by Rene Fomby
61
Rabat
The American Embassy in Rabat was a beehive of activity, with everyone getting ready for the big evacuation, starting tomorrow. Scanners were busy digitizing documents before they were shredded. Low-value papers missed the scanning step entirely and were being sorted into two piles: documents that needed to be burned, and routine paperwork that could just be left behind.
Given his new status with Defense Intelligence, whatever that status might actually mean, Gavin found himself neither fish nor fowl in the embassy’s evacuation plans. Since he was no longer on assignment with the FBI, he technically had no official role within the embassy, and as such had no transfer orders. When the embassy sealed up its doors tomorrow night, he had nowhere in Rabat to go other than his apartment. And the embassy shutdown also meant a severe reduction in security staffing, so the extra muscle he had counted on to back up his desperate plan to trap Boucher’s goons would no longer be available.
That left tonight as the last possible chance to lure Boucher into his snare. He checked outside, and the sun was finally going down in the west, its golden rays sparkling one last time on the waters of the Mediterranean just off to the north. One last time for him, at least, unless he decided to stick around and find out just how unwelcome an American government agent could be in a heavily Muslim country in the middle of a global war with the Christian West.
What little he had in his desk was already in a box, tagged for the NATO office in Brussels, where Sanders had a contact who had promised to safeguard it all for him. His apartment was mostly cleared out, as well, with everything stuffed into the back seat and trunk of his U.S. government-issued gray Peugeot that was now parked in his personal parking spot in the embassy garage. The only things left were his shaving kit and a small suitcase filled with enough clothes to hold him for a week.
Gavin knew that the rest of the embassy staff would be at this most of the night, so with dark finally settling in on the quickly emptying streets outside, he tucked his gun into the back of his trousers, slipped on a light jacket and headed outside, following the same path he had been traipsing across the past few days, the short walk from the embassy to his apartment.
He crossed the road, keeping a steady eye on the trickle of foot traffic. The news vendor on the corner waved him over and presented him with a fresh days-old copy of the London Times, which he tucked under one arm, handing the newsman the equivalent of twenty American dollars in local currency. “Keep the change,” he told the vendor. “I’m going away for a while. Thanks for watching out for me.”
The vendor nodded his thanks, quickly stashing the money away in a pocket of his djellaba as Gavin stepped across the street toward the Nasr Mosque. The front doors were open, and several groups of men had left the mosque and were walking his way. Gavin watched them carefully, but none of them had the wary look of a potential assassin, and once they realized he was from the American Embassy, they moved well clear of his path as they passed by.
A few minutes later he was crossing the entrance to La Ceinture Verte—the Green Belt park at the heart of Rabat, and the most likely location for any kind of kidnapping or shooting. He wandered into the park, looking nonchalant but sticking closely to his various caches of weapons and other tools he had stashed away several days earlier in the shrubbery along the walkway. The newspaper under his arm was throwing off his balance, so he chucked it in a trash can he passed along the way.
Before long he was deep into the park, and just like every other night over the past few days, nothing untoward had happened. Nobody had jumped out of the bushes to attack him, nobody had tried to bounce a sniper round off the bulletproof vest he was wearing underneath his shirt. He turned around and headed back toward the park’s entrance.
He was almost to the street when something buzzed in his pants pocket, and as keyed up as he was, ready for a full-on assault at any moment, he jumped slightly before realizing it was just his cell phone. He pulled it up and checked the caller ID. Utah, judging from the area code. Not a number he recognized, so he hung up the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. It rang again almost instantly, so, this time fully annoyed, he decided to answer it.
“Yeah?”
“Larson. Sanders here. Sorry about the phone, I had to borrow a burner from a colleague. Mine got compromised this morning.”
“Compromised? You mean someone hacked your phone?”
“No, I accidentally let it slip out of my hand during some high-G maneuvers in a Chinook over the South China Sea. Turns out it wasn’t waterproof.”
“Ouch. That’s gotta suck. But at least it’ll give you an excuse for an upgrade. What’s up?”
