“Hassan Haddad,” Jack said.
“And you’re sure there’s one of these underground bunkers in Lincoln Park?” Karras asked.
“Absolutely,” Doc told him. “And a section of it that leads straight to the Legion of Honor.”
“How do you know all this?” Max asked.
Doc grinned. “Because, my dear, I’ve seen it firsthand. I used to work in those tunnels.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“It was my first deployment, straight out of boot camp, about a year before they closed the whole operation down. That’s why I stayed here—fell in love with the city. I must’ve traveled the length of those bunkers a thousand times. And I can tell you, they aren’t just limited to Lincoln Park and the Legion of Honor.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“They run all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s like an express highway system down there, but without the traffic.”
“Okay, so we know of a possible way into the building,” Jack said.
“Not possible,” Doc told him. “Probable. The Legion of Honor was built back in nineteen twenty-four.” He gestured to Karass and pointed to the blueprint on-screen. “Show me the subbasement on that thing.”
Karass did as he was told and the blueprint came up on the screen. Doc pointed to it. “Back in my day, there was a way into the tunnels by an elevator located in this subbasement right about here. They sealed that off after the tunnels were closed but there was a special hatch built close by, in case the elevator wasn’t working.” He shifted his finger to point out the location of the hatch. “It’s a few years since I’ve been down in that basement, but the last time I saw that hatch it was secured by a simple chain and padlock.”
“Wouldn’t the Secret Service know about this?” Tony asked.
“No doubt they would and they’d have a man guarding it,” Doc said. “But if these savages have a friend on the inside, who’s to say he couldn’t neutralize the agent and open the hatch?”
“Jesus,” Max said. “Can’t we just call in a bomb scare?”
“With what proof?” Jack said. “They get a hundred of those a day, and they undoubtedly do routine sweeps.”
“So what’s the solution?” Karras asked.
Tony said, “A two-pronged attack. Doc has a friend he thinks can give him a pretty good idea where the exterior entry point to the bunkers is. I say we wait for cover of darkness then go and see what we find.”
“And what’s the second prong?” Jack asked.
“You and me,” Tony said, then reached into his pocket and took out the VIP invitation to the gala that Danny Pescatori had snagged for him. “Better break out your tuxedo, brother. We’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the President tonight.”
36
Hassan Haddad sat at a corner table in the Bilal café, savoring some of the best meat and potato curry he’d had in months, when the man he was waiting for finally arrived.
It was well past the hour of their appointment, and Haddad had considered a number of times simply getting up and walking away. But as he waited, quietly sipping hot tea, the spicy smell of the curry kept wafting in from the kitchen and he knew he couldn’t leave this place until he’d at least sampled it.
He wasn’t disappointed.
This meeting had not been Haddad’s idea. He had been going about his business these last two days, making preparations as needed, procuring Chilikov’s device from the shipping yards, and selecting seven men out of a field of twenty who he thought would best serve Allah.
Many of Allah’s soldiers showed great confidence when a mission was proposed, but the moment it became a reality some found their confidence start to wane, and Haddad had to know who he could and could not rely on to carry out his orders. The last thing he needed was another Abdal al-Fida on his hands.
Haddad had interviewed each of the twenty, looking for any signs of regret or weakness or fear, and had relied on his instincts to choose the men he needed. All of his preparations had been made and his men were now in position, and everything was going as planned—until he received an unexpected phone call that morning on his pay-as-you-go cell phone.
Only one person knew its number.
“Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” the familiar old voice said.
Imam Zuabi.
Haddad expressed surprise at the sound of his voice. Had something gone wrong? Was this a call to tell him to abort? Such a thought sickened Haddad after all he had gone through to make this moment a reality.
But his imam gave him assurances that all was well.
“I am merely calling to wish you the blessings of the Prophet, my friend. Allah is smiling on you every moment of every day. He knows that what you do to avenge us is not without sacrifice, and He thanks you for your efforts. As do I.”
“There is no need to thank me,” Haddad said. “I am His servant. I do as He asks without question.”
“Excellent, my friend. Excellent. Because there is someone I would like you to meet. Someone who has been helping us carry out Allah’s plan.”
Haddad frowned. “I do not understand. I have all the men I need. They are ready and committed to the cause.”
“Yet you have asked many times about our benefactors, no? The people who have helped us these last years, procuring for us the things we need. Helping us smooth the way.”
“Yes, of course,” Haddad said. “I’ve been curious, but—”
“Today that curiosity will be sated,” Zuabi informed him.
Haddad didn’t understand. “What are you asking of me, Faakhir?”
“That you go to the Bilal restaurant at one P.M. today and order tea. A man will be there shortly and present himself to you. He is your final key to gaining entry to the place you seek. It is important that you meet him so that you may form a bond of trust.”
Haddad knew it would be unwise to refuse this request, so he agreed—as Zuabi knew he would.
Haddad sat in the restaurant just long enough to get hungry as he waited for this man to arrive—a man he had known nothing about until the imam’s phone call. He was deeply disturbed by this turn of events.
He did not like surprises.
