BREATHLESS

WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

[Episode Four]

CHRIS STEWART

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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And after their reign, when iniquities shall be grown up, there shall arise a king of a shameless face, and understanding dark sentences.

And his power shall be strengthened, but not by his own force: and he shall lay all things waste, and shall prosper, and do more than can be believed. And he shall destroy the mighty, and the people of the saints[.]

Daniel 8:23–24

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

COMING IN EPISODE FIVE…

ONE

The woman rushed to Azadeh, sweeping her up in her arms while turning her head away from the dead man who lay crumpled on the dirt. Bono followed her quickly, his M4 in one hand, the barrel pointing upward, his other hand on the holster that was strapped to his chest. Sam stood over the other Iraqi, who was spread-eagled and very still.

Bono moved to Sam’s side, breathing heavily. He studied the dead man, and then turned away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I know you didn’t want this to happen. But he was going to kill her. I saw it through my scope. Trust me, Sammy, it was him or her. I made the right call.”

Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah,” was all he replied. He looked down at the dead man, and then placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he considered what they had done; setting up the fraudulent sale to get Azadeh out of the camp, allowing the flesh peddlers to transport her across the roadblocks and through the hazards that bedeviled their broken nation, manipulating the underground to do things they couldn’t have done by themselves. The end result was the Iraqi had unwittingly saved the girl and then chosen to throw his life away.

A bad deal for a bad guy.

Given the chance, Sam would do it again.

He glanced at the car and the shattered windshield. It was impossible to see through the heavily tinted side window; the bullet had entered it cleanly, leaving a single, small hole. Sam had a good idea what was in there, and he didn’t need to look. He nodded toward the front seat. Bono shook his head. “He had a gun on you the entire time,” he said. “They were going to kill you, get the money and, as a bonus, keep the girl. They set us up. You know it. You could smell it. We’ve seen it before.”

Sam didn’t argue. He knew it was true.

He turned to Azadeh, who was standing a few feet from him now. The woman still held her, her arms wrapped high around her shoulders, her hands covering her eyes. It was as if she wanted not only to protect her but to blind her as well, as if it would all go away if Azadeh didn’t see it.

But Sam could see that the woman was far more shaken than Azadeh. She’s new to this, he thought. Azadeh’s seen this and worse.

He walked slowly toward them, his hands at his side. The woman kept her arms around the young girl’s shoulders, but Azadeh had turned her head. She watched Sam carefully. Sam, keeping in mind what the military and real-life practice taught him regarding customs of physical contact between non-Muslim men and Muslim women, stopped three feet away. Azadeh pushed away from the woman, turning to face him.

“Do you speak English?” he asked her, averting his eyes so as not to stare at her, thereby avoiding zina, or adultery of the eyes.

She shook her head. “A… little. Badly.”

He turned to the woman. She was thick and husky, and wore a hooded heavy jacket. She had dark hair with light streaks of gray, dark eyes and dark skin. She, too, was an Arab. “Tell her,” Sam said. “Tell her who I am.”

The woman looked surprised. “Tell her? How much? What do you want me to say?”

“Tell her I remembered her from the village in Iran.”

Azadeh was listening intently, and she started nodding before the woman could speak. “You American … soldier,” she said, pointing at Sam.

“Yes,” Sam nodded. “American soldier.”

Azadeh nodded, understanding.

“Ask her if she is alone now,” he told the woman.

The older woman spoke in Persian. Azadeh answered in a low voice.

The older woman looked at Sam. “She said these men took her from Khorramshahr. And yes, she is alone.”

“Tell her who you are,” Sam instructed.

The woman spoke quickly. Sam listened, catching as much of the conversation as he could. “My name is Amina,” the older woman began.

“Azadeh Pahlavi Jan,” Azadeh introduced herself.

“Yes, of course, I already know that,” Amina replied. She forced a tight smile, though it was clear she was still close to tears. “I’m with an organization called No More. Have you ever heard of that?”

Azadeh shook her head.

“We are a private group based in London,” the older woman continued. “We work throughout the Middle East, sometimes in Pakistan, sometimes in India and Malaysia. We work to free women, sometimes boys and girls, who are being bought and sold as slaves. We intercept them; we buy them and set them free. The slave trade is a nasty, nasty business.” Amina paused. “Do you understand?”

Azadeh pressed her lips, her eyes growing narrow, and her forehead furrowing tightly.

“Do you realize, Azadeh, what these men were going to do? They brought you here to sell you. To sell you as a slave.”

Azadeh nodded grimly. “I know that,” she answered. “But I would have died before I would have let them do that to me.”

Amina was silent a moment. “Azadeh, I don’t think you fully understand what they could have done.”

Azadeh shook her head. “No, Amina Jan, I do understand. I knew what would happen the first time I saw that man.” She nudged her shoulder toward the Iraqi who lay on the ground. He kept his head down and his eyes closed, though it was clear he was listening carefully. “He claimed he worked for my uncle.” She spit the words in his direction. “What a filthy, simple lie. I have no uncle, no family, no one who knows or cares. I knew what he had in mind. But I determined when I met him that he would not succeed. I would die first. He would die first. One of us was not going to live.”

Amina held her tight once again. “You are brave,” she said simply. “Brave, but also foolish. He would have had his way, my dear.”

“Maybe. But if that was what was in store for me, then I didn’t want to live.”

Sam looked away. He had caught enough of the conversation to understand. He passed a hand in front of his face, rubbing his eyes.

Bono stood behind him, clearing his throat. Sam looked quickly over his shoulder. Bono was standing guard over the Iraqi, a small pistol comfortably in his hand. He nodded anxiously, indicating that he wanted to go. Sam motioned to him, a barely noticeable head movement, and then turned back to Amina. “Tell her my name,” he said.

“No, you should not do that,” Amina said emphatically. “There is no good that can come if she knows. You endanger her. You endanger yourself. Some things are better left unsaid.”

Sam shook his head. “Tell her,” he repeated.

Amina hesitated, and then put her hands on Azadeh’s shoulders. “This is Captain Brighton.” She nodded to the man who stood at Sam’s back. “That man is an American soldier, too. They are friends. Close comrades. Do you understand?”

Azadeh nodded as she looked at Sam and Bono.

“Now you need to understand something,” Amina continued in Persian. “What he did here tonight, he did on his own. The U.S. government had nothing to do with any of this. Nothing at all. In fact, Captain Brighton would be in very, very big trouble if they ever found out. This isn’t his purpose. This isn’t his mission, to try to save the local citizens from the effects of this land. But he came to me, Azadeh, a few weeks ago. He asked me to help him. I told him if he could get you out of Khorramshahr, I could take you from here. I helped him when I could, but it is mostly him you should thank.” Amina paused, and then asked, “Do you understand, Azadeh?”

Azadeh lowered her eyes as if she didn’t dare look at Sam.

“Now listen, Azadeh,” Amina went on. “I’m going to take you from here. You are safe now. No More has the funds and organization. You are going to leave Iraq. We are going to send you to the United States.”

“America?” Azadeh repeated in a frightened tone.

Sam watched her carefully, reading the look on her face. “It’s going to be OK, Azadeh,” he said. “There are people there who are willing to take you into their homes.” Amina interpreted in a low voice and as quickly as she could. “You will be safe. You will have a new life there, a new start.”

Azadeh thought a long moment. Behind him, Sam heard Bono stomp his feet on the ground. Sam quickly glanced at his watch. “Sammy,” Bono said, “we’ve got to be going. We’ve got to get back to camp.”

Sam lifted his hand, gesturing to his friend for another minute.

Azadeh looked at him, her eyes wide. “Will you come with me?” she asked. The tone of her voice betrayed the fact that she knew it was a ridiculous question.

Sam laughed. “I wish I could,” he said. “Believe me, Azadeh, there are plenty of days when I want nothing more than to get out of here. But I have other obligations. Remember, Azadeh, I am not here on my own. I am a soldier. I have a duty. This is where I belong.”

“Who will go with me, then?”

“Amina has arranged it. She will go with you, introduce you to your new home, and help you get situated inside the United States. They will arrange the visas, all the documents.”

Amina touched Azadeh’s hand and the girl shot a quick look at her, but then turned back to Sam. “But who will I stay with?” she wondered. “What will I do?” She did not look happy. She looked terrified.

Amina interpreted. Sam shook his head, pushing his dirty hands through his long hair. “I don’t have all the answers, Azadeh, but this much I know. You’ll have a chance to be happy. That’s all that I can offer. But you’ll be free. You will be warm and fed. You will be in a home with someone who loves you and wants you to be there.”

“No,” Azadeh said. “They will not love me. I am not their kin. I’m not one of their people. I do not come from their tribe. They might show sympathy, even kindness, but they will not love me, I’m sure.”

Sam listened to Amina interpret, and then took a step toward her. He peered into her dark eyes and saw the loneliness, the fear, the resignation, the sadness of being so completely on her own. Betrayed. Taken. Saved by foreign strangers she didn’t know and couldn’t trust. She was a young woman, but in that moment she looked like nothing more than a lost and frightened child. He wanted to hold her, to pull her to him. He wanted to help her.

That was why he was here.

“Azadeh,” he started. “I know this has been hard—”

Azadeh shook her head abruptly. “No, no. I am grateful.”

“I know you are, Azadeh. But you still need to know. Your difficult path is over. You have walked through the dark. There are others now who will help you. You will not be alone.”

Azadeh kept her eyes down, staring at the black dirt under her sandals, not daring to look into his eyes. The vehicle’s headlights shone across the river, sparkling off the lapping waves. The night was quiet and, across the marsh, a loon cried, a long, mournful sound. She lifted her head and looked at the low moon, a dull yellow sliver against the Iraqi sky, then turned to Sam, her eyes scrunching now. “But I will… I will leave my people. I will leave my home. If I go to your country, will I ever come back again?”

Sam hunched his shoulders and thought a long moment, knowing all he could do was tell her the truth. He imagined himself in her situation at such a young age, barely escaping with her life, losing everything along the way, her family, her possessions. Everything she owned had been stuffed in the burlap bag she was clutching under her arm. And now she was losing her country, her people, everything she’d ever known.

But maybe we are not so different, he then thought. He considered his own father and mother, who had beaten and deserted him by the time he was ten. By age 13, he had fully expected to live his entire life all alone, maybe with short visits from his addicted mother or occasional brawls with his old man.

His mind flashed back to the evening when he had been taken to the Brighton’s house, the next stop on a long list of temporary homes. He had fully expected that visit to last not more than a few days—maybe a week, if things went unusually well. And even now, he remembered what it felt like to be a terrified little boy, standing in the hallway of a stranger’s home, looking around him, a young animal in a new cage, always expecting to take another blow, another heartbreak, another push back down the road. Yes, he remembered the feeling. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget.

Looking at Azadeh, he saw himself in her eyes. He remembered, and it hurt him, feeling the loneliness again.

But somehow, in ways that even now he didn’t understand, life had led him to the family that had been waiting for him. A family who could love him and accept him and help him to succeed.

Could Azadeh be so lucky?

He really didn’t know.

Most weren’t. He knew that he was one of the few.

But he couldn’t help but think of how he had felt the first time he had seen her. He could picture it so clearly, Azadeh hiding in the brush and dirt, the smell of death and the smoke of destruction all around. Something about her was so familiar, as if their souls had known each other. Somehow. Somewhere.

She seemed to lean toward him, an almost imperceptible movement, her arms reaching from her body. “Will me… I,” she pointed at Sam and then back at herself, “you and I… together?” she mumbled desperately.

Sam cocked his head toward her, and then dropped his eyes. He didn’t believe that their meeting in the Iranian village had been left up to chance. He didn’t believe that, out of all of the places he could have been sent in the world, he had been sent to her tiny village in the mountains of Iran out of pure happenstance. And he didn’t believe, he couldn’t believe, that he’d be able to save her only to send her off on her own and never see her again.

A long moment passed. Azadeh watched him all the time. Then he finally looked up. “Azadeh,” he started. Amina interpreted quickly, whispering in Azadeh’s ear. “Sometime you will understand. Until then, you’re going to have to believe me when I say that I know what you are going through. I have been where you are. And I know, I understand, I remember how hard it is. But you live. You always live. And as long as you live, then you fight. You live and you fight, and it gets better. I can promise you that.”

Azadeh nodded slowly as Amina interpreted the words.

“You live and you fight,” she answered. “That’s something I can understand. And I will believe you. I will trust you. I will do what you say.”

