A metal shutter clattered behind them when the vehicle doors opened. Nick listened intently for any clues as to their location. Beyond the metal doors, he heard busy street noises. If he were correct and it had been a two-hour drive, that would mean it was 5 a.m. local time and he guessed he was hearing the morning street traders preparing for business in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. However, there was always the chance they had driven him around aimlessly for two hours and they had actually stayed in Al Hudaydah and he was hearing the busy port area. Whatever the case, wherever he was, it wasn’t good.
Led once again carefully through a number of doorways and corridors, Nick was guided into a chair. A door then closed behind him, leaving Nick alone with his thoughts. Worryingly, a TV was playing in the corner, tuned to the English language version of CNN. Nick feared the worst. He had failed.
Seconds became minutes, which became hours. The TV kept him up to date with current headlines from across the world. Despite being the CNN worldwide edition, it seemed that little else was happening other than Nick’s exploits and the impact they were having on the United States which, in short, was devastating. Panic buying had led to major shortages across the country while air travel had plummeted to post 9/11 levels. Hospitals were inundated with people convinced they were suffering from the Ebola virus.
Nick smiled beneath his hood as he listened to the impact of his videos and actions, exactly as they had predicted and planned.
Almost on cue, the door opened and Nick’s hood was removed. The brightness of the room pained his eyes but they soon focused on the masked man who sat across from him.
“Nick Geller?” the masked man asked rhetorically. His accent was English, upper class English. The Secret Intelligence Service, Britain’s CIA, employed more than its fair share of well groomed gentlemen, many having been recruited from the two premier British universities, Oxford and Cambridge.
Nick stared more closely at his captor. The eyes were brown, Arab brown. Those same Universities educated many of the oil rich Arabs. Nick put his feelings of despair on hold. All may not be lost.
He nodded his head in acknowledgement of his name.
“You have made quite an impact in your few days on the run, haven’t you?”
Nick stayed silent.
“But it can’t be ignored that we lost our leader in that time,” said the man pointedly.
Nick thanked Allah. He was in the hands of friends. He just had to prove to them he was a friend.
“My brother, you have me at a disadvantage. You know me but I do not know you,” said Nick, his tone friendly and warm.
“And nor will you until I know you are trustworthy,” came the reply. “Bring them in!” he shouted.
The door opened and two men were brought into the room, both dressed in full length black gowns. They were also hooded and appeared to be struggling against the bindings holding their hands behind their backs. Another masked man joined them holding a video camera.
“Start recording,” instructed the well-spoken terrorist.
A small red light began to blink on the camera.
“Mr. Geller, before you are two men. One is the man you arrived with, a man you claim as a brother, Ibrahim. The other is an American, a member of staff from the American embassy who we kidnapped earlier this morning. You don’t know which is which.”
The man laid a pistol down on the table and stood up, walking slowly around Nick until he stood behind him. He then produced a knife and cut off his bindings, freeing Nick’s hands.
Nick wrung his hands briefly to regain the blood flow and then snapped forward, catching his captors off guard with his speed and retrieving the pistol. Feeling for the safety, he ensured it was off and then pointed the pistol at the hooded men, shooting them both cleanly through the head. Both fell to the ground as Nick replaced the pistol on the table in front of his captors, engaging the safety in the process.
Chapter 57
Turner heard the sirens. He had failed. Nick Geller and his army of suicidal terrorists were attacking Washington D.C. Turner ran to the White House. He had failed to defend the country but he wasn’t going to fail to defend his president. The Army and police had their defenses in place as the hordes descended upon them. Thousands of Arabs charged towards the White House on camels, their curving swords slashing the air as they rode to their death. The sirens blared again.
Turner opened his eyes, his phone ringing. He looked at the bedside alarm clock. It was 1:00 a.m. He had barely been asleep for an hour. The phone’s ringtone must have been the siren in his dreams. He lifted the handset.
“Yes?”
“Deputy Director Turner, I’m sorry to have woken you but I think you need to see the video we’ve just received. I’ve emailed it to you,” said the night supervisor at NCTC.
“Hmm, yes, okay,” he replied.
Opening the attachment and seeing Nick Geller being held captive had him wide awake instantly. Watching him execute the two men, one of whom was supposedly an American, was one of the most chilling things he had ever seen in his life.
Turner dialed the supervisor back.
“Get everyone in now!” he demanded. “Have you sent this to Carson?”
“Yes but I’ve not been able to reach him!”
“Keep trying! Do we know who the American was?”
“No details yet but we’re looking.”
“News blackout. I don’t want this getting out until we know who it was and the family has been informed.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. This one went viral instantly. Whoever posted this knew what they were doing.”
“Shit! I’ll be there in twenty!” He hung up, grabbed some clothes, and dressed himself as he ran to the car.
Frankie’s was the first face he saw as he walked into the center. She was pacing nervously across the reception area. She looked at him in anticipation of a reaction. He rushed past her while asking, “Have you seen the video?”
Frankie nodded gloomily.
Turner pushed on towards the center’s operations floor, holding the door for Frankie, who hadn’t moved. He paused and looked back at her. She looked like a child who had just broken something and was waiting to be yelled at.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Al Zahrani?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“What I did to him?” she asked, almost irritated, not understanding why he wasn’t reacting.
“You took him to Gitmo?”
“Well yes and—”
“Good morning, people!” bellowed Carson, rushing into the middle of the conversation, grabbing Frankie by the elbow and propelling her with him towards the door being held open by Turner.
“So they found you?” asked Turner questioningly.
“At the White House, with President Mitchell,” replied Carson. “I just need five minutes with Frankie.”
Turner nodded and followed them into the operations center, taking his place in the center of the room while Carson escorted a silenced Frankie up onto the gangway and into his office.
Once again, he uncharacteristically shut the door behind him; it was becoming a habit, one he didn’t like. Open doors allowed him to hear what was happening outside his office.
“Nobody knows about,” he looked down to his crotch area, not wanting to say the words.