The President looked off-screen. “Vegas is a city of nearly 600,000 souls. Never mind that holiday tourists have swelled those numbers. There’s no way to evacuate this city quickly enough. Even if I ordered an evacuation now, we wouldn’t have near enough time.”
As if he sensed her temper about to explode, Russ laid a hand on her arm. “He’s right. I was in the New Orleans field office during Katrina.”
“Do we alert the resorts?” This from Agent Chase.
“No,” the President responded. “Not yet. We have to keep this circle small if we’re going to avoid a panic. I am told that the facial recognition software they employ is state-of — the-art, and that their databases interface with the Bureau and Interpol. Our only option is to find these criminals and shut them down permanently.”
Marika opened her mouth, then closed it again, rethinking her words.
“The CIA’s intelligence indicates that the attack will take place the day after tomorrow — Christmas Day. If we are unable to find Abu Kareem’s cell…”
Powers hesitated, having voiced everyone’s worst fears. “At what point do I have your authorization to shut down McCarran International and move the city to full alert?”
The President once again seemed to consult someone off-screen, a heavy sigh coming through his microphone. “Agent Powers, if you have not apprehended Abu Kareem and his men by 2100 hours tomorrow night — then you have my authorization to take whatever steps you deem necessary. What do we have on your informant’s companions?”
“The other Arab is identified by facial recognition as Jamal al-Khalidi,” Agent Chase began, staring at her screens. “A student at University of Michigan, and former roommate of the missing CI.”
“His brother,” Marika interrupted.
“His alleged brother,” Chase corrected, still reading off her notes. “The African-American is a 75 % positive as Keon Washington. Thirty-one years old, he became famous as a rapper under the handle of DD Cool well over a decade ago, before assault charges landed him in federal penitentiary.”
“Assault?”
“A drunken brawl. Washington broke a man’s neck, left him paralyzed and on a feeding tube. Was sent up for fifteen years, but the judge commuted it to eight.”
That was the way the justice system worked. Marika snorted. “Then how did he wind up here?”
“He converted to Islam several years into his sentence and changed his name to Abdul Aziz Omar. He’s been under the wing of Abu Kareem ever since.”
Agent Powers glanced over at the interactive map of Las Vegas thrown up on the plasma — lines radiating outward from the convenience store where Nasir abu Rashid had disappeared. He took a step forward, staring directly at the President. “Teams from Denver and Los Angeles will be here by morning to provide support, Mr. President. We’ll scour this city from one end to the other. We will find them.”
The night was cool and clear, the stars of heaven above shining down upon the two men standing in the parking lot of the convention center, just outside the service entrance.
In the distance, the neon of The Strip flashed on, eternally.
“The city will be swarming with the American police by the time the sun rises, Tarik,” Abu Kareem began, zipping up his jacket against the chill. “Perhaps it is time to reconsider our plans.”
“No,” the shaikh whispered, a light in his eyes as he stared toward the city. The eyes of a mystic.
It struck Abu Kareem in that moment as never before just how young he looked. His time in American imprisonment had always made him seem older than he really was.
“But the men whom Allah has given you. The weapons that you have obtained.” The imam held up a hand, struggling to know which words to choose. “Do we throw all that away?”
The younger man never even looked at him, gazing on toward the lights of the Strip. “Allah has provided the men. Allah has provided the weapons. And you think that He cannot show us the way…as He has in the past?”
Abu Kareem fell silent, feeling the sting of the rebuke. It was true enough — how many times had the followers of the Prophet faced overwhelming odds?
Faced them, and overcome. He cursed the doubt in his own heart, yet the voice of caution still seemed to speak from within. Please God, how?
The eyes of the shaikh were closed, his lips moving — as if in prayer. His face shadowed in the glow of the lights from the nearby highway.
Even as Abu Kareem watched, Tarik’s visage seemed to clear. “The way…will require a sacrifice.”
“As the path of Allah always does.”
“Of you.”
Years at war had left him a light sleeper. An insomnia that had everything to do with memories.
A sound brought Harry awake, glancing quickly over to the bed where Carol lay.
He could make out her form in the dim ambient light coming through the window from the parking lot outside, sheets twisted and kicked to one side — her body shaking in almost-silent sobs.
The sound he had heard.
And he knew, all too well. The feeling of guilt, the stain it left on the soul. He closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer. That she might be spared.
Moving silently, like a cat, he found himself crossing the motel room to stand by the side of her bed, looking down upon her. Her eyes were closed, still held in the thrall of a dream, tears leaking out from beneath the lids to run down her cheek.
He reached out to her as he sat down on the bed, running a gentle hand down her bare arm. So much he wanted to say, but there were no words. Nothing that could help.
Her hand came up as she awakened, fingers interlacing with his — squeezing gently, as if she took comfort in the touch.
“When does this…end?” came the question, choked out between sobs. The soul-wrenching grief of death — of having caused death. Harry closed his eyes, taking her into his arms. The only answer was a lie, a lie he couldn’t tell her. Beyond that…nothing.
He held her head against his chest, brushing tear-soaked strands of blonde hair back from her face. “I don’t know,” he whispered finally, telling her the truth. “I only know that I’ll still be here when it does.”
Chapter 25
Kneeling toward Mecca, Tarik Abdul Muhammad raised his forehead from the prayer mat, hands on his knees as he straightened, performing the taslim. He glanced toward his right where Jamal prayed, his eyes meeting those of the college student. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah.”
The peace and blessings of God be upon you.
For a moment, there was something in Jamal’s expression — a hesitation — and then he replied, repeating the ancient words of blessing back upon him.
His face turned to the left, catching the eye of the negro. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah.”
He could hear his followers repeat the chant behind him, finishing the fajr, the dawn prayer, even as the first faint glow brightened the horizon toward the east.
Tarik rose to his feet, a rare smile touching his lips as he turned to greet his men. “When next we greet the dawn, we will do so in Paradise. And where is Paradise to be found, my brothers?”