by Jack Mars
House to house searches had begun? What in God’s name had taken them so long? He realized he must be in shock. The voices around him were becoming an increasingly strange Babel—impossible to understand. Bits and pieces of nonsensical information flowed past him.
“The British Prime Minister has gone on TV to say…”
“China has offered the use of spy satellites and surveillance…”
“Vladimir Putin is being briefed as we…”
“CIA, NSA, and all intelligence listening stations…”
“Shut up!” he shouted, before he knew he was going to. “Everyone just shut up, and stop talking. I can’t stand it anymore.”
He turned to Lawrence Keller. “Lawrence, who is going to be briefing us now?”
“General Richard Stark from the Pentagon,” Keller said. “I’m told he has up to the minute information, and all intelligence is being fed to, and vetted through, his office.”
Barrett nodded. “I need you, Lawrence. I’m lost right now. I need you to stay on these people. I need this to happen at twice the speed it’s happening right now. I need to hammer every target on Earth. I don’t care what needs to be done or whose toes are stepped on, or frankly, who gets killed. I don’t care if entire countries become parking lots. I want my daughter back.”
Keller nodded. “I am going to move heaven and earth for you, David. This is my promise.”
“Thank you.”
The entire phalanx of people moved into the elevator. Barrett stood in the middle of the crowd. He closed his eyes. He saw Elizabeth as a small girl, at a family barbecue at the old family house in Newport, running to him, the sea in the background. He could see every detail of her—the flower dress she wore, her floppy green sunhat, her sandals that buckled at the ankle, her blonde hair, her huge smile, one front tooth missing.
He didn’t know if he was going to scream or pass out.
He took a deep breath instead. It would be unseemly to pass out in front of so many strangers. A Barrett did not show weakness.
He had gotten off the phone with his father just minutes ago. His father, eighty-nine-year-old Sylvester Barrett, had spent his life growing the family oil business that his own father had founded. He was a tough man.
“Bury them,” his father said. “Make them pay. Every stinking last one of them.”
She’s my daughter, Dad.
That’s what he wanted to say. Couldn’t he understand that? His daughter had been kidnapped. He loved her so much—it was like a piece of himself had been taken. If he could be taken in her stead, he would do it. In a heartbeat. No hesitation at all.
I love her. I am dying inside.
But you didn’t say things like that to Sylvester Barrett.
If anything, the conversation with his wife had gone even worse. She simply wept over the phone line, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might comfort her. He stood there with a lump in his throat, his face turning red as the woman he loved began shrieking at him.
“I’m going to get her back,” he croaked, before hanging up the phone. It was the only thing he could think of.
The elevator opened into the egg-shaped Situation Room. It was super-modern, set up for maximum use of the space, with large screens embedded in the walls every couple of feet, and a giant projection screen on the far wall at the end of the table.
Except for David’s own seat, every plush leather seat at the table was occupied—overweight men in suits, thin and ramrod-straight military men in uniform. A man in a dress uniform stood at the far head of the table. Richard Stark.
David didn’t care for Richard Stark. But right now, he didn’t care much for anyone. Maybe Stark would throw him a lifeline in this desperate moment—stranger things had happened.
He sat down in the chair reserved for the President.
The room suddenly went quiet. David knew that he was renowned for his anger and his tirades—many of his closest aides didn’t like him. He knew that about himself, and it was another thing he had never cared about. He was a Barrett, after all. If they all quieted down right now, it was because they were afraid of what he would say if they didn’t. A crisis was on, and he was inches from an all-consuming rage.
“Okay, Richard,” he said. “Never mind the introductions, never mind the niceties and the preliminaries. Just tell me some good news.”
Stark slipped a pair of black reading glasses onto his face. He looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand.
“We are developing intelligence along several lines. The roommate, Rita Chadwick, is still in CIA custody, and is cooperating. Her family is insisting she be released pending the arrival of a legal team from New York. We told them no. The lead kidnapper has been identified as Ahmet Kaya of Istanbul, twenty-one years old. It is clear that this is an alias, and we are tracking—”
“Richard!”
There was not a sound in the room. The President of the United States was beginning to shout. In a moment, he might throw one of his trademark temper tantrums.
No. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to do that.
He spoke in an even, level tone.
“Tell me what you have,” he said. “Not what you are developing.”
Stark nodded. He took his glasses off. He didn’t need to look at the papers in his hand. “Okay, David. Your daughter was kidnapped, as you know. Our intelligence suggests that she was taken from Geneva by car, then was loaded onto a boat, which crossed Lake Geneva into France without passing through any border control. We are searching satellite footage to confirm this, though it may be difficult to confirm if the boat was small enough, and operated without lights. After the boat landed, we believe she was taken into the French countryside.”
David suddenly felt very subdued.
“And then?” he said.
General Stark shook his head. “We have no idea.”
“You don’t know where my daughter is?”
“I’m going to be honest with you, David. This happened hours ago. It was clearly planned well ahead of time, and they got a sizeable head start on us. If they made it into France—and we believe they did—and then reached one of the many small airfields in that region…”
President Barrett wanted to cover his ears against the words he knew must come next.
