Countdown to Mecca (31 page)

Their host did not look pleased. Sammy didn't care. The mission was what mattered, not making sure that this thug liked him. That in itself was a big step for Jack's half brother.

“What I really need is information on these IP addresses that were used to access the web building sites. They don't come up in a regular search, and even if they did, I couldn't coordinate them to actual users. But the IPs have records that can. They'll know who was using the computer, or at least they'll have an account and address that can be traced. Can you do that for me?”

Dover thought about it for only a moment. Then she tapped Sammy on the upper arm. “Move over,” she said in a clipped, professional tone. In a moment, she was seated and her fingers did their own keyboard flying. Screens popped up and vanished on the monitor.

Sol and Ric exchanged quietly delighted looks. Boaz was studying the woman's every move. Even if she erased the trail when she was done, the Israelis now had a safe way into what they assumed would be the FBI's computer network.

In less than three minutes Dover said “Go,” and Sammy was indeed tied into the FBI system. She returned his seat to him. It was as if a brand-new universe had suddenly opened for him.

“Oh, and gentlemen?” Dover said to Sol and his minions. “Once those keystrokes are used, the computer resets. That was my way in for today only.”

“
Mazel tov,
” Sol said. “You don't think I have my own resources?”

“I'm sure you do,” she said, replicating the glance he shared with Ric. “You just don't have mine.”

As Sammy tapped away, looking like a kid on Christmas, Ana was at his side. Ric went to walk Eddie while Miwa prepared the dog's food. Boaz drifted downstairs to see if Ritu needed any help, knowing that she didn't, but also knowing that she didn't mind him checking. Dover, meanwhile, drifted away with Sol at her side.

“Can we call a truce?” she asked.

“Who was at war?” Sol asked innocently.

“We were,” she replied. “We
are
.” She dipped her head toward Ana. “You like women you can control.”

“I won't deny that,” he said.

“Good. At least you're honest.”

“Most mobsters are,” he said. “Otherwise, deals couldn't be made by handshakes. You only need written contracts when people are crooks.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “So: where are they now?”

“On their way back to Riyadh,” Sol informed her. He crooked his head toward Sammy. “What he's saying checks out with what Jack and Doc found.”

“I know,” Dover said. “Why do you think I connected him with our system so readily?” She exhaled slowly, thinking furiously. “As monstrous as a strike on Israel and then Saudi Arabia is to start with, why make a
fake
weapon of mass destruction? Is Brooks now so twisted that he would create a perverted game like this just to keep Jack jumping?”

“At the cost of more than a dozen innocent men's lives?” Sol asked. “I don't think so. Anything is possible, but on the basis of all our research, Brooks is still sane.” Sol shrugged.

“But if he is the man behind this, and if he pulls it off, millions will be killed, so who knows? Maybe he just doesn't care about human life anymore, his, or anyone else's.” Dover nodded. “Yes, all our research also said that Brooks, and Morton, for that matter, seemed to think they were doing the right thing. But at this point I don't think I'd be surprised if we found out they had been replaced by aliens or terrorists who had plastic surgery.”

Sol snorted. “And your superiors are still not on board?”

Dover snorted in return. “What do you think, Sol? They're sane and consider imaginations a detriment to the job. All I can do—all I've been doing—is to point out web chatter and say, ‘That looks interesting.'”

“Got something!” Sammy interrupted.

The others came back to the computer consoles, Sol and Dover in the lead. Boaz had returned and joined them.

“I tracked down the Internet providers that had accessed the Firebird's websites,” Sammy told them. “One was a large provider in Tel Aviv. The other was a very small company in Haifa that not only recorded every single access made by its customers, but had a data exchange policy with the American FBI, thanks to an ongoing money laundering case Israel and the United States were trying to crack. The user who had accessed the Firebird site had also spent considerable time in a secure chat room located in Estonia where participants communicated via encrypted messages.”

“I can get a subpoena,” said Dover. “And we can look at their logs.”

