“You need to get with the Director of the FBI immediately. The brother of the Navy pilot—”
“Whoa,” he objected. “What are you talking about?”
“Early this morning, last night, actually, the brother of the Navy pilot who was involved in the Algerian shoot-down—”
“What about him?”
“His brother was murdered in Tennessee. On a highway. It looks like it was a trap, an ambush. I’m convinced it’s the terrorist we’ve been looking for, the brother of the Algerian pilot who was killed.”
“Okay. So why are you calling me?”
“You need to get the FBI to close the airports, all borders everything. We have to keep this guy from escaping. He might flee the country. He may try anything, but—”
“Look, Sarah. How do you know this?” he said, switching on his bedroom television in the dark, to the moaning protests of his wife, who rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. “I haven’t heard a word about it. What makes you think this has happened? And if they think this Algerian did it, it would be the FBI who would have concluded that, and they haven’t told me a thing about it.”
She was quiet for a moment, then, “It fits. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would do.”
He watched CNN to see if it had made it to the national news yet. “This is a law enforcement matter. The FBI can handle it, I’m sure.”
“Are you going to call?”
“Sure, I’ll call,” he said reluctantly.
“Okay,” she said. “I have to do a few other things. I’ll talk to you later in the day.”
“Okay, Sarah. Bye.” He hung up the phone and climbed into the shower.
* * *
Ismael tried not to look over his shoulder as he walked through the Miami airport. He had asked for a seat in the back of the airplane so he could board right after those in first class. He didn’t think U.S. agents would wander onto airplanes randomly looking for him, but they might have alerted security forces at all major airports. He sat waiting for the boarding to begin and pretended to read a paperback novel he had bought in the airport bookstore. His attention drifted from the book to the television hanging from a column. It was tuned to CNN. Nothing unusual at all. No mention of Knoxville, no mention of the murder, or the Blue Angels, or him.
Ismael opened the book to a third of the way through. He tried to read it, and tried even harder not to look around or even up. He feigned boredom and annoyance at how long it was taking to get out of Miami. He had the unshakable feeling that everyone in the airport was looking at him. He was grateful that he was in Miami, where every second person was non-Caucasian.
“May I have your attention, please,” the gate attendant said over the PA system. “Avianca Airlines would like to announce the boarding of Flight 251 to Caracas. We would like our first-class passengers to board first, please, then rows twenty-five and higher. First class only, please, to gate twenty-three.”
The passengers started shuffling toward the gate, allowing small passageways between them for the few first-class passengers. They waited for a minute, then, “Rows twenty-five and higher, please.”
Ismael handed the attendant his boarding pass and walked onto the jet.
* * *
Rat stood waiting for Stovic and Karen as they arrived at the Knoxville Airport. He stood just inside the security barrier, watching carefully. He had his whole team in Knoxville.
He greeted Stovic with a nod of his head. He walked to him and hugged him, the first time he had hugged a man since he could remember. He hugged Karen and kissed her on the side of her head. He looked over at Stovic. “I’m sorry. I never thought he would do this. I should have—”
“It’s not your fault, Rat. This guy is a murderer, and he’s after me. It’s my fight.”
“No. It’s our fight.”
Stovic nodded. “Come on, Carrie, you need to keep up.”
She put up her arms, insisting he carry her. He swept her up quickly, as Karen lifted Brandon onto her hip and wrestled with her carry-on bag.
Rat put his foot up on the side of the baggage claim carousel. “How you doing?” he said to Stovic.
Stovic looked at his children. They weren’t watching. “I didn’t need to pull that trigger, Rat. If I had just held off for a couple more seconds, it would—”
“Don’t start down that road. It’s a dead end. You did what you should have done.”
“No, I didn’t, Rat. You don’t know,” he replied. “I was looking out for myself.” He rubbed red eyes and picked Carrie up again. “You okay?” he asked.
She shook her head and put it down on his shoulder to rest. She was exhausted, and very sad. She loved Uncle Rick. He always played with her, ran around his small yard chasing her and making her squeal in fun and terror. He always told her that when he had a little girl, he wanted her to be just like Carrie, and then everything would be perfect—he would have two Carries, one as a daughter and one as a niece. He told her he was going to name his daughter Carrie, so she could be just like her. She protested that nobody else could be Carrie because she was, but he always insisted, laughing, that one Carrie wasn’t enough, that he had to have two. He sent her small presents three or four times a year. She loved him. She squeezed the neck of her father tighter. She knew somehow that whatever had happened involved her father too. She didn’t know how, just that her parents were afraid.
Their bags arrived, and they pointed them out. Rat pulled them off the carousel easily and set them on the floor. “I’ve got a car. Want to ride with me?”
Karen nodded. “Have you been to Rick’s house?”
Rat shook his head. “I drove by. I’ve got some people there, but I wanted to wait for you.”
Karen looked at her husband. “We’ve got to go straight there. We’ve got to take care of Debbie and the baby.”