Sam stepped toward her and pulled her close. “Go with Amina,” he whispered into her ear. “She will help you. She is your friend. Trust her. Keep your faith and it will turn out OK.”

He felt her head move against him, almost resting on his shoulder. Although he had spoken in English, it seemed she had understood.

Pulling back, she straightened herself. “Will I … ,” she stumbled for the words. “Eye …” she pointed to her eyes. “What is it … ?”

“See,” Amina helped her.

She nodded and pointed eagerly. “Yes! See! Will I see … .” She closed her eyes and concentrated. “See home twice … no, no … again?”

“Will you see your home again?” Sam clarified.

Azadeh nodded.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, Azadeh. Maybe … but probably not. The world is changing quickly. The days are growing shorter, and there is evil all around. Events have been put in motion that will never come to a rest. Where it leads, we don’t know, sometimes all we can do is hang on. But this much I can tell you: It is not in our hands. So have faith, and be hopeful, and maybe you will come back here again.”

Sam nodded toward Amina. It was past time to go.

Bono walked to him. “What do we do with him?” he asked, pointing to the Iraqi on the ground

Sam considered the question, then moved forward and nudged the man with his boot. “Stand!” he commanded in Persian. The Iraqi pushed himself to his feet.

Sam glared in his face. “You were going to kill me here tonight, weren’t you, my friend?”

The Iraqi returned his cold stare, dead rage in his eyes. “I would kill you even now if I were given the chance.” He spoke in a guttural, almost animal sound. “Give me the chance, you harâmzâde, and I would reach down your throat and crush your heart in my fist.”

Sam stood back and smiled. “Yes, I suppose that you would. And maybe one day, if you’re lucky, you just might get the chance. But until then, let me give you some advice. I have friends. We have ears. We have eyes. We have feet. We get around. We listen and we watch. And I will be listening and watching for you. And know this, my merchant friend, if I ever hear your name, if I ever hear even a whiff of a rumor that you are back in business, I will send you to hell. I will hunt you and kill you. I promise I will.

“So remember me, because I will remember you. Your next day in business will be your last day on this earth. I will hunt you like the sewer rat that you are. I know you believe me; I can see it in your eyes. You know I’m not afraid of the sewer. It doesn’t matter where you hide, I will come after you.”

The Iraqi glared at Sam, and then slowly nodded.

“Go!” Sam commanded.

The Iraqi turned and ran.

Sam took a breath and turned to Azadeh again. “You be careful, Miss Azadeh. But be happy, too. You are off on another adventure, but this is a good one, I swear. Now go with Amina. She’s your friend.

“I’ll remember you, Azadeh, and one day I’ll check up on you. And when I do, I want a good report. I want to hear you speak in English. I want to hear that you’re doing well in school. I want to hear about your new friends and your family. But mostly I want to hear that you’re happy. That’s all I ask.”

Azadeh smiled and nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.

Sam stood and nodded to Bono, then turned for the riverbank. He climbed into the small boat, and his friend pushed it back before climbing in as well, his wet legs splashing water across the side of the boat. Reaching into his vest pocket, Sam pulled out a small pen flare, held it away from his body, and turned his head. Pulling and releasing the firing pin, he sent a flare into the dark sky, where it exploded with a burst of red light.

“Wait here,” he commanded as his boat drifted away. “A friend will come to get you in a blue Nissan pickup. You can trust him. You go with him. He will take you back to Baghdad and deliver you safe.”

Azadeh started to run toward him, but it was already too late. The dark hull drifted into the current, then disappeared silently, slipping into the dark.

TWO

The new king of the House of Saud sat alone in a small office in the presidential penthouse atop the Royal Saudi Oil company headquarters building in Riyadh. He slouched at his desk, his head low, his eyes tired. A small reading lamp was the only light that illuminated the dim office, and there were deep shadows in the corners and across the wood furniture. The king preferred the semi-dark. He didn’t know why—it was just more comfortable to him now. He liked how the dim light softened all the features, making everything a little less harsh, a little less intrusive. The darkness invited open conversation. People were less aware of themselves, more willing to say things. The king had learned a lot of secrets from conversations in the dark, and he had grown comfortable with the night.

King Abdullah al-Rahman was holding a highly classified document in his slender fingers. Although he had read it already, he read it again, this time more slowly, considering its contents carefully.

It was a handwritten report by General Sattam bin Mamdayh, head of the ultra-secret Iranian Interior Police. As director of the highly classified security force, the Iranian general was in a very powerful position, able to operate almost entirely on his own. But he was also three or four layers down in the food chain. Like everyone, he had many superiors whom he had to please. And though his commanders were all powerful men, they had one thing in common: fear of the Saudi king.

King al-Rahman was not Persian, but he controlled many things. Many people. Many organizations. His reach extended much farther than the borders of his land, and there was much he could influence beyond his own shores.

The king had to squint to read, for the general’s handwriting was thin and imprecise, his Arabic adequate but barely readable. It told of the general’s attack at Agha Jari Deh, the destruction of the village, the burning of the man, the search for the young one. It told of their frustration, briefly describing the failure of his men to find the last prince.

Although they had done everything possible, they had not succeeded in finding the child. Then the American soldiers had appeared, forcing his men to flee.

American soldiers! Al-Rahman thought, his mouth growing dry. U.S. soldiers had dared to move openly inside of Iran! There had been rumors, even sightings of Special Forces units working inside Iran, searching for hints of their nuclear program, listening, watching, looking for things, but this had been different—these were combat troops. And they had shown up at the village at the very worst time.

The king swore angrily, his gut burning inside.

The Americans were watching. No, they were doing more than that; they were actively working against him, all of it under the table, all of it in secret. And they had stopped the Iranian general before his work was complete.

The king finished the report, stared a moment into the darkness, and then glanced at his watch. At a predetermined time, the general was going to make contact, and the king was waiting up for him.

At ten past one in the morning, the secure telephone rang. Al-Rahman let it ring five times, and then picked up the receiver.

“Yes,” he said simply.

The Iranian General Sattam bin Mamdayh’s voice filled his ear. It was a deep voice, powerful and demanding. “This is General Sattam—” he began.

“I know who you are,” Al-Rahman cut him off in an impatient tone. After reading the general’s report, he was not in a good mood. “I’ve been waiting for your phone call. Now, what’s going on? It’s been almost three weeks; I want to hear some good news.”

The general cleared his throat. “My men have been through the village again. They have searched all the mountains—”

“Save me the details. I’m a very busy man. It’s late. I’ve been waiting. Did you find him or not?”

The general paused. And with the silence, the king knew.

“You have failed me,” Al-Rahman said before the Iranian general could respond.

“I have not failed, my Sayid, but it is proving difficult. Much more difficult than we expected, more complicated, I’m afraid.”

“We’re talking about a child!” Al-Rahman sneered in disgust. “A little four-year-old boy. I didn’t ask you to take over the Iranian army. I didn’t ask you to conquer some foreign land. I asked you to do one little favor, to take care of one simple thing. I told you where to find him. I told you how I wanted it done. I did everything but pick up the gun and pull the trigger for you. And you’re telling me this is difficult. You’re telling me the child still lives!” The king cursed again bitterly, his voice hard and dry.

“But,” the general defended, “the Americans came with their—”

“You can’t be serious, Sattam. Please, tell me you are not that incompetent.”

“The child was taken to the mountains. A local man was helping them. He warned the family we were coming, and then helped the boy and his mother escape. They are up there somewhere, hiding in the mountains. It has been a difficult task. And then—”

“And then what, General Mamdayh? What terrible thing happened then? Your gun jammed? You broke a nail? Got some dirt or blood on your hands? Xodâvând, General Mamdayh, this was such a simple task!”

“He had friends. They were helping him. I know the Americans are watching, which means my superiors will be watching. I have to be careful now.”

The Saudi king shook his head. He had heard more than he could take. If the handwritten report from the general wasn’t discouraging enough, listening to his whining explanations was simply more than he could stand.

The phone was silent a moment as both men fell into thought: the general desperately considering how he might save his neck, the king thinking how he would kill the Persian general when he was given the chance.

The soft hum continued until the king finally said, “General Mamdayh, you understand, of course, that I can do good things for you?”

“Yes,” the general answered. “You can help me, I know.”

“You know I have friends at the Iranian Ministry. The mullahs. Friends at the Iranian palaces as well. There is no place in all of Iran that my hand can’t reach. And money, General Mamdayh, I have plenty of that. And I am willing to help you. I am a man of my word. I can reward you generously. I can do many things. Do you understand that, general? Do you know what I’m saying is true?”

The general hesitated. He knew what was coming next, and he didn’t want to respond.

“Answer me, Mamdayh. Do you know what I can do for you?”

“Yes,” the general answered his voice low and cool.

“Then you also understand, General Mamdayh, there are two sides to my sword. I can help you if you help me, but I can hurt you as well. One word and you would simply disappear. One phone call to my friends in Tehran, and you would never be heard from again. And not only could I have you killed, General Mamdayh, I could determine how. Fast or slow, I could tell them. If I wanted, I could have them cut off one of your fingers every day for ten days and have it delivered to me. Then your toes. Then your elbows. Then your knees and your arms. I could have you taken apart, General Mamdayh, piece by piece, bit by bit, and have you delivered to my palace in an overnight pouch. And then I could turn to your family and do the same thing to them. I could do all this and more. So I want you to listen to me, general, and consider what I have to say.”

Al-Rahman heard the general swallow painfully on the other end of the phone.

“You made a pact,” the king sneered harshly. “Now, do you understand what I want?”

“Yes, Sayid, I understand.”

“And do you remember what I told you?”

“You said you wanted the child killed.”

“Yes! That is right. He is the last of his offspring, the last of his seed. He will remember, he will grow, and he then will come after me. So I asked a simple favor, and now I’m going to ask you again: Can you find this child? Can you find him and kill him? It is a simple thing, General Mamdayh. And it’s all that I ask.”

The general didn’t hesitate. “Yes, King al-Rahman, I can do this for you.”

Al-Rahman nodded slowly. “That is good, General Mamdayh. Now, go back! Search every mountain. Search every rock! Search every blade of grass if you have to. You have taken too long already! I want to see results now. I want to see a body. I’ll give you three days General Mamdayh. That is all you will have. Three days to find this young boy and his mother, and kill them. Then report back to me.”

The general was silent.

He and his men had already done everything they could do. They had searched every corner, every canyon, every inch of that mountain. They had torn apart the village, interrogated everyone.

It would take months to search the mountains up and down the coast of Iran.

He didn’t have enough time.

Which meant he was dead.

*******

The Iranian general slumped in terror as he hung up the phone. His red-rimmed eyes watered with fear and dread while his hands shook uncontrollably on the top of his desk.

He should have known better than to enter an alliance with someone like Al-Rahman. He should have known that it was dangerous to jump into such a slimy swamp. He had heard things; he had been told things.

He had tried to kiss the snake. And now he had been bitten.

A helpless, hopeless feeling sank into his dark heart. He thought of Al-Rahman’s words, a cold sweep of terror running down his spine: “I can help you if you help me, but I can hurt you as well… . One word and you would simply disappear… . I could have you taken apart, General Mamdayh, piece by piece, bit by bit.”

It was true. The general acknowledged the king as a man of his word.

Which left him no choice. Not if he wanted to avoid a most excruciating death. Not if he wanted to protect his family and himself from such pain.

He could not choose if he died; that decision had already been made. But he could choose the timing and the method, which was a worthy thing to do. And in a society that didn’t place that much value on life, the decision was not especially difficult.

*******

Lucifer watched as the general suffered at his desk. Looking upon the broken mortal, Lucifer was neither distraught nor pleased. Another man. Another misery. That was all the general was to him; another failed human standing at hell’s door.

The only thing that concerned Lucifer was the lack of a result. And for this, he was very angry, his breath so hot it almost misted in the air. The mortal could die or live, Lucifer really didn’t care, but the fact that the mortal not been able to locate the prince was almost more than Lucifer could bear.

Fools, they were! Idiots, all! How could they be so incompetent?! How could another mortal fail him yet again?!

If only they would try a little harder to listen to his voice! If only they would try a little harder to feel his spirit near. If the general had only taken to the promptings that his angels had planted in his mind, he would have found the boy already and the prince would now be dead.

Hovering over the distraught soldier, Lucifer seethed in hopeless anger. He’d have to find another useful mortal. Another path, he’d have to go. But that didn’t worry him particularly, for if there was one thing he had learned it was that there was always another myrmidon willing to do his work. Some did it for passing pleasure. Some did it out of anger. Some out of pride or for revenge. Some did it because they were bored and there was nothing else to do. Some did it because they hated. Some did it because they loved. Either way, it didn’t matter. Plenty of mortals would help him if they could.

