by Rachel Lee
He had been blinded by his own ambition, blinded by his vision of a world waking up on Christmas morning to discover that "those Arabs" were far more powerful, far more capable and far more disciplined than the Western media had portrayed them. In Ahmed's mind, Westerners would wake to discover that the Islamic world was its equal, and they would then be willing to negotiate as equals.
That had always been a fantasy, he realized now. Even if the attacks had been carried out precisely to Ahmed's plans, the West could—and probably would—have counterattacked in ways he and Saif Alsharaawi could not have matched.
The simple, shameful truth was that the Islamic world was not equal to the West. Even the most powerful of the Arab nations lacked the means to produce modern aircraft, warships or tanks. Their armies, however powerful they might seem, relied on weapons produced by Western nations, Russia or China. In a war of attrition, with the American and European navies and air forces blocking new shipments, the armies of Allah simply could not replace their losses. Sooner or later, they would be ground down.
Even oil, that lone resource of the Arab nations, was a two-edged sword. When the OPEC nations had attempted to use its power, with the embargoes of the 1970s, the West had responded with devastating economic sanctions. While the rest of the world was dependent on Arab oil, the Arab world relied on the West for nearly everything else. The sanctions had hurt the OPEC nations far more than the embargoes had hurt the West.
As those bitter realities settled through the fog of illusions fed by clerics and princes, Ahmed saw through to the core truths. Though he served Allah, as the operations director for Saif Alsharaawi, he knew he could not rely on divine intervention to solve the problems faced by his Arab brethren. Allah worked through his children, and the children of Allah were his hands in this world. As Ahmed saw it, the Islamic world had only two options.
The first was to seek some level of military parity. In simple terms, that meant acquiring nuclear weapons. If Saif Alsharaawi were in possession of a nuclear deterrent, then it could assume a true leadership position in the Islamic world. Then it could negotiate with the West, not as a supplicant, but as an equal. Of course, any attempt to acquire such a deterrent would most likely bring down Western wrath even more firmly. No, force was not the way.
The second was to employ that most useful of Arab gifts, guile. It was as his father had told him so many times as a child: Ahmed, the greatest weapon you will ever possess is between your ears. Discipline your mind with faith and knowledge, and none can be your better.
As military operations, Saif's performances in Black Christmas and the attack on Vienna had been masterpieces of planning and execution. As political operations, both had failed miserably. He had allowed his enemies to outthink him and thus to turn his military successes into political failures. But no more. Now it would be Ahmed who gained the mental advantage.
Veltroni had said that the secret lay in the past, in the actions of the Hassassim and the Knights Templar. And whatever his spiritual inadequacies, the intelligence of a Jesuit was not to be dismissed lightly.
So what had become of the Knights Templar?
Languedoc, France
Jules Soult had chosen the inn carefully. It had a view of Rennes-le-Château and two of the Templar forts on nearby hilltops. But it was not for the view that he had chosen it. It was for its relative isolation. Unlike Rennes-le-Château, which had been overrun by tourists ever since that book about the Priory of Sion had been published, this inn remained out of the way, catering to the select clientele who already knew of it.
Soult not only knew of it, but his family tradition held that on this very spot Marie Madeleine—or Mary Magdalene, as she was more commonly known—had looked out over the vineyards on the surrounding slopes. Sitting in the bow window of the inn, at a small table, Soult fancied the view hadn't changed much since the Magdalene had dwelt here.
Later had come the Templars, full of the secrets they had learned in Jerusalem, recognizing Marie Madeleine as the wife of Christ. They had built those forts with an eye to defending sacred ground. Instead, they had been forced out by Philip, calmly marching down the mountain path to their execution.
Soult puffed his cigar and gave a nod of admiration for those men. Out of their end had sprung his Order of the Rose. The Priory of Sion—also supposedly sprung from the same past, though before the Templars—was a less legitimate branch of Merovingians, accorded a status they didn't deserve and publicly denied when questioned.
But Soult knew his own line as well or better, and would never deny it.
The Rose. Her secret name through the centuries as the Church had steadily persecuted any and all who disagreed with Rome. Oh, they had sainted her, naming her the Apostle to the Apostles, but then Gregory VI had decided that the Magdalene had become too important for a woman in the male dominated church and preached a sermon naming her the prostitute in the New Testament whom Jesus had saved.
It was all balderdash, of course, and many were today realizing that the Magdalene had been falsely accused. But Soult had long since realized that history was written by the victors.
Soon, however, he would write his own victorious history. Smiling, he puffed on his cigar and waited for Hector to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, Hector did indeed appear, full of apologies for having taken a wrong turning in the lanes that ran through the mountains. Soult waved the apology aside. "A minor matter," he said graciously.
"So," Hector said, speaking in Spanish, "it goes well, no?"
"Yes. Very well." Smiling, Soult held up his cigar and watched the smoke curling from its tip. "Frau Schmidt wants me to use every power at my disposal to quiet the unrest. I of course agreed."
"Of course." There was a glint in Hector's dark eyes. "But instead?"