Twenty minutes into the hour, the bell over the door jangled and a tall, muscular-looking man with a crew cut and sunglasses entered the restaurant and walked without hesitation to Haddad’s table.
He gestured to the chair opposite Haddad. “May I?”
“By all means,” Haddad told him, recognizing a British accent, not unlike his own. The man looked very dangerous and Haddad did not know what to make of him. Was he not Muslim? And if not, how could he possibly have a role in what they were about to do?
But even more disturbing was the thought that Imam Zuabi would associate with someone like this. If this man worked for one of their benefactors, what did these benefactors want for the money they’d given to Zuabi? Whose agenda was Haddad being asked to carry out? That of Allah or some unseen entity?
The man pulled out a chair, sat, and removed his sunglasses. The eyes behind them were like ice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Haddad. I’ve heard many great things about you.”
“I wish I could say the same of you,” Haddad answered. “Shall I order you tea, Mr…?”
“Swain,” the man said. “Adam Swain.” He showed Haddad a set of credentials. “I’m with MI6.”
Haddad’s eyes widened but the man held up a hand to reassure him. “Take it easy, mate. We’re on the same side.”
It wasn’t for that reason Haddad was aghast. He knew that Imam Zuabi had been working with certain people within the British government to help—which is why Haddad had traveled here on a diplomatic visa—but he had no idea how deeply Zuabi’s network went.
Did the Hand of Allah truly have MI6 in their control? Or was it the other way around?
“I assume you have everything in order,” Swain said. “Your men will all be in place at the proper time?”
“Yes,” Haddad said, st
ill trying to recover. “Yes, of course.”
“All right,” Swain told him. “The big man’s speech is scheduled to begin at twenty-one hundred hours and they’re usually pretty punctual about these things. Someone on the inside will slip away well before then, and the door to the kingdom will be open and waiting for you.”
Haddad considered this and nodded.
“I assume you know your way around those tunnels?” Swain asked.
“I have been through them personally,” Haddad said. “There will be no mistakes.”
“Good. That’s what we like to hear.”
We? Haddad thought. Was he speaking of Zuabi or someone else entirely?
Haddad was becoming uneasy.
A waitress came over, asking Swain if he wanted something to eat, but he waved her away. Rather rudely, Haddad thought, as if she were somehow beneath him.
Not a promising sign, and not a good way to stay unnoticed.
“There’s just one last thing,” he said to Haddad. “A slight change in plans.”
Haddad’s discomfort grew. “Oh?”
“We’re going to need your full commitment on this mission.”
“Of course,” Haddad said. “As always.”
Swain shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. Your full commitment.”
It took Haddad a moment to realize what he was saying. The request was surprising to him, considering what a valuable soldier he had been over the years, but if this was Allah’s will, then he would give himself without question.
He did, however, have to wonder.
Why now?
Was it because of what happened in Sofia? Or what he’d done to Abdal al-Fida in London? Had the imam deduced that the fool’s death wasn’t a suicide and felt he had to punish Haddad for going against orders?
Haddad did not think Zuabi could be so small-minded, but the imam had been showing signs of weakness lately. His willingness to consort with infidel outsiders like Swain was ample proof of this.
But Haddad knew that whatever happened truly was Allah’s will. And if he was to die tonight to help bring about the fall of the infidel, then so be it. He would sacrifice himself a thousand times if he could.
He looked at Swain. “I give whatever Allah requires of me.”
“Good,” Swain said, then checked his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have a plane to catch. But I’ve brought a gift for you.”
One of Haddad’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of gift?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Getting the message, Haddad pushed his plate aside then dropped some bills on the table and stood.
“Show me,” he said.
Swain grinned then got to his feet and gestured for Haddad to follow. A moment later they were outside and walking down the street. They turned together into a narrow alley where a van was parked.
Haddad wondered if he had been too quick to accept this man as an ally, yet he sensed no threat in Swain’s demeanor. He did not think this man was capable of subtlety. If he meant you harm, it would be telegraphed.
Moving around to the back of the van, Swain took out a key and unlocked the doors. He gestured for Haddad to open it.
“Another new martyr for the cause,” he said. “We want her with you when you pull the trigger.”
Haddad studied him quizzically then reached forward and pulled the van doors open.
Inside was a woman, bound and gagged, her large eyes staring up at them—a woman Haddad recognized immediately.
It was al-Fida’s girlfriend.
Sara Ghadah.
37
Legion of Honor, San Francisco
“Invitation, please?”
The woman at the reception dais was young, beautiful, and not the least bit impressed by two old guys in their finest evening attire.
Jack hated tuxedos with a passion, especially the way this one tugged at his still tender shoulder—and Tony didn’t seem all that enamored with them either as he dug around in his inner jacket pocket and produced the oversized invitation Danny Pescatori had scored for him. It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, which started just outside the Roman triumphal arch entrance to the Legion of Honor and ran all the way down the long stone ramp toward the shimmering blue pool of the circular fountain that fronted the palace. It was dark out, and the ramp was lit on either side by small glowing globes placed low to the ground.
