“So not dissimilar to what Carson’s doing?”
“I suppose come to think of it, no. He’ll say he’s protecting Europe and North America with his actions.”
“Hard to argue against,” pondered Reid.
“Except there are only forty-nine flights inbound that may have carriers on board.”
Turner splayed out the flight details. “But which forty-nine?”
“The emails!” Reid exclaimed.
“You mean the ten thousand emails?” asked Frankie dejectedly.
“There may be some flights that aren’t in the emails.”
Turner shook his head. “And what if there’s another list of emails we haven’t found?”
“Good point,” said Frankie. “So where does that leave us?”
“Wondering if what Carson’s doing may be the right thing?” ventured Reid.
“How many people on a plane?” asked Frankie.
“Depends on the plane,” said Turner, looking at the list at the types they had noted down. “On a Boeing 767–300, maybe three hundred. On a triple 7, maybe nearer four hundred and on a 747, over five hundred. And as for the Airbus A380s, I think there can be over seven hundred.”
“We’ve got hundreds of flights.”
“But they won’t all be full,” said Reid.
“Let’s pray to God they’re not,” said Frankie. “But even half full, that’s still over a hundred thousand people if they’re all on the smaller planes.”
“For forty-nine carriers?”
“Not by the time they land here. That’s forty-nine times, say an A380’s planeload of passengers…” she said, punching the buttons on the calculator. She whistled. “…over thirty-four thousand carriers.”
“So what do we do?” asked Reid.
Franking began collecting up their papers. “There’s only one person who can stop Carson.”
“Stop him doing what though, saving the nation?” asked Turner.
“President Mitchell’s a good man. I can’t believe he’d allow Carson to do this,” she protested. Whatever the case, whether justifiable or not, she couldn’t help but feel partly to blame. This was all because of a man she had loved, trusted and whose child she was carrying. Her child, no matter how innocent, would have the genes of a man responsible for the needless deaths of over a hundred thousand lives. She was not giving up while there was still something they could do.
“You don’t just walk into the White House and see the President?”
“I’ll call Bill, he’ll get us in,” she said confidently.
“Bill?” Reid asked Turner, as Frankie grabbed her cell.
“I assume she means Bill Jameson, the head of the President’s Secret Service detail.”
“We’ve got ten minutes, an hour from now,” said Frankie.
Chapter 82
Prince Abdullah Bin Fahd Al Khaled stretched out on the lounger by his poolside Cote D’Azur retreat. The luxury mansion, one of many dotting the small outcrop of opulence on the spectacular French coastline, was a favorite of royalty and the new Russian Oligarchs. Prince Abdullah looked out to the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean and was able to see the super yacht that awaited him, should he wish to spend a day at sea.
It had been a torturous few weeks, constantly under surveillance by the Americans who, although unable to link him with any involvement with the fugitive Nick Geller, had insisted on watching him quite openly day and night. Despite many protests to a number of Senators and Congressmen, many of whom would find far smaller campaign pots, nothing had been done until that very morning.
The prince had woken up to his head of security informing him that the cars stationed outside the mansion had gone, as had the speed boats that had sat permanently off shore. The Americans were gone. His watchers had finally gotten the message. He wondered which Senator had actually managed to grow a pair. The letter of apology from the United States of America’s Secretary of State that arrived by special courier shortly after 9:00 a.m., offering a personal apology from the United States, was as unexpected as it was welcome.
Despite the watchers, the prince had still managed to stay in touch with the preparations that would see the Americans on their knees. They could monitor e-mails, phone calls, listen in to everything — even through walls — and photograph everything he was doing, but they couldn’t stop the small handwritten notes that had been delivered to him on regular intervals over the last few weeks. His nephew, Walid, like himself, a true believer, had kept him in the loop. Very few people had any idea of the scale of the operation that was underway. It was part of the compartmentalization of the plan. Nobody would have any idea what they needed to prepare for, nor if any individual were captured would they know there if were one hundred others like them, one thousand, ten thousand or one hundred thousand. The authorities, even if one man were captured, would be as in the dark as they had been before. It was quite brilliant.
Of course, Walid was aware of the number due to his helping prepare the final details and had explained how vital it was for his uncle to keep the number to himself, detailing how Nick had killed every one of the bookers to keep that number from ever getting out. As far as the jihadists were concerned, they knew they were part of an army but none would have any idea just how large.
Prince Abdullah checked his watch, just after lunch. The final plane would be boarding, the final flight carrying the greatest warriors of Islam and their leaders to fight for Allah. Taking his word and his sword to the infidels, he couldn’t have been prouder. He almost wished he were joining them, boarding one of the flights, just as Mohammed Farsi was. Just as Mustafa Ghazi was, just as any one of the many leaders that would take the battle to the streets of America. He had his role, just as Nick had promised. He had received the letter just a few days earlier. He was to fill the leadership void that would be created by the attack. Prince Abdullah bin Fahd Al Khaled was to be the new Caliph.
Prince Abdullah bin Fahd Al Khaled, as the new Caliph, would broadcast to the world the commencement of the war in America. He would tell the world of the virus that Allah had sent to plague the infidels. He would preach to them and tell them to pray to Allah for forgiveness for the sinful lives they had led. He would lead the jihadists who had not made the grade. Without a leader of his strength, Nick and the former Caliph had feared for the future of the jihadists. But they owed it to Allah to take his greatest warriors and leaders into battle. Many would return but in the meantime, Prince Abdullah held the future of the true believers and faithful in his hands.
Up until that morning, with the Americans watching everything he did, it would have been impossible. Their leaving was another sign that Allah was watching over them. Allah was ensuring that his will and the will of the Caliph, peace be upon him, would be delivered.
He stretched once again and stood up. He had a video recording to prepare for and a cause that needed a strong and powerful leader.
Flynn paddled the surfboard further out to sea. He checked that his three colleagues were still with him. It had been a lucky break, quite literally, for only five days each year the surf broke in the way it had that morning when they had arrived. Up until they had spotted the wave, they were struggling to see a way to get close without being too obvious. He looked around and spotted Prince Abdullah’s mansion. The house was exceptionally well protected. Walled on three sides, motion sensors and cameras covered every square inch. If there were any weaknesses in the system, Flynn hadn’t been able to find them, nor had the CIA team that had been permanently camped watching him for the previous few weeks. Even if there had been a weakness, the twenty-plus man security force, almost all ex Spetsnaz troopers, would have more than filled it.