“They could have taken her anywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
May 8
6:35 a.m. Arabian Standard Time (10:35 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, May 7)
The Embassy of the United States in Iraq (aka the Republican Palace)
The International Zone (aka the Green Zone)
Karkh District
Baghdad, Iraq
In the night, he had waited for an attack.
He was lying on a cot, in a gray Go Army T-shirt and boxers, in a sweltering office, surrounded by other people doing more or less the same. No air conditioning, no air at all. He had noise-canceling foam plugs in his ears, and a strapped eyeshade covering his face. The eyeshade was a good one—not too tight, and it left him no peripheral vision at all. He was in a world of total darkness, exactly where he wanted to be.
During the early hours, there had been a sudden flurry of movement, people coming and going, people talking in hushed tones.
Luke didn’t care. He had completed his mission—two missions, in fact—and was going home tomorrow. His body was sore, and his brain was tired. He was wrung out. If the embassy was bombed, or overrun by suicide fighters, he assumed someone would wake him up to let him know.
“Luke! Luke Stone! Wake up!”
He took the nightshade off his face, and light flooded in. It was daytime.
Trudy Wellington stood over him. Her hair was mussed. She wore a light blue T-shirt and cotton athletic shorts. Her clothes had practically sweated through. She looked like she had just woken up herself. She looked like breakfast.
Good thing he had turned down that drink.
Luke took his ear plugs out and blinked. The cots around him were all empt
y.
“Trudy. Good morning.”
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said. “We need to come up with a better system for where our people are sleeping. It’s ridiculous to walk all over this palace looking for everybody.”
It seemed a bit late for coming up with a system. They were on their way out of here. A system for cot assignments was going to be unnecessary at best. Okay, Trudy was a little annoyed. That’s all it was. She could design a system on the flight home, if she wanted.
“Are we leaving now?” Luke said.
She shook her head. Her hair bounced with it. “No. We have a meeting. You, me, Ed, Mark Swann, Big Daddy, and Don on the phone. As soon as you can claw your way out of bed.”
“A meeting? I thought we were done. We’re going home today.”
Her big eyes blinked at him. She stared at him quizzically.
“You haven’t heard?”
He shook his head. “Heard what? No, I guess I haven’t.”
“We’re not going home.”
“I’m going home,” Luke said. “I have a baby on the way. You guys can stay here if you want.” He looked around at all the wooden fold-up cots in the barren room with bare plywood walls. “I mean, it’s nice here, so I don’t blame you for wanting to stay, but—”
“Luke,” she said, her voice suddenly stern. “No one is leaving. All military and intelligence assets are ordered to stay in place and on call until further notice.”
“Why? Are we at war?” Luke said, realizing instantly how silly the question sounded. Were they at war? Yes, obviously they were at war. What he meant was…
“There’s a problem,” Trudy said. “And we’ve got a meeting right now. As soon as you’re ready.”
* * *
The young girl wore a bright orange jumpsuit.
She kneeled at the front of the jittery video, her hands behind her back—probably bound. Her hair was tied back under a simple black headscarf.
Behind her, five men stood, all of them wearing black masks across their faces. They were dressed in the manner of a guerrilla army, with heavy ballistic vests, ammo belts across their chests, many-pocketed cargo pants, and combat boots. Four of the men carried AK-47 rifles. They stood in front of a black banner with white lettering in Arabic.
The fifth, a man wearing the black hood of an executioner, carried a long heavy knife, like a machete. He held it aloft, and at times, gestured with it.
The imagery made Luke sick—sick with anger, with rage, with a helpless feeling. Inside of him, there was an animal trapped in a cage, a brute, wanting very badly to kick its way out. If it got out, God help every man in that video, and anyone who worked with them or aided them in any way. God help entire regions and an entire religion.
He glanced at Ed Newsam. The man’s huge right fist was clenched. His jaw was set. He stood by the table in what could be mistaken for a relaxed posture—except his entire body was alive with electricity.
Luke took a deep breath.
“My father is an imperialist and a crusader,” the girl was saying. Her eyes darted, looking at something off screen. Clearly, it was the script she was being forced to read.
“He is… he is a nitwit, and a dupe of the Western ruling classes… who… use and degrade women, and who… who deliberately corrupt the morals of the youth in the entire world. They are in league with Satan, and my father…”
Here she turned her head and began to cry. Within seconds, she was weeping abjectly, utterly unable to continue. The video jumped, and cut. Now she was facing forward again.
“They cut it to give her time to compose herself,” Mark Swann said.
“And my father is their willing servant,” the girl said. “He is a coward and a running dog who has used the might of the West to make war on Allah’s faithful people, even while in his youth he used his wealth to escape his own military responsibilities, and his country’s dirty wars.”
“Jesus,” Luke said.
“Do not cry for me,” she said now. “I am young, but was not naïve. I willfully ignored the suffering my father and his ilk have inflicted on masses of the faithful throughout the world. I am the spawn of evil, and I am not…”
She began to cry again.
“I am not innocent.”
She lost it again. She could not speak. She kneeled there, head hanging, face obscured, her entire body shaking with sobs.
