The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3)

by James D. Best

  “The Templars don’t recognize a single country as their homeland. We’re citizens of the world.”

  “How sad,” Baldwin said. “A man without a country is adrift.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Methow said. “I’m firmly moored with nearly a thousand years of history behind me.”

  “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about us. If there are many like you, we’re doomed.”

  “How so?”

  “At the Constitutional Convention, Gouverneur Morris said he didn’t trust so-called citizens of the world because if they could shake off attachments to their own country, they could never love another.” She gave him a hard look. “I agree.”

  “You’re both wrong. I love the Templars. One day, no doubt, I will give my life for them. We’re the protectors of free, God-fearing people. Always have been, always will be.”

  “Then join with us to protect our leaders,” Evarts said.

  “I’ve seldom heard a weaker argument. Our leaders have willfully ignored the threat … which is what put us in this danger.”

  “Fine,” Evarts said. “Forget who you’re protecting. You wanted to use me as bait to draw out the Ikhwan. Well, they’re here. I can lead you right to them. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Methow said bluntly. “Last time I saw you, you were pretty pissed off about that.”

  “My personal feelings are less important than stopping this massacre,” Evarts said.

  Methow returned to his desk. His body language confirmed that he had acquiesced. After taking his seat, he asked, “What do you want from me?”

  “Information,” Evarts said. “First, can you confirm an imminent attack?”

  “Yes … and you have the day correct. Something big is going to happen on Friday. In Washington, of course.”

  Evarts nodded, then asked. “Do you have any information about the murder of Congressman Johnson and his driver?”

  “No … except we suspect it was a diversion.”

  “To what purpose?” Baldwin asked.

  “Duh, to divert attention from something else.” Methow sounded sarcastic. In a more even voice, he added, “Not sure what.”

  “It wasn’t a diversion for Friday’s attack,” Wilson said. “That’s two days away. Any ideas why they would need a diversion now?”

  Methow looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Who are you?”

  “Excuse me,” Evarts said. “May I introduce Sergeant First Class Diane Wilson. She’s—”

  “Holy crap, you’re General O’Brian’s daughter-in-law.” He turned to Evarts. “Is she here to spy?”

  “Seriously?” Evarts felt exasperated. This verbal fencing was deflecting the conversation away from where he wanted it to go. “We got your name from O’Brian. Army intelligence knows all about you.” He hooked his thumb in Wilson’s direction. “She’s part of our team, and she stays.”

  “Bullshit. She’s not only the daughter of someone committed to hunting us down, but she’s been detailed to Army Intelligence. This meeting is over.”

  “Drop it Methow. You knew I was friends with the general, but that didn’t stop you from using me. This meeting’s not over. If you keep whining, our good manners are at an end. Understand?” Evarts waited a beat before adding, “And quit pretending that the Templars aren’t all over this. We know a lot … but sharing starts on your side.”

  “Why mine. How do I know you even know anything?”

  “For starters, we know who you are.” Methow’s face remained impassive, so Evarts added, “And we know what’s going to happen on Friday.”

  That got the reaction Evarts was looking for. Methow was intrigued.

  “Tell me what you learned,” Methow said.

  “I said the sharing starts on your side.”

  Methow thought for a long moment, then Evarts could see from his expression that he had decided to talk.

  “The biggest attack in Ikhwan history will come Friday and it will be aimed at elected officials in the U.S. government. They hope to cause enough chaos that the government ceases to function. It’ll likely be bombs. We presume there will be lots of them by the number of firing circuits shipped to a bomb making operation in Al Jubail. Their bombmakers worked around the clock. Three shifts. Our source inside the Ikhwan believes that they’re going after VIPs, not iconic structures like the World Trade Center. Specific people. Important people. This is shock and awe, but we’re on the receiving end this time. We don’t know how the bombings will happen. Worse, we can’t find the operatives. To tell the truth, we’re baffled. And pretty scared.”

  “What resources have you applied to this?”

  “We’ve put everything in D.C. on it. Everything. No one has turned up a smidgeon of actionable intel. In truth, we’re so desperate, we’re hoping Army Intelligence learns something so our asset can pass it on to us.”

  “Go to hell!” Evarts exclaimed. “You’ve had critical data about a forthcoming attack on this nation and you kept it to yourself while trying to steal classified information from the government. That’s inexcusable.”

  Methow sat straighter. “We know that the intelligence community knows more than we do. So—”

  “They don’t know that the bombs were assembled in Al Jubail, Saudi Arabia.”

  “What difference does it make where the bombs were manufactured? We need to find out where they are now!”

  Evarts realized that despite centuries of experience; the Templars were amateurs. If American intelligence had known a month ago about the fabrication of terrorist bombs, they’d be in much better shape today.

  Wilson was the one to react verbally. She scoffed, “If Army Intelligence had gotten this lead, we could have stopped this thing dead in its tracks.”

  “Bullshit,” Methow said. “If we couldn’t stop it, neither could you.”

  Wilson was pissed “What the hell makes you think you’re better than we are?”

  “I’ll tell you why, because we’re not constrained by laws … or good manners.” He whipped around on Evarts. “Now what have you got.”

