The Seventh Pillar (12 page)

Aban and Gahlib knelt and bowed their heads to the floor. The camera continued to roll as al-Bausari spoke.

Later he sat in a straight wooden chair as Ghalib prepared him for the next phase of their mission. He tried not to look at the hair falling around his feet. His face felt naked and strange without his beard. He’d begun that beard on the day his mind opened to the truth.

He’d been nineteen years old, a second year student studying law at Al-Azar University in Cairo. One day outside the lecture hall his professor called out to him to wait. Mullah Gamal Hasani was noted for his harsh rhetoric advocating strict Islamic law in Egypt. Everyone knew the secret police watched him.

Al-Bausari had been nervous. The Mullah was an intimidating man, but Hasani’s voice was quiet, inviting.

"I have been watching you in class, Jibril. You are not like most of the others. You pay close attention and you study hard."

"Yes, Teacher. I want to understand."

Hasani nodded. "Those who seek understanding are blessed. Allah calls to all of us, but few listen. It is almost time for the prayer. Come with me to the mosque and we will pray together."

That had been the beginning. Hasani had taken him under his wing, guided him as they studied the Book, helped Bausari see the true meaning of the Prophet’s writings, helped him see the threat to Islam poised by the West. Hasani had become a second father to him. Then one day Hasani disappeared as he walked to the mosque. Students said two men took him to a car and drove away. It was only God's will that Bausari was not with him. A week later it was reported Hasani had died of a heart attack.

On that day Bausari committed himself to the path of Jihad. Holy war.

"I am almost done, Teacher." The words startled Jibril out of his memories.

With a final flourish, Ghalib made the last cut. Bausari stood, brushing hair from his lap. The western clothes he wore were uncomfortable. The pants chafed. The shirt felt stiff and hot. The shoes were instruments of torture on his feet.

Bausari looked in a mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back at him. His hair was black again, with just a touch of gray, cut in a modern, western style. If he didn’t know who he looked like, neither would the Americans. They would never believe he would dare enter their country. If they did, they would look for the man famous for his white robes, green turban and magnificent beard.

Allah would forgive him. It was permitted to cut one’s hair in the cause of holy war against the infidel. Anything was permitted. It was something the people of the decadent western democracies still could not grasp or understand. That lack of understanding would hasten their destruction and the rise of the new Caliphate.

The slow journey across the Atlantic was nearly over. Bausari and Ghalib went on deck and walked past stacked cargo containers to the bow. For a few moments they watched the coast of Mexico coming closer on the horizon. In the distance a tall, snow capped peak rose against brilliant blue sky. The sun beat against Bausari’s newly minted face.

"When do we arrive?" Bausari ran his good hand over his newly shaven jaw.

"We reach Vera Cruz this afternoon. Then it is eleven kilometers upriver to Tuxpan. Overland transport awaits us there. We unload tonight. God willing, we will head north tomorrow morning."

"Our brothers in Mexico City have been informed of our arrival?"

"Yes, Teacher. There is much joy, there. They are eager for your blessing."

"It is Allah who blesses, not I."

"Yes, Teacher. But you are His instrument."

Al-Bausari walked back to one of the containers and patted the side. "Here is Allah’s blessing, Ghalib, the real instrument of His victory."

"Yes." Ghalib looked troubled. "There is news of our brothers in Mali and Mauritania. They were discovered and martyred."

"Ah. The Americans?"

"We think so. It is possible someone radioed from the plane we destroyed. The cave is destroyed. The house in Mauritania."

"There are other caves, other houses. They can never find them all. Allah surely opened the Gates of Paradise for them. As He will for us, Ghalib."

Bausari placed his hand on Ghalib’s shoulder. The two men looked into each other’s eyes.

"We will be remembered, Teacher," Ghalib said.

"Yes, Ghalib, we will."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Lucas Monroe had been an agent for twelve years. In that same twelve years many new stars had appeared on the memorial wall at Langley, one for each agent killed in the line of duty. Monroe wasn't as young as he used to be. He had no intention of becoming the next star.