“We got some new intel in. Ramon Mendez picked up some chatter in Cairo and tracked it down to a Coptic priest.”
“New intel? On Andy?” Gavin ducked behind a nearby tree, using the cover so he could focus on the call and not have to keep an eye out for attackers.
“Yeah, I think so. There’s a priest in Toledo who apparently defected over to Tulley’s side. Now he wants to defect back, says he has the straight poop on what all those Chi Rho stickers were all about. And even better, he can tell us what Tulley’s next steps are likely to be.”
“And what’s the connection with the Coptic priest?”
“Not sure. Mendez thinks they’re old friends or something. But the thing is, I’ve arranged for you to catch the next flight out of Rabat into Toledo to check it all out.”
Gavin looked at his watch. “Okay, Toledo is, what, five hours behind Morocco? So if I catch the first flight out of Rabat tomorrow morning, with any luck I’ll be getting there sometime tomorrow night. Wednesday morning at the latest.”
“Not Toledo, Ohio, you idiot. Spain. Just outside of Madrid. Didn’t they teach you anything at Quantico?”
“Oh, right. No, I was just joshing …” Gavin felt a warmth rising in his cheeks, and once again he was glad this conversation wasn’t face-to-face.
Sanders chuckled. “Yeah, and the moon is green cheese. No, I get it. You Fibbers are all so homebound, so focused on America first, you forget there’s a whole other world just outside the borders. But okay, now, listen up. Mendez is trying to arrange a meet-and-greet at the cathedral out there sometime tomorrow night. That’ll give you time to get things wrapped up out there in Rabat. You’re part of the evac, right?”
“Yeah. At least in theory. They haven’t given me a next stop yet.”
“Probably my fault,” Sanders explained. “Personnel-wise, you’re kind of in no-man’s land right now. But all that aside, we have no idea how any of this is gonna go down, or what’s gonna happen afterwards. So, my suggestion is, plan for the worst and assume you’ll be walking right smack dab into the middle of it. This whole thing smells mighty fishy to me, but it’s all we got going for us right now—”
“And if we can stir up any kind of fresh intel on Tulley, that might also give us an angle on where they’ve stashed Andy.”
“Right. Two birds, one stone. Anyway, I’ve got a ride already earmarked for you, arriving at the Rabat airport O-dark-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll have Mendez already on the ground in Madrid when you get there, and I’ll try to get Dez down there, too, on loan from the French. That way you’ll have a team in place you’ve worked with before. Unless the timing for the meet-up changes, you three can grab a train out to Toledo. I’ll book you all into first class and grab all the seats around you, as well, so you’ll have plenty of alone time on the train to plan your next moves.
“I like it. And what about transport to Madrid? Are you sending Maverick again to pick me up in his little airborne sports car, the Strike Eagle?” As cramped as it was, Gavin had gotten a real kick out of flying backseat in the little warbird.
“No, not this time. The F-15s are a little too crowded, no real luggage space, and I want you packing a good assortment of whatever you’ll need once you hit the ground. Remember, the code word for this mission is stay flexible, like a good Bo
y Scout. We could very easily be walking into some kind of trap out there, and if so, the other side’s got the advantage of being in the driver’s seat on all of this.”
“You keep saying ‘we’, but the operative word here is ‘me.’ I seem to remember I was the one ending up in the hospital the last time this team got together.” Gavin took a moment to think through his next steps. “Okay, boss, I’ll head back to my apartment and repack. I might also pick up some extra toys from the guys at the embassy. They’ll probably appreciate not having to ship them off to Timbuktu or wherever they’re headed, anyway. What time should I be at the airfield?”
“Is eight too early? You can leave your car there, and I’ll make sure someone takes care of whatever you’ve left behind, make sure it all gets some place safe.”
“Yeah, sounds good. Eight a.m. it is. I’ll keep you updated. This new phone gonna be a good number to reach you?”