So he leaned toward the general.

“Abdullah will kill you!” he breathed into the general’s ear. “He will tear you apart; a finger, an ear, a piece of flesh at a time. He will prolong the suffering until you beg for death! So come unto me, mortal. Embrace me. Fall into my cold and waiting arms. Come into my world, for there is no hope for you here. Walk into the black eternity that is ready for you now. Walk into the shadow where there is never any light.”

He was finished with him now.

*******

General Mamdayh’s body was found early the next morning by one of his maids. He had slumped at his desk as if he had simply fallen asleep while at work, his hands resting peacefully on his lap. The empty bottles of Valium® and OxyContin® were found on the floor. And though he died with his eyes open, his lips were pulled back in what looked like a smile of relief, as if the life he expected could not be worse than the one he had left.

THREE

He knew it was coming. The forecast had warned them: Di kulâk on its way. Devil’s Storm. The Sudden Darkness. It would be here within the hour.

It happened two, maybe three times every year. The great sandstorms rolled in from the desert to fall on the city like a wave.

Something about the Di kulâk excited the new king to the bone. In the old days, his ancestors had lived in terror of the storms. But Al-Rahman loved them. They connected him with his land, making him feel as if he were a part of the desert that he cherished so much.

So he stood at the window, waiting for the great sandstorm to appear. He knew it would come from the east, across the great plain, and he stood watching, surrounded by luxury while waiting for the huge wall of sand.

King al-Rahman thought as he waited. There was much on his mind.

He was standing at a window in the presidential penthouse in Riyadh. Surrounded by gold and teak and every fine thing in the world, the king was alone in his private lounge. To his left, a forty-foot, custom-made plasma screen—one of the largest privately owned plasma screens in the world—showed a satellite feed from Al Jezzera TV. Under his feet, fifteen other television screens had been inlaid in the marble floor and covered with glass. Each television was tuned to a different satellite feed from the West, and the flashing images on the screens added an unnatural texture to the light in the dimly lit room, creating shifting shadows and flashing contrasts everywhere. The muted televisions inlaid in the floor were obviously not designed to be watched, they were only for decoration, but they did make a statement as to how the king felt about the western culture that flashed on the screens. To his right was an exquisite bar stocked with the finest liquors of the world. The liquor was only for his foreign guests, of course, alcohol being prohibited in the kingdom, but if the king were to indulge from time to time, who would dare to question that?

Did it bother King al-Rahman that his kingdom developed, funded, taught, spread, and advocated Wahhabi fundamentalism, the strictest and most repressive interpretation of Islam anywhere on earth, while the king exempted himself from almost all of its teachings—the use of alcohol, for example, or, say, murder for another? The answer was clearly no. Al-Rahman did what he did for the good of the kingdom, and he had long ago gotten past the irony of his hypocrisy. To those around him, his closest advisers, his brothers, his few friends, the king made his personal feelings very clear: Allah had given the royal family religion as a means of controlling their people. That was its only purpose. It meant nothing more. The only thing Allah truly cared about was keeping the kingdom pure to sustain the royal family, the chosen vessels on earth.

Wahhabi Islam, with all its teachings and prohibitions, was a tool given to them. And it was a good tool. Important. But it was not the only tool they had. Allah had provided other means to keep his children safe from the great influences of the world.

And King al-Rahman would use every one of them.

The new king stood at a tall window, twenty feet from ceiling to floor, and looked out on the city that he loved. He could see it coming in the distance now, the great, rising storm. Thick sand was moving slowly toward them like a huge wall of brown water, boiling and mean. It stretched from north to south as far as the king could see and rose upward to four or five hundred feet. It rolled and raged as it moved across the land, swallowing everything in its path, a terrifying brown wave of sand. It was small now, still in the distance, but it was coming fast. The king’s heart skipped a beat. It was a terrifying sight, like something out of a nightmare, except this was real and moving toward him. The king stood and watched.

Above the wall of sand, the sun was rising over the desert and the buildings of Riyadh were splashed in bright colors of the early morning light, the predominant browns of the Arabic arches and porticos mixing easily with the pastels, desert pinks, and light blues. Some of the main buildings in the city were fascinating works of architecture, almost playful pieces of art, but even the tallest buildings seemed to shrink from the coming wall of sand, the billowing wall looming over the tallest building in Riyadh.

The buildings on the outskirts of the city were swallowed as the storm moved toward him.

He heard his office door open behind him. He turned his head just a bit, lowering his chin to the side, but he did not turn around, and he could not see who it was. Then he heard the shuffle of soft feet, and his heart jumped in his chest. He heard the deep breathing, the rattle in the chest, and his lips turned up in a smile. Then he smelled him. The stale clothes. The smell of medicine and disinfectants. The smell of sour breath.

He turned around slowly.

The old man was standing there.

The king bowed at his waist. He didn’t think, he just did it; it was an instinctive reaction, one he could not have explained. Yes, he was king, but this was the only man on earth that Al-Rahman feared. He bowed his head, then rushed forward and took the old man by the arm. He felt the thin flesh, the tender skin and weak muscle hanging like limp cloth on the bone, as he guided the old man toward the nearest chair.

“Old friend!” he cried. “I did not expect to see you here!”

The old man smiled sarcastically. “What you really mean, King Abdullah,” he accentuated the title with obvious satisfaction, “was that you did not expect to see me at all. Here. Somewhere else. You thought I was too close to death to be seen anywhere.”

Al-Rahman didn’t deny it. He knew he couldn’t lie to this man. “I did think, my good friend, that you were too weak to travel. So, yes, I’m surprised to see you anywhere.”

The old man looked up and grinned, his teeth brown from a lifetime’s worth of drinking dark tea and smoking cigarettes. “Have you got any whiskey?” he asked impatiently.

Al-Rahman nodded and fixed the old man a glass. He sipped, and then leaned back his head. “Your little episode with the Iranian general was a disappointment, my friend.”

Al-Rahman hesitated.

It had been twenty-four hours since the Iranian general had chosen to kill himself. What a coward! What a woman! The king cursed to himself.

The old man watched Al-Rahman carefully, studying the look on his face.

Al-Rahman shrugged in frustration. “He failed me,” he said.

“He did more than that. He failed us all.”

“He said he would find him.”

“Yet the young one still lives.”

Was there anything the old man didn’t know? No. There really wasn’t. He had learned that before. “It is a disappointment,” he answered slowly. “I needed him. He deserted me. There is nothing I can do about that now.”

The old man nodded slowly. He didn’t accept it so simply—that was clear from the look in his eyes.

Al-Rahman looked at the old man, though he tried not to stare. There was something about him, something strange and powerful. He still looked old, that was true, but he looked healthier somehow. Last time they had met, he would not have given the old man a week to live. Yet here he was once again, sitting with him in this room. And not only was he here, he looked better. Not younger, but recycled. Freshened and new, as if, through some miracle, he had been granted more time.

It was unnatural. Abnormal.

And Al-Rahman wanted to know how it was done.

But there was a lot about the old man that the king wanted to know.

Once, years before, after too many questions, the old man had taken his hand and squeezed it so hard that it hurt, all the time looking him straight in the eye. “It is better if you don’t know too much,” he had said. “It is better for you and it is better for me. Let’s just do our business. That is all that you need.”

Through the years, Al-Rahman had accepted that he would never know about his friend. But looking at him now, with his renewed energy, he was certainly curious as to where he had been.

The old man looked at him, and then took his hand. “You have been an efficient learner,” he said in a raspy voice. “From the first time we met, that wonderful day on the beach, I knew you would be one of our stars. From that first night outside the embassy building, when you told me to kill your countrymen, I knew you would be someone our team could count on. I would lay my life on the table for you, Abdullah, and I know you would do the same thing for me.”

“Yes,” Al-Rahman answered. “I would die for you.”

The old man stared at him, his dark, sullen eyes boring into the king’s soul. Al-Rahman held his gaze the best that he could, but he finally looked away.

“You are frightened,” the old man mumbled. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“No,” Al-Rahman answered. “I am careful, that’s all.”

The old man shook his head. “You are hesitating. Always thinking. Waiting for the exact time to move. You can’t do that, Abdullah—you have to move now. We’ve been waiting for this moment a very long time. You must make a decision. Be willing to act. There will be no sign from heaven. Nothing will fall from the sky. You have to take a breath, be committed, and stay with the plan. And you must do it now. It is time that you move.”

“But I was thinking—”

“No more thinking, Abdullah, it is time to act!”

“But if we wait until—”

“You have only a few days,” the old man almost sneered. “The United States is suspicious and they are watching you now. Your older brother had a friend. He works for the American president. He knows about you, and he is watching. Every day that you hesitate gives him more time to think. Far too many people around you have died suddenly. Too many bodies can be found in your wake: the Pakistani general who provided the warheads, the Iranian general who killed himself recently, your brother, your father, all of their kin. You are surrounded by death, and they will want to know why. And though the U.S. intelligence apparatus isn’t perfect, they are not nearly as stupid as their critics think. They will figure it out if you give them too much time. So you’ve got to move quickly for this thing to work. You’ve got to strike the United States and strike them where it counts. If you take out D.C., you can take out their entire government. Then you can turn your eye on Israel. She will be waiting for you. After that, the final battle. After that, the final war.

“But you can’t wait a few months. You don’t even have days. If you haven’t moved within seventy-two hours, it may be too late.”

“All right,” Al-Rahman answered. “I can see that is true.”

“Three days. Maybe four. You must move by then.”

Al-Rahman only nodded.

“You are ready?”

“I am ready.”

“I hope that you are.”

The king turned and looked out the window. The sandstorm was almost upon them. It moved across the city like a great tidal wave, swallowing everything that fell in its path. It was a block away, then half a block, then a hundred feet. Then it was here. The sandstorm washed over the building. The light turned orange, then deep brown, then as dark as the night.

The old man moved forward, standing beside the new king. They watched the storm together without saying anything. The sand beat against the windows like a billion pellet shots, and the wind howled across the roof, causing the building to sway.

The two men stood in silence until the old man turned around. “There are still some things I must teach you,” he said in a solemn tone. “They will strengthen you in your weakness, provide you comfort and power. They will give you support when you need it to see this thing through.”

Al-Rahman nodded, waiting. “Then teach me, my friend.”

“There are secrets we should talk about. Secrets that go back many years. They are sacred and chosen, and they will change your life forever once you hear what I say. Once you have learned them, you will be bound to your oaths. You can never deny them. They will bind you, my friend, like the web of a spider wrapped around its prey. They will bind you forever. But you are ready, I am sure. You have been ready for a long time. And now I’m ready too.”

Al-Rahman waited, submissive, as the old man scrutinized him.

“You do not believe in God,” the old man went on, “but I’m here to tell you that is a terrible mistake. Not only is there a God, but in fact there are two. Two gods in the universe. They are eternally locked in battle and they are both powerful. One God is the spirit of freedom that has threatened your land. He is your enemy, your destroyer—He seeks to bring you down. He brings the idea of democracy and freedom, which will destroy the kingdom you’ve built. If He wins, He will leave you homeless and destitute. He will destroy your family and everything that your fathers have built.

“Some people will claim that freedom belongs to all mankind. That is a lie. Don’t believe it. From the beginning of time that lie has been deceiving the world.

“Some will say that all people have been given the power to choose. Another lie. Don’t believe it. Life is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of strength. It is not a matter of freedom. It is a matter of power. That’s the only thing that matters: who is strong, who is weak, who can convince enough of the others to follow. That is all that matters in this miserable world.

“And know this, young king, for there may be times when you will doubt. It is no sin, my brother, to defend what you have: your kingdom, your family, your place in this world, the riches and privileges that your forefathers built. It is no sin to protect them, and protect them you will.

“Now, listen to me, Abdullah. There are things you must learn. Certain oaths and combinations that will unlock special doors.”

FOUR

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Major General Neil Brighton stood anxiously in the narrow pantry outside the Oval Office. He glanced at his watch: 10:16 A.M. He had only twenty minutes with the president, beginning at 10:20 A.M., and as always he found himself standing outside the office early to make sure that he was ready. It was an obligation demanded of the staff, and an easy one to offer, since he worked just down the hall. And he didn’t want to waste a minute of his allotted time. Twenty precious minutes. He needed them all.

