLU and every Muslim in the country is going to scream persecution. Any bets tonight’s lead will be about heavy handed profiling by the government?"

"Maybe here in California." Monroe adjusted his vest. "It’ll play better in other parts of the country."

The SWAT commander was a large, black man named Johnson. On their headsets they heard him say, "Everyone ready? Okay, let’s get this done. My wife’s waiting dinner. You all know what to do. Keep your heads down."

"Showtime." It was Monroe.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Selena said.

The van accelerated and tore around the corner, followed by Bozeman and Carlton, with Monroe close behind. The van braked hard in front of the mosque. The SWAT team boiled out of the back. They were dressed in black, helmeted, armored and armed to the teeth with MP-5s, stun grenades and a variety of other weapons. No one in their right mind would mess with them. They burst through the doors of the mosque and disappeared inside. Carter heard shouts.

Across the street pedestrians stopped and stared. Selena, Nick and Monroe waited. Then they heard the sound of automatic weapons. Two kinds. The fast, ripping sound of MP5s. The distinctive bark of AKs. Once you heard an AK, you never forgot what it sounded like.

"Shit," Monroe said.

The three of them got out of the car and ran into the mosque, pistols ready.

The bottom part of the building formed a large, open space. The floor was carpeted in a red and blue and yellow geometric pattern. Lamps of cut glass hung at measured intervals from a high ceiling supported by rows of wooden columns. A long green banner scrolled with Arabic letters in white hung behind a dais scattered with a few cushions.

The raid was timed between prayers. The large room was empty except for Carlton and Bozeman and a SWAT Team member lying face down on the floor. Blood pooled under his body. Two dead bodies in loose garments lay in contorted positions across the room.

Carter heard more shouting and shots from upstairs.

A man came from a hall on the left, firing an AK. There was no cover, only the tall columns. Carlton spun and fell. Carter pointed his H-K and pulled the trigger fast, three times. The shooter went down.

Another man appeared from the opposite side, AK held high against his cheek. A sledgehammer blow hit Nick and drove him into Selena and knocked them both to the floor. Monroe and Bozeman were shooting. The man with the AK flew backwards flat against the wall and slid down. His loose white shirt turned red with blood.

A booming explosion rocked the building. Smoke and dust billowed down the stairs. Part of the second floor came down in a cascade of plaster and wooden beams. A body in black hurtled through the air, thrown from above. For a moment there was silence. Then shouts and screaming.

The room was full of dust and smoke. Nick's shoulder hurt like hell. He couldn't lift his left arm. Selena got to her feet. Carlton lay crumpled on the floor, Bozeman sat up, shaking his head. Nick couldn't hear. Monroe and Selena were saying something. Nick shook his head, pointed to his ears. They helped him to his feet and walked him outside.

There was a wide splotch in his armor where the AK round had glanced off. A medic helped him out of the vest. His hearing was coming back.

"Carlton," he said.

Monroe shook his head.

Four hours later, Selena and Carter sat with Monroe at a dark table in a dark bar, drinking whiskey. Neat. Doubles. Johnson and two men with him were dead. Four others on his team were dead. Carlton was dead. Thirteen civilians were dead. The Imam’s head had landed in an alley across the street, still wearing his turban. Something had separated the head from the body and turned it into a high kick soccer ball. That told Nick what had happened.

"Suicide vest?" he asked.

"The son of a bitch had it under his robes." Monroe wasn’t wearing his shades. His eyes were tired and sad. "It could have been worse."

"It’s a fucking disaster," Nick said. "How could it have been worse?" His left arm was in a sling. His shoulder felt like someone had soaked it in super glue and nailed the bones together for good measure. He couldn't lift his arm higher than his waist.

"It would have been worse if we’d been killed. It would have been worse if we hadn’t recovered any intel. But we did."

"Was it worth it?" Selena asked.

"We’ll know more tomorrow."

"Eight of our guys," she said.

Monroe drained his glass. "It's a war. People die in wars." He looked at his watch. "I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. I’m going to my hotel."

"What’s next?" Carter asked.

