“Which means that we now have to take the initiative and ferret out these animals on our own?”
“I would say so, yes.”
President Burroughs turned to his advisors. “Options?”
Thornton leaned forward, his hands raised and ready to gesticulate as he spoke. “We know the terrorists’ identities,” he said. “So I think it’s time to play to the media and post their photos. Maybe somebody — a co-worker, a friend, anybody — will contact us with reliable leads.”
The president rubbed the base of his chin, one of his many contemplative habits. After a moment of awkward silence he made his decision.
“Obviously, we need to initiate some type of action to at least appease the international community.” He rose slowly from his chair and gazed out the window overlooking the Rose Garden and jogging track. “Dean?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Inform Paxton. Get him in front of the camera for a live update as soon as possible. And inform Ms. Cohen, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see how the snake reacts when it knows the mongoose is on its tail.”
As the room emptied, the president continued to stand at the window looking out at the Rose Garden. His favorite was Joseph’s Coat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The camera room was just as dusty, tomblike, and unkempt as the holding area. The walls were gutted, broken plaster laying in pieces along the dust-laden floor. Pop and beer cans lay discarded with old condoms that were now nothing more than dried husks, and dust motes floated with hypnotic grace. Against the west wall a canvas tarp was nailed to a header beam, providing a neutral backdrop for the camera. A twelve-amp generator hummed, providing power for two lamps stationed on either side of the staging area.
As Team Leader entered the room with Kodiak prodding the governor along, Boa was making the final adjustments to the camera’s tripod.
“Are we ready, Mr. Boa?” asked Team Leader.
Boa nodded. “We are.”
Although Team Leader turned toward Kodiak, he didn’t have to issue an order; Kodiak knew exactly what to do. Moving to a marked spot ten feet in front of the camera, Kodiak shoved the governor to the stage and forced him to his knees. Removing a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt, Kodiak cuffed the governor from behind and stood back. The stage now belonged solely to Governor Steele.
Here, Team Leader did a peculiar thing — he moved onto the stage and patted the governor on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Boa.”
Boa turned on the camera and directed the lens to Team Leader, who stood with military erectness in his black tactical jumpsuit, boots and ski mask. After counting down on his fingers from three to two to one, Boa directed a finger at Team Leader, who began speaking in perfect Arabic. “No doubt the nation is wondering what happened to your Devil’s Advocate, Pope Pius the Thirteenth.”
The camera slowly zoomed in for a close-up of Team Leader and the governor, a predetermined shot. The governor’s blanched face held the sallow color of a fish’s underbelly. The pallor of his face made the new growth of his beard appear darker, more dramatic.
“My name is Abdul-Aliyy,” said Team Leader, “of the Soldiers of Islam. Your nation has degraded our culture, murdered our children, and continually supported the evil Zionist state of Israel. If you do not meet our demands, then your Devil’s Advocate will die. There will be no discussions, no debates, and no negotiations. All terms are to be met without delay. For every day the demands are not met by your lying government, we will kill a member of the Holy See for your government’s resistance.”
Team Leader reached down and unsnapped the strap of his holster. “Our intent is not simple murder,” he stated. “Our intent is to enlighten the governing forces of your country that our demand for Arab sovereignty must be met. You and your allies will remove all occupying forces from the Middle East, release all prisoners from any custodial institutions, and most importantly, you will aid in the removal of the Zionist state of Israel from Arab soil.”
Team Leader paused for dramatic effect, then continued with harsh resolve. “You are no longer safe within the borders of your country,” he said firmly, evenly, with a hint of derision. “Nor are you safe in your schools, your churches, or within the confines of your own homes. The subjects we hold are proof that we can get to you anytime, anywhere.”
Team Leader reached down and grabbed a thatch of the governor’s hair, forcing his head in line with the camera, a pre-established cue for Boa to zoom in and capture the governor’s terrified features.
“Governor Steele is to be our first moral sacrifice,” Team Leader said. “A sacrifice which, in the eyes of Allah, is justified to gain what is right.”
Team Leader released the governor, who fell to the floor in a fetal position. From the camera’s right side, Kodiak entered the video and lifted the sobbing Steele back into a kneeling position, then disappeared once again beyond camera range.
Team Leader stood behind the governor and brandished a pistol. Within view of the camera, he securely attached a suppressor and held the gun by his side.
The governor barked something undecipherable, then pleaded for his life, first calling on God, then on his assassin. “Please don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”
Team Leader pressed the mouth of the barrel against Steele’s temple. “This is because your government is a lying whore dog,” he said.
At that moment, the governor doubled over, a writhing, sobbing mass. Team Leader grabbed him by the collar of his pajama top and yanked him back into a kneeling position. Then, with one deft move, he grabbed a hank of the governor’s hair and forced his head back, making it compulsory for the governor to look deep into his assassin’s eyes.
The governor didn’t understand Arabic, but the intentions behind the Team Leader’s words rang clear. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
The hatred within the assassin’s eyes seemed to fade, with perhaps a softening in judgment, but Team Leader acted without conscience and pulled the trigger. The Sig went off in a muted report as the governor’s head snapped hard to the direction of the shot, then recoiled. With a detached gaze, the governor continued to kneel there as if deciding whether or not he was dead. When the governor fell hard against the floorboards, Boa zoomed in to catch the blood pooling in a halo around his head.
Team Leader stepped back into the camera’s frame, the weapon by his side, the mouth of the barrel smoking, a dramatic effect.
Off camera, Kodiak dragged the governor’s body from the stage and began wrapping it in plastic sheeting and duct tape. On camera, Team Leader continued his address.
In perfect Arabic he reiterated the policy of “no discussions, no debates and no negotiations.” If their demands weren’t met in a timely fashion, the pope would be executed for the sins of the Great Satan.
The message was clear. Allah required that every last man, woman and child not of Arab heritage be eliminated from Arab lands. In Allah’s eyes, the blood of Arabs is sacred, the blood of all others expendable.
Boa rewound the tape, ejected it from the camera and handed it to Team Leader.
“It’s absolutely necessary,” he told Boa, “for this to work. We must all share the same passion. If we’re without a shared passion, the cause will founder.”
Boa and Kodiak understood. If they didn’t become dehumanized, they would fail.
Looking down at the body, neither showed any evidence of remorse.