Leaning away from the wall, he glanced down the hall toward his own office. The West Wing was quiet; it was a Saturday afternoon, and most of the staff wasn’t in. He studied the hallway, with its heavy blue-and-white window coverings and imposing paintings—former presidents, western landscapes, the D.C. landscape in 1822—all of them set in large, gold-gilded frames and spaced evenly between the high windows.

Halfway down the narrow hallway was a display of military photographs. But there were none of the typical pictures of speeding fighters, powerful ships, or deadly battle tanks. Instead, the photographs showed soldiers—mostly young men, a few women—all of them battle weary, with dust and sweat and dirt on their faces. The pictures were tender: a young rifleman, his heavy M-16 under his arm, bending down to pet a small kitten with his fingers while anxiously surveying the battle damage around him; a multi-ethnic group of soldiers standing in a circle, their heads bowed in prayer; a young soldier sitting cross-legged in the dirt dressed in full battle gear—flak vest, helmet, protective goggles, and gloves—while holding an infant in his arms. Smoke was wafting in a stiff breeze behind him and debris had been scattered everywhere, but the soldier looked almost peaceful, as if he were holding his own child. There were pictures of soldiers handing out candy, giving a young boy a high five, kissing a letter from a loved one, helping an old woman across a battle-scarred street. There was a picture of a young medic wrapping the broken leg of a small dog, a little boy standing nervously at his side, one hand on his puppy, another on the medic’s arm. In the middle of the pictures was a handwritten note:

This is why we do it.

It had been General Brighton’s idea to put up the display. Most of the national security staff had been against it. Too emotional, the national security adviser had said. But Brighton had insisted, even going to the president when the others told him no. Upon seeing the photographs, the president had agreed with Brighton.

The general considered the display one of the better things he had done. Members of the press, congressional delegations, cabinet secretaries, White House staff, all of them passed the display every day. Most of them stopped. The pictures were simply too compelling to pass by casually without taking a look. And some of those who stopped to look at the pictures studied them for a long time. The images caused them to think. Brighton was happy about that.

Looking farther down the hall, Brighton could see the open door to his office, a tiny cubbyhole at the far end of the West Wing. It was hardly more than a closet, with old wood floors, a single narrow window (sealed shut and covered with shatterproof Mylar coating), and a small wooden desk dating back to the Civil War. It would have been an embarrassingly tiny office had it been in any other government or business building in D.C. But it wasn’t. It was in the White House—which made his 80 square feet of space more valuable than most any piece of real estate in the world. Many people would have happily paid millions of dollars in order to work this close to the president.

General Brighton considered that fact as he looked down the hall. He knew it was fifty-three steps from his office to the Oval Office door. He knew that. Fifty-three steps. He had counted them many times.

Fifty-three steps away from the president, the most powerful man in the world. Fifty-three steps away from some of the most pivotal moments and decisions of the last two hundred thirty-five years.

Most people had no idea how big the White House really was. Hidden behind carefully planted landscaping, and with much of it built underground, the fifty-five thousand square feet of office space and living quarters were spread across six stories and one hundred thirty-four rooms, with eight staircases, three elevators, and thirty-five bathrooms. Out of all of this space, Brighton had but one tiny office.

Fifty-three steps from the president.

Sometimes it felt like a mile.

He glanced again at his watch. 10:18 A.M. now. He fidgeted, moving from one foot to the other. He wasn’t nervous, but he was restless; that was just the way it was. One didn’t enter the Oval office without feeling a little on edge.

Four minutes later, the heavy door to the Oval Office swung open and the president’s chief of staff let him into the room. Behind the chief of staff, next to a white Elizabethan couch, the president was standing, his back to his desk. He wore a dark suit with a striped shirt and red tie, and he was bending over while an assistant held a document for him to sign. Behind him, the National Security Adviser, Johnny “Bo” Grison, Brighton’s co-worker on the national security team, was leaning against the gently curved wall, his right arm tucked across his chest, his left elbow resting in his right hand, his fingers touching his lips. Grison was staring at the floor, deep in thought, and he paid no attention as Brighton walked into the room.

Grison and General Brighton had a mutual respect for each other, but they were not close friends. They were on the same side of the battle, but they tended to see things from very different points of view. Although Grison was the man who had recommended to the president that he bring Brighton on as his personal security adviser (he had argued for a long time that the president needed an informal and less structured link between his intelligence and military chains of command), Brighton knew that sometimes Grison now regretted the move. Grison thought Brighton was a pessimist: too skittish, too fast to act, too willing to see threats when there was nothing there. Brighton, on the other hand, thought Grison was too slow, too methodical, always waiting for more information and never willing to make any kind of final decision.

“Bo!” he once exploded in exasperation. “You can’t wait for perfect intelligence. It doesn’t exist. We get what we can, but you will never know everything. If you demand perfect information, then you are demanding the impossible. Sometimes, Bo, you’ve got to go with your gut. Sometimes you have to close your eyes and jump off the cliff. If we always have to wait until you are perfectly comfortable, we’ll never move. Things are changing too quickly. Our enemies are quick and cunning. We have to be quick and cunning too. We’ve got to stay up with them, Bo, or this whole thing falls down.”

“You’re talking like a fighter pilot, ready to bomb something—anything—to bits,” Grison had shot back. “This is different, Neil. We’ve got to be careful. If we don’t get it right, if we make a mistake, then we all pay the price.”

Brighton’s face was tense with frustration. “Our enemies aren’t afraid of making mistakes,” he said.

So the two men served in nearly constant conflict, and the president knew it. But he didn’t mind. In fact, that was precisely what he was hoping to get. It gave him the conflicting voices, the different points of view, the balance he needed to make the best decisions he could. And the president was a strong man. He was capable of listening and thinking, then making a decision for himself.

After signing the last document, the president tucked his pen inside his breast pocket, and the aide disappeared through a narrow hallway door, leaving the four men alone. Brighton glanced at the president as he sat down. Not tall, but with the square shoulders of a boxer, the president was, for the first time in his life, starting to show his age. His eyes were accented by crow’s-feet, which a few years ago hadn’t been there, and his temples were turning white.

The men sat in their customary seats: Grison and General Brighton on the white couch, the president and his chief of staff facing them on two padded armchairs. The president was holding an iced tea with lemon. A Diet Coke® was waiting for the general. Grison sipped his water. The chief of staff chewed his gum.

“How’s Sara?” the president asked as the general sat down.

“She’s fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking, sir.” Brighton shifted in his seat, and then added, “She sends her warmest regards.”

The president watched Brighton squirm and smiled.

Brighton’s wife, the lovely Sara, had met the president on many occasions, and she always seemed willing to give him advice, something that made Brighton cringe but that the president loved. She was engaging and pleasant, and the president had a warm spot for her in his heart.

“She still not reading any newspapers?” the president asked.

Brighton smiled. “Still too many, I’m afraid. I can tell as soon as I get home if she’s been reading the Post.”

The other men looked at each other questioningly, and the president leaned over to his chief of staff and explained. “Sara is, and I’m not just saying this,” the president eyed Brighton under a creased brow, “one of the most politically perceptive people I know. She seems to have a sixth sense, a real feel for the country out there. But, as I understand it, she recently swore off reading the papers or watching the news. Said she couldn’t take it any longer. Too frustrating. Too maddening. It was driving her nuts. But I knew she wouldn’t make it. She’s a news junkie.”

The other men smiled. They could relate. The president turned more serious, looking at the general again. “Did she did she see the photograph of your son?”

“Not yet sir.”

The president leaned forward. “Yeah, well, you tell her, if someone ever shows her, it’s so much garbage. It means nothing. It’s all garbage press.”

Brighton thought of the newspaper image of his soldier son that had appeared on the front page of the Post, the carnage and death of the Iranian village all around him. Were most of his fellow Americans willing to believe that their soldiers would assault and kill dozens of villagers in Iran? Apparently not. The story had no legs. Although the cynic inside him was a little surprised, Brighton was extremely relieved that the story hadn’t grabbed any traction inside the United States.

The truth was that General Brighton didn’t much like the press. Left or right, it didn’t matter, he had little respect for any of them; he had seen how they worked, he knew the agendas they had. But as he looked at the president, his face remained neutral and calm. His was a nonpolitical position, and he took great pains to be careful of everything he said.

The president watched him carefully. “Is your family OK, Neil?” he asked in a caring tone.

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“I’ll bet they miss you.”

“Sir?”

“I know that you’re not home much. You’ve been working long hours.”

“We all have, sir.”

“You’ve been working longer hours than most.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“I’m sure, and I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, but really, I’m just doing my job. Like everyone else, we’re just trying to make this thing work.”

The president pressed his lips together. “And your boy, the soldier?

“Doing well, sir.”

“Where is he now?”

Brighton hesitated. “All over, Mr. President.”

“He’s Special Forces, right?”

“Yes, sir. Special Forces. But in fact, he was recently invited to join the Cherokees.”

The president hesitated. He knew what that meant. “Is that going to make things difficult for you, Neil?”

Brighton was ready for the question and answered firmly. “No sir, it won’t.”

The president kept his eye on him, thinking, and then let it go. “And your other boys?”

“Fine, sir,” Brighton answered quickly. Although he was sincerely appreciative of the president’s interest, inside his mind, he was tapping a mental foot. Twenty minutes allocated for the meeting. Eighteen and counting. Lots to discuss.

The chief of staff fidgeted nervously as well, eager to get to the point. As the unofficial timekeeper, he took his responsibilities seriously.

The president saw Grison shift in his seat. He didn’t care. He wasn’t ready. He genuinely liked General Brighton and his family. “If there’s anything I can ever do for your kids, you let me know, OK? After all that you have sacrificed. After all you have done. It’s a small thing for me, General Brighton. Let me help out if I can. Schools. Graduate programs. A good job. Happens that I know a few people. Be happy to make a couple calls.”

Brighton had to smile. In fact, he almost laughed out loud. It was an absurd proposition: the president of the United States making a call for his sons. He shook his head and waved off the offer with his hands. “Thank you, Mr. President. You are very generous.” He knew he’d never ask the president to make a call.

The president cocked his head to the side. “You seem a little hesitant.”

Brighton didn’t answer.

The president waited. “The offer remains on the table.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The men were silent a moment, then the chief of staff said abruptly, “Mr. President, we only have a few minutes.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the president answered. “A few minutes, a few minutes, never more than a few minutes. It’s the way we all live.” He turned to General Brighton, and then glanced at his national security adviser, a middle-aged man with slender shoulders and thin hair. “You got something for me, Bo?” he asked.

Grison straightened himself. “Yes. A couple of things.”

The president nodded.

“First, we wanted to update you on the situation in Saudi Arabia. As you know, sir, Crown Prince Saud and his entire family seem to have disappeared. Now, we know the crown prince’s helicopter went down a little more than a fortnight ago, but we haven’t been able to confirm his status. As to his family, it’s very likely most of them are simply laying low. In fact, the entire royal family has dropped out of sight. There is upheaval in the kingdom, no doubt about that, but the workings inside Saudi Arabia are nearly impossible to track, and we haven’t been able to find out anything more.”

The president frowned. He had been a huge fan of the Saudi king, but he disliked his sons. “What about that arrogant man, what’s his name, Abdullah? What’s going on with him?”

“Sir, we’re hearing a few rumors—Jordan’s King Mohammad has been very helpful and a few others as well—but that’s all we have right now, rumors and whispers. Still, it appears that Prince Abdullah al-Rahman has already ascended, or will soon ascend, to the throne. But again, that’s only rumor; we really don’t know. He certainly isn’t the only one interested in being king. If he has consolidated power already, it would be remarkable. And as you know, sir, the House of Saud is a tight little family. They hate each other, yes, but they never talk. It was easier for us to split the atom than to crack the secrecy around the royal family. They all might have been killed by falling meteorites, and we wouldn’t know. Until we hear something definitive, all we can do is guess. So while we are attempting to make contact with Al-Rahman or his subordinates, right now we have to sit tight.”

“I’ve never liked Abdullah,” the president said. “He’s a spoiled little twit. He’s got a few guns, he feels invincible, but he’s nothing without his posse and some cash in the bank.”

“If he’s the next king, we have problems,” Grison replied.

“Oh, don’t you worry about Abdullah. I can take care of him,” the president said.

Brighton sat forward in his chair. He knew the royal family perhaps better than anyone, and the president’s estimation of Al-Rahman was clean off the mark. “Mr. President,” he said, “I must respectfully disagree. Abdullah is a dangerous man. Maybe very dangerous. We’ll have to approach him carefully.”

