Inside Threat (34 page)

Thursday, September 15, 1:10 p.m. EDT

Khadi had seen people die. She had even caused people to die. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared her for what she had just witnessed. In the minutes that followed, she forced herself to keep her eyes open because every time they closed, she saw the neck split halfway through, then finally separate. She heard the cries, the gurgles, the tears of flesh, the snap of cartilage. And that moment—that one moment—when Clayson Andrews's eyes froze in their terror and the light was extinguished.

No one deserves that. No matter who they are or what they've done, no one deserves to go through that agony. It's evil, pure and simple.

As Alavi supervised and Saifullah watched from the right archway, Senator Andrews's head was placed in a plastic garbage bag that was tightly cinched, then tied. The tripod and camera were lifted up next to her on the stone bench, and three men came in and began rolling the body up in the tarp. Khadi was surprised at their macabre efficiency.

“After you deposit the body downstairs,” Alavi said to them, “be sure to really rinse down the tarp. Otherwise, it will foul very quickly. We only have two others, so we need to make them last.”

“Yes, sir,” the three said in ragged unison.

Once that task was done and the three had left with the body, two more came in with buckets and rags to scrub the walls and floor of any blood that had sprayed or had somehow spread past the borders of the tarp.

“So what did you think?” Saifullah asked Khadi, walking back into the room. Alavi stood and moved to the bay's entrance.

“I think you are all animals,” she said, refusing to look up at him.

“Ha! And you in America are all soft. You send your military to commit atrocities around the world, but the moment it comes to your shores, you crumble, you break, you gasp in horror. ‘I can't believe people would do such a thing,' you cry out. But your own military—your own young men and women—are committing the same acts on innocents in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“That's a bunch of lies, and you know it. Quit building straw men to justify your own sins.”

“You talk of sins. You know nothing of sin! Until you see the mangled bodies, the orphaned children, the starving villages—all created by your government and your military—you have no right to talk to me about sins!”

“Is that why you're doing this? To force us to withdraw our troops?” she asked, finally looking up at him, mockery in her eyes. “If so, you're a bigger fool than I thought you to be.”

Saifullah laughed and leaned close. “This isn't about a political agenda. I have no illusions of stopping any war. This is about revenge, pure and simple. Do you think anyone is going to get out of here alive? We'll slaughter these pigs one by one, while the sports dads and soccer moms look on in fascinated horror. Then, when Ramadan is over, we're going to blow this place up and everyone in it. It will be like when the mythical Samson collapsed the roof of the pagan temple on everyone below. It was a worthy sacrifice, an honorable death.”

Although her heart ached at what she heard, Khadi wasn't surprised. “From the moment I saw you, I could tell you were an evil, two-faced madman.”

Saifullah's hand slapped hard across Khadi's cheek. She dropped her face to avoid another blow.

“I had always heard you were feisty. We'll see how long that lasts.”

“Long enough to put a bullet in your head,” Khadi mumbled.

“What was that?”

Khadi looked up and stared him in the eyes. “I said, long enough to put a bullet in your sorry head.”

Saifullah's smile faded and he held her stare. Finally he said, “Well, you had better do it soon, because your mouth has made you a liability. I have decided that tomorrow you will die.”

Khadi tried not to let the fear show in her eyes, but she knew he had tagged her with a blow she couldn't hide. Dropping her head, she stared at the floor and tried to let his words fade from her consciousness—to pretend she wasn't really where she was and that she hadn't really just heard that today was her last full day on this planet.

Saifullah grunted with satisfaction.

Suddenly she heard urgent whispering. Keeping her head down, she glanced up and saw the cameraman in a quiet, intense conversation with Alavi.

“What is it?” Saifullah said.

“One moment, sir,” Alavi said, holding up a single finger. He asked another question of the cameraman, impatiently listened to the answer, then drove his hand into the base of the man's neck, pinning him to the inside curve of the archway.

“And you are sure it was nothing you did?” he hissed, just loud enough for her to hear. “You aren't trying to cover your own mistake?”

“No, sir! I swear! It was from the outside!”

“Very well,” Alavi said, releasing the man. “Go.”

The cameraman hurried away.

“The Internet connection went down,” Alavi said, walking toward Saifullah.

“What? When?”

“During the execution. The ones who were monitoring the broadcast said that as soon as the first cut was made, the signal ended.”

Saifullah stood and fumed. Then, turning to Khadi, he accused, “You see? This is why we will win! Unlike you, we are strong!”

“Unlike you, we are human,” Khadi retorted.

Saifullah stepped toward her raising his hand. She lowered her head, preparing for the blow. It never came. Instead, she heard the two men in conversation.

“How much longer until the phone call?” Saifullah asked.

Alavi checked his watch. “Less than a minute.”

“Give me the phone.”

While Saifullah moved to the left archway with the phone, Alavi lifted himself onto Woodrow Wilson's stone casket and sat watching Khadi. She could feel his eyes on her but tried to block him out. She couldn't imagine what he was thinking about—what evil was mulling around in that mind of his. But she knew that if she spent too much time thinking about it, her thoughts would end up descending to the same dark places where his dwelled.

The phone chirped.

“To whom am I speaking?” Saifullah asked when he answered the call. “Scott Ross? I recognize your name. I think we may have a friend in common,” he said, looking at Khadi. “Well, Mr. Ross, it seems you owe me an explanation.”

At the sound of Scott's name, Khadi's heart soared. Suddenly, she felt hope again. Even though she had known that he and the rest of the team absolutely had to be out there, to know that Scott was leading the charge made it seem like maybe—just maybe—she would survive this after all.

