Mahmoud turned to face him and set his bag down behind the crates. In the half light at the edge of the flashlight’s beam, the boy’s face looked much older than it had before. “Insha’Allah,” he said.
Samir nodded, lowering the flashlight for fear that Mahmoud would see his hand shaking. “Yes. Insha’Allah.”
CHAPTER 61
United Kingdom
Farnborough Airfield
Nick picked his way through the network of airport roads toward the back of the airfield. The colonel had come through with an exfiltration plan using a fly-by-night CIA cargo operation. Nick didn’t relish riding on today’s version of Air America, but at this point, he was grateful for anything that would get him out of England.
On the way to Farnborough he had briefed Walker, going over every detail of the failure at the mosque and Kattan’s disappearance with the vaccine. He also got an update from Heldner on his stricken team members.
Scott was stable, but in a medically induced coma. The doctor would not know the extent of the damage to his brain and nervous system until she brought him out of it and, for the moment, she was unwilling to do so. Quinn, on the other hand, had become the bane of her existence. Forty-eight hours after having his stomach ripped open and his guts jumbled around in the back of a cargo jet, he thought he was ready to get back in the game. While Drake chuckled in the background, Nick advised Heldner to take the kid off his morphine. Removing Quinn’s pain medication was a sure way to temper his youthful delusions of invincibility.
There were two nondescript cars in the gravel lot next to the CIA hangar. The once-white walls were stained red and brown with rust. Peeling white lettering on the glass door to the office read AIRDROP INC., WORLDWIDE CARGO SERVICES.
“Only slightly less obvious than Air America,” said Drake, shaking his head.
The full-length blinds on the other side of the door were drawn. The window blinds were drawn as well, bent and dusty, with cobwebs and bugs pressed up against the tinted glass. Nick pushed the yellowed button on the doorbell. “Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it?”
They heard no sound, but a few seconds later, a thumb and forefinger spread the blinds apart at eye level, held them for a moment, and then disappeared. A dead bolt clicked back and the door cracked open. “Name?”
“Art Vandelay,” said Drake without missing a beat.
The door cracked slightly wider and a long suppressor jutted out.
Nick frowned at his teammate. “Fryers,” he said, using the name Walker had given him. “Eddie Fryers.”
The blinds banged uncomfortably against the door as a sandy-haired CIA agent with leathery features pushed it open and nodded for Nick and Drake to enter.
The office was mostly faux-wood paneling and dingy Formica countertops, dimly lit by a single incandescent bulb with no shade. This place had probably been in the Agency’s hands since the eighties, and it appeared they had never redecorated. Or dusted. Nick wondered if the spooks put the same level of care into the aircraft that was about to carry him across the Atlantic.
An old cathode-ray-tube TV sat on the counter, tuned to the local news. The impish imam from Fleet Street stood in front of his damaged mosque with a reporter. There was a picture of Rami in the corner of the screen and a headline across the top that declared COPTIC RADICAL DIES IN SUICIDE ATTACK. The imam looked deeply saddened. “This man shot one of my congregation and blew himself up in our place of worship,” he told the reporter. “I do not know what could have motivated his attack other than irrational hatred of Islam.”
Nick angrily punched off the set, nearly knocking it off the counter.
“Easy, tiger,” said the agent. “That’s an antique. And we like to keep it on . . . for the ambiance.” He pulled the switch out, turning it on again, but the coverage had moved on to the impending total eclipse in Israel.
The group turned to a beat-up metal door, and the agent shifted a gun to his back to punch a code into its cipher lock. “We don’t normally take in strays,” he said. “Especially strays wanted by Scotland Yard, but my boss owes your boss a favor.” He pulled the door open. “Let me show you gentlemen to your ride.”
The agent motioned Nick to go ahead, and he stepped over the threshold into a completely different world—stark white walls lit by powerful induction lights, a spotless gloss floor studded with an in-floor fire suppression system. Apparently the money saved on office furniture and cleaning supplies had been invested in the hangar.
