by Ted Dekker
It had been a mistake not to kill the man immediately. Maybe the fall had killed them.
“Sir?” He heard the voice, knew it was Ramón’s, but chose to ignore it. He was thinking. There, there. Think.
An image of a thousand marching boys, all under the age of thirteen, suddenly popped to mind. Good Muslim boys on the Iraqi border, chanting a song of worship, dressed in colors. Going to meet Allah. He’d watched the scene through field glasses fifteen years earlier with a lump the size of a boulder lodged in his throat. The mines began erupting like fireworks, pop! pop! and the children’s frail brown bodies began flipping like sprung mousetraps. And the rest walked on, marching into the arms of death. He remembered thinking then that this was the sole fault of the West. The West had armed the Iraqis. The West had spawned infidelity, so that when he saw an example of purity, such as these young boys marching to Allah, he cringed instead of leaping for joy.
So then, think. Ramón was calling him again. “Sir.”
Shut up, Ramón. Can’t you see that I am thinking? He thought it, maybe said it. He wasn’t sure. Ramón was saying something about the agent not knowing about the bombs. Yes? Says who? Says you, Ramón? You’re a blind fool.
A buzz droned above him and he opened his eyes. The black bugs in the corner were crawling over each other in a writhing mass. One small firecracker in that ball would decorate the wall nicely. He dropped his head to Ramón. The fool was actually saying something.
Abdullah cut him off midsentence. “Ship the bombs immediately.” Ramón’s mouth hung open slightly, but he didn’t respond. His good eye was round like a saucer.
Abdullah stepped forward, a quiver in his bones. The agent’s escape could well be the hand of Allah forcing him forward. If Jamal was coming, the bombs would be gone when he got here. It would be he, not Jamal, who ended this game.
“Tonight, Ramón. Do you understand? I want both bombs sent tonight. Pack them in the logs as if they were drugs. And do it yourself—no one else can know of their existence. Are you hearing me?”
Ramón nodded. A trail of sweat now split his eye patch and hung off the corner of his lip.
Abdullah continued, noting that he would have to watch the man. He snatched a pointer and stepped up to a dirtied map of the country and the surrounding seas. His voice came ragged.
“There will be three ships. They will pick up the logs tonight, just outside the delta.” Abdullah followed the map with the pointer as he talked, but it only ran in jagged circles from his taut nerves and he dropped it to his side. “The fastest of the three ships will carry the larger device to our drop point at Annapolis near Washington, D.C. The second will take the inoperable device to the lumberyards in Miami, just like any other shipment of cocaine.” He paused, still breathing heavy. “The freightliner will carry the smaller device to a new drop point there”—he stabbed with the pointer again—“near Savannah, Georgia.” He turned to face Ramón.
“Tell the captains of these vessels that it is an experimental shipment and that they will be paid double the normal rates. No, tell them they will be paid ten times the normal rate. The shipments must arrive at the destinations as planned, before the Americans have a chance to react to the news they will receive from this agent.”
“Yes, sir. And the priest?”
“Keep him alive. A hostage could be useful now.” He grinned. “As for the agent, we will use him as our demand instead of the release of prisoners as Jamal planned. Either way the bombs will go off, but perhaps they will deliver this animal to us.” Abdullah felt a calm settle over him.
“I want the logs in the river by nightfall,” he said. He suddenly felt strangely euphoric. And if Jamal appeared before then? Then he would kill Jamal.
Ramón still stood, watching him. Abdullah sat and looked at him. “You have something to say, Ramón? Do you think we have lived in this hellhole for nothing?” Abdullah smiled.
For a brief moment he pitied the man standing before him as if he were a part of something important. In the end he, too, would die.
“Do not disappoint me. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramón said. He spun on his heels and strode from the room.
SHERRY AWOKE on the riverbank with the vision once again stinging her mind. Casius glanced up at her from a rock where he worked over a palm leaf, twisting a root. He motioned beside her. “Your shirt’s right there.” Two holes had been worn through to his shoulder blades. She pulled it on and walked over to him.
“That stuff on your face doesn’t come off very easily,” she said, noting the camo paint had survived the river.
“Waterproof.”
She looked at a small puddle of salve he’d forced from the root onto the palm leaf.
“And what is that?”
“It’s a natural antibiotic,” Casius said.
She winced, remembering the slide. “For your back?”
He nodded.
“Can I see?”
He twisted his back to her. His shoulder blades were worn to glistening red flesh.
“Here.” He handed the palm leaf back to her. “This will help. I’ve seen this stuff work miracles.”
She took the palm. “Just wipe it on?”
“You’re the doctor. It has a mild antiseptic in it as well. It’ll help with the pain.”
He flinched when she touched the seared flesh. Sherry smeared it on, tentative at first, but then using the whole palm leaf as a brush. He groaned once, and she let up with an apology. A sense of déjà vu hit her like a sledge when he winced, and for a moment she felt as though she were in a hospital working with a patient in the emergency ward—not here in the jungle bent over the assassin.