Sanders mumbled something offline, then came back. “Sure. I’ll keep this one on me. Hey, and—Gavin—be safe out there. You get yourself killed, I don’t have a good plan B in place on how to get my girl back home.”
“I feel the love, Sanders, I really do. Well, okey-dokey then. I’ve got a ton of work to do tonight, packing up what I need, and then I need to do a deep dive on what kind of trouble we might run into in Toledo, or wherever else that might lead us. Guess that means sayonara for now.”
“Back atcha, Larson. And … good luck.”
Gavin heard the click ending the call. With everything now targeted for Spain, he supposed nothing further was going to happen around here. That meant his first order of business was to round up all the ordnance he had stashed away in the park, then check in at the embassy to see if any of his CIA buddies had some adult toys they didn’t want to stuff into their carry-ons tomorrow. With any luck he could catch a few Z’s before he had to head for the airport. He glanced around ruefully at the empty park and the deserted street just beyond the entrance. All that work, and nothing to show for it. Hopefully this wayward Spanish priest might make up for it. Thanks in no small part to good old Ramon Mendez.
the gathering storm
62
Houston - Monday
The new client was waiting for Harry in the lobby of his shared-suite office space when he arrived just before 9 a.m. He showed her into the conference room he had reserved for the meeting, and, after offering coffee and being declined, grabbed a pen and a notepad and sat down to hear her story.
“I know you’ve heard about it. It’s been in all the news, ever since the explosion.”
Suddenly it all came to him. Explosion. Nabil. That Nabil.
“Your husband is the terrorist bomber?” he asked, completely flabbergasted that he had missed the connection before now. No wonder nobody in Houston was willing to take the case.
“No, no, Nabil is no terrorist. He’s just a student—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but aren’t most terrorists these days students? Or something like that?” Harry pushed his chair back from the table, already thinking about how he could ease out of this meeting quickly and politely. “Don’t hear too much about lawyers or engineers strapping bombs to their chests.”
“But that’s just the thing! Nabil is an engineer! He’s a graduate student at Texas A&M, just finishing up his doctoral thesis. He was at the refinery as a student, researching newer, more efficient ways to produce gasoline and diesel fuel. He wasn’t even anywhere near where the explosion occurred! He was on the other side of the plant the whole time!”
Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. If what she was telling him was true, that changed everything. But, of course, very seldom was the first story the whole story.
“Look, I know that may be what he told you, you being his wife, but the paper says they have him dead to rights. Several of the workers near the site of the explosion gave eyewitness statements, putting him on the scene just minutes before it happened. And one says he saw him placing something on the ground behind a stack of pipes. The very location where the explosion occurred.”
“Then they are lying. Look, Mr. Crawford, I know my husband. He is a man of peace, not violence. He isn’t even all that good a Muslim—he says he has serious doubts about all religions, and has for many years. Especially after what religion has done to our home, to Yemen. Religious wars there have torn our country apart. Senseless wars. Nabil’s greatest dream is to return to Yemen someday, after all the fighting is over, and help our people rebuild. He is the very last person who would do something like this.”
Harry rubbed his chin. “Right. So … what did you say your name was?”
“Sumaya Ali Rahum. My husband is Nabil Rahum.”
He stopped to scribble her name phonetically onto his blank notepad, then drew an arrow and added ‘Nabil.’
“Okay, right. I seem to recall that from the stories. Anyway, Mrs. Rahum, the thing is, this kind of case is way out of my league. They’ve filed it in federal court, and I’m not even admitted to the Southern District yet. Plus, it’s a death penalty case, for sure, one of the few death penalty cases anyone has filed in federal court for some time. So that means you need to scare up a lawyer who knows what he’s doing. Look, maybe I can come up with a list of names—”
An anguished look passed across Sumaya’s face. “That’s just the problem, Mr. Crawford. Nobody wants to help my husband. Everyone—they’ve already made up their minds about him, all of them. Even my closest friends have their doubts. I—I don’t have any other place to turn. Please, I beg of you, at least talk to him, talk to our imam. Find out the facts before you condemn him to this kind of false justice.”
