by Alex Lukeman
"That’s different. That’s revolution, organized rebellion against a regime. Armies fighting armies, soldiers against soldiers. Washington didn’t bomb markets to make a point. He didn’t target civilians, even the loyalists who didn’t agree with him, unless they picked up a rifle. Then they were fair game."
"But it’s different now. Take the Palestinians. They don’t have armies and planes and tanks. How are they supposed to get what they want?"
"It doesn't matter what they want. Nothing justifies the murder of innocents."
"We kill innocents, too. Except we call it ‘collateral damage’, as if that makes it okay. War kills plenty of innocents, civilians, non-combatants. It’s immoral."
"There’s no morality in war. People are always trying to impose moral values on something essentially immoral. It’s a contradiction in terms."
"So the end justifies the means?" She hiked the AK up on her shoulder.
"That’s the question, isn’t it?" Nick said. "In the end, it comes down to survival. Then all bets are off. Morality doesn’t stop bullets and bombs."
"It could," she said, "if there was enough of it."
The soft lines of her face were a moonlit contrast to the harsh angles of the AK on her shoulder. They walked on across the desert.
They reached the rendezvous point two hours before dawn. Carter eased himself onto the hard ground. Selena unslung her rifle and sat down.
"Jesus, I’m tired," she said. "It's cold." She leaned against him.
He put his arm around her. "Just a couple of hours to sunrise. We’ll be out of here."
She turned her face toward him. "Did you know your eyes shine in the moonlight?"
The kiss was electric. She said, "Take off that stupid beard."
He pulled off the beard. The next kiss was deep and long, her hands on his head, pulling him to her. His hand moved to her breast and she sighed. She reached for him.
Her breasts were pale in the moonlight, the nipples standing out in the chill night air. He kissed and nuzzled them. He kissed her belly, tongued her navel. He moved down and spread her legs. She smelled of sweat and sex. He buried himself in her. They made love on the rumpled clothes and the sand. For a while there were no terrorists in the world.
The sky started to change color.
Selena pulled away. "We’d better get dressed. It’s almost dawn." They got their clothes on. Picked up the rifles.
She was pensive. "Ever notice we kick it up a notch after someone's tried to kill us?"
Nick looked at her. "Yeah. I think it's about life. About being alive, feeling that."
"Feeling. Sometimes I feel like we're characters in a Quentin Tarentino movie."
"Selena…"
"I think I hear the plane," she said.
Part Two:
Home
"We have the right to kill four million Americans, two million of whom should be children."
Suliman Abu Ghaith
A spokesman for al-Qaeda
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 hav
e 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.