Ghadab had met the Caliph only once, and then for only a few moments. He didn’t expect to see him today, or anytime in the near future. The Caliph was constantly moving and, in any event, had better things to do than meet with a mere soldier, even one who had recently scored a great victory.
But it was the Caliph who greeted Ghadab when they arrived in the great chamber of the council building, a three-hundred-year-old mosque as yet untouched by the infidels’ bombs. Under the massive central dome of the vast prayer room, the Caliph looked smaller than Ghadab remembered, thinner, though still as vigorous. His eyes danced as he spoke, darting back and forth before settling on Ghadab’s own. The stare had the firmness of a handshake, and it energized Ghadab beyond even the words the Caliph spoke.
“This is one of our truest generals,” declared the Caliph. Behind him, three dozen men milled back and forth, as if jockeying for position. Sunlight flooding through the ruby windows cast reddish sunbeams to highlight their faces. “He has struck the infidels’ barbaric birthplace. We expect great things. More great things.”
Ghadab bowed his head. Emotion overwhelmed him. He was honored beyond belief, empowered. If he could have died in that moment, he surely would have found bliss. There could not be a greater honor than to be praised by the Caliph, with all these worthies watching.
When he raised his head, only a moment or two later, the Caliph was already walking away, called by other business.
“al-Bhaddahi wishes to talk to you,” said the African, nudging him gently toward a set of arches on the left. They entered an ornate room whose walls were enhanced with jewels and thick bands of gold chest-high.
Of the Caliph’s deputies, arguably the most important was Abu Muslim al-Bhaddahi, a relative of Abu Muslim al-Turkemani and heir to his position as number-two man in the organization. al-Bhaddahi, kneeling alone in the room in prayer, rose as Ghadab entered.
“My brother!” declared the jihad leader, clasping Ghadab to his chest.
“I am honored” was all Ghadab could say.
al-Bhaddahi talked to him as if they were old friends, complimenting him on his great triumph and asking after several men he knew in Libya, only two of whom Ghadab even knew. Asked to describe his mission, he did his best to tamp down his pride, talking about how he had painstakingly built the team that had struck at Boston. He recounted the tolclass="underline" fifty-eight martyrs, against the demise of three thousand infidels.
That was his count. The Americans of course suppressed it, claiming much less.
“Of course they play it down,” said al-Bhaddahi. “The number is not important, in any event. When will you strike again?”
“I am ready to start preparing immediately,” said Ghadab.
“Good. We have found you a very suitable bunker. The African will address your other needs so the mission may be fulfilled.”
Ghadab thought “bunker” was a figure of speech, but in fact the place was a bunker, entered through a tunnel that slanted so sharply downward that Ghadab worried with each step that he would slip. Located on the northern outskirts of the city, the facility was part of an army base abandoned at least ten years before the war. The surrounding buildings were long gone; small piles of rubble remained, but most of the area had been bulldozed clean.
The bunker’s walls were bare when they arrived; furniture still needed to be brought in. But the place was more than large enough, bigger than what he had used in Libya by a factor of three or four. There were twelve rooms of various sizes, along with a galley and two bathrooms, one at either end of the long central hall. A musky odor mixed with the scent of bleach; the air circulated poorly. But the facility had nearly twelve feet of dirt and rock atop a reinforced concrete roof no less than four feet thick. Electricity was supplied by a generator near the entrance; a backup generator was located at the rear, buried in its own vault. Communications were handled by a telephone line that ran to the road, as well as a satellite and cell-phone link back near the highway, reached by a dedicated (and buried) line.
“I have a dozen men at your disposal,” the African told Ghadab. “They will help you organize the rooms and do anything you require.”
“I only want my people here,” said Ghadab.
“Understood. We have furniture and the gear you need on its way.”
“Then you can leave me,” said Ghadab. “Thank you.”
“You are going to stay in an empty bunker?”
“I need to think. There is no better place.”
“How will you get back to the city?”
“I will stay here until my men arrive.”
“As you wish,” said the African, nodding. “Your dedication is truly one of our greatest assets.”
“Everything comes from God,” said Ghadab lightly.
30
Chelsea pounded the treadmill, pushing herself with one eye on the heart meter.
One-ninety-five. Well above her target rate. But she had more in her. She leaned her head forward and threw more energy into her legs.
The workouts were the only breaks she took from work now. Tracking the bastard who’d planned the attack had become everything. She saw encryptions and coding and maps overlaid with Arabic even when she closed her eyes. Pounding her body in the gym was the only way to clear it.
“Hey!”
Chelsea jerked her head and saw Borya standing next to her. She pulled off one of her earphones, but kept running.
“Uh, Mr. Massina wanted to see you,” said the intern. “I guess it’s kind of important. Mr. Chiang sent me down.”
“OK.” Chelsea dropped into a trot, cooling down. “You’re here early.”
“No, it’s five. I’m, uh, on my way home.”
“Oh.”
“Was there something you wanted me to do?”
“I’ve been neglecting you,” admitted Chelsea. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s good. I got a lot of school work.”
“Next week, we’ll start on a new project. OK?”
“Deal.”
Twenty minutes later, hair still wet from the shower, Chelsea knocked on the clear glass door to Massina’s outer office. His assistant buzzed her in. Massina, seeing her, went to his own door and ushered her inside.
“How are you doing?” Massina asked as he slipped into his chair behind his desk.
“Fantastic,” Chelsea told him.
“You were in the gym?”
“Yes. It helps me think.”
“Something new?”
“I always worked out,” she said defensively. It was a lie, or at least an exaggeration, but his tone made her uncomfortable. Too… concerned.
“Beefy says you’re bringing a pistol to work.”
“I leave it with security at the front. I have a concealed permit.”
“You think you need the gun?”
“I do.”
Massina nodded.
“Is that it?” asked Chelsea.
“An old friend of yours was here today,” said Massina. “Yuri Johansen. I showed him the information your team developed.”
“It’s Chiang’s team. I just helped.”
“Right.”
“I want to continue working on it. We can find more out about Ghadab. I’ve found his family name,” she added. “Samir Abdubin. He has a sister in Saudi Arabia.”
“Is she connected to his network?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“The government is putting together a team to deal with Ghadab,” said Massina. His eyes held hers. “They’re going to use some of our gear. I need two people—”