After a long pause, Saifullah looked toward Alavi and shook his head. To Scott he said angrily, “I'm afraid your explanation is not acceptable. . . . Why, Mr. Ross? Because it's a complete fabrication, and I don't like being lied to. . . . You may apologize all you want, but there is still a penalty that must be paid. And I believe it must be one severe enough that you will think twice before going against my orders a second time.” Saifullah turned toward Khadi as he said this.

The icy hand of fear gripped her heart, and all the hope she had been feeling just a moment ago was gone.
I'm going to die,
she thought.
Right here, right now. I'm going to die. Oh, dear God—Allah, Jehovah, whichever one you are; I don't know anymore—God, please let me live. Please, oh please, let me live.

“Isn't it a little early in the game for you to be asking for mercy, Mr. Ross? . . . Yes, I understand this isn't a game. Please excuse my improper choice of words. . . . Because I am holding all the power. Why should I not be calm? . . . No, my mind is made up. A penalty must be paid and will be paid. Is this the number that I should use to contact you? . . . The discussion is over. I will be in touch. Good-bye, Mr. Ross.”

Saifullah walked to Khadi and crouched down in front of her. “From what I remember reading, Scott Ross was the third partner in your sordid adventures with Riley Covington.”

When Khadi didn't answer, he continued, “I wonder, could there possibly be a stronger message to him than to see your dead body roll out of the front doors?”

Khadi felt numb inside. She wanted to plead for her life—to promise him anything just to let her live. But something deep inside her—pride, hatred, loyalty, or simply training—caused her to swallow her pleas and remain silent.

“Look at me, Khadi.”

Khadi kept her head down.

“I said look . . . at . . . me!”

Khadi raised her eyes to meet his.

He took hold of her chin. His hands were surprisingly soft and smelled like Jergens lotion. “Do you know the two things I hate most in this world? Disloyalty and cowardice. And while you have chosen incorrectly in your allegiances—a choice that will undoubtedly soon cost you your life—you are certainly neither disloyal nor a coward. However, the man who gave up your identity? He has both of those treacherous qualities. Do you know the man of whom I speak?”

Khadi nodded once.

“Did you know he made a deal with Mr. Alavi—your name for his freedom?” Saifullah shook his head. “
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
What kind of a man is that?”

Then, after a pause, he said, “I have decided that you will live to see tomorrow.”

Saifullah released her, and she dropped her head into her hands and broke down. She hated herself for doing it—for showing that kind of weakness—but she couldn't help it. Her emotions had been such a roller coaster over these past hours; she had absolutely no control anymore.

Through her tears, she heard Saifullah grunt, then say to Alavi, “Bring me the one who betrayed her. He will be the one.”

On hearing those words, her sobs increased even more. But this increase didn't originate in any sort of sorrow over Tyson Bryson being chosen or because she felt any compassion for him. Instead, it came from the fact that she knew deep down, in those dark recesses of the soul where few are brave enough to tread, she was glad that if someone had to die, he was the one.

You're safe now, Mom and Dad. Your secret, whatever it is, will die with him.

Thursday, September 15, 1:30 p.m. EDT

Crouching low, Riley, Scott, Skeeter, and Stanley Porter made their way along the police tape about a hundred feet back from the north side of the cathedral. Most of the noise and confusion nearby had died down. The released hostages had all been gathered in one area to await buses that would transport them to a facility where they could be debriefed. Now it was back to business as usual with police officers tucked behind their cruisers, guns pointed at the building where the bad guys were holed up with their hostages.

Stopping, Riley pointed to an entryway to the crypt level. “See? Over there. I'm just saying, those doors are going to be secured and possibly wired. But those windows—there're simply too many of them to wire up.”

Porter nodded his agreement. Although he had initially made quite evident his lack of enthusiasm at Riley forcing himself onto the leadership team, he had apparently decided to live with it. Riley knew he had Scott to thank for that.
Will the wonders of the Great Scottini never cease?

“Do we know where they lead to?” Porter asked.

Riley looked to Scott, who shrugged distractedly. “Downstairs?”

“Maybe you could get Evie to give us a slightly more precise answer,” Riley said sarcastically.

“In a minute,” Scott said.

Riley could see he was processing, so he decided to give him some space. Turning to Skeeter, he said, “I'm thinking that with some kind of diversion, we could have two teams of twelve—one east, one west—across the grass and through the windows in thirty seconds, forty tops.”

“Mmmm,” Skeeter agreed.

“But we've still got the vests,” Porter said. “They're the wildcard that trumps all of our plans. All we'd need is one tripped alarm, one broken window, and the whole place could go up.”

“That's what I'm wrestling with,” Scott said. “I've got Gooey compiling the best enhanced shots he can of those devices. If we can figure out how they're put together, we can figure out a way to neutralize them.”

Scott pulled a hand to his earpiece. “Evie says the front door's opening,” he told the others, and they ran west toward the cathedral's entrance.

From their vantage point behind the lead cars, they watched as a single man poked his head out the door. A moment later he was pushed, and the door closed behind him.

His hair was disheveled, and his face looked like he had been struck a few times. He was jacketless but still wore an expensive-looking tie around the collar of his tailored white shirt. Over the shirt and tie, looking like the waistcoat of a mismatched three-piece suit, was a khaki green safari vest. The four front pockets of the vest bulged, and external wires connected all the pockets together. He carried an envelope in his hand.