CIA director Stephens now spoke. “Mr. President, I believe it’s important for you to give this speech and make an impassioned case that you truly care for the Palestinian people and that you are committed to working day and night to help them build a better life for themselves and their children and grandchildren,” he said. “But from an intelligence perspective, I have to implore you not to give the speech in Jerusalem. Agent Ryker has just contacted me with new intel.”
“Saying what?”
“He and the Raven have uncovered evidence about a new terrorist organization taking shape. As best we can discern, it’s based in Greece. It’s very well-funded. And Ryker and his team have picked up evidence that the group is making plans to attack senior U.S. officials in the coming weeks, including you. Whether this is connected to the Iranian threat I cannot say at this point. But Martha and I have just set up a crisis task force at Langley to find out everything we possibly can about this new group. And in light of all these developments, I have to strongly advise you not to go to Jerusalem at this particular time. The dashboard is blinking red, Mr. President. An attack is coming. And we’ve got to make sure the terrorists don’t have a clear shot at you.”
46
LONDON, ENGLAND—25 NOVEMBER
It was three minutes before 7 a.m. as Maxim turned left onto Averill Street.
By the time he slowed his cab to a stop, the Sullivans were already coming out the red front door. Meryl entered first with a cheery “Morning!” Giles climbed into the backseat after her, somewhat surly, his face buried in his smartphone.
“The usual?” Maxim asked, already pulling away from the curb.
“Actually, no,” Meryl said, taking a sip from the to-go mug in her gloved hands. “Could you be a dear and drop me off at the U.S. Embassy, then take Giles on to Broadcasting House?”
“Of course, ma’am. Whatever you need.”
Maxim looped around and got back on Fulham Palace Road, heading toward Putney Bridge. “Is that General Evans bloke still coming?” he asked, looking back in the rearview mirror. “I figured with what the Palestinian leader has been saying, the trip would be off.”
“Me, too, but he’s still coming,” Meryl said before taking another sip. “I all but begged the embassy for the first exclusive interview in which he will articulate the American reaction, and they’ve said yes.”
“Brilliant, ma’am—good for you.”
“Well, we’ll see. I’m having breakfast with the ambassador in a few minutes to nail it down.”
“For tomorrow?”
“Most likely.”
“Wouldn’t that be exciting?” said Maxim. “Will you need my services? I can clear my schedule and take you and your crew anywhere you need.”
“That would be marvelous. Let’s see how this breakfast goes; then I’ll ring you.”
Mohammed al-Qassab was about to lose it.
He could think of nowhere he wanted to be less just then than a breakfast meeting in Canary Wharf with a room full of Chinese CEOs. One of the partners had been droning on for a good ten or fifteen minutes about exchange rates. All the Syrian could think about was the fact that he was currently responsible for three of the most complicated operations of his life, all officially sanctioned by Kairos, all with a very high chance of failure. If they did fail, his freedom, and likely his very life, were in danger. Yet there he sat, trapped in a twenty-fifth-floor conference room with people he didn’t know, preparing to make a presentation he cared nothing about.
Just then, his smartphone vibrated.
Must talk now, read the text.
“Excuse me,” he said, catching everyone in the room by surprise. “I wonder if we might take, shall we say, an environmental break?”
Smiles of recognition broke out all around the room. Al-Qassab got up and moved quickly out of the conference room, down the hallway, and into the stairwell at the far end. He bounded up the steps two at a time, then spilled out into a smartly appointed vestibule two flights up. He fished a set of keys out of the pocket of his trousers and unlocked the door, which opened to a rooftop lounge. It could be rented for parties and meetings by tenants of the building. At the moment, it was devoid of another soul. Punching in a series of numbers on his phone from memory, he paced nervously as he waited for the call to go through. Then he heard Dr. Ali Haqqani on the other end.
“We have a problem,” the Pakistani blurted out.
“Not exactly the best time to chat,” al-Qassab replied, hoping the tone of his voice would remind the surgeon that they were on an unsecured line.
“It cannot be helped. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Leaving?” al-Qassab asked.
“A friend has a home in the country. He won’t be there for several weeks. I thought I might go there for a break.”
“What about your staff?”
“I have given them the next two weeks off.”
“What about your patients?”
“We are rescheduling all of them.”
With that, the call was over. Al-Qassab stared at the phone, then out over London. This was an ominous development. The two men had discussed the possibility of Haqqani leaving the country before the operation was complete. Yet in the end they had concluded that leaving might draw undue attention. The better play was for Haqqani to stay put, go about his daily routine, and act horrified and bewildered when the bomb went off.
Why, then, the sudden change of plans?
Maxim’s mobile phone rang.
Meryl Sullivan’s number came up on the screen. “Maxim?”
“Yes?”
“We’re a go.”
“You got the exclusive?”
“I did.”
