Sword Of God (32 page)

No matter how Harrington tried to spin it, he knew that he was screwed. American troops plus explosives plus the Great Mosque meant an international crisis. Not nearly as bad as if the attack had succeeded, but bad enough that he would be relieved of his duties.

At this point, the only thing that could save him was a miracle.

Or help from an unexpected source.

After the interview with Shari, Payne and Jones were summoned to the conference room, where Harrington was waiting for them. A day before, photos of the Great Mosque filled the large video screen while an expert lectured on the events of the hajj. Today there was a single image—a freeze-frame of a Middle Eastern man sitting in a dilapidated warehouse.

“Gentlemen,” Harrington said, “Christmas just came early.”

“Crap!” Jones joked as he took a seat. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Actually, you did. You got me the best gift in the world. You brought me the disk.”

“The disk?” Payne asked.

‘The SD card from the take-out menu. My tech boys finally cracked the encryption. It took all night, but it was worth their effort. That thing was filled with all kinds of information. Building designs for the towers. Escape routes from Mecca. American contacts in Riyadh and Taif. The type of intel that would’ve been hard to explain if the Saudis had recovered it.”

Payne rubbed his eyes. “I don’t get it. Why would someone send that to the tunnel?”

Harrington grinned. “If you’d like, I can sit here and explain it to you. Or if you’d prefer, you can hear it straight from the Arab’s mouth.”

“Which Arab is that?”

He pointed toward the screen. “Earlier today, I mentioned there was a large video file on the SD card that we were trying to crack. Turns out it was a video message. One I think you’ll enjoy.”

Harrington hit
play,
and the video sprang to life.

Filmed with a webcam in poor lighting, the man’s face dominated the screen. He had dark skin and five-o’clock shadow. His lips were dried and cracked. When he spoke, he whispered in serious tones, like everything he said was a matter of life and death. His English was fluent, yet tinged with a slight Arabic accent.

“My name is Raheem Al-Jahani, and I am twenty-six years old. I was born in Medina, not far from the final resting place of the Prophet Muhammad,
sallallahu alayhi wasallam.
For the past four years, I have been an active member of the Soldiers of Allah, an organization that strives to make the world a better place for all Muslims. Until recently, I was proud to call myself a Soldier. But that pride exists no more.”

During the next few minutes, Al-Jahani explained how he was recruited out of college, where he’d earned a computer degree, and slowly proved his worth to the Soldiers by running a terrorist cell in London that was responsible for several bombings. Eventually he moved higher and higher in the network until he was contacted by one of Hakeem Salaam’s top advisers, who asked him if he’d be interested in working on a mission that would utilize his technical expertise. Al-Jahani was honored, especially when he discovered the project had been planned by Salaam, a man who rarely showed his face and trusted no one.

To protect the sanctity of the mission, Al-Jahani was transported to a secret location, where he was housed in seclusion for months. No phone. No Internet. No access to the outside world. He was given a brand-new computer, pre-installed with some of the best encryption software available, and several pieces of hardware. Every few days a guard would drop off food and an envelope filled with the materials for his next assignment.

In the beginning, the information was mostly American. Names of soldiers. Locations of contacts. Ways to manipulate them. To Al-Jahani, the prospects were thrilling because he longed to launch an assault against the country he hated the most. Unfortunately, as his work continued, the focus of the mission began to shift. Before long he started to see Arab documents. Maps of Mecca. Permits for digging. Diagrams of the towers complex.

None of it seemed to fit.

Several weeks passed before Al-Jahani pieced everything together. Hakeem Salaam, a hero to all Soldiers, wasn’t attacking the United States. Instead, he was helping them stage an attack of their own—one that threatened the Kaaba, the most sacred landmark in all of Islam, and the millions of pilgrims who honored it—by providing them with information through his vast network of Arab contacts, some of whom had worked with the Americans for years but, in actuality, were supporters of Salaam. The ultimate goal was to unite Islam against a common enemy, but millions of martyrs would die in the process.

