The CNN anchor confirmed it, and then it was picked up by the other networks too; and then more footage came through, more reports, from more and more airports. The same thing was happening everywhere; or, Quraishi perceived very quickly, everywhere that he had sent one of his beloved martyrs.
What was going on?
But as the hours passed, and the TV news reports got their own camera crews to the airports, Quraishi saw with his own eyes as they were emptied of civilians; FBI, HAZMAT and military personnel taking their places. And if Quraishi wasn’t mistaken, it looked like some of the military personnel were carrying flamethrowers.
The authorities were remaining silent on the subject, but everyone in the world would know what was going on; everyone except the bombers themselves, cut off as they were from the outside world. Even if they’d had their cell phones switched on, Quraishi was sure that US intelligence would be jamming the signals anyway.
How had it happened? What had gone wrong?
Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing that by now they would be tracking the airwaves for any sign of his voice, aware that by making the call he could be leading the authorities to his door, he could contain himself no longer.
His plan was falling apart at the seams, and he grabbed his telephone and put the call through to Mecca.
Cole was pleased that the counter-offensive was going exactly as planned.
The airports had all been evacuated with no prior press knowledge, and specialist teams had been moved in to greet the flights as they landed.
FBI hostage rescue teams had rapidly separated the terrorists from the rest of the passengers, and then the military flamethrower personnel had gone into action.
It wasn’t pretty but Cole knew it was the safest way, the only way they could be sure. They just didn’t know when the spores would erupt, how much time they had; all they knew was that extreme heat killed the virus.
And so time after time, each terrorist had been isolated from their fellow travelers and immolated — fried to a crisp right there on the runway tarmac, the virus eradicated along with their bodies.
Cole was just glad that there had been no press coverage of that — despite the risk that millions might die, nobody wanted to see men and women being burned to death.
Cole had been informed that the dead bodies were then immediately secured and put into quarantine for further examination.
The suicide bombers spanned both sexes, all ages, and many ethnicities — from eighteen year old Abdullah Hussein of Medina, to fifty-eight year old Maria Guttenberg of Berlin — and Cole again wondered what terrible turn of fate had led them to the point where they had wished to throw their lives away and attempt to commit such an atrocious act of genocide.
But still Cole didn’t know what had happened to that twenty-first injection, and it pained him even as the good news about the rest of the terrorists was reported.
It was then that he heard the cell phone ringing from the trouser leg of Amir al-Hazmi, and left the desk to fish it out of the dead man’s pocket.
He answered the call but didn’t speak.
And for several long, drawn out seconds, the person on the other end of the line didn’t speak either.
But then, as if the frustration was too much to bear, Cole heard the familiar lilting tones of Abd al-Aziz Quraishi break over the line. ‘Amir?’ the man said in desperation. ‘Amir, is that you?’
‘I’m afraid the Hammer can’t come to the phone right now,’ Cole said. ‘He’s dead.’
No. It couldn’t be.
The voice on the other end of the line was the man he had met in Riyadh, the covert agent Jeb Richards had warned him about.
Mark Cole.
The Asset.
But how had he found the safe house?
In the next instant, Quraishi realized that this was how the US authorities had destroyed his plan — Cole had discovered the safe house and fed them the information held there. And the safe house had everything. Identification, flight plans, medical information. Everything.
Quraishi’s heart sank. Had Cole really managed to kill al-Hazmi? It seemed impossible; but he had seen the man in action, and Quraishi was forced to admit that perhaps impossible was the wrong word.
But then he remembered the one piece of information that was not recorded back at the safe house; the identity of the twenty-first recipient of the injected virus.
It had been a last-minute change of plan, but Quraishi had seen the opportunity and seized it.
He was now very glad that he had done so; it gave him one last chance, one last hope in his crusade.
He prayed to Allah that the last suicide bomber would remain undiscovered; the damage he could create would be the worst of all.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Quraishi said with as much bravado as he could muster. ‘This is not the end, my friend, it is not the end at all. I have more options than you think.’
‘If you’re talking about the last suicide bomber,’ the voice fired back at him, ‘then we’re one step ahead of you on that, I’m afraid.’
Could the man be telling the truth? Did they know who it was?
But Quraishi reasoned that it was just bluster — if he really knew, he would have said who it was.
Quraishi laughed mockingly. ‘Do not give me that,’ he said. ‘The truth is that you have no idea, no idea whatsoever, who that person is.’ He laughed again, confidence rising in him once again. ‘And you won’t know right up until the moment that the spores erupt and he sends your accursed nation back into the dark ages.’
Quraishi suddenly remembered about the intelligence services which might be tracking him, and hung up immediately, pleased to have got the last word in.
He looked around the apartment one final time.
No matter what happened to his last hope, the man he believed could take the fight right to the enemy’s doorstep, Quraishi himself knew he had already outstayed his welcome here.
It was time to move.
Cole heard the dial tone and replaced the handset.
The trouble was, Quraishi was right — he had no idea who the last bomber was.
But Quraishi had said he, so at least Cole knew that it was a man. Unless Quraishi had purposefully been trying to mislead him?
He sighed. Quraishi seemed so confident. Why? What made this last person so special? What were they going to do? Where were they going to attack?
When Cole realized which target would have the most impact on America, he suddenly understood who the bomber could be.
And the unbelievable part of it was that he might not even realize it himself.
10
There had been a great deal of mutual backslapping throughout Conference Room One as the confirmed kills of each and every identified terrorist had been fed back to the security council throughout the afternoon.
But the specter of the unknown bomber hovered over all of them, souring the mood considerably.
Richards watched everyone closely, pleased that nobody was eying him with any sort of suspicion. Not yet anyway; but he was sure that in the weeks and months to come, congressional hearings would thoroughly investigate his relationship with Quraishi.
He would have to move some money around, make the trail so hard to follow that the authorities would simply give up before they got to him; but he still intended to stay in Washington. If he left now, his guilt would be obvious to everyone.
He watched President Abrams talking again on the telephone, then turning to whisper something to General Olsen. What the hell were they talking about now?