Their ride, as the agent put it, took up most of the floor space. She was a C-27 Spartan, a miniaturized version of a C-130 Hercules with only two propellers instead of four. The whole aircraft was painted slate gray with no tail flash or lettering.
Drake surveyed the cargo plane with a skeptical eye. “A trash hauler? That’s our exfiltration plan?”
“Oh, she’s a little more complex than your run-of-the-mill trash hauler,” said the agent, pulling the door closed behind them.
Nick winced. He was in a hurry, and this cargo plane didn’t exactly scream speed. “How long will your prop job take to get us back to DC? Does it have the legs, or do we have to stop for gas in Iceland?”
The agent looked at him sideways. “DC? My orders are to take you to Cairo.”
—
As the Spartan climbed through ten thousand feet, the sandy-haired agent nodded to his copilot and got up from his seat. He passed between Nick and Drake, motioning for the two of them to unstrap from their webbed seats and follow him to the next bulkhead. “Like I told you,” he said, pausing at the door and raising his voice over the pulsating thrum of the huge propellors outside, “this baby is a little more complex than your average trash hauler.”
They passed through into what should have been the cargo bay. Instead, they found a high-tech command center. The walls were baffled with black foam, so that the din of the engines faded to a low hum as soon as the agent closed the bulkhead door behind them. A ninety-four-inch screen, convex like an IMAX, dominated the right wall, and two short rows of black leather seats were set in front of it, each with a trackball and data-entry panel on one arm.
“Welcome to the EACC,” said the agent. “The CIA’s European Airborne Command Center. We can communicate with Langley from anywhere, and we have extra fuel bladders in the back for extended range and loiter time. At this point, I should remind you that you never saw any of this . . . or me. Of course, I never saw you either, so I guess we’re even.”
“You guys play Call of Duty on that screen, don’t you?” asked Drake, nudging the agent. “Come on, you can tell me.”
Nick took a seat in the center chair and eyed the controls. “How do we connect to our headquarters in DC?”
“Already done.” The agent pressed a green button on a wall pad, and the huge monitor flickered to life. Walker’s crew-cut head filled the screen from top to bottom. He was turned to the side, scowling at some unfortunate tech offscreen. “Are they up yet?” There was a muffled response, and then the colonel’s right eye, big as a cantaloupe, shifted toward the monitor. The scowl turned to follow.
“Baron!”
Drake jumped at the greeting. Then he bent down close to Nick’s ear. “Now I know why the cowardly lion ran away.”
“I heard that, Merigold.”
“Sir, why are we going to Cairo?” asked Nick.
Walker mercifully backed away from the monitor. “I’ll let Molly explain.”
The analyst rolled into the shot on a desk chair, clutching a large coffee cup in her small hand. “Do you recognize this man?” she asked, clicking the keyboard.
A head shot appeared on the left side of the screen, an older Middle Eastern man sporting a Hitler-esque mustache and a slicked-back dome of white hair.
Nick nodded. “Ahmad Kushal Wahish. The Pakistani death merchant. He’s a physicist, used by Pakistani ISI to pass nuclear-weapo
ns technology to rogue nations.”
“Wahish is wanted by international agencies for proliferation crimes,” added Drake. “He can’t leave Pakistan.”
“Except, he did leave Pakistan,” said Molly.
Another picture flashed up on the right side of the big screen. It was shot from a distance. Wahish was standing at the foot of an old watchtower, next to a younger man with a shaved head. The younger man’s face was less distinct, but it was clear enough.
“Kattan,” said Nick, spitting out the name.
Molly bobbled her head. “Most likely, but not definite. We have a seventy-percent match. This was taken in Cairo two days ago by the GIS, the Egyptian General Intelligence Service.”
“Is the GIS cooperating with us?” asked Drake.