"But instead we must now encourage Muslims to retaliate for what has been done to them."
"An excellent idea."
"Yes, I think so." Soult, feeling genuinely beneficent in light of the success of his plans so far, smiled warmly at Hector. "You can do this, yes?"
"I have always said so. My men are in place. Give me a day or two to make sure all is in order."
Soult leaned toward Hector, lowering his voice. "We are close now, Hector. Very close."
Hector nodded, and Soult leaned back, satisfied. "The people will cry out for safety and peace." He extended a hand, cupping it, then abruptly tightening it into a fist. "We will give them peace, Hector."
"Yes. And you shall be a hero to all."
Soult raised a brow. "And the Europa Prima party?" he asked, referring to his own political party, which until now had gained relatively few members, as it was a party dedicated to the European Union. While most Europeans embraced many of the benefits of the Union, they were still leery of giving it too much political power. The mere existence of an international political party engendered more suspicion than trust.
But that was about to change. Of that Soult had no doubt.
"The party is ready to take center stage and name you its leader," Hector confirmed. "Right at the moment of your greatest acclaim."
Soult nodded again, content, feeling pleasant anticipation in his stomach. "You know, Hector, it is so odd."
"What is?"
"How people claim to cherish freedom but are so willing to throw it away in exchange for safety."
Hector's eyes narrowed. "You will not move too fast on that?"
Soult blinked, then laughed and stubbed out his cigar in the ceramic ashtray. "Of course not, Hector. That would be foolish. I was just reflecting on the oddity of human nature. Those who have power, such as ourselves, are the only ones who truly have freedom. Everyone else has the illusion of it, an illusion they will toss away in exchange for the promise of safety."
Hector nodded, satisfied. "Forgive me," he said. "But we are working so hard toward this end, and I sometimes forget that you are a greatly patient man."
Patient? Soult thought. Yes, he was patient. Not ma
ny could have spent so many years in pursuit of a single goal. He smiled to let Hector know that no offense had been taken. After all, Hector had served him well for many years.
Soult called for another brandy, then gave himself up to looking out the window and enjoying the perfect day.
19
Washington, D.C.
The letter in the mailbox outside the door appeared innocuous enough. Miriam looked at it, wondering who would have bothered to write to her from New York. These days, the phone and e-mail had all but replaced the letter as a way of communication.
She studied it for a moment, not recognizing the handwriting, and almost tossed it as one of those "hand addressed" sales things. But she paused before she let it drop into the trash can. First-class stamp, not a postal meter. Return address "White Rose," without a street number.
Suddenly her heart was hammering. This had to be from Tom Lawton. He had promised to let her know he was still alive from time to time by sending a rose. Beyond that, all contact had ended, leaving a small hole in her life and a larger hole in her heart.
Tom had a new life and a new name now, and she didn't really know what to expect inside the envelope. Was he in New York? Did he want to meet?
Her fingers trembled with excitement as she slit open the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper. Inside was a typed message.
A friend needs to meet you. Thursday, 8:00 p.m. Chez Peter. He will carry something from me. T.
Her hands still trembling, she burned the letter and put the remains down the garbage disposal. This wasn't innocent, she thought. Something serious was going on or Tom Lawton wouldn't have broken his silence.
For a few seconds she wondered if she should tell Terry. Then she decided against it. If she was getting into something dangerous, she didn't want to drag him in with her.
She looked at the envelope she still held and realized she needed to burn that, as well. No e-mail, no phone call, no cell phone. Nothing the NSA might listen in on or pry into. Nothing that would leave a permanent trace of the note that had been delivered by what was still the most private transmission system in the world: the good old-fashioned U.S. Mail.
She started to laugh as she lit the corner of the envelope, letting it fall into the sink and burn as the letter had.
And she thought she had been paranoid before?
She was still laughing when Terry arrived home. He wanted to know what was so funny, but she only shook her head. "I'll tell you sometime, love. I promise."
* * *
Sometime was not good enough for Terry. He said nothing but, "Hurry home," the next morning when she announced she was going to a late meeting in Georgetown and wouldn't be home directly after work.
He watched her go out to her car and begin the long commute to D.C., and thought that they really needed to move closer to the city. Neither of them needed this kind of commute every day. Sure, they liked their apartment and their church, and the feeling that they were really "away" when they were off duty. But this was a bit too far away.
He decided to wander around some of the bedroom communities nearer to Washington, since it was his day off. If he started looking and found some ideal little house for them, Miriam would probably jump at the chance to move.
Whistling, he set about getting dressed. Of course, after his day of real estate exploration, he had every intention of following his wife when she left work that night.
Not because he didn't trust her. Because he did. But this meeting was out of normal parameters and had roused his every instinct to high alert. Miriam often kept late hours, but the FBI rarely sprang for dinners. And if not the FBI, then who? He knew his Miriam, and it wouldn't surprise him if she were in the process of getting into something way over her head.
* * *
Miriam never noticed Terry behind her. Not that she expected a tail. The letter had been a burst of sheer genius, and she was sure no one had read it but her.
