Sword Of God (25 page)

How foolish could the Americans be!

Salaam knew many men like Mohamed—Islamic operatives who were
still
inside the system they were trying to defeat. Any of them would be honored to help. At the same time, he realized that none of these men could be directly involved in the attack on Mecca. Otherwise the news media would spotlight their involvement, claiming Muslims were just as responsible as the United States. In his mind, that was something he couldn’t afford.

His message had to be pure. Unambiguous.

Sure, he could use Islamic operatives to feed him information; they had been doing that for years. But the attack itself needed to be committed by an American.

Someone who couldn’t be confused as a foreigner. Someone the United States couldn’t deny. That was the only way this was going to work.

But the question was, who?

The answer was fed to him by one of his sources in the Middle East, an Arab who worked with the U.S. Military Training Mission (
USMTM
) in Riyadh. He had heard rumors about a new program where Americans were being hypnotized to fight terrorists, a concept that sounded like science fiction until he received clarification from one of his contacts at Fort Huachuca, who verified that
induced
soldiers were already in the field and producing amazing results. Behind the scenes, they’d even been given a nickname. These soldiers, who fought like Rambo and were pinpointing Islamic terrorists, were jokingly called “Is-lambos.”

Immediately, Salaam realized that these were the type of men he could exploit. If, in fact, these soldiers were subliminally trained to attack a specific group, it wouldn’t be difficult to convince them that their biggest threat was in Mecca—especially since that was accurate. For years, Islamic groups have used the sanctity of the holy city as a backdrop for their recruiting process. The most dedicated pilgrims flocked to the Great Mosque year after year, their way of purifying their spirit and staying close to Muhammad’s righteous path. Events such as the hajj were used to locate potential members, men who were willing to give up their lives in the name of Allah. Salaam figured if the right people whispered this information in the right ears, word would eventually spread to these special soldiers and they would take care of the rest.

An Arab who worked as a snitch for the U.S. military aided Salaam along the way, feeding the Americans false information whenever he was asked. At the same time, he gathered intel from his real sources and sold it to Salaam for top dollar.

In the world of terrorism, the best information could always be bought.

Six months after Salaam launched his plan, an American soldier named Bender, a Special Forces operative who used to run missions out of Taif before most of his squad was killed in a terrorist attack, was spotted surveying the Cireat Mosque. A background check revealed the names of his entire unit, a group led by Trevor Schmidt. Deeper research showed that Schmidt was born in Ohio, trained as a
MANIAC
, and was a certified war hero. Not a hint of Middle Eastern blood in his family tree. Or in any other members of his crew.

To Salaam, these men would be the perfect scapegoats.

Now all he had to do was make sure they succeeded.

The guards had been gone all night. When they returned, they carried an assortment of tools.

Shari Shasmeen heard them as they clanked down the tunnel, metal banging on metal, their voices echoing in the darkness. They were speaking in Arabic, chattering on and on about timetables, delivery points, and all the money they were going to make for this job. None of it made much sense to her until she saw them coming her way.

As she focused on their pickaxes and crowbars, dread filled her heart.

They were coming to rob the site.

The click of their key as it turned in the lock felt like a death sentence. They
guards
were highly trained and accustomed to violence. Her only weapon was the small canister of pepper spray she clutched in her hand. They blocked the only way out.

At that point, she realized she had no choice; she had to hide. So she crouched in the back shadows, hoping they didn’t spot her, praying they just dropped their tools and went outside for additional supplies. If so, she could slip into the maintenance shaft that branched from the main tunnel near the bottom of the front incline. Then she could wait in silence until they returned through the metal gate and locked the door. If she was lucky, it would give her enough time to sprint up the ramp and call for help.

Then again, whom could she call?

The mutaween were just as likely to arrest her for being in public without a chaperone. Her colleagues were several blocks away, back at the hotel, and less accustomed to violence than she was. She knew she could always call Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but he had hired these guards to begin with. The one who told to her to get away for a couple of days while these men protected the site. Either that was a tremendous error on his part, or this was all his doing.

Shari wasn’t sure which.

Of course, that was something she could debate later.
If
she escaped.

The odds of that diminished when they entered the chamber and locked the gate. There were four of them, and they weren’t going anywhere. The lead guard ordered his men to get started while he set up some piece of equipment she couldn’t see, since her view was obstructed by her position on the floor. The biggest of the guards walked over first, putting his hand on the rocks, trying to decide where he should strike for the maximum amount of damage. He found a spot along the front edge and raised the pickax above his head.

In her mind, it was now or never.

She leaped from her crouch and sprayed the pepper spray directly into his eyes. He let out a loud yelp as he dropped the pickax to the floor. Before anyone could react, she grabbed its wooden handle and swung it at the next guard, a vicious blow that sunk into his left side and stuck there like a lawn dart. He twisted to the ground in a writhing heap of agony, generating so much force that it pulled the weapon from her grasp.

Suddenly she was unarmed and trapped.

Now it was just a matter of time.

Enraged, the lead guard charged forward, a combination of power and brutality. She raised her hands and tried to defend herself, but he was too strong—like a bull busting through the tiny red cape and finding the matador behind. But instead of gouging her with horns, he swung his right elbow, smashing it into the bridge of her nose with so much fury that she was knocked unconscious on impact.

On this day alone, more than four hundred thousand animals were slain in Mecca to celebrate Eid ul-Adha, the Festival of the Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham’s readiness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. After the ritualistic slaughter, Muslims distributed some of the meat to family and friends, but most of it was donated to the poor, symbolizing their willingness to give up something of value.

Charity was one of the five pillars of Islam, so generosity was expected.

Thousands of refrigerated trucks were driven into the city to pick up the animals, a variety of lambs, cows, camels, and goats. But not all of these trucks were alike. Two were designed with a different purpose in mind: dropping off was more important than picking up.

