Jihad (24 page)

The
Süper Ekspresier,
also known as the Blue Train, was considered a luxury express, but that was only in comparison to most Turkish trains. The first-class compartments were on the small side and were almost all empty. The coaches, on the other hand, were packed, with people crowded into the seats. The cars dated from the 1970s, and while they had been refurbished, their dull carpets and poor lighting were a reminder why train travel had flagged in that era.

It took six hours for the train to get to Ankara. Lia spent the time haunted by memories of Pinchon, dozing off once only to wake with a start, convinced that he was leaning next to her in the seat.

“We’re pretty sure they’re getting off and going to the airport,” Marie Telach told Lia as the train neared the Ankara station. “It looks like they’re bound for Riyadh.”

The Art Room had identified their aliases and booked a pair of the CIA people onto the flight. In the meantime, a trail team was already covering the train station, tasked to stay with the Saudis until they got on the plane.

“Mr. Rubens would like you to go to Riyadh,” Telach told her. “We’ve alerted the CIA station chief there as well as the Saudis. You’ll have plenty of backup.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Lia asked.

“Continue surveillance. The next move may have to be up to Saudis because of diplomatic considerations,” Telach added. “That’s still being worked out.”

“Goodness knows we wouldn’t want to upset the Saudis.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Telach, for once as cynical and sarcastic as Lia. “We don’t want you to take the same plane as your targets. Do you want to catch a nap at a hotel?”

“Not worth it.”

“Are you all right, Lia? You haven’t slept.”

“I don’t feel like sleeping. I’ll get something to eat at the airport. Book me onto the earliest flight you can.”

CHAPTER 73

MARID DABIR STARED at the television screen, watching the report of the deaths in Turkey. The authorities clearly had been tipped off to the pending attack, or otherwise they would not have had so many men in the area when the bomb exploded.

Dabir avoided the obvious conclusion until a photo of the dead attacker flashed on the screen. The European al-Qaeda organizer recognized him immediately: it was one of Asad’s bodyguards, the one who stayed closest to him during Dabir’s visit to Istanbul.

That made it all too clear who the traitor must be, didn’t it?

Asad bin Taysr was the only person outside of Dabir’s trusted circle who knew the target in Germany—yet didn’t know the plan well enough to allow the police to stop it. The bodyguard who might have implicated him had been eliminated. Most likely the man had been urged to his death by Asad, who would have been sure he would kill himself as soon as the police spotted him.

A traitor to his brothers, to his religion, to God.

There would be more betrayals. Eventually, the traitor would lead the Crusaders to Osama bin Laden himself.

He must be stopped before that happened.

Dabir rose from the table and walked to the counter of the airport lounge. He scratched his chin as he ordered another coffee. He’d shaved off his beard for the first time in more than five years and dyed his hair silver gray, matching the old picture in the Belgian passport in his pocket. He had a flight to Moscow in three hours. Though he hated the city, it was a place where he knew he would be safe.

This was not a time to be safe. It was a time to act. He would have to eliminate Asad bin Taysr now, before it was too late. Only he was in a position to do so.

Asad would go to the U.S. to deliver instructions for the rest of the attacks there. Al-Qaeda protocol decreed that the final orders be delivered in person so there was no chance of interception and no mistake in interpretation. Perhaps he was already there. Perhaps it was too late to stop him.

Dabir refused to consider that possibility. If Asad had gone to the U.S., he would meet with only the most secure and committed cells in the country. Three years ago, that would have meant Detroit, Phoenix, and San Francisco.

Now, though?

Perhaps the same. Dabir had helped build the American network and still had many personal contacts there. He could find out quickly, if he went there.

“Three euros,” said the man at the counter.

Dabir reached for his wallet. He could get to Detroit easily enough, and there were brothers there he could count on, brothers whom he had trained and helped plant years ago. They would owe their allegiance to him, not Asad.

He could have them meet him in Ontario, base his operations there. Phoenix would be his next stop, more difficult to deal with than Detroit, though he liked the weather much better.