“Not exactly.” Walker bent down over Molly’s shoulder to look into the camera. “A CIA infiltration bot stole that picture from their classified network. It was uploaded less than an hour ago with a surveillance file. It looks like the GIS has been tracking Wahish but staying out of his way. He hasn’t left that location in forty-eight hours.”
“So we know Wahish is there,” mused Nick, “but Kattan can’t—”
“There’s more,” interrupted Molly. “CJ went back over the evidence like you asked, searching for a link to the fourth sign—the rising smoke and the sky of molten brass. She learned that lithium-six has another use. It acts as a multiplier in a nuclear package.” Molly took a nervous sip of her coffee and set the cup down offscreen. “We’re talking a massive expansion of nuclear yield, the difference between a suitcase nuke and Hiroshima. Such a modification takes serious expertise, but Wahish is a serious expert.”
Walker bent down into the screen again, his scowl as dark as ever. “The pieces fit, gentlemen. We may not know where Kattan is, but we know his nuclear weapon is in Cairo.”
CHAPTER 62
The C-27 Spartan droned across northern France at 23,000 feet. On the screen in its small command center, Colonel Walker was adamant. “I have CJ and her task force to help me chase down the virus. You boys need to find that nuke in Cairo before Kattan decides to take out the pyramids.”
Nick was staring at the floor, his features compressed in concentration. Suddenly he slapped the armrests and stood up, shaking his head. “No. It’s too easy.”
“Baron . . .” said Walker with a warning tone.
Nick gestured at the picture of Wahish and Kattan. “Sir, Kattan wanted us to see this, and he wanted us to see it at this exact moment. He’s doing it again, shaping our moves, keeping us a step behind.” He shook his head again. “No. I’m not doing it. We have to break the cycle, jump ahead to the target.”
“And how do we know where that is?” asked Drake.
Nick glanced over his shoulder at his teammate. “The Hashashin already told us, the early Hashashin, the ones who etched those inscriptions in the catacombs eight hundred years ago.” He pointed through the screen at the analyst. “Molly, bring up the translation of the prophecies.”
The stanzas that Nick found in the catacombs replaced the picture of Wahish on the left side of the screen. “There,” he said, gesturing to the first half of the fourth stanza. “‘A great smoke will rise up from the center of the world.’ Kattan’s legitimacy with this group depends on his staying true to their ancient prophecies. All we have to do is figure out where the early Hashashin thought the center of the world was.”
The colonel’s scowl took on a scornful twist. “Right. All we have to do is read the minds of the dead assassins.”
“Mecca,” offered Drake. “That’s the center of the Muslim world.”
Nick furrowed his brow. “I don’t think Mecca is the target. Of all the hadiths about the end times that I’ve heard, none of them mentions Allah’s judgment against Muslims. It’s always the unbelievers and the Jews—”
He stopped, looked up at the screen. “The Jews. Of course. The target is Jerusalem.”
The colonel responded, but Nick did not hear him. His legs gave way and he sank into his chair. Suddenly it all made sense.
The sun will be blotted out. Not from the smoke, but from an eclipse, like the one coming up in Jerusalem. And then . . .
Armageddon.
His family.
It could not be a coincidence that after all these years Nick’s father suddenly got an invitation to speak in Jerusalem, and Nick had stupidly sent his wife and child along. The terrorist’s revenge would be complete. Kattan planned to kill his entire family in a nuclear blast.
Nick looked up at the screen where Walker’s larger-than-life mouth was still moving, repeating a single word. It slowly came into focus.
“Baron!”
He finally snapped out of his trance. “We have to go to Jerusalem.”
“And . . . he’s back,” said Walker. “I was trying to agree with you, but you checked out on me.” He glanced down at the analyst. “Molly, what kind of death toll are we talking about if the target is Jerusalem?”
Molly shifted to another workstation in the background and worked the keyboard. “Given the lithium-six boost and the added tourist traffic from the eclipse—”
She stopped typing and stared wide-eyed at the colonel. “A hundred thousand from the blast alone. Two or three times that from the radiation effects.”