  “Not so fast. You just gave us a whole bunch of nothing.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “It was. Give us something real … and current. Not speculation or something we already know, something from your source inside the Ikhwan. Prove you’re willing to share.”

  After a long pause, Methow said, “Okay. Our source says there are three bomb teams. Each completely compartmentalized. You break one, the other two can complete the mission. There’s a fourth team running a separate operation. They’re do or die, no backup. A two-person crew, and they’re chemists.”

  “Chemists?” Wilson said. “What kind of chemists?”

  “We suspect toxicologists.”

  “Target?” Evarts asked harshly.

  “Possibly the president.”

  Chapter 50

  “Do you know their plan?” Evarts asked.

  “No, but the president leaves Washington on Friday after a congressional luncheon,” Methow said. “He’s meeting the British prime minister in Bermuda to negotiate the next phase of a trade agreement. That flight schedule fits with a shock and awe scenario.”

  “He’ll never arrive alive,” Wilson said almost to herself. “Or that’s their intent.”

  “Our assessment as well,” Methow said. “Targeted bombs in the capital and the president poisoned. The events occur together to really bring the nation to its knees.”

  “Getting to the president’s food is nearly impossible,” Wilson said. “How do they propose to do this?”

  “Candy, snacks, water, booze, postage stamps,” Methow mused. “We don’t know.”

  Wilson harrumphed. “The president doesn’t lick postage stamps.”

  “He’s flying,” Baldwin interjected. “Could they poison the pilots?”

  “Their food is safeguarded as well,” Wilson said. “Besides, that plane can fly itself.”

  “It can?” Baldwin asked. �
��Wow, can it land itself?”

  “Classified,” Wilson said dismissively. “If they want to take out the president in route, they’ll need to poison him, not the pilots.”

  “Your source has no idea?” Evarts asked Methow.

  “None. The Ikhwan is as compartmentalized and secretive as we are. Probably more so.”

  “So, your source is not one of the two ẓahīr,” Baldwin said.

  “You assume the ẓahīr are informed about everything,” Methow said. “We’re not as sure. As far as we can tell, caliph and the back-up caliph are the only ones who know everything. We believe each ẓahīr participates in operational plans, but they don’t engage together on the same plan. Each has separate assignments.”

  Evarts turned to Wilson. “Diane, how likely is it that someone could succeed in poisoning the president, especially once the secret service has been forewarned?”

  “Normally, hard as hell. Especially after two bombing incidents this week. If we send along this alert, he’s got to be impenetrable.”

  Evarts rubbed his chin. “But they must have—”

  “Wait a minute,” Baldwin interjected. “Diane said if the crew were killed, the president would remain safe. What if they kill everyone, including the president?”

  “Oh crap,” Methow said. “That’s it. This is supposed to be earth-shattering news. What if Air Force One landed in Bermuda and it was a ghost ship. No one alive. Think of the drama. People waiting and waiting for the hatch to open. That visual would rock the world.”

  “The ventilation system?” Baldwin asked.

  “That’s called the cabin pressurization system,” Wilson said. “You’d have a better chance of breaking into Fort Knox.”

  “She’s right. It would need to be an independent nebulizer,” Methow said. “But how would they get it on board?”

  “Not it, them,” Wilson said. “The various cabins can be secured against this type of attack. The main cabins used for the press and staff can go negative pressure lickety-split. No liquid or gas can escape. If you want a ghost ship, you will need to plant nebulizers around the aircraft including the presidential suite and flight deck, both of which are restricted.”

  “Okay, Diane,” Evarts said, “how would you get around all that?”

  “You can’t,” Wilson said. “Everyone’s movements are restricted. You can’t wander the airplane.”

  “What if I’m a VIP, can I give gifts to the other passengers and the president?”

  “Not during flight,” Wilson said. “If that’s their plan, it won’t work.”

  Evarts stood and stretched before beginning to pace. “Look, we’re thinking a poison gas, but what if it’s biological. Hell, to do this job, you could hide enough virion in a fountain pen. Mist it out and let the cabin pressure system do the work. If they—”

  Methow asked, “Are there separate pressurization systems for each compartment?”

  “The presidential section and upper deck are separate.” Wilson answered. “But …”

  “But what?” Evarts asked anxiously.

  “If they engineered a fast acting, lethal biological weapon, then projectile vomit could spread the virus across the pressurization safeguards.”

  Evarts asked, “Aren’t there protocols in place to put the president in hazmat gear when multiple people get really sick?”

  “Yeah,” Wilson said almost to herself, “If there’s time. If extremely potent, everyone could get sick simultaneously.”

  “Do they have anything that fast? That deadly?” Baldwin asked.

  Wilson appeared resigned when she answered.

  “Yes. Yes, they do.”

  Chapter 51

  Evarts placed the call to General O’Brian. He didn’t answer immediately, so Evarts listened to boring music until he heard a gruff “Yeah, Greg, what do you have? Quick.”

  “Methow says that right now in D.C. are three compartmentalized bomb teams plus a two-man team of chemists. The chemists are targeting the president. Our presumption is a biological attack on Air Force One flight on Friday.”