Whenever Jack visited the palace he felt as if he’d stepped into another part of history, back to a grander time, when our nation was still young and buildings like this were symbols of our greatness. A massive, magnificent neoclassical structure, it had been an Armistice Day gift from Alma de Bretteville Spreckels, who wanted to honor California’s fallen soldiers of World War I with a world-class museum. If it weren’t for the moon-dappled bay beyond, with views of the Marin headlands and the brightly lit Golden Gate Bridge, you might mistake it for one of the many ancient buildings of Rome or Athens.
The woman took the invitation from Tony. “Your names?”
“Anthony Antiniori and Jack Hatfield,” he said.
She passed the information along to an assistant who carefully ran a ruler down a reservations list and checked them off.
Now she was all smiles. “Welcome to the Legion of Honor, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”
Tony doffed an imaginary cap, then the two men moved into yet another line, queuing up for the body scanners just inside the entrance.
Jack knew that the Secret Service would have done a background check when Tony RSVPed, but it would have been a cursory one. Jack was banned from the U.K. but that wouldn’t show up on a level-one scan, designed to make sure that domestic felons and watch-list terrorists weren’t trying to get in. Given the many events a President attended, it was the quickest filter available to his security team. The thinking was that no one would have an invitation that the White House did not want here.
A large banner spanning the archway read CELEBRATE THE ART OF ISLAM!, which Jack still thought a bit ironic, considering the circumstances. He didn’t think tonight’s celebration would be exactly what the museum curator had in mind. Another irony, thought Jack, was the French motto sculpted above the stone entrance, “Honneur et Patrie.” “‘Honor and Nation,’” sneered Jack, “yeah, right.”
The security line, like the line to the dais, was full of San Francisco dignitaries, all dressed as if they were going to the Oscars. The capacity of the museum was fifteen hundred people, and there had to be close to that many tuxedos and black evening gowns in evidence, movers and shakers from all over California, from movie stars to politicians. This was one of the biggest tickets of the year. Of course, the room was also packed with the poseurs, those Pacific Heights inheritance cases whose inheritances had long been diminished or had disappeared entirely. Like most provincials they strutted and displayed their fake jewels most dramatically.
The mayor and his wife stood not three feet away, and Jack was pleased to see that even he hadn’t been spared the security check. Just beyond the line, Jack saw the new governor talking with his predecessor, both of them laughing over some unheard joke.
The crowd was too dense to know for sure, but Jack doubted that Senator Harold Wickham or Lawrence Soren or Swain or any of the other men he’d met on that island were present. He’d have caught a glimpse of one of them by now. He imagined they were all far away by now, in transit or already relaxing in their homes, waiting to read about the success of their treachery in tomorrow’s newspapers. That was further indication that whatever they were planning was still a go. Otherwise, those men would be here.
Cowards, every single one of them. Leaving the dirty work to the fanatics they’d snookered into believing it was the will of Allah.
As Tony and Jack waited their turn, a uniformed officer moved along the security line with a bomb-sniffing German shepherd on a leash.
Jack checked his watch, a spare Rolex
he always kept in the drawer by his bed. It would never replace his father’s Hamilton, but it was accurate and that was good enough for now.
The time was nearing half past eight.
The President wasn’t due to make his remarks until nine P.M., and no sign of his motorcade had been in evidence. As usual, he’d make a last-minute entrance, give his speech, then let the Secret Service whisk him back to Air Force One for the flight back to D.C.
Assuming he was still alive.
As they moved to the front of the security line, Jack and Tony took their keys from their pockets and deposited them into a tray provided by a uniformed guard. Tony went through the scanner first and got through clean. But as Jack stepped through the beeper went wild and his heart kicked up a notch. The security guard stopped him, gesturing to the Rolex, and Jack quickly removed it, laying it in the tray. He went through the scanner again and managed not to set off any more alarms. He was glad, then, he was wearing a vest and jacket. His shirt was miserably damp with perspiration.
He moved with Tony to retrieve their belongings.
Hurdle one taken care of.
Just past the security station was the museum’s Court of Honor, a large, rectangular courtyard surrounded on all sides by lighted Ionic marble columns. A gigantic bronze cast of Rodin’s masterpiece The Thinker sat on a high pedestal near the front of the courtyard, and just beyond this, rising up from the floor, was a blue glass pyramidal skylight.
Placed in strategic viewing positions all about the courtyard were roped-off glass display cases, each featuring a work of Islamic art—a thirteenth-century Syrian glass beaker with an ornate design running through it, a piece of carved Egyptian ivory depicting men at war, a Kashan wall tile featuring a fire-breathing dragon, a Mughal dagger with a hilt made of gold, rubies, and emeralds.…
People were everywhere, browsing the displays, laughing, talking, drinking white wine and champagne and sampling hors d’oeuvres offered on trays by waiters in crisp white jackets. A string quartet of lovely young women played a gentle classical tune—Beethoven, String Quartet No. 1 in F major, Opus 18. He and Tony moved together, working their way from display to display.
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