“Hello.”
“I only have a moment,” his teammate responded. “But I need an answer from you. How credible was your intel on Vegas?”
Harry took a deep breath, ignoring Carol’s inquiring gaze. Forcing himself to remember.
He could remember the night, the tension in the room. The sweat beading Andropov’s face. Every detail as clear as polished glass in his mind’s eye.
“I am a facilitator, nothing more…they’re going to strike Las Vegas.”
True? Or false? He could still see the fear in the Russian’s eyes, hear the slight tremor in his voice. Truth? Or lies?
And lives rested in the balance.
“He was telling the truth,” he replied finally, breathing a prayer that he was right. “It was solid intel. Vegas is Tarik Abdul Muhammad’s target.”
“Because the Bureau’s LA field office is currently following up on a sighting of Abu Kareem a few miles from LAX this morning with another man, possibly a foreign national. They think the disappearance of their CI in Vegas is a diversion.”
“No.”
Alone. With his thoughts. And his God.
Omar bent forward, his forehead touching the surface of the prayer rug as he whispered the takbir. Words of praise.
Twenty-five steps, he thought, distracted for a moment by the sight of his Kalashnikov propped in the corner of the empty room.
Twenty-five steps for him to reach his firing position. Just out the door, up the stairs — onto the roof. That’s all it was.
I seek refuge in Allah from the outcast Satan, he breathed, quelling his own fears. He had seen men die, the first when he was nineteen. A drug deal gone wrong.
He could remember that moment as if it were yesterday, the look of fear in the other man’s eyes as his gun came out. The surge of power that came from pulling the trigger. The blood flecking the dirty asphalt.
What would it feel like to be that man? He raised himself from off the mat, the question caroming around his mind, itself unstoppable.
Soon enough, he would know. As would the Americans…
“It’s been two hours. No one in or out.” Agent Powers stared at the screen in front of him, the images from the helmet-cams of the Los Angeles Field Office’s tactical team.
“Did you run down the building’s owner, Dietz?” he asked, speaking into his Bluetooth headset.
The screen shifted away from the Canoga Park-area commercial building, revealing the face of LA Assistant Director-in-Charge Anthony Dietz. “Yeah…it’s Wells Fargo. The bank took the entire property four years ago — it was part of a chain of pawn shops.”
“What is thermal giving you?”
“Two men in a back room. Based on the statements of a witness, we’re reasonably certain that it’s Abu Kareem and the foreign national. They just seem to be waiting…maybe on the rest of the cell. I’ve staged my teams out of sight — if anyone shows up, we’ll be able to deploy within seconds.”
“Any hits on his companion?”
A shake of the head. “Negative, ran him by Interpol and the boys at Langley. Whoever he is, he’s not thrown up any red flags prior to this.”
“Keep me updated.”
“When I know, you’ll know.” The screen went dark without further comment.
“Where are we at here in the city?” Powers asked, moving back to the task at hand.
Marika watched as Agent Chase picked up the remote, changing the view on the plasma back to the map of Las Vegas. “Nothing, as of yet. We’re focusing on properties like the one in Canoga Park, places that are unoccupied. Any buildings rented within the last six months.”
It was a lot of territory, Marika thought. And they had scarcely a hundred agents. The reinforcements Buhler had sent from Denver had no sooner landed at McCarran than they had packed back up and headed for LA.
She got up from the conference table, passing the CIA agent on her way out the door. He had to have been in his late thirties, but he looked younger.
“Walk with me,” she said as she passed. It wasn’t a request.
A nod and he turned to follow her as they moved out into the corridor. “Who are you?”
A faint smile passed across the man’s boyish face and he unclipped his visitor badge, passing it to her without a word.
She snorted, glancing down at the name printed there.
“Right. You’re not an analyst — not the type of desk jockey Langley generally sends over. What are you in…the SAD?” Marika asked, referencing the Special Activities Division.
“No comment,” he replied with an easy shrug. “See no evil, speak no evil?”
“Not until this is over. Then there will be an investigation into who authorized an op on American soil.”
“I’m sure there will be,” came the even response. “In the mean time, we’re occupying Ground Zero…but you know that, don’t you?”
She nodded, glancing down the corridor. “I know it, you know it…I think even Powers can feel it. But until D.C. knows it — until they give the order to the other field offices, our hands are tied.”
“Delta Flight 94, this is Tower. You are cleared for departure on Runway 2.”
Captain Paula Gonzalez acknowledged the order, glancing over at her co-pilot as they began rolling down the runway, the huge Pratt & Whitney turbofans roaring into life on either side of the fuselage.
“Christmas Eve in Vegas? It could be worse — right?”
She laughed. “Right. Then back to see Andrew and Julie unwrap their presents. If Keith can keep them in bed that long.”
“Relax,” he replied as the Delta Airlines 757 rose into the sky, carrying two hundred and thirty-three souls.
“It’ll be a milk run.”
“The President will join you momentarily,” the Secret Service agent announced, ushering Kranemeyer into the Treaty Room.
The President. Kranemeyer’s eyes flickered around the room, coming to rest on the old Theobald Chartran painting on the wall across from him, of the signing of peace protocols between the United States and Spain in 1898.
Men coming together for peace. Back in a day when wars had been fought between nation-states — and a treaty had meant something.
A simpler time.
Voices at the door, and the DCS turned as President Hancock entered the room, flanked by his detail.
“Thank you for coming, director,” Hancock said, his voice smooth as silk as he gripped Kranemeyer’s hand. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but this is our lot in life, isn’t it?”
Kranemeyer nodded his acknowledgment, Haskel’s face flickering across his mind’s eye. The way he had looked, groveling on the carpet. Dying.
“Peace in our lifetimes. A permanent end to…the energy crisis for America. It was going to be real — all we had to do was stand back.”
Politicians, Kranemeyer thought, maintaining a studiously neutral expression.
“I’m due for some good news, director. I trust you’ve come to give it to me.” The President looked tired, fatigue betraying the smooth veneer.
“I’m afraid not.” Kranemeyer passed an open folder across the table to the President. “If anything, our assets on the West Coast are being spread thin, misdirected.”