“That Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in-country…and Vegas is his target.”
“Sir, I need you to look at this.”
Kranemeyer glanced up to see Daniel Lasker standing in the doorway of his office. “What is it, Danny?”
“A flash from the FBI’s Las Vegas field office just hit the op-center. They’ve lost a CI in the Abu Kareem manhunt, with his last transmission from a convenience store in the Vegas metro area. They believe his cover has been blown.”
The DCS took a deep breath. “So, we’ve got a homegrown terror cell in a major American city…potentially in possession of a WMD.”
“No.” Lasker hesitated for a moment, unusual for the talkative young comm chief. “They don’t believe it to be homegrown — they have new intel that seems to indicate that Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in-country and heading up the attack.”
“Where did they get that intel?” Kranemeyer demanded, cursing underneath his breath. If it were true…
Another long, unnatural pause. “According to the Vegas S-A-C…they’re getting it from us. More specifically, from an officer named Steven Todd.”
“So?” The name meant nothing to Kranemeyer, nothing that he could think of. “Is he one of ours?”
“Steven Todd is an official Agency legend…for Thomas Parker. And I can’t find any reason for him being in Vegas. He was supposed to be on vacation — a hunting trip. And the FBI was looking for him.”
“I know,” the DCS replied significantly, staring Lasker in the eye. “Run with it.”
“You mean…?” The comm chief’s voice trailed off. “Sir, under the terms of the CIA charter, we can’t operate on U.S. soil. It’s illegal.”
Kranemeyer pushed his chair back away from his desk and rose, leaning heavily on his bad leg. “Rules were made to be broken, Danny. And it’s on me. Not you. Not Parker. We’ll deal with those niceties later.”
He limped over to the percolator, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Confirm Parker’s intel to the Bureau and kick it upstairs. Make sure the President receives the latest.”
It hurt to breathe, a stabbing pain in his side. Harry winced, holding the hot, wet cloth against his ribs for a moment longer before pulling it away to reveal a purplish bruise.
“We’re missing something here,” he announced, buttoning his shirt as he came back out of the bathroom. Things weren’t adding up — two plus two equaling five. “Why Vegas?”
Tex was sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in his hand. “It’s a symbol of Western decadence?”
It was the most logical explanation, but there was something missing. “Why now?”
“Christmas?” Harry turned to find Han standing in the doorway of the adjoining room. “One of the biggest Christian holidays…the birth of Christ.”
“Allah has no son,” Harry mused, remembering the words of the Qur’an. It was possible.
“An influx of tourists even with the recession,” the SEAL added. “Vegas is a high-value target on a normal week…but Christmas? You do the math.”
He had. “Let’s go over this again. What do we know about Tarik Abdul Muhammad?” Harry asked, glancing over to where Carol sat.
A shrug. “Not much to know, really. He spent eight years in Gitmo following his capture in 2004. According to soldiers assigned to guard him, Tarik was considered devout, often spending hours reading the Qur’an. It was said among his fellow prisoners that he was a hafiz, having memorized the Islamic scriptures during those years in captivity. In 2012, political pressure from the administration strong-armed a military tribunal into dismissing the most serious charges against him. Against the protests of several prominent members of Congress, he was then returned to Pakistan — sort of an olive branch after the Bin Laden raid.”
“Where he cropped up on our radar again within six months.” Harry shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “You can’t argue with the success of soft power.”
“Some of the intel we gathered suggested an affiliation with Lashkar-e-Taiba, but that was never confirmed. His followers call him ‘The Shaikh,’ a sign of respect, we believe, for his knowledge of the Sunnah. A couple of local attacks on Coalition military in Afghanistan before our withdrawal were tied to him…but he’s largely stayed in the shadows. Waiting.”
“And now he’s back.”
“I suspected that we had been betrayed,” the shaikh began, his normally soft voice trembling ever so slightly with anger. “When the FBI raided our house of worship in Michigan, I suspected it. But I didn’t want to believe that one of our brethren — one of Allah’s faithful, was apostate.”
His hypnotic blue eyes came to rest on Jamal’s face. “And where do your loyalties lie? With your brother? Or with your God?”
The college student’s fists clenched, tears of anger running afresh down his face. “I have no brother. My life is pledged to the holy struggle, as Allah wills.”
Silence. Tarik seemed to consider his words for a moment, looking around at the group assembled in the middle of the convention center. His mujahideen. The men he had prayed Allah for every lonely day in Cuba, spreading out his prayer mat overlooking the sea — toward Mecca.
And God had answered his prayers…yet given him this test. They must not fail.
“If that is true, then you must show yourself prepared to deal with those guilty of apostasy. What were the instructions of Allah’s Apostle?”
Jamal’s eyes were closed, his hands trembling. “To fight and slay the pagans wherever they are found.”
The shaikh nodded, motioning for one of the mujahideen to bring him a long, thin box from a nearby table. With slow, reverent movements, he opened it, revealing the glistening steel of a Japanese katana.
Holding it by blade and hilt, he passed the sword to Jamal. “The cameras are already in place. Do as the Prophet has bidden.”
He was at the other end of the country, but from the clarity of the video feed, he might as well have been in the next room.
“Tell me you have some good news, Agent…Powers,” the President of the United States began, appearing to consult the sheet in front of him for the name.
Marika glanced over at the S-A-C. They had nothing. They’d been over the footage again and again, but it was the same every time. Three cameras — one inside the convenience store, one in the parking lot, another in an ATM across the street.
None of them showed the terrorists’ vehicle. Unfortunately, Vegas wasn’t NYC, not yet. Once you got off the Strip, cameras were sparse.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” Powers responded. “It is my opinion that we need to put Vegas on high alert. Ground all flights in and out of McCarran, lock this city down.”
To her surprise, the President shook his head. “That’s out of the question, Agent Powers. Our best intelligence is that we’re dealing with a terrorist who has access to a chemical weapon.”
“Exactly!” Marika spat out, ignoring a warning look from the S-A-C. “We have to use every asset at our disposal, Mr. President, even if it means going public.”
“You’re not following me, Agent, uh…Altmann,” Hancock replied, seeming surprised by her outburst. “If we move openly, publicly, we risk spooking them into launching the attack early. Releasing the weapon on the street.”