The Seventh Pillar (14 page)

Steph faced her computer. "Let's break it down. What do we need to accomplish?"

"Find Bausari and the bomb. Find out where the assassins are hiding out. We find them, we might find out what was in that cave."

"And we do that by...?"

Selena sat up in her chair. "I found hints of a refuge for the assassins in one of those manuscripts. If there is such a place, it's in the northwest mountains of Pakistan. We could look for it."

"Wait a minute," Nick said. "Mali's one thing. That part of Pakistan is another. That's the Hindu Kush."

"You have a better idea?"

"These guys have been hidden for centuries," Ronnie said. "How are we going to find them?"

"I admit, it's a needle in a haystack. There were just a few vague landmarks in that manuscript."

Nick considered for a moment. "We could come in from Afghanistan, disguised. Avoid the checkpoints. Selena speaks the language. Ronnie and I know a few words. But we can't go in blind and wander around."

The voice of Steph's assistant sounded from the intercom on her desk.

"Director, turn on CNN. You need to see this."

Steph turned on the screen.

Al-Bausari, dressed in white robe and green turban, sat on a low dais. At his feet rested a dark wooden box, carved with designs of trees and vines. The box looked old. A broad banner hung behind him.

"What does the banner say, Selena?" Ronnie asked.

"The Day of Judgement is Soon."

"This can't be good."

"My brothers," Bausari began. A simultaneous translation ran across the bottom of the screen. "I speak to all true believers. It is time to set aside differences, shadows sent by the Evil One to cloud our minds and turn us one against the other.

"Allah is the Protector of those who have faith: from the depths of darkness He will lead them into light. The patrons of those who reject faith are the evil ones: from light they will lead them into the depths of darkness. They will be companions of the fire, and dwell there forever."

"That's from the Qur'an," Selena said.

Bausari reached down into the wooden box and lifted an object into the air with both hands. It was an ancient sword, almost perfectly preserved, cruel and beautiful. The blade widened in a sweeping, upward crescent and ended in a sharp, lethal point. The hilt was made of heavy silver, engraved with elaborate swirling patterns that continued partway down the blade. The guard at the hilt seemed almost delicate for such a deadly weapon. The sword looked like it could take off your head in a single stroke. The camera zoomed in on the blade. A word scribed in Arabic was clearly visible.

القيامة

Selena pointed at the inscription. "That's what was written in the cave. Judgement."

Bausari was still speaking. "Those who reject Faith and deny Our Signs, they shall be companions of the Fire. I hold before you the sword of the Prophet, blessings be upon Him."

"Muhammad's sword?" Nick said.

"He had nine. Eight are in Turkey, one in a museum in Cairo." Selena stared at the screen.

"Looks like there were ten. It must be what they found in the cave."

"The tenth sword of Mohammed is a legend. He can't be serious."

"Shhh," Steph put her finger to her lips.

"The final hour is fast upon us, my brothers." Bausari stood and held the sword high. "The last hour will not come without much bloodshed. Judgement Day is soon. I proclaim it. Hasten to the mosques and beseech Allah for guidance, for when your heart is pure you will follow. Then Allah will sweep all before us."

The transmission ended.

"Did he say what I think he said?"

Selena let out a long breath. "Yes. He did. He thinks he's going to bring about Judgement Day. A lot of that was from the Qur'an."

"And he has a nuke," said Ronnie.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Richard Hemmings felt good. The ocean was calm, the sun sparkled from the blue Pacific. The twin diesels of his charter fishing boat, the Mary Lou, rumbled along. There wasn’t any Mary Lou in his life, but Richard felt it was a good, American name for a boat.

Another hour, they’d be tied up in the private marina at San Diego.

He looked back at the three men sitting near the stern. His heart beat with pride. He’d longed for the day he'd be permitted to justify the trust placed in him.

He’d been suspect from the start, an American. The training compound in Afghanistan had been hard. He’d had no friends. In the field with his brothers, he’d been watched. The final test was the death of the captured American soldier. Richard didn't hesitate. While the camera rolled he hacked off the head of the screaming man. There was no danger of being recognized behind his mask.