“We don't need a subpoena,” said Sammy. He signed out of the FBI system—causing Boaz to start visibly and Dover to grin; the tech ace would probably have loved to try and backtrack—then put his computer skills to use on his brother's back-up laptop so the penetration would be harder to track. “I started by testing the system's front end. The security was excellent—unless you had the credentials of an administrator, in which case, you had full access to everything on its servers. So how do I convince it I'm an administrator?”

They watched him type in a nonsense series of numbers and letters, then tap return. Access denied. They watched as he did it two more times. Access denied, access denied. “Sammy…” Sol started. But it was Ric, back from doggy duty, who held up a finger and smiled.

Sammy did it a fourth time, and then another message popped up on screen. “Forget Your Password?”

“Why, yes, I did,” he told the machine, clicking the yes box with a big smile.

A temporary password dropped into the still-open e-mail account a few seconds later and they were off and running. For the next thirty minutes, Sammy, Dover, and Ric scanned the log books, while Boaz and Sol looked on, and the other women started preparing a meal for everyone.

When the trio finally left the computers, they didn't feel like eating. Still, they sat with the others and conferred in miserable tones.

“Convinced?” Sammy asked Dover.

“That another group created a fake bomb as a diversion? Yes. But only because your brother found out that it already happened. Although we know the alternate conspirators' screen names and locations, the damage is already done and they're probably long gone by now.”

Sammy looked crestfallen. Ana put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder before Dover continued.

“But,” she said, “I am also convinced that a group of seemingly sane men were, or are, still plotting to detonate a device in or over Mecca. Whether or not they have, or will, accomplish their goal, I'm not sure.”

“You understand that we have to proceed as if they have,” Sol maintained. “If Brooks wants a war with the Muslims by destroying Mecca, it's our necks next.”

“Of course,” said Dover.

“All they're going to do is piss Islam off so bad they'll fight to the death,” Boaz added.

“It's like the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor.”

“Except in this case, Brooks wants that fight,” Sammy emphasized. “He wants a fight to their death. That's what this is all about.”

“What if we just tell the Saudis?” Dover considered.

“You think they'll believe you?” Sol asked pointedly. “And if you're wrong…” He looked around the table. “If we're all wrong, kiss your career, and my cover, good-bye.” After that, they all sat, literally and figuratively, chewing on it. Finally, Ana could stand it no longer.

“So what can we do?” she cried.

Dover straightened, brought her head up, and pushed back from the table. “I don't know about you, but I'm going back to my office to start barking orders and taking names.” Sol's eyebrows raised. He had said the same thing seemingly a lifetime ago, and realized he had not done so since. He stood with her, then Sammy joined them.

“In Jack I trust,” Dover said, heading for the safe house's door. “He found the fake bomb. Maybe now he'll find the real one.”

 

42

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

It was not the same Jack Hatfield who deplaned the private jet at the airport as the one who had gotten on it less than a day before. And the change was more than just the fact that he had showered, rested, and changed into a new suit and tie on board. His expression was different—more experienced, more knowledgeable, and far more angry. He carried his notepad as if it were a cleaver.

Jack felt a pang when he didn't see the smiling face of Jimmy waiting by the car—just a sunglassed, blank-faced chauffeur from the prince's office—but then his fleeting lock of loss and regret passed, and his eyes became cold and determined.

Doc's eyebrows lifted admiringly at the sight of the car. It was a 1996 Bentley Rapier, specially modified to be a stretch limousine, with far more back-seat room than originally designed. Considering that the original car was priced at more than four million dollars, Doc couldn't imagine how much this one cost.

The world could be coming to an end and material things still grab our attention,
he thought with a touch of self-reproach.
Then again,
he asked himself,
what is life if not a succession of little joys in the midst of trials and turmoil?

The blank-faced driver's head only turned as Doc, also freshly suited, was about to get in after Jack. “I was told there would be an interpreter with you,” he said in perfect English, albeit with a thin Arabian accent.

