“No, but the bomb’s already reached its designated countdown. They stopped it at 02… even if it was a dud.”
“He’s right,” Kazinski said.
“Sir, I recommend you contact Seiden and tell him to pull his men out right away,” said Decker. “We only have eight minutes left.”
“We’ve wasted enough time on this, Decker. It’s late. Acting Chief Seiden, thanks for your help. This is SAC Johnson, signing off.” He hit the button on the speakerphone. “Everybody out of here,” he said. “I was meant to meet the AD for drinks an hour ago.” He stood, shooing them away like flies. Then he put on his jacket and coat, and headed out the door.
Almost immediately after the SAC had disappeared into the elevator, Decker returned to Johnson’s office surreptitiously, and re-established the connection with Beersheba.
Seiden was surprised to hear his voice. “I thought we’d lost you,” he said.
“SAC Johnson had to go. Where are your men now?”
“They’re on their way out of the well.”
“Please call them, Chief Seiden. It isn’t safe. They have until six AM Beersheba time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but we found some PC wallpapers on a suspect’s personal computer here in New York. One of them featured the words, ‘Pregnant She-Camels,’ and ‘When Hell is Stoked Up,’ plus a number. That number corresponds to an event that we believe will occur at six AM Beersheba time. An event such as the detonation of a bomb.”
“Did you say, ‘Pregnant She-Camels’?”
“That’s right. It’s a quote from the Qur’an.”
“I know,” said Seiden. “I was there right after El Aqrab was captured.”
“In Tel Aviv?”
“Yes. I saw the file.”
“What file?”
“The video he made. Of the event. As he always does. I saw the way the fire burst out of those boys, the words. They are the same. ‘Pregnant She-Camels.’ And ‘Hell.’ What do they mean?”
“We don’t know for sure but I believe they’re somehow tied to Beersheba.”
“You mean an omen?”
“Each PC wallpaper not only predicts the next event, it features a number corresponding to a specific moment in time. The first was 540,000, set when Baqrah stole that HEU in Kazakhstan. The second was 205,200. The difference is ninety-three hours. And ninety-three hours from the time Baqrah stole the HEU is six AM your time. Exactly. Which is… ” Decker looked down at his watch. “… three minutes from now.”
For a moment Seiden did not speak. Decker could hear him breathing on the other end. “I’m not exactly following you,” he said, “but I believe you think you’re right. And that’s good enough for me.” He shouted to someone standing by. “Contact Rifkin. Tell him he has two minutes to get the hell out of there. Now!”
Captain David Rifkin finished re-assembling the device with the attentive assistance of Gal Baror. It had been an agonizing day for the young recruit. He had equipped himself well, and his uncle was proud. They packed the device into a clear plastic bag and filled it with a snowy white foam that looked like shaving cream; it solidified immediately, sealing the aluminum case within. Rifkin slipped it carefully into his duffel bag. They packed up their tools and instruments, picked up their flashlights, and started back along the tunnel. That’s when they got the call from Seiden. “We’re on our way,” said Rifkin.
They ran as quickly as they could along the darkened tunnel, when Gal misplaced his step, and reached out for support against the wall. There was a little sound, like the breaking of a twig, a gentle snap, and then a bright light filled the tunnel. Rifkin and Gal jumped back unconsciously. The light, as bright as an acetylene torch, continued to crawl along the passageway. They couldn’t tear their eyes away.
“Oh, shit,” said Gal. And then the world exploded. It was as if they were inside a firework. Talons of fire raked the air, descended from the ceiling, slashed at their bodies like phosphorescent claws. They tried to run but they were trapped. The more they struggled, the more some sort of netting settled into place around them. Their shirts burst into flames. They heard their own skin sizzling. It smelled of burning hair. They watched in horror as a line of pale green fire began to snake across their chests, began to curl from left to right, bold loops, uncompromising arcs, seductive curves, until with one last breath of flame-filled air, one final baleful moan, their lungs imploded and their horrified expressions melted off the bone.
There was a camera on the wall. It recorded the events dispassionately, dispatching the signal with a measured, cool efficiency through the RCA connectors, and then down into the wire on the floor. It ran along the tunnel, around the trellis which had held up the device, into a crack and down along a sleeve behind the cistern where a video recorder purred and clicked and stopped, reclining finally into sleep mode. It was exactly six AM.
Chapter 26
The Egyptian mule Auwal Al-Hakim had not had a solid meal in days, not since Kazakhstan. His stomach growled. He cursed and curled himself into a ball, and pressed his back against the cracked stone wall of the apartment. Where was Nasir? The boy had promised to return by nine and it was almost ten o’clock. He did not trust him. He was a member of al-Jihad, not of the Brotherhood. Al-Hakim sat up, curling his arms about his knees, his frayed and ragged trouser legs, and started to rock back and forth on his haunches. There was a window in a corner of the room that overlooked the el-Hakim Mosque and, across the Sharia Ramses, the Sultan Baybars Mosque beyond.
The Mameluke General Zahir Baybars had always been a hero to Al-Hakim, ever since childhood. Baybars had been born in Mongol Russia, in the town of Kipchak, and was later sold into slavery in Damascus as a boy — at a very reasonable price, since a cataract covered his left eye. But Allah had granted him a penetrating voice, insatiable energy and ambition, and a brilliant military mind. Ruling Cairo for seventeen years, his court had been notorious for its riches.
Baybars was also responsible for rebuilding the canals, fortifications and shipyards throughout Egypt, things essential to the public works. Using both the subtlest of diplomacy as well as raw belligerence, he neutralized the crusading Christians along the Mediterranean coast. He installed the Abbasid Prince al-Mustansir as khalif at Cairo, thereby moving the Sunni religious center to Egypt, effectively gaining control of the Hajj and Mecca. A deeply religious man, Baybars even ordered all the taverns and brothels of the city closed.
But his piety failed to save him. He perished when he was fifty, the unwitting victim of his own hand. It was a fairy tale Al-Hakim’s mother used to tell him before bedtime. He remembered it with fondness, with the nostalgic warmth of a soft blanket. The Sultan had intended to poison Malik Kaher, a rival prince, but — unbeknownst to him — Kaher had switched their goblets when Baybars wasn’t looking. It took thirteen days for him to die an agonizing death. Baybars’ sons were soon deposed and, eventually, General Qalawun was elected Sultan.
Like Baybars, Qalawun was from Kipchak. And, like the previous Sultan, he too had been a slave. He kept the Mongols and the Christians both at bay, and made treaties with Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, as well as other European princes. He even continued the building programs initiated by Baybars, sponsoring both a hospital and the mosque that Al-Hakim could see outside the window, across the carpet of multi-colored rugs and tapestries that darkened the narrow passageways of the Khalili Khan.