“He’s nothing!” the president shot back. “He’s a spoiled kid, oversexed and over-moneyed. No brains. No ambition. No direction. No core. If he’s the next king, that’s fine. I know how to deal with him. I’ve dealt with worse men before.”

Brighton shook his head slowly. “No sir, that’s simply not true. You don’t know him. None of us do. It would be foolish, even stupid, to underestimate this man.”

The room fell suddenly silent, the general’s words hanging like a chill in the air. No one talked to the president of the United States that way. It was an incredibly stupid thing to say. Undiplomatic and unacceptable in every sense of the word.

The president stared at Brighton. The general returned his gaze, never blinking. The president smiled.

“Sir,” Brighton continued, “forgive me for speaking so bluntly. I certainly don’t mean to offend. But the truth is, Mr. President, something is going on. We’ve got high leaders throughout the Arab world dropping like flies. The Saudi king. The crown prince. His family. Now it has spread beyond Saudi shores. General Sattam bin Mamdayh, head of the ultra-secret Iranian Interior Police. Abu Nidal Atta, deputy director of Pakistan’s Special Weapons Section. Both of them dead. Their governments deny it, but we know it is true. And the one thing all of these men held in common was their association with Prince Abdullah al-Rahman.”

The general sat back, feeling a trickle of sweat move down the side of his ribs.

The president placed his fingertips together and lifted his hands to his face, covering his mouth and resting his chin on his thumbs. Muted voices could be heard in the hallway, and a security helicopter flew overhead, vibrating the windows gently against their old wooden frames.

Brighton lifted his eyes and leaned forward in his seat. “I’m just saying, Mr. President, and you’ll forgive me for being so frank, but I’ve got a bad feeling. I think we need to presume the worst.”

“You always do, General Brighton.”

“That’s why you pay me, sir. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

Grison looked at Brighton, and then cut in anxiously. “There’s another little thing, Mr. President that we need to talk about. It may be nothing, and we hate to bring this to you when it is so preliminary, but some of my staff,” Grison glanced at General Brighton again, “particularly General Brighton feels this is something worth bringing up.”

The president waited, sipping his southern tea.

“You remember our Jackson Teams?” Grison said.

The president frowned. “They are what, some guys up in New York? They monitor the SEC or something, right?”

“Sort of, Mr. President. The team consists of Homeland Security agents, SEC investigators, some guys from Justice as well. But the team leaders are all FBI agents, and the team is under FBI control. The Jackson Team is tasked with monitoring suspicious trends in trading, securities, currency markets, that sort of thing.”

The president sipped again at his tea, studying his security advisers over the rim of the glass. “Sounds like law enforcement,” he said. “Why are you guys involved?”

Brighton sat back in his chair as he explained, “Sir, the Jackson Team was put together with the 9/11 Commission’s recommendation. It is based on the theory that, before we would see another major attack, there would be some indicators on Wall Street.”

The president scowled. Out of the hundreds of issues he discussed every day, national security was his highest priority. But it had been clearly overshadowed by a crumbling economy now that was not getting better. The American people were nearly in a panic. They were demanding action. Jobs. A ray of light amid the chaos. A sense that things were going to move forward! That an entire generation wasn’t going to be lost. For good or bad, these were the things now that kept him awake at night.

On the national security front, there were ten thousand security programs and procedures that had been put in place, or were being put in place, or were being considered, or were being funded, or studied, or talked about by his staff. There was simply no way he could remember them all. So while this whole Jackson thing was faintly familiar, it was still full of holes. “I don’t see how Wall Street can give us warning,” he stated suspiciously.

Brighton continued. “Sir, the Jackson Team operates on the premise that before a terrorist organization or hostile government were to launch a major attack against the United States, they would provide some kind of warning to their financiers. You have to consider, Mr. President, every terrorist organization, whether al Qaeda or a hostile government, gets its funding from somewhere. We know that a lot of that money comes from wealthy individuals throughout the Middle East, individuals who have, ironically, financial interest in the West. And we hope that, before we would see a major attack on our soil, we would see some movement in the market as these individuals begin to liquidate their U.S. assets—”

“Their terrorist comrades would warn them before they attacked?”

”We think that they might.”

“So they could cash in their assets? Jump like a rat from a ship?”

“That is our hope.”

The president shook his head. It seemed unlikely to him that was clear from the look on his face.

“You have to remember, Mr. President,” General Brighton went on, “the financial cost of the 9/11 attacks to our nation was more than ten trillion dollars. The market tanked. The dollar fell. The recession lasted almost three years. Then, after 9/11, when we were going back through our records, we discovered a very interesting thing. Several extremely wealthy Saudi princes started diversifying their U.S. assets just a few weeks before the attacks.”

The president’s tea froze in midair. “They shorted us? They made money predicting how our markets would fall?”

“Not really, sir. It appears they weren’t so much interested in making money from the market’s collapse as they were interested in not losing everything they had invested over here.”

“OK,” the president answered. He glanced at his watch, and then turned back to Grison. “So, where are you going with this, Bo? What do I need to know?”

Grison folded his hands on his lap. “Mr. President, our Jackson Team has seen indications that have caused us concern. Significant Saudi holdings have been moved from U.S. markets to various holdings overseas. Almost ten billion dollars have left our country in just a few weeks.”

“Are you telling me the Saudis are dumping their U.S. assets before another terrorist attack?”

“We don’t know, Mr. President. But we think it is worth looking at.”

The president caught his breath. “It might be a purely financial decision,” he countered. “I mean, you have the Saudis, the Europeans, the Chinese and Japanese, most of the world moves in and out of our markets every day. We live in a global economy; trillions of dollars cross our borders in any twenty-four-hour period. Our unemployment rate is stuck in the stratosphere. Gas prices have started climbing again. Another bitter fight over the debt limit coming up. Don’t you think it might be nothing more than a reaction to the market?”

The general moved his head slightly but didn’t say anything. This wasn’t a reaction to high unemployment and fuel prices. He was certain of that.

“A purely financial adjustment?” the president prodded.

“We can never be certain,” Grison replied. “But it is a significant adjustment, if that’s all it is.”

General Brighton leaned forward again, but Grison’s eyes warned him off. He had been cautioned before the meeting, and he had already said too much. But General Brighton knew there was something else—something the president really needed to know.

The royal families of the House of Saud weren’t the only ones dumping U.S. stocks and securities. A firm up in New York City was dumping as well—dumping so much and so fast, it would have been impossible not to take note. Jackson Team or no, it was obvious.

Which meant one of two things: They were either stupid or scared.

And the men of Drexel were not stupid.

So the general swallowed hard.

FIVE

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border

Mr. Sebastian Raule, special assistant to the camp administrator at Khorramshahr, stared at the paper that he held in shaking hands. His mouth went dry. His heart beat like a butterfly wing in his chest.

It was not possible! He read the dispatch again and again, and then held it up to the light to study the signature.

It appeared to be real.

What was he going to do?

He put the paper down and turned to his telephone. The yellow light in the corner of the black receiver was blinking weakly; there was only one line into Khorramshahr and it was already in use. He was almost relieved. He didn’t know what he would say when he made the call anyway. He turned back to the dispatch and read it for the fifth time, then turned again to the telephone. The light was out. He picked up the receiver and dialed with a shaking hand, his pointer finger jammed into the rotary dial.

His knees bounced anxiously as he waited for the call to go through. The telephone clicked and hummed through forty-year-old communications switching machines, then fell silent. Yes, there was cell phone coverage in some of the most remote villages in Africa, but not here at Khorramshahr! He was just thinking he might have been cut off when he heard a man’s voice, “U.N. Baghdad mission headquarters.”

“Yes, this is Sebastian Raule calling from Khorramshahr. I need to speak with Mr. Conner. Is he available?”

“Mr. Conner. Let me see. May I ask again who is calling?”

“Sebastian Raule. I’m the assistant—”

“Yes, Mr. Raule, I know who you are. Let me see if Mr. Conner is in.”

The telephone hummed again as he was placed on hold, then he heard the American pick up the phone. The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad answered in a hurried tone. “Conner,” he said.

Raule swallowed tensely.

The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad was the big dog at the top of the pile. The Americans were calling most of the shots in Iraq—a fact that drove the other U.N. representatives crazy, especially those from the E.U.—and Conner was the point man for all the U.N. officers working in-country.

“Yes, Mr. Conner,” Raule began, his voice diminutive and polite. “My name is Sebastian Raule. I’m calling from the Khorramshahr refugee camp—”

“Yes, yes, Sebastian.” The American chuckled. “I know who you are. And I think I know why you’re calling.” He laughed again.

Raule couldn’t help feeling that the American was laughing at him. He hesitated, and then asked, “Well yes, sir, I don’t suppose you are surprised I might call. I have the message from your office, and I must say I find it remarkable. It raises so many questions. Honestly, I’m not sure how to proceed. But before I did anything, I wanted to confirm that this was legitimate?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Raule. It is perfectly legitimate, I assure you.”

“And you think I should—”

“What I think, Mr. Raule, doesn’t matter a lot. She is your responsibility. But I have every confidence you will handle the situation with appropriate courtesy and dispatch.”

Raule was silent a moment, then said, “Sir, there is the issue of repatriation.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Then, sir, you might also be aware there is the possibility she may not be amenable to an offer.”

Conner wasn’t surprised. He had been briefed by his staff, and they had indicated that might be the case. Her family, all killed. Nowhere to go. Miserable as it was, after half a lifetime of waiting, Khorramshahr had become her home. “After almost twenty years, I can see why she might have lost some interest,” Conner said. It wasn’t a personal dig at Raule, just a dig at the system that could fail so miserably.

Raule exhaled, embarrassed. “Yes, Mr. Conner, it’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Conner answered, a bit more acidly. “The U.N., I’m afraid, is not very good at these things.”

“Yes, yes,” Raule answered, then let his voice trail off. “But sir, that could create some … ah, interesting issues if she does not want to go.”

“Yes it would, yes it would. With that consideration in mind, maybe you ought to head down and have a long talk with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi.”

Raule was silent again. “It is an awful lot of money,” he then added, almost speaking to himself.

“Yeah, you could say that. And I understand she isn’t well?”

“No, sir, not well. Not well at all.”

“Then I wouldn’t hesitate, Mr. Raule. I would talk to her today.”

The French assistant to the administrator was silent. That was one of the problems with the Americans. They were a sentimental bunch. They all loved a good story, an underdog, come-from-behind, happy ending. But this might not end so happily. He thought of Pari and how poorly she had looked the last time he had seen her. Since Azadeh had been taken, her health had fallen dramatically.

“Mr. Conner,” Raule questioned, “if I could, sir, just one more thing before I let you go. Can you tell me why the sudden change of mind? I mean, not only about the money, but also clearing her husband’s name. After all these years, can you tell me what changed?”

Conner hesitated. “The administration is exerting enormous pressure on the regime,” he finally said. “The E.U. is also pushing. The president of the E.U. had a meeting with the Iranians last week. Apparently one of the messages he gave them was to clean up the camps. ‘Take care of them or the United States will take care of them for us,’ he said. It would be much worse for the mullahs if that happened, much worse for everyone. So the Europeans, your countrymen, are running interference for the Iranians. God bless their wicked little hearts, the last thing they want now is for the United States to get involved. So the Iranians have decided to clean up the camps, and they know they can’t leave her out there. Her old man knew too many people, and they’re not going to forget. Better to free it up and get it behind them, then move on to the next phase.”

Raule listened, shaking his head. He knew there was something more to the story, something much deeper—not obvious, but something he didn’t know. Did Conner know the story? Maybe. Maybe not. But this much was clear to anyone who could think: The mullahs had not made their decision because they were afraid of the U.N. Nor had they agreed because they suffered from a streak of sudden generosity.

The United States had something on them. He was certain of that.

There was an untold story somewhere under the dirt. But it really didn’t matter. It was what it was, and now it was in his lap.

The silence grew long as Raule considered.

“Anything else, Mr. Raule?” Conner asked, ready to end the call.

“No, sir,” Raule answered.

“Call if I can be of any help.”

“I will, sir, I will.”

“You know, Mr. Raule, I wouldn’t delay meeting with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi. Maybe I’m going out on a limb on this,” Conner stopped to laugh, “but I suspect she might be one of the wealthiest women in your camp.” Conner laughed again. So delicious. A happy irony. “She’s not an everyday refugee,” he continued. “Never was. Never will be. Maybe it’s time some of your folks down there realized that was true.”