Stovic nodded. “And Rick’s . . . funeral.” He could hardly say it.
Karen put her arm through his free arm. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is.”
Rat interrupted. “Come on. My car’s out front.”
* * *
Ismael stepped off the airplane in Algiers and felt instantly refreshed. The dry desert air was like a cleansing bath after the humidity of Miami and Venezuela. He had forgotten how much the smells of the desert and the city blended together where North Africa met the Mediterranean. Still, he realized that his optimism might be based on the knowledge that he was relatively safe. The FBI wasn’t here, and they wouldn’t be coming. The CIA was another matter—they knew exactly who he was, and might do something here, although he doubted it. In Algiers it was a different equation. There were many more people willing to do anything to help him than there were those who could be after him.
Perhaps the Americans would assume he had finished what he had planned on doing, that killing Stovic’s brother was sufficient. Ismael carried his bag out of the terminal, climbed into a taxi, and headed to a place he had never been before. He had heard about it, he had even been with people who had been there and refused to talk about it, but he had never experienced it. He knew he would be received with respect. He had proved himself, as was reflected in the encrypted e-mail he had picked up from his numerical Hotmail account at Simon Bolivar Airport in Caracas.
He knew he should go home to see his mother. To comfort her. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t in Algeria. Only his new identity with his new passport was here. The Americans would probably track him anyway, but he couldn’t go to his home or see his family. Not until he had done what he had left to do. The taxi dropped him off in the middle of a busy market. He made his way to an alley full of shops selling copper pots. He passed a coffee house and a large shop where several men sat smoking. He turned down a nondescript walkway between the two shops. The incessant market activity ensured his anonymity. At the end of the walkway was a small wooden door that opened quickly as he approached. It closed behind him just as quickly, just as he had been told in the e-mail.
Madani crossed to him and they kissed each other. “We received your e-mail. Thank you. You have returned safely after a bold stroke. We didn’t think you would make it. You were too exposed. Tell us about what you have done.”
“I accomplished one small thing.”
“You have shown well for yourself, and you made it out of the country.” He walked to the window and looked out over the rooftop next door. “So I take it from your e-mail you are not done. You have something else in mind. Yet you were unclear on what that might be.”
Ismael felt he had done enough now that he didn’t need to explain himself. “I hesitate to disclose my thoughts, other than to those who will be helping.”
“Ah.” Madani smiled. “Now you need help.”
Ismael stood motionless. “Yes. The question is, From whom do I need the help? I don’t know if you’re the one, or whoever it is that you report to. But whoever is in charge, whoever has access to a lot of money, a lot of assets, and people who will die for the right cause, that is who I need to talk to.” He glanced at Khalida, then stared at Madani.
“What is it you have in mind?”
“Something even more bold and daring than what I already did.”
Madani hesitated. “I will take you to the person you need to see. He knows you are here. He wanted to meet you, to welcome you back to the fold—”
“If he wants to work with me on this, then our paths are parallel for a time; that is all. I am not back in anyone’s fold.” His eyes darkened. “If we can help each other and work together for a short time, then good. If not, I will find other means.”
Madani scoffed. “How will you do that? What other means do you have at your disposal?”
Ismael stared at both of them. “More than you will ever know. Don’t underestimate me. Let’s go.”
* * *
St. John read the latest encrypted e-mail and put it deep in the pile of documents in her office that were scheduled for shredding. She rubbed her forehead and noticed the wrinkles that seemed to be getting deeper. She glanced at the crystal clock on her desk. The President had asked to see her at 9:00 a.m.
She walked down the hall to the Oval Office and opened the door. “Good morning, Mr.—” She stopped. President Kendrick was sitting with Dennis Arlberg, his Chief of Staff, Stuntz, Stewart Woods, the Director of Central Intelligence, and Attorney General Carl Dirks. “Well. Good morning to you all,” she said, recovering smoothly. “To what do I owe the honor of an unscheduled meeting with such an august group?”
“Surprised?” Stuntz smiled.
“Yes, I am,” she said, crossing to the silver coffee pot that always had fresh coffee in it. She was more than surprised. She was annoyed. So much for the President’s trust. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” she said casually.
Kendrick gave Stuntz a dirty look. Stuntz was unmoved. The President spoke. “Actually, they crashed this party,” he said smiling. “I asked them to stay because of some new information we just got from Algeria. Stewart?”
Woods cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Excuse me,” he said. “We have just received a report on the ground in Algeria that this Ismael Nezzar has been seen in Algiers. This morning. He’s back home.”
St. John was angry. “He knew it would get too hot for him here after killing Stovic’s brother.”
“We don’t know it was him—”
“Of course it was him,” she said. “And now he has made it very difficult for us to get him. How did he get out of the States? I personally called Carl and told him to get the FBI to close our exit points to keep Nezzar from getting out of the country. What happened, Carl?” she asked, putting him on the hottest spot in Washington.