The realization made Al-Jahani nauseous.

At that point he realized he had two options. He could stop working for Salaam, which would result in his swift execution, or he could try to sabotage the mission. Obviously, the latter seemed the more promising of the two. The only question was, how?

He had no connection to the outside world. No way to communicate the threat to anyone.

All he could do was sit and wait, praying that an opportunity would present itself.

His big break finally arrived in late December, when he was ordered to take all the data he had been working on— the blueprint for the terrorist attack—and store it on a SD card that would be delivered to a team of Americans who were working in the tunnel. To Salaam, they were the perfect people to frame. Non-Muslims. Fake paperwork. Access to the towers. Once Saudi officials were tipped, they would find the SD card filled with all the damning evidence, and accuse the Americans of aiding the terrorists.

On the surface, it seemed like a good plan—another way to link the United States to the attack, thereby demonizing them as the butchers of Islam.

However, Al-Jahani viewed it differently. This was his chance to reveal the truth.

“As you have figured out,” he explained, “my computer is equipped with a webcam. No one thought to remove it, since I have no connection to transmit a video feed. Yet this camera has many functions. I am using it to record this message. Earlier today, when the guards came in to give me my final assignment—to encrypt all the data for delivery— 1 filmed die entire conversation. It will be included on the disk.”

He glanced over his shoulder, afraid that someone might be listening.

“As the guards left, I heard them talking about a pickup they would be making at a tunnel in Mecca and a delivery to Jeddah. I do not know what this means. It could be nothing. It could be everything.”

He paused again, searching for words.

“For all I know, this message might never be seen or heard. Either way, I am confident that it will survive longer than I will. After today, they have no reason to keep me alive.”

He took a deep breath, realization in his eyes.

“In my heart, I know what they are doing is wrong. My only hope is they will be stopped.”

Shari Shasmeen sat in the lounge for more than an hour, staying as close to the interview room as possible in case Payne or Jones had any more questions. To her, the furniture looked like it had been donated by Goodwill. Mismatched chairs, a badly scratched card table, a coffeepot that was older than Juan Valdez. She tried to get comfortable on the lumpy couch, but it felt like it had been stuffed with straw.

“I’m guessing you’ve never been in the military,” said Kia Choi as she entered the room. “Otherwise you’d be used to our opulent accommodations.”

Shari smiled. “I’ve spent the past few months in a tunnel, and it was nicer than this.”

She reached out her hand in introduction. “I’m Kia, by the way.”

“I’m Shari.”

“Actually,” Kia admitted, “I knew that already. I work with Jon, and he told me all about you when he returned from Mecca. How are you feeling?”

She touched the tape on her broken nose. “About as good as I look.”

“Can I get you something? Some aspirin or—”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m tough. I can take it.”

Kia smiled. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not. I’d welcome the company. It’s been a while since I’ve talked with a female. All of my coworkers are men, so our conversations were somewhat limited.”

“In that case, I’m kind of hesitant to ask you my next question.”

“Why’s that?”

“I wanted to ask you about your job.”

Shari laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’m happy to talk about it. What did you want to know?”

“Well, as I mentioned, Jon told me about finding you in the tunnel. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough time to tell me about the site. So I was wondering—”

“What we were looking for.”

Kia nodded. “Is that too personal?”

“A few days ago, I probably would’ve played stupid and said,
What site?
But as things stand, I guess there’s no harm in talking about it now.”

“Just so you know,” Kia said, “I work as a translator for the military, and Arabic is one of the languages I speak. So I’m not a total novice when it comes to Islam. I know some of the basics about its history and culture.”

“What do you know about Muhammad?”

“I know Muhammad is revered as the Prophet. Muslims believe he received the word of God, and his revelations form the pages of the Qur’an.”

“I’m impressed. That’s more than most non-Muslims know.”