  “Credible?”

  “The team and target, yes, the presumption is guesswork.”

  O’Brian was quiet for a long moment. Evarts remained silent as well.

  “If the team and target are credible, the presumption follows logically,” O’Brian said. “Thank you. Call me at seven PM for a full debrief. Gotta go.”

  The call ended.

  “What did he say,” Methow asked.

  “That our presumption flowed logically, then he ended the call.”

  “Protocol requires him to alert the Secret Service immediately,” Wilson said. “They’ll take whatever measures are necessary.”

  “Yeah, we’ll leave the operational side to him.” Evarts turned to Methow. “What do the Ikhwan hope to accomplish with this series of attacks?”

  “The collapse of their strongest enemy. I explained this before, the Ikhwan have only one goal, a global caliphate. A return to when Islam ruled the civilized world.”

  “You believe they’ll kill everyone on the planet who doesn’t convert?” Baldwin said. “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Not their goal,” Methow said. “Just like in the Middle Ages, they’ll subjugate false religions. They call it dhimma. Non-Muslims are allowed to live in an Islamic state with a few legal protections. All revocable at will. Also, notice that I said strongest enemy, not worst. Worst enemy is reserved for Israel, but they see us as the muscle behind the Zionists. If they bring us to our knees, they believe the world will follow.”

  “So, kill our political leaders and we roll over and surrender,” Wilson said. “That’s their plan?”

  Methow shrugged. “They don’t really understand us … or our political system. To them everything is family and tribe. They live in a feudalistic system where everything is hierarchical and static. Our system is resilient in ways they can’t imagine, but that’s beside the point. No matter how delusional they may be, they remain lethal.”

  “Okay,” Evarts said, “we decided to leave the president for O’Brian to handle, so let’s get back to the three bomb teams,” Evart said. “What do—”

  “No,” Methow said adamantly. “Before I tell you anything further, you’re going to tell me something I don’t know.”

  Evarts spent a moment deciding if the time was right. The information on the president was invaluable, so he said, “We suspect the bomb teams fabricated bogus review copies of The Vault, a book due to be published next month. The Pentagon disagrees. They contacted the publisher and they confirmed that there will be legitimate review copies distributed this week. We still suspect that they’re fragmentary bombs. If they are, then by Friday evening, members and staff will have dispersed, so explosions will occur in cars, at the airport, in planes, in offices, hotels, and probably every place in between. It’s a theory, with little substantiation. In fact, that’s why we’re here … to see if we can get some confirmation. The Pentagon has a different theory. They think the attack will be directed at Reagan National Airport. They suspect suicide bombers will set off explosions when they spot congress people scurrying out of town before the long recess. We both assume another attack on Friday evening, but otherwise we’re on different tracks.” Evarts paused. “Which scenario seems most plausible to you?”

  “What makes you think those are the only two possibilities?” Methow asked.

  “If they want to break our government, it makes sense to go after Congress as well as the president,” Evarts said. “I can think of only three options. One, set off a bomb in the capitol while both houses are in session. Two, kill them outside the capitol while they’re bunched together somewhere like the airport. Or three, have them carry the means of their death wherever they might go. We believe security at the capitol rules out the first option.”

  “Agreed,” Methow said. “So, you want me to provide a clue, something that would tilt you in the direction of option two or option three.”

 
“Correct.”

  “Before I do that, tell me what else you’ve learned.”

  O’Brian seemed sure that Major Callaghan had informed the Templars about their findings in Jakarta, so this could be a test to see if he were forthcoming. He guessed that it was … and a fishing expedition.

  “We believe we know the true identity of the caliph and where he resides in Jakarta,” Evarts said.

  “Do you know his exact whereabouts?”

  “Yes, but I won’t tell you until we run these scenarios to ground?” Evarts said.

  Methow sighed. “More teasing? Do you really know anything?

  “We do.”

  “I might be able to help isolate the correct scenario. On the other hand, I might strike out,” Methow said. “If I give it the ol’ college try, I want your word you’ll tell me everything you have on Jakarta.”

  “You have my word,” Evarts said.

  “Okay, first, how are the books locked? Why can’t someone peek early?”

  Wilson answered. “They’re encased in hard-plastic that looks like a vault. The recipients are told that if they jimmy the case, an acid will be released to destroy the book, à la The Da Vinci Code.”

  “More likely, the bomb will go off,” Methow said in a low thoughtful voice.

  “We think so as well,” Wilson answered.

  Methow picked up the phone and it soon became clear he had called the CEO of the publishing house. From the breezy banter, they obviously knew each other. In fact, it became clear that Methow was outside council for the publisher. Methow confirmed that their general counsel had vetted the book and every aspect of the launch. Methow requested a copy and after some haggling, he was promised a copy, but not before Friday evening. Then Methow exuberantly praised the idea of a facsimile vault casing. Evidently, the CEO was proud of the idea and talked about it for quite a while.

  When Methow hung up, he smiled. “I didn’t even need to ask for the name of the public relations firm. He blurted it right out. And he also told me who manufactured the case.”