After this mission, he was slated for a desk in the Counter-Terrorism Center on the sixth floor. Not bad for a black kid who'd clawed his way out of the ghetto and into the Ivy League school where he'd been recruited. Monroe was street tough, highly intelligent and ambitious. It hadn't been easy.

The mission was simple on the face of it. Grab the man living in the luxurious, fortified villa below. Yuri Azhrakov sold everything from assault rifles to jet fighters to anyone who could pay. You wanted a few Russian T-54s, a French Mirage, the latest in ground to air missiles or ten thousand AKs, you went to Yuri.

It would be easy to kill him. Monroe would have liked to kill him, but Langley wanted him alive. They wanted to ask him a few questions, someplace where they wouldn't be disturbed. They wanted to talk to him right away. It was a challenge. Monroe liked challenges.

The glorious blue of Lake Como stretched away beyond the red roof tiles and high stone walls of the villa. The scenery hadn't changed much since Pliny the Elder had built a vacation home here in the days of Caesar's Empire. A soft breeze off the lake made it pleasant in the shady olive grove where Monroe lay watching the villa. A sleek yacht cruised under sail in the distance. Monroe didn't notice the postcard picture of casual wealth. He focused on the walled compound below.

The heavy ornamental iron gates to the villa were closed. It would take a tank to break through them. A guard house by the gate was always manned. The guards inside the compound patrolled in pairs. They carried Czech Skorpion SA 391 submachine guns that fired eight hundred and fifty 9mm rounds per minute. Other guards covered the estate grounds.

Over the last two days Monroe had counted at least thirty security personnel. They all looked Serbian or Russian and moved with the alert tension of experienced military men. Monroe figured them for former Spetznaz, Russian Special Forces. As good as any in the world.

The walls surrounding the villa were topped with looping spirals of gleaming razor wire that would make you bleed if you looked hard at them. Monroe could see at least four cameras. There were sure to be more out of sight. The gate was the only entrance to the front. In back, a terraced patio and broad lawn landscaped with rows of tall Italian cypress and beds of flowers sloped down to the lake and a dock extending into the water. It was shielded by another high wall with observation posts that looked like Tuscan church towers on the ends.

There were powerful searchlights within the Italianesque architecture. There would be sentries with automatic weapons in the towers. The towers had an unobstructed field of fire. Graceful pieces of classical statuary were tastefully placed along graveled paths among the flowerbeds. There were certainly ground sensors and trip wires in the wide expanse of  jewel-like green lawn. It was all very pretty. It would be suicide to come up from the lake.

Without a full bore military assault, the mansion was impregnable.

A broad, paved courtyard stretched in front of the house. A cobbled drive circled under a portico over the entrance and around a large, Neo-Renaissance fountain throwing rainbows into the bright afternoon sunlight. A five car garage sat to the left of the main entrance to the villa. Monroe watched a man walk out of the garage, cross the courtyard and go into the house.

Parked under the portico was a shiny black Mercedes limousine. A muscular man with close-cropped blond hair leaned against one of the fenders smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a gray chauffeur's uniform. He held the cigarette upright between his thumb and middle finger, European style. He looked bored.

Monroe knew the car was armored. Run flat tires with steel sidewalls. One inch thick bulletproof glass. Twelve cylinder, turbocharged engine that made over five hundred horsepower. Armored side panels, trunk and gas tank. Armored engine compartment. Only heavy weapons would do more than scratch a car like that. It would be armored underneath as well. But it was a car. It was still vulnerable.

Monroe thought about Azhrakov. These bastards were all the same, whether they were merchandising weapons, drugs or any other form of death. They relied on walls and surveillance and tough guys with lots of firepower to protect them. They relied on armored vehicles to travel in. Predictable. Predictability meant they were vulnerable.

Two men came out of the house, followed by Azhrakov. He carried a briefcase. He was a heavy man, built like a bear. He wore a goatee. Even from here, Monroe could see a flash of gold against his hairy wrist and the smooth ripple of fabric on his Italian suit. For a man responsible for the deaths of many thousands of people, he looked remarkably at ease with himself. He got in the back seat of the Mercedes. Sometimes the arms dealer liked to sit in front. In the back made things easier for Monroe.

Monroe had seen enough. He slipped from his lookout and walked down to where three men waited for him.