After that, he was accepted. A few months later he’d been given his instructions. Return to America. Funds would be available. Build a business. Wait. Be ready.

Six years ago. Since then there'd been little contact. Always, he’d been told to be patient. Now the wait was over.

Richard hated the American way of life. For Richard, America was a licentious, greedy society that assaulted his senses at every turn. The shameless women in their whorish dress. The loose morals. The glorification of drugs and alcohol, the relentless pursuit of material things. His mother and step-father would have approved of his feelings, if they were still alive.

Richard had been instructed to stay away from the Islamic communities, to pray at home and keep out of the mosque. The Imam had given him dispensation. He must not appear to be anything but another unbeliever.

As far as anyone knew he was only another charter boat captain, his beard a part of his persona. Like a friendly pirate, some said. A real character, his clients said. He joked with his customers. He turned down offers of drinks with a story about his alcoholic father and bad genes. The part about his father was true. It was one of the things that had driven him to Islam. The story always worked. Americans understood about alcoholism. Richard had joined AA and used it as part of his cover.

The ways of Allah were indeed mysterious.

The phone call a week ago was the payoff for all the years of waiting. He’d picked up three men for a fishing trip south. He had three men coming back. They just weren’t the same ones who had boarded in San Diego, though they appeared much the same to anyone who might have seen the Mary Lou leaving the Marina.

Richard made regular trips south to the fine fishing off the Mexican coast. The Coast Guard knew his boat and knew he was no drug runner or immigrant coyote. There'd been no problem getting past the patrols. The package was inside a large cooler, covered with fish and ice. His passengers and their cooler would never be noticed when they docked. Just another successful charter.

It was dusk when they reached the marina. Al-Bausari took Richard aside in the cabin. He spoke softly to him in Arabic.

"You have done well, Abdul." Bausari addressed him by the name he had been given in Afghanistan. "Allah is surely pleased. Watch for what will come."

"What do I look for, Teacher?" Richard’s Arabic was halting. Years since he’d had to speak it, but he’d practiced with his computer.

"You will know. You have been faithful with your prayers?"

"Yes, Teacher. Teacher, I long for the company of believers and the peace of the mosque."

Bausari nodded. "Then I give you permission. Allah is pleased. You have earned this reward. But be careful."

"Yes, Teacher. Thank you."

Bausari blessed him, then turned and climbed on deck. He stepped onto the dock. Onto American soil.

CHAPTER FORTY

FBI Special Agent Mike Bozeman was bored. He sat at a wooden table in a dingy apartment peering through a flyspecked window. Next to the table stood a video camera with a telescopic lens, mounted on a tripod. The camera pointed at a three story building across the street that had been converted into a mosque.

The mosque was in a run down part of San Diego tourists never saw, far from the luxury oceanfront homes and condos and sunny beaches. As far as Bozeman was concerned, the whole area could benefit from forceful remodeling with a lot of heavy equipment. Starting with the building across the street.

Mosques were places of peace and compassion, spiritual community and learning. The mosque across the way was a place to find anything but peace and compassion. The Imam there preached hatred of the Jews, America and the West in general. 

Bozeman had nothing against Muslims or Islam, but he had a hell of a lot against the Jihadists and their insane version of religion. He didn’t think God wanted His followers to murder children, or mutilate teenage girls because they ran away from home.

The room was stifling. His partner, Andy Carlton, dug into the bottom of a bag for one last Cheeto, crunchy style. He drew it out and popped it in his mouth. His fingers were stained bright orange. Orange crumbs dribbled down onto his shirt, past the .40 Smith tucked away in a shoulder holster. Carlton looked into the empty bag, sighed, and began licking his fingers.

"Jesus, Andy, don’t you believe in napkins?"

"Got to get them wet before the color will come off."

Carlton crumpled the bag and tossed it at a wastebasket overflowing with wrappers, snack bags and cardboard coffee cups.

"Ten days looking at nothing. I wonder how long they’ll keep us at it?"