"Briefing. 0900 at the FBI field office."

"Will they have anything new?"

"Those guys were their own. They’ll have something."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Bausari contemplated the view from the apartment window. So much water. So unlike the vast sands of the Egyptian Sahara, where he'd spent his childhood, before he realized Allah's will.

It was time. The signs were obvious to anyone who was a true student of the Book. Even the Infidels. They spoke of it, but their blindness to the teachings of the Messenger and their belief in a false messiah kept them from seeing the truth.

There were many signs the Day was at hand, all prophesied centuries ago. The destruction and chaos in Baghdad. The raging civil war and devastation in Syria. Earthquakes. Volcanoes. Floods. Violent storms. Fish dying by the millions. All signs of the Day.

Al-Bausari had brought the Holy symbol of judgement to America from the cave in Africa. He'd brought the substance from Sudan. Now both were here, in this Godless city, in this great whore of a country.

Soon, the world would see. Soon, the tide of Islam would sweep all before it. A thousand years of peace would begin, the world at last united in the one, true faith.

Aban brought him a tray with juice and the medicines. The pain was increasing. Even the pills didn't help much now. Worse, Bausari felt himself growing weaker. But he would live long enough.

"Thank you, Aban."

There was a knock at the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

"Bausari went north?" Carter and Selena were on the satellite phone with Stephanie.

"Unless Hemmings is lying. He says Bausari's men planned on driving up the coast."

"Where?"

"We don't know. He could be anywhere from LA to Canada."

Monroe had vanished back into wherever spooks vanished to. The FBI was busy trashing al-Qaeda cells in Southern California. The intelligence recovered from the raid on the mosque was good news for Homeland Security. It didn't help the families of the agents who'd died. A folded flag made a poor substitute for the man who'd earned it.

Nick rubbed his shoulder. "Why up there?"

"Could be lots of reasons," Stephanie answered. "Busy ports along the coast, high population, lots of hi-tech and defense industries. High symbolic as well as practical value."

Stephanie continued. "He wants high casualties. All he needs is a battery for a power source and someone with the right kind of electronic knowledge. If they don't know the activation codes, they can bypass them. If they make a mistake and it goes off, Bausari doesn't care. Those meds Selena found in the cave are for terminal cancer. He's a dead man walking and he knows it."

They contemplated that.

Steph said, "The video has gone viral. The Islamic world is in an uproar."

"Again." Nick shook his head. "We just got through that."

Selena spoke. "Are we sure the sword is real?"

Steph's voice sounded clear on the satellite link. "It appears to be. It doesn't matter. People think it is. It gives a lot of credibility to Bausari. It symbolizes the Red Death in the Islamic prophecies."

"Red Death?"

"Literally, death by the sword. Or you could just say it symbolizes death." She paused. "Nick, you can't cover LA and there's a huge presence there looking for him. I think he went farther, but I admit it's a hunch. I think you should go on to San Francisco. There's nothing between LA and there that makes for a big enough target. I sent a car for you. Your plane leaves in two hours and your tickets are at the counter. You're already cleared with security for your weapons. By the time you get to San Francisco we might have a better idea of where he's gone."

"Does the video give up anything?"

"Not yet. It was done on a ship, probably the one that brought Bausari to Mexico. Langley's working with the Mexicans to see if anyone in the cell they broke up knows more than they told us. The Bureau is about to raid a cell in LA. Something may turn up."

"We'd better hope it does," Nick said.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A black Lincoln limo took them to the airport. They watched the video of Bausari on a television in the back of the car.

"What's the story on this sword?" Carter turned off the TV.

"Mohammed had nine swords that we know about. You can see them in Turkey and Egypt. They're venerated in Islam. Kind of like being able to look at Christ's sandals or robe, if you were a Christian."

"How do they know they belonged to Mohammed?"

"All well documented, associated with famous battles when he was uniting the desert tribes, or given to him in presentation or tribute. Mohammed was a hands-on warrior. He led his troops and slew his enemies and those swords of his are drenched in blood. They're as much a symbol of Islam as anything else. It's sometimes thought of as the religion of the sword."