“And the time of the eclipse?” asked Nick.
Molly returned to her keyboard. “Tomorrow morning. Full occultation at seven fifty-two A.M.”
The sandy-haired CIA agent had been watching the conversation silently from the back of the command center. He suddenly pushed off the wall and held up a time-out sign. “Whoa, everybody. Egypt is one thing. Israel is another. The Holy Land is not on Airdrop Incorporated’s list of destinations. That’s the most heavily defended strip of land on the planet. If we even make it to the coast, it will be in a ball of flames.” He shrugged. “The best I can do is our refueling base in Cyprus. That will get you close.”
Nick shook his head. “Not close enough.”
“Ahem.” Walker cleared his throat. His scowl was contemplative. “Maybe it is.” His gaze fixed at infinity for a heartbeat and then he nodded, more to himself than to the others. “Yes. This will work. You boys get to Cyprus. Let me take care of the rest.”
CHAPTER 63
New York
U.S./Canadian Border
Markus. That was the name of the border patrol officer who waved Samir onto the scales at the Champlain border crossing. Markus Johnson. He looked like he could have played for the NFL if he wanted to. He had two kids, both of them girls. Markus was the crew manager for the early shift. He once told Samir that the quieter hours suited him and that midmorning release allowed him to spend more time with his family.
Samir could hardly count the number of conversations he and Markus had shared while his truck sat on these scales. They talked about vegetables, about family, sometimes they even talked about Islam. On most days, Samir was happy to sit and chat for a while. Today he prayed their conversation would be short.
It wasn’t.
“I’m gonna have to look in the back, Sammy,” said Markus as Samir stepped down from the truck and handed over his freight papers.
The farmer’s heart rate ramped up a notch. “Why? Is there a problem with the weight?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s just that Homeland Security raised the threat level. No explanation yet, but the new level means we have to check every vehicle.” Markus sighed as he flipped through Samir’s papers. “Standard bureaucratic baloney. Don’t know what I’m looking for or why I’m looking”—he tilted his head and waived his clipboard—“but I gotta check a box that says I looked.”
The image of the gun in Mahmoud’s waistband flashed in Samir’s mind. He scrambled to find an excuse to avert the confrontation. Then an idea emerged, and he let his shoulders sag. “Must you really?�
�� he asked, feigning a yawn. “I did not sleep well last night, and I’d like to get back to Warrensburg before I’m too tired to drive.”
Markus lowered his clipboard, his face registering genuine concern. He gestured over his shoulder with his pen, pointing at the guard-house. “You know, we just made a fresh pot. And we have those foam cups—the big ones. I’ll have Tom get you one while I check in the back. Follow me.” He turned toward the facility.
The speed at which his excuse had backfired staggered Samir. “I . . . uh . . . No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee.”
Markus stopped and turned back, dropping his eyes and fiddling with his papers. “What was I thinking? That’s a Muslim thing isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Samir lied. Then he quickly followed with, “For my mosque, anyway. Look, I’m fine. I just want to get going.”
The border patrol officer raised the clipboard in the air and started leading Samir to the back of the vegetable truck. “And you will, Sammy. As soon as I get a look in the back.”
As Samir followed behind Markus, he ran his hand along the side of the truck and slapped it a couple of times, trying to make it look like a natural, casual thing to do.
Markus stopped at the corner of the box and turned. His free hand came to rest on the grip of his gun. “You sure you’re okay, Sammy?”
Samir’s heart now raced so that he could hear its pounding in his head. He wondered if Markus could hear it too. Sweat formed at his hairline, icy cold in the northern air. He swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”
At the back of the truck, Markus courteously held a flashlight on Samir’s shaking hands while the farmer searched for the right key. “Where’re your gloves, Sammy?”
The phone in the guardhouse rang.
Samir stopped. “Do you need to get that?”
“No. Tom’ll get it. Go ahead.”
“Of course.”
Shadow Maker Page 25