But then she was seeing things strangely these days. Everything was one big déjà vu. Casius just fell into the pot with the rest.
They left the river with Casius insisting they get to a town as soon as possible. He had to get her to safety and return for the priest, he told her. He took to the jungle as if he knew exactly where they were. A hundred questions burned through her mind then.
They had just escaped some terrorist who planned to do something with a bomb, if she understood the vision now. She was supposed to die for this? No, that was only Father Petrus’s talk.
An image of a nuclear weapon detonating filled her mind and suddenly she wanted to tell Casius everything. She had to—even if there was only the smallest chance of it all being true.
She swallowed at her dry mouth and held her tongue. What if he was part of this? But of course, he was part of this. So then, which side was he on?
They walked for a long time, in a dumb silence. When they did talk, it was her doing. She asked small questions, mostly, pulling short but polite answers out of him. Answers that seemed pointless.
“So you work for the CIA, right?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
“And you said that they were after you? Or are you after Abdullah?”
He glanced at her. “Abdullah?”
“Back at the compound. I could be wrong, but I think he’s a terrorist. He’s got a bomb, I think.”
Casius walked on, mumbling something about everyone having a bomb.
He led her to a small village while the sun still stood overhead. Despite the availability of phones in the town, he insisted that she not contact anyone yet. He would call and alert the right people to Abdullah’s operation, he said.
He made his call and then convinced a fisherman to lend them a small pontoon boat. They were soon rushing downriver, accompanied by a whining twenty-horse outboard and a backdrop of birds squawking in the treetops.
“Thank you for what you did back there,” Sherry said, breaking a long stretch of silence. “I guess I owe my life to you.”
Casius glanced at her and shrugged. He stared off to the jungle. “So what makes you think this Abdullah character has a bomb?”
She considered the question for a moment and decided she should tell him. “Do you believe in vision
s?” she asked.
He looked at her without responding.
“I mean supernatural visions. From God,” she said.
“We’ve been over this. Man is God. How can I believe in visions from man?”
“On the contrary, God is Creator of man. He also is known to give visions.” It sounded stupid—something she was just really believing for the first time herself. She could almost hear him mocking now. Sure, honey. God speaks to me too. All the time. He told me just this morning that I really need to floss more regularly.
She plunged ahead anyway. “That’s how I know Abdullah has a bomb.”
“You saw that in a vision?” He spoke in a voice that might as well have said, Yeah right, lady.
“How else?” she said.
He shrugged. “You saw something at their compound and pieced it together.”
“Maybe brilliance isn’t something that comes with seven years of higher education. But then neither is stupidity. If I say I had a vision, I had a vision.”
He blinked and turned his head downriver.
“I had a vision about a man planting something in the sand that killed thousands of people. That’s the reason I’m here in this jungle instead of back in Denver. The only reason.” She swallowed and pressed on, hot in the neck now. “Did you know that building is built on an old mission site? Missionaries used to live there.”
She waited for a response. She didn’t get one.
“If there is a bomb . . . I mean like a nuclear bomb, it would make sense that he’s planning on using it against the United States, right? You think that’s possible?”
Casius turned and studied her for a long moment. “No,” he said. “The facility is a cocaine processing plant. He’s a drug runner. I think nuclear weapons are a bit beyond his scope.”
“You may be a pretty resourceful killer, but you’re not listening to me, are you? I saw this man in my dreams and now I’ve met him personally. That means nothing to you?”
“You can’t actually expect me to believe you were drawn to the jungle to save mankind from some diabolical plot to detonate a nuclear weapon on U.S. soil.” He looked back at her and forced a smile. “You don’t find that just a bit fantastic?”
“Yes,” Sherry said. “I do. But it doesn’t change the fact that every time I close these eyes this Arab keeps popping back onto the stage and planting his bomb.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. As it turns out, I’m going back into that jungle to kill that Arab of yours. Maybe that will stop him from popping into your mind.”
“That’s insane. You’ll never make it.”
“Isn’t that what you want? To stop him?”
How could he go back in there knowing they would be waiting for him? Could God use an assassin? No, she didn’t think so. Then she knew what she had to do and she said it without thinking.
“You have to get Father Petrus out. I have to go with you.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Father Petrus—”
“I’ll get the priest. But you’re not coming.”
“It’s me, not you who—” Sherry pulled up short, realizing how stupid it was all sounding.
“Who has been guided by visions?” he finished for her. “Trust me, I’m guided by my own reasons. They would make your head spin.”
“Killing never solved anything,” she said. “My parents were killed by men like you.”
The revelation took the wind out of him. It was fifteen minutes of silence before they spoke again.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
It was the way that he said, “I’m sorry,” that made her think a good man might be hiding under that brutal skin. A lump came to her throat and she wasn’t sure why.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CIA DIRECTOR Torrey Friberg stood in the east wing of the White House, staring out the window at the black D.C. sky. It was a dark day and he knew, without a question, that it would only get darker. Twenty-two years in the service of this country, and now it all threatened to blow up in his face. All on the account of one agent.