"It’s always the same bunch," Bozeman said. "I haven’t seen a new face since we’ve been here. Not even a pizza guy."

"They eat pizza?"

"Sure. No sausage, though."

"You profiling, Mike?"

"Not me. I don’t care what they eat."

"Hey," Andy said. "There’s a car we haven’t seen before. He's parking up the street."

Both men sat straighter in their chairs. Probably nothing, but so far the most exciting event of the day. Bozeman set the camera rolling. They watched a Caucasian male with a full beard get out of a brown Taurus. He looked up and down the street and paused, as if uncertain where he was going. After a moment, he walked toward the mosque. He reached the recessed doorway and ducked inside.

"He doesn’t look mid eastern to me," Carlton said.

"Now who’s profiling? That guy’s American, or at least European. Let’s run the plate."

Bozeman entered the license plate number of the Taurus into his laptop. The laptop linked through a headquarters mainframe directly into a national database with information on every American citizen. It took just a few seconds for the information to pop up on the screen.

"Richard Hemmings, age thirty-six. He lives on a houseboat parked in one of the marinas. Let’s see what else we can find." He tapped a key.

"He’s a charter fisherman. Works out of the same marina where his houseboat is. Owns his own boat, a nice one, not cheap. He’s clean, not even a parking ticket."

"What’s a fisherman doing over here?"

"Good question. Better one is why a guy like this shows up at a mosque that preaches holy war against people like him."

"Maybe he knows someone in there. From fishing."

"Maybe the Imam is really Ernest Hemingway. Run his financials."

A moment later Bozeman said, "Wells Fargo, same bank for the last six years. Around three thousand in credit card debt. Forty thousand due on the boat. Looks like two large deposits made the first month he opened the account, one for thirty thousand, another for seventy."

"A hundred grand? Where does he get that kind of money?’

"IRS says he declared it. Income from sale of a building left to him by his mother."

Mike worked the computer. "Hemmings financed his business with the money and bought his houseboat. Records on the building he sold…it was originally owned by an import-export company. Guess where? Pakistan."

The two agents looked at each other. "How does his mother end up with it?" Carl asked.

"Left to her by the husband. Title transfer to Hemmings dated six years ago. She died three months later."

"Convenient for our fisherman."

"Yeah. I wonder if we’ve got a sleeper here? Smells fishy." He grinned.

"Christ, Mike."

"We’d better phone it in."

When Richard Hemmings drove back to his houseboat after the evening prayer he never noticed the battered Ford three cars behind.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"Bausari went to Mexico. We traced the ship to Tuxpan. From there he went to Mexico City and then to the Pacific coast."

"How did we get the information, Steph?" Selena brushed her hand across her forehead.

"Tuxpan is an entry port for illegal arms and dope. The Federales watch everything. Sometimes they turn a blind eye or someone's been bought off, but terrorism isn't like drugs. We get better cooperation. The Mexicans busted an al-Qaeda cell in Mexico City. Bausari wasn’t there, but he had been. Their anti-terrorist squad interrogated the cell members, with CIA observing. They talked."

Carter imagined how they had been interrogated.

Steph continued. "Bausari headed for the Pacific coast with two others. He had a foot locker with him."

"The nuke."

"Probably. After the coast we don’t know where he went. We think he was picked up by a boat near Ensenada."

"Near California," Selena said.

"My guess is he’s now in the States."

"That’s not good news." Selena rubbed the back of her head.

"No. But we might have a break. The FBI has been watching a mosque in San Diego where they preach radical Islam. They’ve identified a Caucasian American male who just happens to be a charter fishing boat captain. Maybe two and two will make four."

"Are they going to pick him up?" Carter asked.

"Well, that’s the question. They can if they want. The interagency thing has been spotty. The Feds are protective of their turf. They’re don't want to haul him in. They want to see if he leads them to anyone."

"But what about Bausari? If he’s got a nuke doesn’t that trump their turf concerns? Hell, they’ll take the credit if he’s captured."

"They think their suspect could lead them to Bausari."