Dabir took out one of the BlackBerrys he could use to communicate with associates. A set of chips had been added to the guts of the devices, allowing them to encrypt messages. He tapped out a message in English: “Changing plans. Will advise.” Then he went to see if he could arrange a flight to Toronto.

CHAPTER 74

RELATIVES AND LIMO drivers crowded the door near the exit from customs at John F. Kennedy Airport, clamoring for loved ones and clients in a patter that mixed New York verve with tender pleading. Dr. Ramil dodged to the left, avoiding a happy young wife as she rushed to greet a husband just back from overseas. Her overflowing emotions encouraged him, as if happiness were not only contagious but a cure for the unsettled panic he’d been fighting against since Istanbul.

It had been some time since he’d been in New York City, and he wasn’t quite sure how best to get to Baltimore. He’d decided on the plane that he would call for advice, but now he changed his mind; perhaps staying the night in New York would soothe him further. Besides, he didn’t feel like talking to Rubens and the others just yet.

“Doctor. I hope your trip was a good one.”

Ramil spun around. Kevin Montblanc was standing at the end of the line, his walruslike moustache twitching as he spoke.

“Come on this way. Is that your only bag?”

“I hadn’t expected you,” Ramil told Montblanc. Montblanc was Desk Three’s operations personnel director, a kind of glorified den mother who looked after the Desk Three operatives. He was a psychologist, overly fond—in Ramil’s opinion—of touchy-feely phrases and open-ended questions.

“Thought you could use a lift. And I was in the neighborhood.” This was obviously meant as a joke, for Montblanc laughed. He wore a wrinkled linen suit; on the portly side, he waddled just a bit as he led Ramil to the door and then across to the short-term parking garage, pointing him to a green GMC Jimmy.

The car was hot. Ramil lowered the window, as much to stare at the sights as suck in oxygen.

By the time they hit the highway and the local traffic, the air conditioner had lowered the temperature to a comfortable sixty-nine degrees. Montblanc turned off the radio—it had been playing Chopin—and raised the windows.

“Feel like talking?” he asked.

Ramil didn’t, but saying that to Montblanc would only make things more difficult later on.

“I was exhausted,” Ramil told him, trying to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. “And then, my hands shook. I just froze.”

“Ever happen to you before?”

“No.”

“How much sleep had you gotten?”

“None.”

Montblanc nodded solemnly. Ramil wondered what the psychologist would say if he told him about the voice he’d heard.

He’d nod and say “hmmm.” He would ask a few more questions, then give him some “diagnostic tool”—they were never called tests or grillings—when they got back to Fort Meade, or Crypto City as most of the NSA workers called their headquarters. The “tool” would let him slot Ramil into some numbered spot in the manual of mental disorders, a witchcraft’s miscellany.

What if God truly had spoken to him? What then?

What then? Where would that fit in his manual?

Probably on the page between extreme panic attacks and schizophrenia, which was where Ramil figured he belonged.

“I apologized to Mr. Dean,” said Ramil. “I just wasn’t myself that day.”

“Did you feel palpitations?” asked Montblanc.

“Nothing physical, just—very tired.”

“You were breathing pretty heavily.”

“Hyperventilating, you mean?”

“Were you?”

“I had to climb several flights of stairs. I’m afraid I’m no longer in great shape.”

Montblanc began asking a series of questions that Ramil realized were designed to see if he was suffering post-traumatic stress—as if one could figure that out from a few questions asked in a car. Ramil answered them honestly—except for the one about whether he’d ever had an auditory hallucination.

“I don’t believe I’ m Joan of Arc,” Ramil replied sharply.

“That would be interesting,” said Montblanc, his tone light. “A Muslim thinking he was a Christian saint.”

Even though he knew he should just keep quiet, there was something about the other man’s flipness that annoyed Ramil. And so he asked, “Do you think God talks to people?”

Montblanc, clearly disturbed by the question, took his eyes off the road to look at him.