Payne and Jones sat in the back of one of these trucks, hidden behind a fake panel and several cardboard boxes that were filled with perishable food items and large bags of ice. It wasn’t the best camouflage in the world, but it was the best that Colonel Harrington could come up with on short notice.

Two bulbs lit their secret compartment, giving them time to study maps, memorize the dossiers of Schmidt’s crew, and formulate a plan of attack. Four other soldiers were joining them—two in the back of another truck and the two drivers, both Arab Americans with perfectly forged paperwork. Without it, none of them would be getting into Mecca.

Wrapped in a blanket, Jones tried to stay warm in the frigid climate. Thankfully, the
ihram
stage of the hajj was over, meaning they didn’t have to wear the traditional garments, consisting of two white unhemmed sheets and sandals, to blend in. Not only would it have been tough to conceal a weapon, but he blanched at the thought of going into a battle without underwear.

“You know,” he said, “we might be the first people in history to get frostbite in the desert.”

As a Pittsburgh native, Payne shrugged off the cold. “Pussy.”

“Wait! I’m sneaking into a forbidden city to save two million people and I’m
a pussy!”

He nodded. “Bet it feels good to finally admit it, huh?”

Jones laughed. “Asshole.”

“Okay. Now that we have both sides covered, let’s get down to business.”

Payne held up an aerial view of the Great Mosque that was taken from a spy satellite less than two weeks before. He pointed to a stretch of land west of one of the main gates. “This is Omar Abdul-Khaliq’s property. From the air, it looks like a large construction site. However, upon closer inspection, it appears to be missing something important.”

“What’s that?”

“Construction.”

Jones grabbed the picture and took a closer look. He spotted giant piles of dirt and rock and several pieces of heavy equipment, but there was no foundation being laid.

No building going up. “Could be something, could be nothing. We won’t know until we get there.”

“Obviously, the connection between Schmidt and Omar is pretty thin. We can link Omar to Salaam through a money trail, and Salaam to Schmidt through his advisers at the cave. To be honest, I’m not sure if one has anything to do with the other. Actually, I’m more interested in the official from the Ministry of the Interior. What was he doing in Kuwait with Salaam’s men? And why would Schmidt torture him?”

Jones took a guess. “Could be any number of things. Everything from security at the mosque to police response times. Not to mention parts of the city’s infrastructure that could be useful: roads, water, power, telecommunications. If Schmidt grabbed the right guy, he’d have access to everything we don’t, including security codes and building schematics.”

Payne swore under his breath. They were already facing long odds—a battle against the clock and a highly trained unit that had worked together for years. Now it was even worse. Not only did his opponents have months to organize their mission, but they also had access to inside information. Somehow it didn’t seem fair.

Of course, despite all that, despite all the things that were stacked against them, Payne and Jones had one crucial thing that Schmidt and his crew didn’t.

The element of surprise.

Her nose had been shattered, filling her mouth with the taste of blood. The room was spinning.

Shari tried to stand but couldn’t get her legs to work. Everything was wobbly. Her body. Her brain. Her memory. Like waking up in an early-morning fog without actually falling asleep. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. Trying to focus on something that would allow her to remember what had happened. The ground. The ceiling. The throbbing in her head. But nothing worked. There was a giant void.

Squinting in the darkness, she could barely make out shapes except for a series of vertical lines in the murky distance. They were thick and sturdy, a mixture of shadow and light, black and white, alternating one after another. She stared at them, trying to understand their purpose. Trying to figure out what they were. None of it made any sense.

How long had she been unconscious?

How had she gotten there?

Why couldn’t she breathe through her nose?

Confusion reigned for ten minutes before details started to emerge.

The first thing Shari noticed was the cord. She felt it wrapped around her ankles, bound so tightly that she couldn’t separate her legs. Her hands were tied as well, pulled behind her back and attached to a metal loop that had been driven into the hard ground. No matter how hard she pulled or twisted, she couldn’t get it to budge.

Next, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, her vision started to return. She focused on the vertical lines and realized what they were: a giant iron gate backlit by a series of dim bulbs that provided the only light in her cell.

Wait. That gate looked familiar. She had seen it before.

Suddenly, memories came flooding back to her. She was in the tunnel, tied up in the back room, where she had been attacked by the guards.

The site!

Oh my God, they were there to rob the site!

Panicked, she tried to swing her legs around, tried to contort her body so she could see if the relic was still inside. Unfortunately, as she struggled to get a better view, she kicked up a swirl of dust that filled her lungs. Coughing was instantaneous. Blood and mucus sprayed from her nose as she gasped for breath. Pain erupted in her head, throbbing in unison with her racing heart.

Tears streamed down her face, clouding her vision once again.

Alone. In agony. In the darkness. Barely able to breathe.

She didn’t think it could get any worse.

But she was wrong.

Trevor Schmidt and his crew slipped into the tunnel, barely making a sound. All of them had packs slung over their shoulders and weapons in their hands. For big men, they ran silently. Years of training taught them how to move with stealth. The skill would serve them well as they strived to complete their mission.

From this point forward, noise would be kept to a minimum. Hand signals would be used when possible. Their watches were synchronized to the millisecond, freeing them of the need to speak. Some of their actions would be based on time, not verbal authorization. They would do what they were supposed to do whether the others were ready or not.

It was the advantage of a multipronged attack.

Even if someone was killed or captured, the survivors could still make a difference.

Schmidt led the way, creeping down the ramp at a steady pace. They followed him in single file, always keeping space between themselves in case there was an alarm or a mine or anything they hadn’t prepared for. The odds were against it—their source had been quite versed on the infrastructure of Mecca—yet they expected the unexpected. Ready for anything.