“Brilliant. How can I be of service?”
47
ASPEN, COLORADO
In the Rocky Mountains, it was still Monday night.
Well, technically Tuesday morning, Marcus realized, glancing at his watch. It was also snowing something fierce. He was supposed to be heading to his mother’s house. Now many of the mountain roads wouldn’t be cleared for hours, at best.
Without another option, the two men rolled up their sleeves and went to work. Stopping only for a late-night snack of leftover borscht, they carefully reviewed all the intelligence Oleg had gathered on the Russian connection to this shadowy new terrorist group. They also reviewed everything Oleg had gathered on the Russian moles operating inside NATO and the E.U.
Marcus pressed Oleg to brief him on the dozen folks the Russians had on their payroll who worked for the Greek parliament, in the Greek prime minister’s office, or within the Greek military. Was it possible that one or more of these were involved in establishing this new terror front? Oleg searched for each name in all the computer files he’d smuggled out of the Kremlin. He also sent the names to Martha Dell and her team back at Langley to cross-check them against everyone in the CIA’s and NSA’s databases. Thus far, both agencies had come up empty. There was nothing to suggest that any of the compromised Greeks were involved in terrorism, though Dell vowed that her people would keep looking.
Well after three in the morning, bleary and bloodshot, the men called it quits. Oleg found Marcus a set of clean linens and a pillow, then stepped into the bathroom to change into a pair of red silk pajamas and brush his teeth. When he was done, he climbed up to his loft and disappeared. Marcus said nothing but smiled to himself at how ridiculous the Russian looked, before stepping into the bathroom himself. He changed into navy-blue running shorts and a gray T-shirt, brushed his teeth, and gargled some mouthwash. Then he came back into the living room, made up the couch, turned out the lights, and tried to settle down.
Rather than sleep, however, Marcus found himself staring at the dying embers in the fireplace, replaying in his mind’s eye the painful conversation he’d had with Maya Emerson and bracing himself for the exact same conversation he was about to have with his mother. This, he knew, was why he hadn’t come home in so long. He couldn’t bear to be told he wa
s disappointing her. On top of everything else, it was simply too much. For much of the last two years, he’d struggled every morning just to get out of bed. Most days, in fact, having stayed up until the wee hours of the morning watching ESPN or listening to music, he hadn’t gotten up until well after noon. What was the point? After Elena and Lars’s deaths, he’d been consumed by utter loneliness and wrenching grief. The last thing he needed was his mother’s guilt trip. But it was coming, and Marcus was grateful for the storm that had given him a reprieve from the inevitable for one more night.
As it happened, Oleg was also too keyed up to sleep. As the Russian lay there in the loft, no doubt staring up at the sloped ceiling of the A-frame, he suddenly called out in the darkness, asking Marcus if he was still awake.
They started talking and didn’t stop until dawn. At first they traded theories on why Ziad would shoot down the White House peace plan rather than use it as a basis for negotiations. Oleg was particularly astonished that the Saudis, the Emiratis, and the Bahrainis had already assured the Clarke administration that they would invest upwards of $100 billion over the next ten years to help build a viable Palestinian state, yet Ziad still wasn’t biting.
Eventually, though, they recounted their miraculous escape from Russia and how close they had come to never getting out at all. Oleg said he didn’t believe in miracles. It had all been luck, he argued, a fortunate twist of fate.
Marcus knew better.
48
The talk shifted to Jenny Morris.
Oleg asked how she was doing and seemed stunned to learn Marcus had no idea. Oleg was under strict orders not to contact her, but apparently no one had told him Marcus was too. Oleg was actually under legal prohibition from contacting anyone in the U.S. government other than Marcus, Martha Dell, and one technical guy in the CIA’s Office of Information Technology. But Oleg would be forever grateful to the woman who had helped save his life and his country, and he wanted to know how she was faring. “Don’t you want to know?” the Russian asked.
“Of course.”
“Then why haven’t you hacked into her computer?”
“Very funny.”
“Surely there’s something you can do to find out, someone you could ask.”
Marcus didn’t answer, just let the statement hang in the air. He knew Oleg was right, though, and felt a sudden twinge of guilt. He could be resourceful when he wanted to be. Why hadn’t he found a way to get an update on Jenny Morris?
“Can I ask you a question?” the Russian asked after a long silence.
“Haven’t you been doing that all night?” Marcus replied.
“A personal question.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“You can ask, but only if I can ask you something first.”
“Ask whatever you want,” the Russian replied.
“Fine, here’s my question,” Marcus said. “Can you ever imagine that you could believe that God exists and that he loves you and wants you to know him personally?”
“That’s an easy one,” Oleg answered. “Not in a million years.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a man of science, my friend—a man of logic, reason.”
“And you don’t believe a serious, educated, logical thinker can believe in God?”