“Not to me,” said Ramil, his voice steady. “To people like Joan of Arc.”

“I would think she displayed the classic signs of schizophrenia,” said Montblanc, returning his attention to the road. “Onset of adolescence, stress, and all that.”

“God spoke to the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be unto him,” said Ramil.

“Well, yes. To some people, God must speak,” said Montblanc, obviously not wanting to contradict one of the main tenets of Ramil’s religion. “It must be quite a burden for them. I’m sure others would think they were crazy.”

“They’d probably think so themselves,” said Ramil, reaching to turn the music back on.

CHAPTER 75

KENAN CONKEL SLID back in his seat in the upper New York state diner, refolding the map he had spread out on the table. He had the route completely memorized now and would refer to the map only if absolutely necessary.

He would get up from the booth, leave a tip, go to the cash register, pay, go down the five steps to the lot in front, get into the car. He would drive down the highway for two miles, find the first right easily. He would take the second left, go until he came to a T, turn right, make a quick left, drive for exactly 3.3 miles, find the county highway, take the first right. The lake would be to his left. There was a place to park exactly a half mile from the landing where Sheik Asad would arrive.

And if a policeman stopped him?

He wouldn’t drive above the speed limit, so there would be no reason for a policeman to stop him.

But if he was stopped, he would pull over and take out his license, a perfect New York forgery that matched the ID of a real person. The digitized photo even looked like Kenan would have had he shaved. The cop would have no reason to check further.

And if he asked why a resident of Long Island was this far north?

He was driving out here because he was ... visiting his mother, who lived near the lake. He had the address.

But he wasn’t going there because sometimes a guy needed breathing room.

That part he’d have no trouble with. He knew that part by heart—had lived that part, was still living it.

He would not stare at the officer, but he wouldn’t avoid eye contact either. He would force himself to smile.

That would be the most difficult thing. Kenan knew that he was not, by nature, someone who smiled easily. The reflection he saw in the diner window when he turned to it was that of a serious man—not sad, certainly, but not carefree either. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a smirk.

The image itself seemed slightly foreign. He’d trimmed his beard earlier in the day and wore a collared shirt with nice dress slacks and freshly shined shoes. The imam had advised him to look like a man on his way home from work, above suspicion. He was not to carry a bag or backpack, or do anything that would draw a second glance.

Kenan smiled again. This time it was a goofy, scared smile. Better than a smirk, but far from adequate.

He tried again. Better. A little better.

Smile as if you’re happy, he told himself. He thought of his trip to Pakistan two summers before, his time at the madrasah. The religious school had filled him with a special peace, and understanding for the first time of why he was alive. Kenan had found Allah, and himself, two years before attending the school; there, listening to the teachers and living among the other committed Muslims, he finally felt at home. He understood the dichotomy of the world, how there were Followers of God and those who had given themselves to the Devil. And he realized that a believer such as himself would never be happy until the jihad was complete and the Followers of God had triumphed. To be involved in the struggle was a great honor, a blessing beyond blessings.

Kenan glanced at his watch. There were still four hours before Sheik Asad would arrive. The drive would take only two hours and he did not want to be too early; a car in that isolated area might arouse suspicion. He must stay here at least another half hour.

Kenan had met the sheik four times. Each was a riveting experience; angels walked with him for days afterward, filling him with confidence. Simply being in Asad’s presence allowed Kenan to understand things he had never known, from passages of the Koran he hadn’t studied to the tricks of the Crusaders and the Devil People, who lured the innocent with sex and drugs and money.

His heart was already pounding. Kenan turned his attention back to his tea, taking a small sip as he silently prayed he would be worthy of the great tasks that lay ahead.

CHAPTER 76

A CHARTERED GULFSTREAM took Dean from Istanbul to Canada, crossing Europe and the Atlantic in roughly twelve hours. Tommy Karr met him at Montréal- Trudeau airport, laughing and grabbing his luggage to lead him to the small customs area where he had to show his diplomatic passport.

“What’s up?” asked Dean.

“Nothin’.”