He turned away from the window and glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would brief the president. It was insane. Less than a week ago it had been business as usual. Now, because of one man, his career teetered on the edge of disaster.
He glanced over at Mark Ingersol, sitting with crossed legs. The man had pretty much figured things out, he assumed. With David Lunow’s help he could hardly not. But his new appointment to Special Operations would ensure that he keep this one to himself—he had too much to lose.
The door suddenly banged open and the national security advisor, Robert Masters, walked into the room with Myles Bancroft, director of Homeland Security. Bancroft held the door for the president, who walked in ahead of two aides.
Friberg stepped past Ingersol and extended his hand to the president, who took it cordially but without greeting. His gray eyes didn’t sparkle as they did for the cameras. They peered past a sharp nose—all business today. He swept a hand through his graying hair.
The president seated himself at the head of the oval table and they followed suit. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s skip the formalities. Tell me what’s going on.”
Friberg cleared his throat. “Well, sir, it appears that we have another threat on our hands. This one’s a little different. Two hours ago—”
“I know about the threat we received,” the president interrupted. “And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it held some water. The question is how much water.”
Friberg hesitated and glanced at Bancroft. The president caught the glance. “What can you tell me about this, Myles?”
Bancroft sat forward in his seat and placed his arms on the table. “The message we received two hours ago was from a group claiming to be the Brotherhood, which, as I’m sure you know, is a terrorist organization. They originate out of Iran, but they’ve been largely inactive over the past few years—since our crackdown on Afghanistan. They’re a splinter group outside Al qaeda gone underground. They’re reportedly giving us seventy-two hours to deliver a recently defected agent to the Hotel Melia Caribe in Carabelleda, Venezuela. If within seventy-two hours the agent isn’t delivered, then the group threatens to detonate a nuclear device that it claims to have hidden in the country.”
The president waited for more, but none came. “Is this a real threat?”
Friberg answered, “We have no evidence whatsoever of any nuclear activity in the region. We’ve handled dozens of threats, which, to use your words, hold more water than this one. The chances that the Brotherhood has anything resembling a bomb is highly unlikely. And if they did, a threat like this would make no sense.”
The president turned to Bancroft. “Myles?”
“Frankly, I agree. My guess is that they don’t have it, but I’m basing that on nothing more than my gut. Nonproliferation has had nuclear components under the highest scrutiny since the Gulf War. Despite all the experts who insist suitcase bombs are available on any black market street corner, assembling all the components to actually build a bomb is, as you know, nearly impossible. I can’t see it, especially not in South America.”
“But it still involves a weapon of mass destruction,” the president said. “We treat them all the same. What were the chances of Iraq getting the bomb? Tell me about the man who issued the threat. This Abdullah Amir.”
Friberg answered, “We have no idea how Abdullah Amir came to be in South America, or whether in fact he is in South America.”
The president just looked at him.
“It’s more likely that the threat came from one of the drug cartels in the region.” Friberg made a decision then, hoping desperately that Ingersol would follow his lead. Sweat wet his brow and he took a deliberate breath.
“We recently sent an agent operating under the name Casius into the jungle to take out a powerful drug cartel in the region. A black operation. Our inf
ormation is a bit sketchy, but we believe that the agent attempted an assassination and failed. We believe the cartel is responding with this threat. But it’s important to remember what Bancroft said, sir. It’s highly improbable that the cartel has anything resembling a bomb at their disposal.”
“But it is possible.”
Friberg nodded. “Anything is possible.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you initiated black operations against a drug cartel and your guy, this Casius, missed his target. So now the cartel is threatening to blow up the country?”
Friberg glanced at Ingersol and caught the glint in his eye. “Isn’t that pretty much your assessment, Mark?” His nerves ran taut. Ingersol’s next few words would cast his position. Not to mention Friberg’s future.
Ingersol nodded. “Basically, yes.”
“And this Brotherhood threat is just to throw us off ? We’re not dealing with Islamic militants at all but some drug runners?”
“That’s our assessment,” Ingersol answered.
The president looked at his security advisor, Masters. “Make sense to you, Robert?”
“Could be.” He looked at Friberg. “DEA involved in this?”
“No.”
“If this agent of yours failed in his assassination attempt, why is the cartel so uptight? Seems like an unusual reaction, doesn’t it?”
Friberg had to get them off this analysis until he and Ingersol had time to talk. “Based on our information, which I should reiterate is still sketchy, Casius took out some innocents in his attempt. He has a history of high collateral damage.”
Friberg threw the lies out, knowing he had now committed himself to a far more involved cover-up than he’d imagined. His mind was already isolating the potential leaks. David Lunow topped the list of potential snitches. He would have to be silenced.
And as for the Rangers, they were puppets without political agendas— even if they stumbled into something down there, they wouldn’t talk. Mark Ingersol had just committed himself to going along for the ride. It could be done. It had to be done—as soon as this bomb foolishness passed.