“I suppose so,” Raule answered dryly. “Good day to you, sir.”

He hung up the phone. Staring at the receiver, he took a deep breath. And, as he thought, he couldn’t help it. His lips slowly turned into a smile.

Justice was fickle, moody and unpredictable. Sometimes she was gracious, but far more often she was vague and ambivalent, even apathetic, always ready to turn a blind eye. Raule had seen it, grown used to it, and accepted it; he had seen too much injustice not to have grown cynical. After forty-five years, he knew that justice was not the norm, although he conceded that God still might wield it in the next world.

But the stars had aligned before his very eyes, and, for whatever reason, justice was going to be served. Yes, it was late, but it was justice, and he couldn’t help but smile.

*******

Later that evening, Mr. Raule made his way down the hill to the long row of huts below the administration building. Picking out Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi’s quarters, he knocked, waited, then pushed the door back and found Pari lying in her bed in deep sleep, her chest moving the thin blanket as she labored to breathe. Raule entered the small hut and woke her gently, then pulled the small chair over to the side of her bed.

“Miss Pari,” he started, “I have something to tell you.” She tried to sit up, and then lay back again.

“Miss Pari, there’s been a significant change with the government of Iran’s disposition toward your late husband’s standing and estate … .”

Pari lifted her hand, pushing herself up on the bed.

*******

The old woman and Raule talked through the late afternoon. The sun eventually set. Raule turned on the small lamp, the only light in the room, and they talked an hour longer. Then Pari, exhausted, fell asleep with Raule at her side.

Raule could not believe his potential good fortune. He studied her, his face tight, fantasies of sudden and unexpected wealth dancing around in his mind.

He watched her sleep for a few minutes, and then pulled the blanket up, tucking it under her chin. Standing, he checked the heater to make certain it was on, cracked the window half an inch to let in just a breath of fresh air, and moved back to the chair by the side of the bed.

Listening to her labored breathing, he was suddenly terrified.

She couldn’t die. Not tonight. Not for at least a few days. It would take that long to put everything in order. She had to live until then.

He stood guard a few minutes, then leaned down and planted a dry kiss on her bony cheek.

Walking out the door, he had no doubt that Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi had just become the most important person in his life. More important than his children. More important than his wife. Far more important than his boss. More important than anyone.

She was his best friend, his salvation, his ticket out of this hole. She was the unexpected rainbow in a dark world of storms.

So she’d better not die now—at least, not for a few days.

SIX

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border

It was late at night and the camp was very quiet. A warm wind moved gently up from the sea, moaning sadly as it moved through the cracks in the poorly sealed windows of the camp administration building. There was a smell of fresh rain in the air, and Raule couldn’t help but stop and take a deep breath. He glanced at his watch. Almost 4 A.M. He had napped quickly between 1 A.M. and 3 A.M., but the fire inside him kept him going now—that and a constant supply of harsh coffee, black, with huge spoonfuls of sugar, thick bread, and even an occasional cup of cheap wine from his secret stash in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

Raule sat back and rubbed his eyes, then glanced at his desk. The papers were piled high: thick government folders, excerpts from history books, newspaper clippings, files he had printed from the net (Khorramshahr had a single computer connected to the Internet, and the time on it was rationed and strictly enforced), transcripts of conversations with government representatives in Tehran, Belgium, Baghdad, and France, and notes from bankers in Europe, Iran and the United States. The paperwork spilled off his desk and onto the floor, arranged in a semicircle around and behind his chair. At first glance it appeared that Raule was surrounded by an indecipherable mess, but each pile had been neatly organized, alphabetized, and prioritized. Atop every pile were pages of his personal notes, each written in his careful script, a synopsis of the information that the separate stacks of papers contained.

Raule listened intently to the sound of the wind. He sniffed again, taking in the smell of the coming rain. In one sense, he hated the rain—it turned the camp into a muddy and miserable mess. But he did love the smell of the coming storm, which reminded him of his home and his years growing up on the small farm, the rolling hills around him, gray in the late winter but green as a postcard from early spring until fall.

He pushed his weight back and pictured his own fantasy farmhouse in his mind: small barns in the back, ducks in the yard, and two sheepdogs resting on the front porch. As his imagination wandered, he found himself almost slipping into a dream. There was light smoke from the chimney. A warm fire inside. Stacks of neatly cut wood near the front door. A small fishpond in back. A few cows, a few goats, a horse, maybe a sheep or two.

It was not enough land or animals to live off, but that was not the point. It was an ideal situation for a gentleman farmer, a man of means, a man who only raised things for the satisfaction of watching them grow, a man who needed nothing, not more money, not attention, not interaction with the world.

He shook his head again, bringing himself back to Khorramshahr.

His fantasy was reachable. If he could just make this work. He looked down at the papers and grunted again.

The death of Mr. al-Faruqi many years before had left an incredible mess. The years had tainted too many memories, and the paper trail had grown cold, but he thought that he had it. Most of it was here. He was close; he had the basis. Now he needed the lawyers and bankers to take it from here.

He squeezed his lips with his fingers as he thought. It was an incredible story. At one time, Pari’s husband, the late Mr. al-Faruqi, had been one of the most wealthy and ambitious men in all of Iran. Special assistant to the shah, responsible for developing the Parsi oil fields, some of the largest oil fields in all of Iran, he was rich and connected, which had been his downfall. Being too closely tied to the royal family was a dangerous thing in 1978, and when the shah had fled Iran, his friends had been left out to dry. Stripped of his power, wealth, position, and prestige, his in-country financial assets stolen by those men who had ousted the shah, his out-of-country assets frozen by every foreign bank, Mr. al-Faruqi had been left with nothing. He died soon thereafter, leaving his widow, Pari, utterly destitute.

Now many of his enemies had also passed away, and, thanks to pressure from the United States and U.N., what remained of his foreign assets, any money that had not been looted before, was being released to his widow, the longest tenured resident of Khorramshahr.

Raule considered the story while he studied the papers around him, then went back to work. He wasn’t focused any longer on locating the money left behind by Mr. al-Faruqi—that task was complete. He had accomplished all he could there.

He had more unpleasant work now: verifying the mistake he’d made with Azadeh’s release. Bending over his desk, he started reading again.

At 7 A.M., he sat back in his chair and stretched, lifting his hands high above him, then took a deep breath. He studied the papers, realizing there was nothing more he could do. It was what it was. His actions might kill the deal, but he couldn’t change that now.

He took a quick sip of coffee, and then headed down to Pari’s hut.

*******

“You don’t know where she is?” Pari demanded an unbelieving tone in her voice. She was growing weaker, Raule could tell, but she was animated now, her eyes burning, her face agitated, her hands constantly moving in frustration and anger.

Raule hesitated, then answered, “No, Miss Pari, we do not where she is.”

“But you said she had been released to her uncle!”

“Yes, well, that was what we had been led to believe.” Raule’s voice had turned suddenly quiet, and he paused now too long. Pari stared at him, the heavy silence a great weight in the air. She had been in the camp long enough, had seen enough young girls come and go, that she immediately understood. Her face became tense with rage, her jaw set tight as she struggled against the emotions that were building inside.

“You knew, didn’t you, Sebastian?” She wasn’t accusing. She just wanted to know.

“No, Miss Pari, that simply isn’t true. Did I suspect? Yes, perhaps. But even if I did, there wasn’t a thing I could do. Our rules are straightforward and my superior is very demanding. I could not ignore our protocols. I had no choice. The man had documents proving the family relationship. He had the release forms; everything was in place. There was an uncle in Pakistan. We had to follow procedures—”

“What then is the problem? Go to her uncle and get her.”

Raule looked away. “He does not exist,” he explained. “Miss Azadeh Pahlavi has no uncle in Pakistan. We know that now.”

Pari shook her head and coughed weakly, keeping her eyes on the floor. She had to bite her tongue or she would regret what she might say. Money or no, she had a place in the world. She took a couple of deep breaths, pushing her anger down.

Raule watched her carefully, knowing he had to get everything out. This was his last chance at redemption, and he wanted to make a clean start. He had one chance to convince Miss Pari al-Faruqi that he was on her side. But to do that, he had to come clean and tell her everything.

He glanced at the close walls, the murals and flowers, and then turned back to Pari. “The documents he provided were forged,” he said. “We know that. He is gone; he took the girl. He didn’t go to Pakistan. He went to northern Iraq.”

Another long silence filled the air. Pari struggled to breathe, and then fell into a violent coughing fit. Raule looked away as she hacked, each lunge of her chest a little weaker than the one before. When her fit had passed, he stood, moved to her bed, and knelt on the floor. He handed her a handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from her brow with another cloth.

She looked at him desperately, her anger having already slipped away. Dying had a way of softening one’s emotions, even the bitterest kind. They sat silently for a while, staring into each other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Raule said in a soft voice. “I mean that, Miss Pari. It tears at my heart. Yes, I suspected. I thought that something wasn’t right, but please, you must believe me. I tried to help her. I did all I could. Was it enough? Clearly not. But I ask you to forgive me and let me help, if you will.”

Pari took his hand in hers. She held it a moment, measuring the feeling in his soul. Looking into his eyes, she saw the pain and anguish there. Was his disappointment for real? Was he a good man? Was he loyal? Was he a man she could trust?

She looked at him a long moment, then concluded that he was.

SEVEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border

It took several days for Raule to gather the lawyers, bankers, and government representatives and have them draw up the documents. It was very complicated, more so than he ever could have predicted, and the more he got into it, the more complicated it became. Yet he worked frantically, sometimes twenty hours a day, all the while watching Pari anxiously as her health continued to decline. He tried convincing her to move to his private quarters where it was warmer, but not cleaner, and much more comfortable. But she would have none of it. Her hut had been her home for more than twenty years, and if it was good enough for her last week, as a penniless pauper, then it was good enough for her now, as a multimillionaire.

So Raule worked while Pari died. It was a race against time.

As he worked with her, Raule came to realize that if it hadn’t been for the young Azadeh Pahlavi, Pari would already have given up, letting herself slip away. “I’m tired of watching those I love come and go,” she explained. “I don’t want to be left alone here anymore. I want to go home to my husband. I hear him calling my name.”

Raule understood. But still, he watched Pari linger, fighting for a few more days. She wanted to live until she could sign the papers. It was as important to her now as it was to Raule.

So he prayed and worked like a man on a ship that was taking on water at a terrifying rate. He made hundreds of phone calls, drove more than a thousand miles, and scheduled dozens of meetings each day. He worked and he dug, trying to uncover half a generation of old records and bank receipts.

Yes, the government of Iran had agreed to release Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi’s family assets. Yes, they had agreed upon the amount—$12,548,697 U.S. dollars. But the fact that they had agreed did not make them amenable to the idea. Everyone Raule talked to wanted a piece of the pie. Some wanted a large slice, some a sliver, some just a cherry, but he didn’t talk to anyone who didn’t want a cut. So he promised and pleaded, he threatened and cursed, he signed secret contracts and illegal documents, and did some things even worse.

But in the end, eight days after the first message from the U.N. headquarters in Baghdad, he had a draft agreement and the appropriate players in place.

*******

The five men were met by a driver at the front gate of Khorramshahr. They were directed to park their Mercedes Benz and immediately driven in a large van to the headquarters building, where they were met by Raule and his boss, who was bitter now and angry that he had not gotten in on the deal. The camp administrator waded through the introductions, and then turned the time over to the lead attorney who had drawn all the contracts together.

The men reviewed the paperwork for the last time.

“Do we agree everything is in order?” the lead attorney asked when they had finished. He was a British officer, round-shouldered but aggressive as a hungry pit bull, who had volunteered to work in Iran right out of law school and ended up staying for nearly ten years. He was a young man, with a soft face and eyes that were as clear and icy as his work.

The other men nodded, some reluctantly, some ambivalently, some eager to proceed.

“Then let’s do it,” the attorney concluded. “It’s time that justice was served.”

Raule, who had been fidgeting nervously on the edge of his chair, smiled now as the attorney stood. He loved this man. He really loved him. And if this worked out, he planned on sending him a birthday gift for the next fifty years.

The government agent nodded to Raule. “Bring her in,” he said.

Raule stood and moved quickly to a side door. He pushed it back and disappeared, and the men could hear the sound of soft voices from the next room. Then Raule returned, pushing a weak Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi in a new wheelchair. The men stood and waited as Raule positioned her at the head of the group.

“Mrs. al-Faruqi,” the young attorney said as he moved toward his client, “you are looking a little stronger today.”