"Convert or get your head chopped off?"

"Yes. The Qur'an is filled with references and commands from Allah to spread the religion in every way possible. It was a bloody time."

"You said there were nine. What's this one Bausari has?"

"That's what's got everyone upset. There's a legend about a tenth sword. It's supposed to remain hidden until the Day of Judgement and the coming of the Mahdi. It's associated with a prophecy of war and upheaval before the Last Days. Usually it's seen as a story predicting a leader will act as the 'tenth sword' of Islam, conquering everything and slaying unbelievers. There was even a ruler in tenth century India who took that name. But I don't think anyone thought there was a real, physical tenth sword that belonged to the Prophet. In Islamic prophecies there's the Red Death and the White Death. The Red Death is war and slaughter, symbolized by the sword."

"And the White Death?"

"That's plague. Think two of the Four Horsemen in Christian tradition and you've got the picture. We're talking about the Apocalypse."

"And Bausari thinks he's meant to start the ball rolling."

"That's right. He thinks he's going to open the path for the Mahdi's appearance and initiate the Day of Judgement."

"With the tenth sword."

"Yes."

"Which means with death and war. Like setting off a nuke."

"That's right."

"Shit."

"That sword will start trouble everywhere."

"When will he do it? Set off the bomb?"

"Soon, I think. There's a solar eclipse later this month and a lunar eclipse two weeks later. In the prophecies, if that happens during the month of Ramadan, it's a sign the Mahdi has come. An eclipse of both sun and moon within a month."

"But this isn't Ramadan."

"No," Selena said. "But it's probably close enough for Bausari. I think he'll wait until then."

"Then we'd better find him before that."

They headed into the airport.

Neither noticed the dark complexioned man in the ill-fitting suit who followed them in. His name was Nine. He stood two places behind them at the ticket counter and heard the agent confirm their flight and gate. Nine stepped out of the line and walked over to the windows and speed dialed his cell phone.

"They're going to San Francisco," he said.

"What flight?"

Nine gave the number. "Shall I kill them?"

"We'll have someone there."

Nine closed his phone and walked back out into the LA smog.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The flight was smooth. They came in over the Bay and landed at San Francisco International. It held bad memories for Carter. This was where Megan had died, at the end of the same runway where their plane taxied toward the terminal. He hadn't thought about her much, lately. He wasn't sure what to make of that. For now, he put the thoughts aside. He knew they'd come back and haunt him later.

They left the plane and headed for the exit and ground transportation. Selena had reserved a room at the Mark Hopkins.

Nick's ear began to burn. It was like fire running along his head. He stopped dead on the terminal floor.

"Something's going to happen. Put your bag down. Turn around, get your back against mine."

She didn't hesitate. She set it on the floor and stood behind him, facing the other way. Seconds later the attack came, sudden and vicious. Two men from opposite directions. Steel gleamed in each man's hand.

There was no time for guns. Nick blocked the thrust and tried a forearm strike. He took a hard shot to his injured shoulder. It missed the nerve center. Adrenaline flooded him and he entered the zone.

The zone was a place where time changed. An altered state where everything slowed around him. It didn't always happen. When it did, life hung on the edge. It was as if he'd entered a dimension where everything moved in slow motion. Except him. He could see the moves of his attacker coming. He simply wasn't where the blow was supposed to land and could counter with ease.

This man was good. But in the zone, Nick had the advantage. He easily slipped a high kick to his head. The attacker's foot passed through space where Carter should have been. Nick drove three hard punches into his enemy, right below the sternum. The knife came up as the man doubled over and Nick stepped to the side in a fluid ballet of death, twisting the arm up and over and snapping the elbow.

The man screamed. Nick drove fingers stiff as iron into the throat. The man went down. Time speeded up again. He turned. Selena was in a fight for her life, parrying and striking. It was Mali all over again. She was bleeding where the knife had slashed her arm. As Carter moved toward her she spun and landed a blow directly over the heart. Her opponent faltered. She uttered a primal scream, a wild yell that echoed through the airport. She struck again, her face contorted in fury.