“If he’s truly honest with himself intellectually? No—no chance.”
“You don’t stare up at the stars at night or look into your wife’s eyes and marvel at it and think maybe, just maybe, we’re not all the product of random chance but the result of some kind of intelligent design?”
“No, not really.”
“But you baptized Vasily, right?”
“True.”
“Why?”
“Because my lunatic father-in-law insisted.”
“Because your beloved Marina insisted.”
“Well, of course,” Oleg said, a wistfulness in his tone. “I may be an atheist, Marcus, but I’m not a fool.”
“Have you ever read the Bible?”
“Of course not.”
“You’ve never read the number-one bestselling book in the history of mankind?”
“Why would I?”
“How can you rule out the existence of God without at least reading the book that two billion people believe are his very words?”
“I don’t know. I just never had any interest.”
“Would you read it?”
“Why would I bother?”
“As a favor to me.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“You’re not going to change me—I’m unconvertible.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“It’s never going to happen, Marcus—100 percent, no.”
“But will you at least read it? The New Testament, even?”
“In exchange for what?”
“For me answering your question.”
“I haven’t even asked it yet,” the Russian protested. “You have no idea what I’m going to ask.”
“I’m an open book, my friend,” Marcus replied. “If you’ll promise to read just one of the Gospel accounts in the New Testament, I’ll answer any question you have.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, then, I will read just one of the Gospels.”
“You promise?”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
“Then so do I.”
“Great,” Marcus said. “That’s settled. Now, what is your question?”
There was a long pause. The last of the embers in the fireplace were dying. The snow was still coming down hard. Oleg cleared his throat and spoke softly.
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”
49
LONDON, ENGLAND—26 NOVEMBER
The alarm went off at precisely 5 a.m.
Typically Maxim hit the snooze button and slept another twenty or thirty minutes, but not today. His heart was racing. This was it, the day for which they had prayed and planned for so long.
Amina was already up, showered, and dressed. To Maxim’s surprise, she had even made them breakfast. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d done so. They sat down to steaming plates of scrambled eggs, bangers, brown bread she had gotten up early to bake herself, and strong black coffee. They said very little as they ate their last meal together. Neither had any more questions. They had been over the plan a thousand times. Every detail was tattooed into their psyches. All that was left was to execute.
“Are you ready, my love?” Maxim asked as he finished eating.
“Inshallah,” she said with a genuine smile.
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he kissed his sister on the forehead, then headed out. He bounded down the five flights of stairs, too full of energy to take the lift, then bolted out the back door of the building, unlocked his cab, and fired up the engine.
Maxim never stopped on his way to Averill Street. But today he did. He pulled up at a newsstand not far from his apartment on the East End, purchased a fresh pack of cigarettes, three tabloids, and a copy of The Times. Setting down a fifty-pound note, he told the man to keep the change. That was his signal back to his Kairos handlers. The operation was a go. The vendor nodded and picked up a mobile phone to relay the message to others as Maxim dashed back to his still-running cab.
At precisely seven o’clock, the red door opened. This time, however, only Meryl Sullivan emerged from the town house.
“Where’s the mister?” Maxim asked as Meryl climbed into the backseat. “Is everything okay?”
“Giles won’t be coming today—a wee bit under the weather, I’m afraid.”
“So sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“Never you mind—he’ll be fine. I made him a fresh pot of tea and tucked him back into bed. I’m sure he’ll be back with us tomorrow. Now listen, we need to stop by the studio and pick up Thoma
s before heading to Downing Street.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Maxim said. Thomas Gibney, Meryl’s cameraman, was a frequent rider in the hackney cab.
The main studios of the British Broadcasting Corporation were located on Portland Place in the Marylebone district of London. Maxim pulled up to the front entrance, idled, and turned his blinkers on. A moment later, Thomas got into the cab, carrying two large cases of equipment.
“Morning, Tommy,” Maxim said cheerfully.
“Maxim, Meryl,” the cameraman replied, tipping his plaid cap.
“Downing Street, ma’am?” Maxim asked.
“Yes, Maxim, right away.”
The morning traffic was more congested than usual, but neither Sullivan nor Gibney paid any mind. They were completely focused on discussing the logistics of their day. Their voices were animated, full of anticipation about the interview with Evans and the headlines it might generate not only in the U.K. but around the world.
Neither the journalist nor the cameraman even noticed at first that Maxim had turned off the main road and into an abandoned underground parking garage. Only when Maxim took the car down three further levels did Tommy ask where on earth they were going.
“To hell, my friend,” Maxim said, pulling the cab to a stop. He drew a silenced pistol from under his raincoat, pivoted quickly, and double-tapped the man to his forehead.
Meryl Sullivan’s eyes went wide.
“You, too, my love,” he said, then shot her once in the head and once in the chest before she could let out a scream.
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