Nick looked at the bodies, both were still covered in black robes but Ibrahim’s feet were clearly visible, as were the feet of the other body. “Perhaps another room would be more appropriate,” he suggested, noting how often Walid glanced down at the bodies.
Walid almost leaped out of his seat at the suggestion, keen to remove himself from the unpleasant smell that had invaded the room following the killings and the ensuing bodily fluids that had slowly leaked onto the floor around them.
“This way,” he said, leading Nick out of the room and along a series of corridors to an elevator. Arriving at the top floor of the building, they stepped out into a palatial corridor that led to an extravagant apartment overlooking the city below.
Nick moved towards the feature floor-to-ceiling windows and looked over a city he recognized. “Sana’a?”
Walid nodded, pouring Nick an Arabian coffee from an extremely ornate gold coffee jug.
“I see you have your uncle’s taste.”
Walid shook his head. “No, this is one of my uncle’s apartments. He throws his wealth a little too much in your face for my taste.”
“Yes, he does,” agreed Nick looking around at the gaudiness of the apartment, exactly as you would expect the inside of an Arabian palace to look like. The only problem was that they were in a modern apartment building.
Walid took a sip of the coffee. “I’m sorry about your friend Ibrahim.”
“He was a good man, a great warrior and a good friend,” reminisced Nick. “But he died for the cause. As pointless as his death seems, it was for the greater cause. I must complete the Caliph’s plan. That is why I am here and it is what Allah wants me to do. Whatever has to be done to achieve that is part of his greater plan. Ibrahim is with the Caliph and Allah and that was the path Allah wanted him to take.”
Walid nodded as he spoke. “And the American?”
Nick smirked. “He’s with Allah too, isn’t he?” he said to a surprised Walid.
“No, he was an infidel!” Walid insisted, a slight tinge of anger in his voice.
“If you mean the American you had me kill, no. Any other American, I would agree but not that American.”
Walid took a step back. “You knew?”
“Only when the man fell to the ground. His feet gave him away. Those were not the feet of an American who worked at the American embassy. Those were the feet of a man who wore sandals his whole life, a poor Arab man’s feet.”
“A thief that was captured in the market,” explained Walid.
“May I see the video?”
Walid shrugged, seeing no reason why not. He made a call and the video card was brought to them, already inserted into a laptop.
Nick hit ‘Play’ and watched the scene play out. “What were the plans for this?”
“It was to be sent to a number of high ranking leaders across the various organizations that you are trying to bring together.”
“You mean the leaders that the Caliph and Allah wished to bring together. I am merely the conduit,” corrected Nick. “I would not want to take the Caliph’s grand plan as my own.”
“Of course not.”
“I have a better idea for this video, which will strike even greater fear into the Americans,” said Nick, watching the shootings again.
“But we didn’t shoot an American from the embassy.”
“Irrelevant. If they dispute it, we shoot an American and display the dead body for the world to see. We’ll prove the Americans to be liars.”
“And if they don’t?”
“The American people will fear us even more!”
Walid nodded as he thought through the logic. “I will tell the leadership of your plan and see what they say.”
It had not taken long for the OK to come back for the video to be sent out to news agencies.
“Excellent. Send it to Al Jazeera,” said Nick.
Walid spun the laptop back to himself. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I have a doctorate in Computing Science from Oxford.”
Nick was not surprised, and guessed that most of Walid’s youth had been spent in the more expensive establishments of the British education system. His accent certainly suggested it. He was, however, surprised at the doctorate, he would not have put Walid at more than twenty-five years old.
Walid’s fingers flashed across the keyboard for the next few minutes until he spun the laptop back around to face Nick. A number of screens were open: Facebook, You Tube, Twitter and many others that Nick had never heard of.
“The video is now the top trending video on each of these sites,” he announced proudly.
“But how did you do that?” asked Nick. He knew enough about the internet to know that was no small feat.
“As I said, I have a doctorate in Computer Science.”
Nick looked at him, unconvinced. Many people had a similar doctorate and couldn’t do what Walid had just done.
“It helps that my billionaire uncle is a major shareholder in all of these companies. It allows his nephew, who manages his tech stocks, a little more access than the average user.”
“But traceable?” asked Nick urgently, wondering if Walid had forgotten himself in his quest to impress him.
“That’s where the doctorate comes in,” he smiled.
“So what’s the plan now?” asked Nick.
“It would appear that your dreams have come true. Sorry, the Caliph’s dreams,” corrected Walid. “I am to take you to a meeting of the leaders of all the jihadist groups. It looks like the plan to create one army fighting for Allah is becoming a reality!”
Nick beamed.
Chapter 59
With no American apparently having been killed, the center quieted as the team, roused from their beds, tried to grab some much needed shuteye. Most of them had worked almost non-stop since Nick Geller had started his crazed plan to destroy the western world. However, any time any of them felt as though the pace or working hours were too much, a trip home made it clear just how vital their role in catching Nick Geller had become. America was a nation living in fear.
Food and fuel was scarce. Hospitals were overrun with perfectly healthy people convinced they were dying. Shopping malls and cinema complexes were suffering as the general public avoided places that involved large gatherings, unless absolutely necessary. The country was suffering and the terrorists hadn’t even begun their attack.
Carson was in no mood for sleep. His conversation with the President had not gone as well as he had implied. Once discussion had turned to the dire issues facing the nation, it became apparent that the President was under severe political pressure for an early resolution to the threat.
With just about every available asset across the US’ Intelligence community being put to use in the hunt for Nick Geller, it was beyond Carson as to what more they could do. Although Geller posed the most overwhelming threat to the nation, other threats still had to be monitored. Carson was reminded by the intelligence community of that exact issue every time he drafted more resources into the hunt. Ass-covering emails from heads of department littered his inbox. For decades, Harry Carson had avoided just such a situation. If the shit hit the fan, he would be nowhere to be seen. In the Nick Geller hunt, if the shit hit the fan, Harry Carson would be buried up to his neck in it, if he was lucky and way beyond if he wasn’t.
With another day of disappointment looming, Carson headed back to his office and lay on the couch. He hadn’t even had time to pull the blanket over himself when he was disturbed.
“Harry?” said Turner, rushing into Carson’s office.
“Yes,” he replied, not bothering to open his eyes.