Harry stood up and walked over to the window at the end of the conference room, staring out over the Buffalo Bayou and the downtown campus of the University of Houston. “And his professors back in College Station? Have you talked to them?”
“Yes, yes! And they all want to believe him! He was one of their top students. We were given a full scholarship—”
“Yes, I remember that. By an organization back in Yemen that supports Muslim extremism. Muslim terrorism.”
“No, it’s—” She paused to dab at her eyes with a small tissue. “That may be so, but all charities back in Yemen these days have some kind of connection to the ultra-religious elements. But the scholarship, it has given Nabil and me a chance to escape all of that, to build a new home here in America, far away from the violence. Please, you must believe me!”
Harry turned away from the window to face her. He tried to smile but mostly failed. “Okay, here’s what I can do. You send me the name of your husband’s professors, and get me some contact info on your imam, and I’ll make some calls. I’m not promising anything—in fact, I’m pretty much sure what my final answer is going to be—but I’ll check him out, find out if he’s really on the up-and-up, like you say. Then we’ll talk.”
“Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Crawford! You can’t imagine—”
“It’s a little too early for thanks right now, Mrs. Rahum. I seriously doubt I can do anything to help your husband, particularly given the current political climate, after the attack on Rome. Your husband could be the second coming of Jesus Christ and there’s still no way a jury in this city won’t find him guilty in a New York minute. That’s just the reality of the situation, and I think you know it. So—get me the info, and I’ll look into it and let you know what I think. And no charge for this, you won’t have to worry about my fees unless I sign on for the duration, which I’m pretty damned sure isn’t going to happen. Are we clear on this?”
“Yes, Mr. Crawford, and thank you at least for being willing to listen. That’s more of a chance than anyone else has been willing to give him.”
“Well, my boss and I are known for being real suckers, that’s for sure. And it usually buys us a whole lot of heartaches and not a whole lot else. But hey, that’s why I do criminal law while my baby sister is reeling in the big bucks at a big-name firm these days. And I suppose if I ever
do give up on the hopeless cases, cases like this one, then I’ve given up on why I went to law school in the first place. But—and that’s a big but—I gotta be a true believer in my clients, or no deal. I’m not in this game for the pain of losing.”
Sumaya stood up and reached across the desk to grasp Harry’s hand. “Don’t worry about the money. Nabil and I don’t have much, but our imam can take up a collection at the mosque …”
“I’m not worried about the money, Mrs. Rahum. Trust me, that’s the last thing I’m worried about right now.” Representing one of the most notorious terrorists since Osama Bin Laden, that’s what really has me worried right now. Death threats, bricks through the window—if I do this, if I take this guy on, it’s gonna be one wild ride, for sure. I just hope I can hold on 'til the end.
63
Cappadocia - Tuesday
After several days of rain, the skies had finally cleared over Cappadochia, and Constantine decided to use the weather to good measure, ordering a conference table to be set up in his open-air garden. When he arrived mid-morning, the table was already packed with his advisors and assistants. One seat, however, remained conspicuously empty—that of his general, Peter Boucher.
All of the chatter ended immediately as he stepped to the head of the table, clearing his throat. “All right,’ he rasped. “Project Eschaton is almost upon us. Where are we with preparations for the war?”
Boucher’s second-in-command jumped up and snapped to attention. “The Chi Rho sacraments have been placed at the entrance to all of the churches, and our bishops and priests have been fully briefed on their respective roles. We have already dispatched a large number of acolytes to move things along in Southern Europe, and of course the wall splitting Italy in two is proceeding apace. We expect it to be completed by this time next week. Or at least as complete as it’s ever going to be. We’ve mostly focused on blocking the roads and rail lines with the actual wall, and we’re running razor wire to fill in the remaining gaps. Lega, Five Star and our other allies are focusing on rounding up the Muslims and sending them south through the wall, and meanwhile we’ve been successful in infiltrating most of the industrial base of Northern Italy.”