“They said they would do it. This man is very elusive.”
“What time did you call?” she pressed.
“Why are you cross-examining me?” he asked angrily.
“What time?”
“I don’t know, my first chance. About noon.”
“Noon?” she asked, horrified. She stood back up and got more coffee. “He never should have escaped. He should be in custody. The FBI didn’t see the attack coming on the Blue Angel pilot’s brother, and they didn’t catch him once he acted.” She was furious. “That is unacceptable.”
“Carl?” the President asked.
“They can’t be everywhere, Mr. President.”
“They’re supposed to be protecting our pilot and his family. Right?”
“Yes, sir, but no one anticipated something might happen to his brother—”
St. John jumped in. “We can still get this terrorist and whoever is inclined to help him.”
“How?” Woods asked.
She should give the author of the e-mail credit. It was really his idea, and he could actually make it happen. “I think this terrorist is still after the Navy’s Blue Angels. But he has left the country. And why would he do that if he wants the Blue Angels? He certainly isn’t afraid.”
Stuntz replied gruffly, “Why don’t you just tell us?”
“He went overseas because the Blue Angels are going overseas.”
“How do you know that?” Stuntz asked.
“They’re going to the Paris Air Show, trying to stay alive, trying to avoid the team being canceled for next year due to ‘budgetary constraints,’ which has all been approved by the Secretary of Defense.”
“You’re canceling the Blue Angels?” the President asked, surprised. “That’s like canceling Christmas. You can’t do that.”
Stuntz was steaming. “The Navy decided to cut the team out of its budget because of additional funding needed for the JSF. I had nothing to do with it.”
“What’s the point?” the President asked.
“The Blues are going to Paris. The terrorist who wants them dead is Algerian. There is a large Algerian community in Paris—”
“How the hell do you know that?” Stuntz laughed, then caught himself, suddenly remembering Brad Walker.
St. John stared him down with an icy glare. “It is well known.” She looked back at President Kendrick. “That’s where he will try to strike. I am sure—”
Kendrick was confused. “What are you saying?”
“That’s why he has left the country. In my opinion. The Blue Angels have already posted the change on their web site, and the Paris Air Show people have already announced the Blues will fly there on their site.”
Kendrick nodded, finally getting it. “Well, Howard, I guess it has just been unarguably proved that we need to cancel that show. Keep the Blue Angels home where they’ll be safe. Now that we know this lunatic is back in Algeria, they should be able to return—”
“You misunderstand me,” St. John interrupted. Everyone in the room stared at her in disbelief. No one interrupted the President. “This is our chance to get an emerging terrorist state. A country testing the waters of international terrorism, perhaps for the first time, as a country. We need to make sure the Blue Angels go to Paris. We need to send our best people there to protect them, and find the Algerians.”
“Just use them as bait? Just hang out our best pilots and jets so we can catch one Algerian nutcase?” Kendrick replied, stung by her intensity.
“He’s not a nutcase. This is the Algerian government speaking. They’re working through one man. You’re the one who wanted to send two carriers into the teeth of Algerian defenses when you thought it would ‘make a statement.’ And you’re not willing to let a few fighter pilots take some risk to achieve the same thing?”
“You don’t know what he has in mind! He might blow them up in their hotel!”
“I don’t think
so. I think it will be during the air show. He will want to make it dramatic.”
“In France?” Dirks protested. “You want to put this in the hands of the Frogs?”
“Not entirely. We’ll work together. They are as good as we are.”
“Ha,” Stuntz roared. “I’d never go for this plan unless Americans were in charge of the security—unless the FBI and the Agency had people in place there looking for these Algerians. Maybe then it would be worth the risk.”
Kendrick nodded. “This your idea, Sarah?”
She couldn’t take complete credit. “Mostly.”
“Who else?”
“Someone who works for me.”
“Walker?” Stuntz asked.
“No. He and I have discussed it, but no.”
“Who then?”
“I’d rather not say. Mr. President, we’re onto this man. We know what his objective is and probably when he’ll strike. He’s the elite of Algerian terrorists. We need to take him out now. If we wait, if we cancel the show, we’ll lose track of him. He’ll disappear and strike with more force later. This is his coming out party. We need to be there waiting for him.”
Kendrick considered what had been said. He rubbed his face as he thought. “We need to take every opportunity we have to get at a terror cell. Especially if it is state sponsored, which I’m hearing this may be. Stewart, you need to keep looking at that. But unless I hear a big protest, I say we send our flyers to Paris, and get the son of a bitch that just murdered one of their pilots’ brothers.”
Stovic turned away from the window and drew the heavy curtains, throwing the room into unnatural dimness. Everyone was sitting in the living room. It wasn’t large and didn’t have that many seats, so they had brought in chairs from the dining room. They were sitting in what was roughly a circle, staring at each other, looking away, trying to think of something gentle to say, to comfort someone, or witty, to break the somber mood.
The Shadows of Power Page 19