The screen jumped again, revealing yet another artless cut. She was kneeling up straight again. She was no longer crying.
“My capture and punishment is a glory to the prophet, and confirmation to Allah’s people that their faith is rewarded. I go to my…”
She stopped and took a deep breath.
“I go to my death knowing that I am as guilty of these terrible crimes as any crusader in Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, or the Holy Land. May the people rejoice at this act of justice, and in time may Allah bring an even greater reckoning upon my father, my family, and my people.”
The video jumped again. The girl was still on her knees, but now she was blindfolded. The man in the hood moved to front and center. He jabbed his knife at the screen and his mouth moved, while clanging music played over him. He pulled up his right sleeve and showed the camera a tattoo on his shoulder—it was a black tattoo of a crescent moon and a star, a symbol of the former Ottoman Empire, and by extension, the Islamic world.
Arabic lettering appeared on the screen, superimposed over him as he spoke. Then he and all the other men were gone. It was just the girl now, kneeling, blindfolded, head down, the sign in Arabic still hanging behind her.
The video ended.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
“I’m going to kill that guy,” Ed Newsam said. “I don’t mean I want to. I mean I’m going to. Don’t matter how long it takes. Don’t matter where he is. Don’t matter who else is there.”
“What does the banner in the back say?” Luke said.
“It says Jama’at al-Tawhid wal-Jihad,” Trudy said. “In English, that means the Organization of God’s Oneness and Holy War. It is a group founded by Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi, and has pledged its allegiance to Al Qaeda.”
“Great,” Luke said. “And what was all that wording at the end?”
Trudy shrugged. “That was a demand. They have a laundry list of individuals they want released from prison. The list is comprehensive, to say the least, and it makes it hard to get a sense of who is behind the abduction. It includes Palestinians held in Israeli prisons, numerous individuals held at Guantanamo Bay and at alleged black sites in Afghanistan and other countries—we don’t have confirmation yet from the Pentagon or the CIA that some of these individuals are being held, or that they even exist. There are also terrorist leaders being held in Pakistan, the Philippines, Malaysia, and Thailand, not to mention Russia, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt, as well as right here in Iraq.”
“How many people, in all?” Luke said.
Trudy glanced down at some paperwork in front of her. “Two hundred forty-eight, all men, thought to be held in twelve different countries.”
“And if they’re not released?” Luke said, though he imagined he knew the answer.
“The first thirty prisoners must be released by tomorrow morning,” Trudy said. “As an indication of good will and acceptance of the terms. No preparation—simply open the gates and let them walk free. And they’re right—in certain places this could be done. After that, at least another ten must be released or transferred to their home country every day, until they’re all set free. The whole operation can take up to three weeks.”
“And if it doesn’t happen?”
“If the first thirty prisoners aren’t released by nine a.m. tomorrow, Baghdad time, then Elizabeth Barrett will be beheaded, and the video will be released on Internet outlets and to news stations. If there is any stumble in the schedule after that, then the same thing will happen. Most outlets won’t show the video, but of course within a short time a few will, then it will be copied, and
then it will be everywhere.”
“So…”
Trudy nodded. “Yeah. Twenty-six hours from now, more or less. The President’s daughter will be dead, and the ultimate jihadi recruiting video will be released worldwide.”
* * *
“Trudy, give us your impressions,” Don’s voice said.
They sat around the makeshift conference table—a slab of plywood balanced on two sawhorses. Don’s voice came from the black octopus at the center. Trudy, Swann, Ed Newsam, and Luke formed a rough square.
Big Daddy Cronin and the British spy Montgomery stood at the edges of the rounded, stone room. Luke could hardly imagine why they were here—there must be a thousand other intelligence teams out there who were closer to the action.
“Well, Elizabeth Barrett is a kid,” Trudy said, starting with something that couldn’t be more obvious. “To some extent, because of her position, she’s going to be more sheltered than the average eighteen-year-old. From what we have, her friend, the young woman from the Chadwick family, hooked her up on a blind date of sorts, and taught her how to sneak away from her security detail. But the Chadwick girl was not, as far as we know, complicit in the kidnapping. It was a lark to her, a harmless escapade.”
“Okay…” Don’s disembodied voice said.
It seemed to Luke that Trudy was just speaking to get the feel for talking, that she was warming up to the real meat of this. Like she was priming the pump to get the water flowing. Trudy went on.
“The Turk, however, was not on a lark. Ahmet Kaya, his alias, is a person who does not exist. At this time, we have no idea if he really is a Turk. We do know that he spoke Turkish fluently, as a native speaker would speak it, or close enough that outsiders would think so. We also know he spoke English and French, both at a conversational level. So he has, or had, a lot of high-level language skills.”
“Had?” Luke said.
Trudy nodded. “There’s a good chance that Ahmet is now dead. He was planted in Geneva, close to the President’s daughter, for at least the past year. He was put there to carry out a task, and once he carried it out successfully, he instantly became a liability. Unless he has another skill set we’re not aware of, or he’s a leader in the Islamic world, then to keep him alive is to take a risk. Half the intelligence assets on Earth are looking for him at this moment.”