Doc stopped, straightened, and looked down on the man. He considered saying “
He's buried with work
,” but, in deference to his honored, fallen comrade, he didn't take the occasion to make a quip. “He's indisposed,” Doc said simply. “But do we really need an interpreter? I hear the prince's English is perfect.”

The chauffeur thought about it. “That is true,” he agreed. “Very well.”

Doc got in after Jack, now regretting that he hadn't made the Bond-ish comment. He realized Jimmy would have liked it. He settled into the plush, luxurious passenger section of the Bentley beside Jack, who waited until the chauffeur had closed the one-way privacy partition.

“Do you think they have listening devices installed back here?” he asked.

“Of course,” Doc replied. “
Salaam alaikum
, Prince Riad al-Saud. All our best to you, and thank you for your hospitality.”

“You're kidding?” Jack asked.

“I most certainly am not,” Doc replied. “Don't say anything in here you wouldn't say to his face,” he advised. Then his expression became concerned and solicitous. “How are you holding up?”

Jack thought about using the most general and clich
é
d of terms, but decided honesty was the best policy. “I've interviewed my share of important people, but I've never interviewed a Saudi prince,” he admitted.

“Sends a thrill up my leg, I know,” Doc said.

Jack shot him a look. “I've certainly never interviewed an individual where the stakes were so high.”

“I'll give you that,” Doc said as he glanced at the smoky glass partition, imagining the driver both listening and watching through either a mirror or closed-circuit screen, then grinned.

“I mean, we're not just talking about the weather,” Jack replied. “This is about world peace.”

Doc chuckled mirthlessly. “The jokes on me, though,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“If I keep winning battles like this, I'm out of business.”

Jack smiled at that. It was true. A professional soldier fighting for peace; just showed what a stand-up guy Doc truly was.

Having had their say, the two leaned back and enjoyed the ride to the prince's compound, marveling at what oil billions can buy in the way of architecture.
Apparently,
Jack thought,
Vegas with an overactive thyroid and delusions of grandeur
. Jack stared at the excess with its arguable taste, but, strangely, found himself not thinking of the looming interview, but of the clocks he wanted to work on next. He thought of Eddie. He thought of Dover. He felt her hand sliding down his neck. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine the warmth of her fingers as they sat out on the concrete deck of his apartment, the electricity of her touch as her hand slid down his arm, across his chest, and back toward his hip. Her fingers lingered over his thigh—

“Hey.”

Jack snapped out of his brief, happy memory. “What?” he asked, trying to sound innocent.

“We're here,” Doc informed him.

Jack blinked. Prince Riad al-Saud headed the Ministry of Minerals and Resources. While the ministry's main office was on Airport Road near the Riyadh airport, the prince's personal office was in the Al Faisaliyah Center in the business district. This was in keeping with his position within the royal family, and a nod to his status as a powerful, up-and-coming young man.

The building was a monumental, four-sided pyramid, more rocket than skyscraper, with a glinting globe supporting the peak. The globe held a three-story restaurant; a world-class hotel took up several floors. At nearly nine hundred feet, it topped the Transamerica Pyramid by twenty feet, and would have dazzled anyone anywhere in the world.

Deposited right outside the door, they were met on the sidewalk by a man in a white suit. Addressing Jack as “The Honored Mr. Hatfield,” he led them across the wide plaza to a door at the side of the main lobby, ushering them past a red velvet rope and the watchful eyes of two private security guards whose crisply tailored suits didn't quite hide the pistols strapped to their chests. The greeter deposited them in an elevator; the doors closed as he stepped back, bowing his head slightly in good-bye.

There was no panel on the elevator to indicate where it was going. The only control was a single button with lettering in Arabic and the word
HELP
in English. Jack tried to find a joke in that but there wasn't time. The elevator whisked them to their assigned floor within seconds of the doors closing. The car opened on a marble hallway bathed in light from the nearby windows. Three men in robes and headdresses were waiting for them.