Pari smiled and held her hand out toward him. This was their fifth or sixth meeting, and she had come to like him a lot.

The attorney moved to stand beside her and got right to the point. “Pari,” he said, kneeling in front of her chair. “We have completed all the documents. I want to review them for you.”

Pari raised her hand to stop him. “You still represent me, right?”

“Of course, Pari. I am your representative here.”

“And you have carried out my wishes?”

“As best as I could.”

“Then we don’t need to review them. I am ready to sign.”

The attorney nodded, pulled a chair over, and sat by her side. “Pari, it’s going to take a while, maybe a few weeks, maybe longer, before the Iranian government actually releases your funds.

“But they will.”

“We believe so. Everything indicates that they will comply.”

“You know you can’t trust them.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. But we have made progress, and we believe that they will act in good faith this time. We have the initial agreements in place, signed and on file. And they remain under a lot of pressure from the E.U.”

Pari smiled wearily. “Are they going to pay me interest?” she asked.

The government agent shifted his weight in his seat. The lawyer shook his head. “No, Pari, you know they will not. Now, we could try to seek interest and damages, but I strongly recommend against it. Trying to get additional monies will certainly poison the deal.”

“They’re crooks and cheats—and they’re cheap ones at that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will not dispute that. But I believe we are better to just let it go.”

“Twelve million. Ten percent. I would have tripled my money. Better than that. I was a good investor, you know.”

“I suspect that you would have, Pari.”

She stared at him. He finally grinned, recognizing that she was only teasing.

“OK, let’s do it,” she said. “I could die any time. Heaven knows we all want to do this before it’s too late.”

The men laughed uncomfortably. Pari looked at them and smiled.

The lawyer pulled out the first document. “This authorizes me to act as your agent in the disposal of your assets.”

Pari didn’t read the document but turned to the last page and signed. Although she was weak, her signature was smooth and flowing, filling the line.

The lawyer took the document and placed it inside his briefcase. He pulled out a stack of other documents and placed them in his lap. “A final review, then, Miss Pari, of your intentions. Upon your passing, you are leaving all of your assets, less the cost of disposal, which I will administer, to Miss Azadeh Pahlavi. Does that remain your desire?”

“Yes,” Pari answered. “I want it all to go to her.”

“You realize, of course, that we have no way of knowing where Miss Pahlavi is?”

“Yes, I know that is true.”

“And you are commissioning Mr. Sebastian Raule, who is sitting in the chair opposite me,” the attorney nodded toward Sebastian, “to locate Miss Azadeh Pahlavi, wherever she may be.”

Pari hesitated. “He is the only one I have,” she said.

The attorney remained quiet. Pari looked over at Raule. He shifted anxiously in his seat.

The attorney started again. “Does it remain your intention, Mrs. al-Faruqi, to commission Mr. Sebastian Raule with the responsibility of locating Miss Azadeh Pahlavi—for which, if and only if he is successful in locating Miss Pahlavi, he will become eligible to collect a finding fee?”

Both Pari and her attorney smiled at the phrase. “Well, I guess that is a more literal application of the phrase than you might normally use,” Pari weakly laughed.

“Yes,” the lawyer smiled. “As to the question, Mrs. al-Faruqi?”

Pari paused and then answered. “Upon hearing the news of my late husband’s assets being released, I did agree with Mr. Raule that I would pay him one million dollars if he could locate Miss Azadeh. I intend to honor that agreement. He is to find her and direct her to you. Once you have verified her identity and transferred the funds to Miss Azadeh, then Mr. Raule is to be compensated one million U.S. dollars.”

The attorney nodded. “Anything else, Pari?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m getting tired. Too tired to think.”

The attorney placed his hand on her shoulder. “Then we are ready to sign.” He thumbed through the stack of documents on his lap, organized them, and handed the first one to his client. It took a few minutes for her to sign every one. The documents were then passed on to the other men. Two of them acted as the witnesses: one a Turkish lawyer who represented the Iranian government, the other a lawyer from the E.U. The final signature was from the representative of the consortium of European banks where the money was currently held.

Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was done. The attorney knelt again at Pari’s side. “Mrs. al-Faruqi,” he whispered. “Please, will you consider coming with me? I could get you to London. I could get you to the United States.”

“So they want me now. Ironic. They didn’t want me before.”

“It’s not only that, Mrs. al-Faruqi. There is more to it, as you know.”

“I understand. I understand. And I’m grateful for your concern. But I made my decision a long time ago. I’m OK here. I am comfortable. There are worse places to die. I do not mind spending my last days here; it won’t be very long anyway. So please, let’s let it go. I don’t want to speak of it again.”

The attorney squeezed her hand, then nodded and stood up again.

Twenty minutes later, Raule watched the men drive away in their Mercedes Benz. Watching them go, he felt his heart skip a beat, and he looked down at the contract he held in his hand.

One million U.S. dollars. He would be a rich man. He would retire. He would fish. He would read all day long. He would listen to his operas. He would smoke fine cigars.

Now all he had to do was find her.

How difficult could that be?

He would start in Baghdad. Then Karachi. She had to be here, somewhere in the Middle East. He would track down her uncle and her family.

And he would make them both rich.

EIGHT

Over the Atlantic Ocean

Azadeh Pahlavi sat next to the window of the 767–300 wide-body aircraft, her eyes wide in anticipation, and her hands fidgeting nervously on her lap. She peered out the window, and then glanced over to Amina, who was watching her intently, evidently taking great pleasure in the look on her face.

The two women had the seats next to the left window. To Amina’s right were an aisle, then four seats, another aisle, and two more seats on the far right. The cabin was crowded, and several languages could be heard as the business travelers and tourists talked among themselves. The 767 was high, still above thirty thousand feet, but it had begun its descent into JFK, and the air grew more turbulent as the plane passed through a thin layer of frozen cirrus clouds. Multiple rows of small television screens in the backs of each seat showed the aircraft’s flight progress, direction, and altitude. Thirty-one thousand feet. Heading west by southwest. One hundred thirty miles from the U.S. border.

One hundred thirty miles from freedom. One hundred thirty miles from her new home.

Eight thousand miles from her people. Eight thousand miles from everything she had ever known.

Azadeh turned and smiled nervously. Amina leaned toward her, bending over her seat to peer out the window. All she could see were white clouds and dark water a long way below. No land was in sight—no dark ribbon of coastline, no sandbars, no white tops, nothing. But, looking west, she could see the water turn a slightly different shade, the tint changing from almost black to deep blue. Sitting back, she smiled at Azadeh. “It won’t be long now,” she said.

Azadeh nodded anxiously, twisting her fingers together.

“Pretty exciting, isn’t it.”

Azadeh nodded again in awe but didn’t reply. She had grown progressively quieter since the flight had taken off some seven hours before, lifting off from London’s Heathrow airport in the dark of night. Now she was almost silent, trying to take it all in. Amina studied her young friend. She recognized the racing emotions from the look on the girl’s face. Azadeh was nearly sick with equal amounts of excitement and dread.

The young Iranian smiled weakly and the older woman took her hand. “I’m so excited for you,” she laughed.

“Thank you, Amina. Thank you for everything.”

Amina nodded.

Azadeh thought quickly of Sam. “One day I want to thank the soldier too,” she said.

Amina didn’t answer. She knew that was impossible. Azadeh picked up the small cup of lemonade on her fold-down tray and sipped, puckered her lips, and sipped again. “It’s so sweet,” she said, placing the cup back on the tray. Amina watched her intently, not wanting to miss a single expression on her face.

Watching Azadeh, she remembered why she had dedicated her life to saving lost girls, the reason she worked as hard as she did: the excitement, the new pleasures, the feeling of awe. And it all started when she watched their looks of excitement as they approached the United States.

So, though she tried not to stare, it was hard to take her eyes off of Azadeh. She wanted to see it, the smile of anticipation and excitement that even the fear couldn’t hide.

The moments passed. The aircraft descended, breaking below the clouds. Azadeh continued to look out the window. Suddenly she reached over and grabbed Amina’s arm. “I can see it!” she whispered. “I can see the United States!”

Amina gripped Azadeh’s fingers tightly as she leaned across the seat. There, far in the distance, a thin ribbon of dark blue land and white surf was barely coming in view.

Ten minutes passed. Azadeh kept her head glued to the window, though she squeezed tighter now. “Oh my,” she gasped as the city passed by.

The aircraft turned, a few thousand feet above the ground. Azadeh gawked until the outline of the city filled the entire oval window. It was an incredible sight: deep canyons of buildings so thick and tall, it looked like a dream.

Azadeh fidgeted anxiously as the beautiful buildings passed by, just a few miles off the left wing. It seemed as if the tops of the buildings reached almost up to the aircraft. The Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges, gray steel structures spanning the East River, were crowded with multicolored vehicles, large buses and trucks, and a subway. The river shimmered, catching the slants of the sun that slipped through the partly cloudy skies. Central Park slipped under the wing, a huge rectangle of green among the enormous buildings, a contrast of nature among the workings of man. Several of the tallest skyscrapers had their tips shrouded in a low bank of clouds, a transparent layer of silver that was illuminated from the top by the sun.

Azadeh peered down silently, and then turned back to Amina. “It looks perfect,” she said.

Amina shook her head. “No, Azadeh, it isn’t perfect. There are problems, you will see that, but I believe it is good.”

*******

The two women moved through U.S. Customs without incident. Azadeh noted the cautious looks cast her way, but she didn’t mind them; Amina had warned her to be ready for intense examination. The security situation in the United States had changed things for many immigrants, especially those from Arab-speaking or Muslim countries. It was the reality. They would deal with it. Still, the scrutiny was a fraction of what Azadeh had expected. Inside her own mind, she had prepared herself to be questioned, taken into a small room and threatened, forced to sit under a bright light, perhaps even beaten if she did not answer correctly. But nothing like that happened. After they had passed through the last control booth and into the airport concourse, Azadeh looked around anxiously.

“That’s it,” Amina told her.

Azadeh shook her head. “Nothing more?” she asked in disbelief.

“Nothing more. You are here. You are a free woman, Miss Pahlavi.”

Azadeh shook her head again. No interrogation. No religious police. No threats or violent hazing. No comments on the inadequacy of her white scarf or the immodesty of her knee-length black dress. No questions of her father or the whereabouts of her husband. No questions of her intentions, her religion, where her allegiance lay. She glanced down at her thin sandals, and then placed her hand to her breast. “I can’t believe it’s over. My heart is beating like a hammer,” she laughed to her friend.

“Come on, Miss Pahlavi. Let’s get something to eat.”

“No, please not now. Can we do the other first?”

Amina hesitated, and then glanced up and down the concourse. Crowds of people jammed the corridor, most of them dragging wheeled suitcases behind. Eighty feet to their right, the concourse opened into a huge open area with bars, restaurants, fast-food spots, luggage shops, newspaper stands, bookstores, expensive clothiers, even a small sporting goods store. Amina took two steps forward and craned her neck, looking for an exit sign.

Azadeh touched her shoulder and nodded. “Exit,” she said.

Amina turned toward her. “You can read that?” she asked in surprise.

Azadeh nodded.

“That’s very good, Azadeh. You’re going to pick it up very fast.”

“My father insisted I learn English. It was difficult, and illegal, but I remember some of what he said.”

“You remember much more than some of it.”

Azadeh switched to English for the first time. “I remember some. But it comes faster now.”

“Good,” Amina said, switching to English, too. She glanced at her watch. Five hours until their connecting flight to Chicago. She nodded to the end of the concourse. “Come on,” she said.

Azadeh led the way, almost running, and Amina had to rush to keep up. The two women left the concourse and walked out of the main airport building to where dozens of yellow taxis were waiting in line, trapped against the curb by the flow of heavy traffic. Amina was directed to the first cab in line, and she and Azadeh climbed in.

The driver was Pakistani, and when he saw Azadeh’s scarf, he looked back with a friendly grin. “Salâm,” he said happily, showing a brown, tea-stained smile. Azadeh nodded shyly, and Amina answered in Arabic. The two talked a moment as the driver pulled away from the curb, but Azadeh didn’t pay any attention, her eyes wide in wonder as she looked around.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked them.

“Battery Park,” Amina said.

The driver glanced back, smiling widely again. “That is good,” he said.

