“Yes, nuclear missiles,” Holmes replied. “We’re dealing with the most extreme elements out there. By inserting those trapdoors, they might as well have announced that they’re not taking any prisoners. We need your help.”
“What am I supposed to do? I’m not a computer expert, clearly, or you wouldn’t have to tell me what the hell a trapdoor is. And I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with Al Qaeda, no matter what you think.”
“But you do have a cousin who is, and please don’t waste our time or yours by trying to deny it.”
Ruhi shook his head, because he now knew the real reason he’d had to endure all of this “attention.” Ahmed Mancur, bearded, tall, and lean, bore such a physical likeness to bin Laden that it could only have been a badge of honor among the terrorists with whom he’d collaborated. The son of a bitch had trained in Al Qaeda camps in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier. And, yes, Ruhi had been in Ahmed’s odious presence at times over the past decade. His cousin had an uncanny ability to sneak into family functions in Riyadh, make his worthless pronouncements on the state of Islam and the world, and slip out. To say Ruhi loathed him would be an understatement — and that was before he understood that Ahmed, while never convincing him to join the ranks of jihad, had certainly forced Ruhi into the arms of its sworn enemies.
“Yes, I know about Ahmed,” Ruhi allowed. “And I hate his guts.”
“We’re not fans, either,” Holmes replied. “We think he’s had a hand in the attacks. I can’t tell you why, and it’s not important to know the source, but it appears to be true. If you can contact him and basically say, ‘Cousin, you were right,’ he might find your desire for revenge believable and welcome you to his flock.”
“That’s a long shot,” Ruhi said.
“It is, and we’re taking lots of long shots. You’re not the only one. But you could be the most critical.”
“I’ll bet you tell that to all your recruits.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, I don’t. I am a straight shooter, for better or worse.”
Candace was nodding, Ruhi noticed.
Given the threat to the nukes, Ruhi realized that taking time to think about Holmes’s proposal was a luxury that no U.S. citizen could afford to take. In truth, his consideration of the mission was driven by concern both for his adopted country and his own self-interest. If he didn’t work for Holmes, Ruhi felt that he’d never live safely in America again. Nor would he likely succeed in leaving. But Ruhi also recognized that the U.S. was struggling for its very survival, and that another cyberattack — one that shut down the grid for good — could bury it forever. Worse, if that was even conceivable, it now looked like the next attack could incinerate America with its own nuclear arsenal.
“I’ll do it,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” Holmes said.
“If they’re finding trapdoors in nuclear missiles, it makes you wonder what the analysts haven’t found,” Ruhi replied.
Holmes nodded. “We have no time to spare. We feel like our backs are against a brick wall, and that if these crazies aren’t found and stopped, they’ll bomb us into caves. We’ll be living like animals. Some of us,” he added with a rueful shake of his head, “already are.”
Holmes came around the desk to shake Ruhi’s hand. “Welcome aboard,” he said gravely.
Candace congratulated him with a handshake of her own, which sent a rousing current up his arm. Even here, even now — even after the extreme duress he’d suffered and the ghastly news that he just heard — he relished her warmth and affection. Her eyes peered into his. She seemed both searching and open, strong yet sensitive.
He didn’t believe that she was putting on a show. They’d moved well beyond that. When she’d said, “I get polygraphed, too,” she only confirmed what he had come to feel.
“We’re going to drive you to the Farm right away,” Holmes told him.
Before Ruhi could ask what the devil the Farm was, Holmes explained: “Its official name is the Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity, but everyone in the defense community knows it as the ‘Farm.’”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s down near Williamsburg. I think there was even a film with Colin Farrell set there, right?”
“A facsimile thereof, yes. Although the face I remember most from that movie was Al Pacino’s. My generation,” Holmes added with a smile.
Ruhi felt a spell of light-headedness. He steadied himself against the desk.
“You okay?” Holmes asked.
“I didn’t get any lunch today. I think I’ve been burning up a few too many calories.”
“Sorry about that. We’ll have lunch ready for you in the vehicle that will take you down there. Look, Ruhi, before I send you two off on this mission I want you to remember, no matter what, that you’re damn tough. Probably a lot tougher than you think. I’ve had veteran CIA agents and hardcore terrorists who couldn’t take as much as you did downstairs without falling apart. I want you to remember that if things go bad over there.”
“Over there?”
Holmes grinned. “One step at a time.”
“We’ll begin by taking a few steps this way,” Candace said with her inimitable lilt.
She led him through the well-concealed door that she had used to enter the room. It took him into a hidden hallway system, prompting his suspicion that Holmes wanted him completely protected — even from the eyes of men and women with the country’s highest security clearances.
Each corridor appeared seamless at a glance; so did an elevator that was also unmarked, except for a narrow vertical line in the wall.
The doors opened to a steel car that dropped many floors.
“How far does it go?” he asked Candace. “We’re already way below headquarters.”
“I can’t say,” she replied. “Sorry.”
Yet they descended for another fifteen seconds — it felt much longer — before the doors parted and they entered a garage where a man as large as Tire Iron held open a door of a huge SUV. At any other time in his life, Ruhi would have groused about traveling in a monstrosity that could not possibly get more than single-digit mileage. But right now desiring anything less than short-term survival felt like an indulgence, even to the greenest side of him, which was very green, indeed.
“Bulletproof,” Candace said, tapping her knuckle against the glass. “Doors, too.”
“How long a drive?” he asked.
“With these guys running the show and emergency lights if we need them, maybe ninety minutes. Mere mortals? Much longer.”
Ruhi hadn’t been outside for two days, and he longed to see daylight. But after driving for several minutes they still hadn’t escaped the underground warren of tunnels and parking areas. A few more minutes passed before he saw the sun. He checked his watch, which had been returned to him along with his other possessions. Five o’clock. Plenty of light left.
A lot of smoke, too. He couldn’t smell it in the vehicle, but columns of it rose in the distance. It reminded him of so many pictures of devastated Middle Eastern cities that he had seen on television growing up.
“It’s happening across the country,” Candace said, pointing to a fire in a gated community. “People are angry.” She touched the back of his hand, which was resting on the open seat between them.
He looped his fingers through hers, but she withdrew after a reassuring squeeze. Then she glanced at the security detail in the front seat, the men’s shoulders so broad that they almost bridged the space above the console.
“Mr. Mancur,” the guard in the passenger seat said, “I understand that you did not have lunch today. I’ve got some stuff we picked up for you. And orange juice and coffee. If you’re hungry.”