Kia smiled. “Unfortunately, that’s where my knowledge ends.”

“That’s okay. I can pick up the story from there. Even though Muhammad died in 632 AD, the first copy of the Qur’an wasn’t written until 650 AD. It was compiled by Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph of Islam, based on all the transcripts and teachings he could find.”

“Eighteen years
after
Muhammad died?”

Shari nodded. “Some scholars, myself included, have always wondered what might have been omitted in that span. Languages were evolving, politics were changing, and Muhammad’s original followers were dying off. There’s no telling what could have been lost during that time. Furthermore, many people believe the oldest surviving Qur’an was written in the eighth century, approximately one hundred years after the Uthman version. Suddenly we’re talking about a wide chasm in history that could’ve altered Muhammad’s initial message.”

“So what did you find?”

“As I mentioned, the Uthman version was compiled from transcripts of Muhammad’s direct recitations, recorded by his companions on anything they could get ahold of. Bark, bones, whatever was available. Uthman formed a committee that sorted through all these messages, eventually agreeing on the text of the first Qur’an. For years I have been searching for one of these copies, thinking it was the purest version available. But I was wrong. I neglected to consider the transcripts themselves.”

“The transcripts?”

“The bark, the bones, the loose parchments of text. In actuality,
they
contained the original message from Muhammad, the literal word of God. All this time I was looking for the first Qur’an and neglected to search for its source.”

“And
that’s
what you found?”

Shari nodded. “I think I did. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to find out for sure, the site was violated and everything was stolen.”

The discussion stopped when Payne and Jones walked into me lounge and closed the door.

“Shari,” Payne said as he took a seat next to the couch, “I have some photos that I’d like you to look at. Please tell me if you recognize anyone.”

He handed her a folder filled with pictures from Al-Jahani’s webcam. Harrington’s staff had decrypted the files and altered the brightness so the photographs were much clearer.

The instant she glanced at the first image, her face went pale. It was a reaction she couldn’t fake, a combination of fear and hatred.

“Oh my God! That’s the guard. The one who attacked me!”

She flipped to the next photo and nodded. And the one after that. She recognized them all.

“These are the guards. The ones from the tunnel.”

Payne smiled. “We had a hunch they were.”

“Wait. Does this mean you caught them?”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it. We’re running down some leads.”

“Then where did you get these photos?”

“Actually, we got them from you. They were inside your package.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confused. “I had pictures of the guards?”

Payne told her the simplified version of the SD card, not wanting to overwhelm her with all the details. When he was done, he shifted her focus back to the photographs.

He said, “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know the last thing you want to do is stare at the guys who attacked you. But if you could, I’d like you to take a closer look at them. Maybe their faces will jog your memory. Something from the tunnel or something they said. At this point, any information would be helpful. Sometimes the smallest things mean the most.”

“Sure,” Shari said. “Whatever you need.”

She took out the first picture and studied the face of the main guard. She stared at his eyes and mouth, trying to remember anything she could about the man who knocked her unconscious. “He talked on his phone a lot. The first day he arrived he made, like, twenty calls.”

“Did you hear anything?” Jones asked.

“To be honest, the guy spooked me from the very beginning, so I stayed away from him as much as I could. I spent half the day avoiding him.”

“This was when? On Saturday?”

She nodded. “Omar called them to remove the body.”

“What were they driving?” Kia wondered.

Payne looked at her and smiled. It was a good question.

Shari tried to remember. “It was a red van. Kind of new-looking. They backed it all the way to the tunnel entrance so they wouldn’t have to carry the body very far.”

“That’s good. Real good. Try the next picture.”

Shari handed the first photo to Kia, who looked at it closer while Shari took the next one out of the stack. “This guy searched the body. He frisked him for his wallet and keys.”

“Did he find anything?” Jones asked.

“Keys. He found his keys. After that, he ran off to move the guy’s car.”

Shari handed the photo to Kia, then moved on to the next one.