It was over. People were screaming and running in all directions in the terminal. Carter could see security guards headed their way. He bent down and pulled back a sleeve on one of the bodies. He knew what he would find.

The ambigram of the assassins.

Later, in their room, Selena fingered the bandage on her arm. "How did you know?"

"The ear. The ear never lies. When it gets like that, bad things are going down. It's usually right then or it's about to happen. It's been that way since I was a kid."

She gave Nick a look of appraisal. Of approval. "You were way above your level, back there. I've never had opponents like these people. They're world class."

"I was in the zone, or he would have had me. You know about the zone?"

"Where everything slows down?"

He nodded.

"It happened to me twice in competition. No one can beat you then. Not if you know what to do."

"We'd better call in. Let Steph know what's happened. What I wonder is why they came after us. And how did they know where we were?"

"Maybe it's revenge. For Mali"

"It could be. Or they think we know where to find Bausari. But we don't know anything. We don't even know where he's gone."

"Remember how we did it in Africa?"

"We made assumptions."

"So, start assuming. We know he went north."

"No, we don't know that. What we know is Hemmings says he heard Bausari's men say they were going north."

"We have to start somewhere." Selena brushed a hair away from her eyes. "If he didn't go north, we're in trouble anyway."

"Great," Nick said. "We've got more than twelve hundred miles of coastline and the rest of the country where Bausari could have gone. North of San Diego narrows it down by twelve miles from the Mexican border. Helps a lot."

"Hemmings thinks they were talking about a long drive."

"If it's true. If it is, assumption number one is that Bausari wouldn't stop until he got as far as here, at the soonest. If he stayed on the coast."

"Bausari isn't just another terrorist with a bomb. He's the one making way for the Messiah. He wants to start a war. And he's dying. He's running out of time. I can't see him making a long journey inland somewhere when he's got a target rich environment right here in the West." Selena rubbed her bandage, caught herself and stopped. "If you were Bausari, what would you do to create the most impact with a nuke?"

"Kill a lot of people. Blow up something symbolic."

"The Red Death."

"Right. So assumption number two is that whatever he does will provoke massive reaction on the part of our government that leads to war. Piss us off enough. But a nuke would do that anywhere."

"He'd pick a population center." Selena frowned. "It's their style. Maybe he'd target the military directly at the same time. A big base."

"He'd never get on a base. All military airspace is controlled. He couldn't just fly over and drop his bomb out the door. Anything sensitive is protected."

"Where could he hurt us the most? Where is there a combination of big military presence and a lot of people at the same time?"

Nick got up and began pacing across the room. Back and forth. "LA. San Diego. But we've ruled those out. Maybe we should pin a map up and throw darts at it."

"Maybe we should."

"What about Washington," Carter said.

"Washington? The Capitol?"

"No, the state. There are a lot of bases up there. Air Force, Navy. Most of the bases are clustered around Seattle, near the port and Boeing and the other big defense contractors. There's a big naval base. There's the Needle, that's pretty symbolic."

They looked at each other. Carter got goose bumps. It could be Seattle. It felt like Seattle. As hunches went, it was a good one.

His ear tingled. "The bomb is six kilotons. It would take out the naval base and most of the city. Seattle has over half a million people."

"Big enough."

He took out his phone. "I'm calling Stephanie."

She picked up on the first ring. Carter told her what they'd figured out.

"You were right," she said. "He went to Seattle."

"What? How do you know?"

"The Bureau found him. But it won't do us much good. Someone else found him first."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sending you a picture."

They watched the photo appear. Selena went pale.

Three bodies lay on the floor of an apartment. The heads had been hacked off and were lined up in a row on the table. Blood was everywhere. Through the window beyond Nick glimpsed a large body of water. One of the heads had belonged to Bausari. His hair was dyed black, his beard shaved off.

"The Feds found one of those discs." It was all she had to say.

Nick rubbed his ear. "What about the nuke?"

"Not there. We have to assume the assassins have it now." Stephanie paused. "Rice wants you back here. He wants us to go after them."

"How are we going to do that? We don't know where they are."

"Langley may have something."