She was grateful to find a parking place near the bistro, although Thursday wasn't one of its busiest nights. That was the reason she and Tom had often come here for dinner after work. Until she and Terry had fallen in love, that was. Terry had changed everything, and Miriam still celebrated that change every day of her life.
Inside, she was shown to a small table near the back. She explained that she was expecting someone, then ordered an appetizer and a soft drink.
Her drink had just arrived when a small man in a business suit came up to her with a smile and handed her a white rose.
She smiled and motioned him to sit. The waiter materialized before they could exchange a word, and in a slightly accented voice the man ordered a beverage. Only when it appeared, along with Miriam's appetizer, did he begin to speak.
"Tom and I work together," he said.
"I thought so." Miriam, who had absolutely no appetite, lifted a small pâté-covered cracker and bit into it. She knew from experience that the pâté was exquisite, but right now she couldn't taste a thing.
"I call him Law," the man said, sipping a glass of wine. "That's his new name."
Miriam dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Apropos."
The man smiled. "You may call me Diego."
"Miriam."
He nodded. "Law speaks highly of you."
Miriam was in no mood for social pleasantries. "I suppose there is a purpose for this meeting?"
"Ah, yes. But first we must ensure this fussy waiter will not disturb us for a while."
The waiter was back again, almost as if summoned by Diego's mention. They both ordered their entrées, then Diego leaned over and whispered something to the young man.
After he had left, Diego gave her a rueful smile. "I told him we needed time alone. That I was trying to decide whether to ask for your hand in marriage."
"I hope he's a romantic."
"Aren't we all, when we are young?"
Miriam found herself smiling. "I suppose we are."
"But to business," Diego said.
"Please."
"Law asked me to tell you that a series of encrypted e-mails has been sent from a private bank in Frankfurt to the U.S. Federal Reserve here in Washington."
Miriam nodded slowly. "Interesting."
"These e-mails were sent over the international banking network, not the Internet."
Miriam raised a brow. She knew little about the ins and outs of bank transaction processing, but she knew enough. "Meaning NSA would never see them."
"Not without a warrant. The concern is that someone in the Fed is passing them to someone in your government. Someone high enough in the food chain to have considerable influence with the Rice administration."
"Have you read these messages?" Miriam said.
He paused for a moment, and nodded. "Only in part. Our decryption is not complete. Their security is very good, and it will take time to decode them. And that is time we do not have."
"Why?" Miriam asked, feeling her stomach lurch.
"You have heard about the violence in Europe?"
"Of course," she said.
"It will happen here in America, as well. The messages seem to suggest that the recipient should wait for that violence before taking decisive action."
"I don't understand," Miriam said. "What kind of decisive action?"
He looked at her, sadness in his eyes. "Your government plans to employ tactical nuclear weapons against suspected terrorist targets in Pakistan."
"Oh my God." Miriam's stomach sank so far that she shoved the appetizer away, unable to even look at it.
"Exactly," said the man.
"But why?" Miriam tried to collect her thoughts. "I mean, I'd heard rumors, but I thought it was just Beltway gossip. Or, at worst, posturing. You're saying they're true?"
Diego nodded. "America has signed a comprehensive nuclear test ban treaty," he explained. "You haven't tested any devices in years now. There are some in your Pentagon who worry that your weapons manufacturers no longer know how to build a working bomb. For th
em, this is a way to prove that the new devices work."
"So they'll kill people just to prove their expensive bombs are worth buying in bulk," Miriam said with obvious disgust.
He nodded. "Others want to stabilize the region at any cost, so they can build factories and take advantage of cheap labor, which they cannot do in a climate of unrest."
Miriam nodded slowly, though she still felt sickened. "What should I do?"
"Law was hoping you might be able to discover the final recipient of these messages."
"I'll try." But the thought of trying to track messages from the Fed to the White House was daunting, to say the least.
"I have brought copies for you," he said.
"And if I do find out who these messages are going to…what then?"
Diego shrugged. "It is possible he may be removed one way or another. We must do everything in our power to prevent a nuclear strike. Because it will not stop with Pakistan. You and I both know that."
She never did eat, though Diego somehow finished his meal. He paid the check, then slipped an envelope into her hand before they rose from the table. She tucked it into her briefcase.
"How will I let you know if I learn anything?"
"My card is in the envelope. I am assigned to the United Nations. Speak to no one but me."
Diego parted from her on the street.
* * *
Terry was sure she never realized that he was parked six cars away on the far side of the street, all too aware that she had met a man for dinner and come out carrying a white rose.
There were no words to describe how much relief he felt when she suddenly tossed it in the gutter with every appearance of distaste.
Her guardian angel followed her all the way home.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Ahmed Ahsami had nearly finished wading through the book about the Knights Templar. He had, despite his anger and unhappiness, found it rather interesting to read how the Templars and the Muslims had once worked together in Jerusalem and Palestine. That was something he had not heard before, and he might have considered it a lie except that the English writer seemed to think the information spoke poorly of the Templars.