Enzio was from Brooklyn. He spoke fluent Italian. Louis was the driver. He could navigate the narrow roads of Lake Como and the nearby Alps at speeds that would frighten a Grand Prix professional. Eddie was the communications, ordnance and explosives expert. He was good at all of them.

Azhrakov's villa was located on the southern tip of the inverted Y that formed the lake, near the town of Como. It was about thirty minutes north of Milan, where Azhrakov's private jet waited. There was only one way out of Como, but after that there were three ways he could go to reach the city.

Monroe wasn't sure which one Azhrakov would take. All three routes led to Milan, but two were inferior roads, twisting and scenic. Azhrakov always chose routes at random. Sometimes he took the improved highway that headed south, then turned southeast to the city. It was the fastest route. Sometimes he chose one of the others. Monroe had teams positioned on all three and spotters to relay which way the Mercedes headed.

The fast route was busy with traffic and exposed. That made things much more difficult and required precision timing. There was a high risk of collateral damage. There were too many uncontrollable factors. Monroe had already prepared for that eventuality. It was certain Azhrakov would choose a secondary route. In Milan the crowds and Azhrakov's security cordon would prevent success. On the road was the best spot for Monroe to take his quarry.

Monroe spoke into his headset.

"Alpha One to all units. Subject is moving."

His teams acknowledged.

Monroe and the others climbed into a Land Rover Defender painted military green. The plates began with EI, identifying it as a unit of the Carabinieri. No longer just a police force, the Carabinieri were professional, well armed and now a full fledged unit of Italy's armed forces. They also had an attitude. Everyone in Italy knew you didn't piss off the Carabinieri.

Louis got behind the wheel. He wore the standard issue police uniform, dark blue with red stripes down the trousers, black, high-topped shoes, flashes on the collar, a peaked military style hat with badge. A white, buckled strap crossed his chest. He wore a black patent leather holster with a standard issue 9mm Beretta 93R. Enzio wore an identical uniform. Eddie and Monroe wore dark colored, casual clothes.

Enzio and Louis sat in front, Monroe and Eddie in the back. It would have looked odd for a black man to wear the police uniform. Monroe didn't mind. He was comfortable. At his feet was an MP-5 submachine gun, everyone's favorite. Under his jacket he carried a .40 Glock. In the rear of the vehicle was an RPG launcher, but Monroe didn't plan on using it. He wanted Azhrakov alive.

Monroe had another toy to stop the Mercedes, a Barrett 82A1 CQ that Eddie carried in his lap. Fifty caliber, semi-auto, with a barrel just over twenty inches in length. It was a bear to shoot, but the grip on top of the barrel helped hold down the recoil and stay on target. A fifty would take care of that armored glass. Even Mercedes didn't plan on stopping something bigger than a .45 or a three fifty-seven, or a burst from a nine mil Uzi. When a fifty hit something, it landed with 5000 foot pounds of extremely destructive force. A glancing blow from a fifty would hurl a man into the air. A direct hit would leave pieces everywhere.

Eddie was six-two, two hundred fifty pounds and built like a tank. He was left handed. He could handle the Barrett without a rest or bipod.

What was that old saying? Man plans, God laughs? Monroe hoped God wouldn't be laughing today.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Why are we slowing, Grigor?" Azhrakov looked up from his papers at the back of the driver's head.

"Accident ahead."

Yuri was annoyed. He'd wanted to take the speedy route to town, but there had been a roadblock. He'd chosen the next best route. Normally he didn't mind the slower, scenic routes but he was anxious to get to the airport. He had a meeting with an important client at his Dacha on the Black Sea. It wouldn't do if he wasn't there to greet him.

Ahead, Yuri saw a blue Fiat with a crumpled hood and fender halfway across the road. Another car, a red Alfa, sat hanging over a broken guardrail, the grill and windshield smashed, steam rising under the hood. A motorcycle cop stood by his BMW talking to a man holding a bloody bandage to his head. An ambulance sat behind the vehicles, lights flashing.

There was a curve and a turnout here. On the left, the road fell away into the trees and dropped for hundreds of feet. On the right, the mountains rose in a sheer wall. The road was completely blocked, except for a small section to the right.