The taxi drove through the mass of traffic moving in and out of JFK, hit the Van Wyck Expressway heading north toward Queens, turned west on the Long Island Expressway, and then south, following the East River, on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway through the very heart of Brooklyn. Azadeh caught a glimpse of the enormous docks along the shore of the river and she couldn’t help but think of the docks at Bandar–e Būshehr. She remembered the many times she and her father had taken the bus down to the port city, and for a moment she was transported back in time. She remembered walking along the ancient docks, feeling the salt air, smelling the brine and rotten seaweed. She felt a sudden surge of homesickness and took a deep breath.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi stopped in Battery Park.

Amina bought tickets for the ferry and they stood in line for fifteen minutes. When the triple-decker ferry arrived, they went through security, hurried to the top deck and moved toward the bow of the boat.

A great statute loomed before them, growing grand and tall as they sped toward it through the water, its patina a resonating green against the blue-and-white sky. Azadeh kept her eyes on the Statue of Liberty, the one symbol of America that was known throughout the world. The statue held an arm high, not merely confident, but defiant, a book close, protecting it in the other arm. At its feet, the broken shackles lay, the metal rings torn in two.

Amina leaned toward her and repeated the words of the poem.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp,” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Azadeh listened carefully, considering the words of the famous poem. “Say it again,” she asked Amina.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp … .”

Keep your mullahs, your landowners, your shahs and religious police, Azadeh thought. Keep your grand officers of society, your rich and powerful. Give us your human trash, those whom you hate, those who you chose to cast out, and we will take those wretched souls and create the greatest nation on earth. We will take your destitute and homeless, and build the freest nation in the history of man.

Azadeh knew that she was one of the masses, homeless and tired. She was poor and, like the others, she had yearned to be free.

She was part of that wretched refuse: she had been left to die.

Yes, she was outcast.

But now she had a home.

She started to weep.

Her father would have been so proud.

Al Kuwayt International Airport, Kuwait City, Kuwait

Raule stood at the ticket counter, shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. He smoked, keeping an unending chain of French cigarettes in his mouth. It would be a long flight, nonsmoking, and he had to stoke up before he got on the airplane. While he waited for the ticket agent, he pulled another cigarette from the black-and-white carton and stuck the brown filter in his mouth.

It irritated him that he’d had to come down to Kuwait to get on a flight to Kirkuk, but it was far easier to make the two-hour drive to Kuwait City and then fly to northern Iraq than to chance the four-day, life-and-death adventure of trying to make his way north in a car.

It had been a long time since the liberation of Iraq from Hussein, but the country was still a far cry from safe. Since the United States had pulled out most of their troops, things had only gotten worse. It was clear now that it would be many years before the nation’s infrastructure was put fully back in place, if indeed that could ever happen. There were too many gunmen, too many bombs, too much confusion as to who was in charge—the government or the insurgents who fought against their fellowman.

The Kuwaiti ticket agent typed a moment, and then looked up at Raule with a disinterested stare. “Sir, it appears that all of the flights into Kirkuk are completely booked for the next week or so. I apologize, but you are traveling without any notice, and the flights in and out of Iraq are always very full.”

Raule knew he would have to pay the bâj. The only question was how much it would be. He decided to start out low. Who knew how many flights he would be on for the next couple of weeks? He nodded to the ticket agent, and then slipped a twenty-euro bill across the white counter. The attendant slipped the bill in his palm, then turned back to his screen and hit a few keys.

“Mr. Raule,” he continued after tucking the bill into his vest pocket, “it looks like we might have something—maybe tomorrow afternoon.” He didn’t look up, but continued to stare at his screen.

Raule slipped fifty euros across the top of the counter and the attendant typed again, hardly missing a key as he reached up and pulled the money down again to his vest pocket. “Good news, Mr. Raule, it looks like something just opened up on the 12:15 P.M. flight. It is in coach, however. Is that acceptable to you?”

The attendant looked up and waited, measuring the French U.N. officer. If Raule demanded first class, then the attendant would bump Raule again. No way would the attendant let this guy into first class for a mere seventy euros.

But Raule didn’t hesitate. “Coach is fine,” he said in remarkably good Arabic.

“Fine, sir.” The ticket agent continued typing, holding Raule’s U.N. passport in his left hand, then looked up and said, “Mr. Raule, I see you have requested follow-on travel to Baghdad and Pakistan. You realize, of course, that it will be very difficult to book these flights. Travel is fairly restricted in and out of Pakistan, and I’m not sure even your U.N. papers are going to be enough to get you there.”

Yes, Raule realized that, and he smiled sarcastically. He had been working on the travel arrangements for more than a week, and this wasn’t the first time he traveled in this part of the world. “Can you do it?” he demanded.

The agent shook his head. “I’d suggest putting your travel itinerary on request when you get to Kirkuk.”

Raule huffed as he placed his suit bag next to the counter. The agent started tagging his bag.

Yes, Raule thought as he watched the agent, he was aware how difficult the travel arrangements would be, but the truth was, that was the very least of his concerns. Trying to find Azadeh would be far more difficult than arranging a flight to Pakistan.

And he had a lot of work to do before he even knew where he would be flying to next. He knew that the man who had taken Azadeh had bought his forged documents from a black market printer in southern Kirkuk. (It hadn’t been difficult to determine the origination point of the documents; the U.N. had seen enough of the forgeries to trace them fairly easily now.) And though he suspected the printer wouldn’t help him, he felt like he had to try. So he would climb on a flight to Kirkuk, track the printer down, ask a few questions, be rejected, then go on his way, knowing nothing more after the trip than he knew right now.

Where would he go after that? He really didn’t know. The stranger who had taken Azadeh had mentioned a small town in western Pakistan. He figured he would likely start there, not because he was overly optimistic but because he lacked a better plan.

The truth was, he knew Azadeh could be literally anywhere. Once she had been taken from Khorramshahr, she could have been smuggled to a dozen locations in the world: Asia, the Middle East, Europe, even the United States.

He frowned at the irony.

Who did he think that he was? Some kind of special super agent? An undercover spy? This wasn’t the movies, this was real. He was no hero, and certainly no superman.

He looked at his worn-out, brown suit and rubbed his thin knee. He was none of those things. He was a mouse of a man who had spent his entire life pushing papers from one steel desk to the next. From one U.N. assignment to another, it had been the same thing. He had never shot a gun, never interrogated anyone, and never investigated so much as a misplaced marker. Yet here he was, seeking to locate a young woman who had been taken from his refugee camp and now could be anywhere.

He shook his head in frustration. What were the chances of success? Maybe one in a thousand. Maybe much less than that.

But once Raule discovered that the American who had taken Azadeh had left behind a bitter enemy in Iraq, his mission would turn out to be a bit easier than he had though

NINE

Hyif El-Irbid Military Complex, Amman, Jordan

It was the last time these nine men expected to see each other on this side of the veil. It was the last time they would meet, for their association would be shattered once the final war had begun. Some would be dead. Others would be in hiding. And it would be far too dangerous for them to ever talk again.

But it no longer mattered. Their preparations were complete; there was nothing more to discuss. All they needed now was the king’s final word.

The meeting took place under the most secret conditions that could be possibly arranged. The various leaders, some of the most powerful and power-hungry men in the world, traveled alone, without their normal entourage of aides, assistants, secretaries, butlers,  advisers, protectors, consultants, communications specialists, drivers, and security forces. Each man came to the meeting completely unescorted, except for the king, who even himself brought only one man. And they traveled in secret, disguising their faces underneath various hoods, veils, dark glasses, and flowing robes. They came in small vehicles, rusted taxies, and worn-out desert Jeeps. The commander of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine actually traveled as a woman, covered from the crown of his head to his toes in a flowing black burka. He took on the disguise easily, walking with small steps and deferring to any male who approached him while keeping his rough hands hidden under his long, full sleeves. And though he was one of the most cruel and bloodthirsty men in the world, the leader of the PLFP wasn’t the most notorious terrorist in the group. The disgraced imam Ali Omar al-Harazi, leader of al-Fatah, sat near the front. The presidents of Palestine Liberation Front and Force 17 were in attendance as well, as was the new leader of al Qaeda, now the most wanted man in the world. Second only to the leader of al Qaeda on the most-wanted list, the leader of the counterinsurgency in Iraq sat quietly in a corner, his head low, his dark lips parted, his thin arms folded impatiently on his chest.

The blood of a hundred thousand innocents had washed over these hands: Americans, Arabs, Europeans and Iranians; Christians, Jews and Muslims. It didn’t matter to them who they killed. It wasn’t a matter of religion. It was a simple matter of power.

Taken together, the nine men were the most dedicated and evil men in the world. And they all sat around the king of the House of Saud, waiting for his final command.

The room, with only a few candles on the table to provide light, was a small cement edifice with thick steel doors and a single metal shutter over a small, broken window. It was cool and drafty, and the candles flickered and swooned, dancing in the swirling air. The half-buried munitions bunker, a cement structure that was used to store contraband weapons and ammunition bound for the terrorist organizations inside Gaza and along the West Bank, was indistinguishable from the three dozen other bunkers in the compound. Located near the center of a tightly knit web of underground tunnels, semi-buried bunkers, raised wooden warehouses, and squat administration buildings, surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers, the Hyif El-Irbid Complex served as the conduit between the innumerable terrorist organizations that operated inside the Middle East and their suppliers in various locations throughout the world. During any given week, two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of military equipment might pass through Hyif El-Irbid, and on any given day, perhaps a million dollars in cash, all U.S. dollars, could be found in various hiding locations throughout the complex.

The meeting began a little after 1 A.M., allowing time for all the participants to travel under the cloak of darkness while also allowing enough time for them to conduct their business and disperse before the sun would lighten the desert sky.

The king stood before his men, who sat on the floor on small wicker mats. As they assembled around him, he eyed them carefully. The old man had warned him to look for any sign of squeamishness, any hint of weakness or hesitation, which could be so deadly now. And he had also prepared him. If he needed to make a statement of conviction, even among these most trusted men, then he was perfectly ready and capable of doing so. He would kill every one of them, right here and right now, if they so much as hesitated when discussing the plan.

But though he was cautious, he was not overly concerned. He knew in his heart that these men would follow him. Driven by the same lust, they were of one accord, and the king didn’t expect to lose any of the men.

As the conspirators gathered, they mumbled in excitement, though no one knew exactly why. The king was the only man in the room who knew the entire plan, the only one who understood completely what the process would be. Each of them held a small piece of the puzzle, each had been assigned a critical task to perform, but none of them understood entirely what the king was planning to do. All they knew was the outcome, which was enough for them now.

Standing at the front of the barren bunker, the king looked out of place in his elegant clothes. He was dressed in an Arab Dishdashah, a beautiful robe with a silver sash that was tied at the side of his waist. His Gutrah, a scarf-like head cover, was held in place by a diamond-studded Ogal, a narrow leather band surrounding the top of his head. He had grown a goatee, and it was perfectly trimmed. His teeth were white and perfect, his jaw broad and strong. He wore diamond rings on the middle fingers of both hands, and his dark eyes reflected the flickering light in the room. He looked absolutely magnificent. The king of his world.

The other men bowed as he stood, a sign of subjection and respect.

Al-Rahman glanced at his closest adviser, General Abaza, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him from the back of the room. The king knew that, despite agreed upon procedures, General Abaza was secretly armed with a 9 mm Glock®. The king didn’t expect the need to use it, but he wanted to be prepared.

Abaza stared at the king steadily and with just a hint of concern. The general didn’t like open meetings, not when he wasn’t able to confront or search all the participants or secure the surroundings with a team of his men. Al-Rahman read the look in his eye and felt an almost tender moment of affection. Abaza had proven so trustworthy, so reliable; the king felt almost a kinship for him. More than any of his younger brothers, more than any of his wives or his children, he cared for this man. He knew he could trust him, and if there was anyone in this world for whom he felt grateful, Abaza was that man.

The king cleared his throat and started speaking in a low, even tone. “Brothers, the time has finally come.”

The room took a sudden chill, and the men peered up at him.

The king nodded to the leader of the PLFP. “Your team in Jerusalem is ready?” he asked.

The PLFP commander nodded.

The king turned to another who was sitting directly at his feet. The commander of al Qaeda rested his hands on his crossed knees. Everyone in the room knew the al Qaeda leader hated the king. He hated all the Saudis, for they had betrayed him many times. More, he considered their stewardship over the holy relics a dismal failure of oversight. But much as he hated the Arabs, he hated his other enemies more, and he was so weak now, he could no longer effectively fight them on his own. So he sat in subjection, still proud, a warrior in the holiest of wars.

“You have made arrangements with the Chinese?” the king demanded in an impatient tone.

The al Qaeda leader nodded. His beard was dark, but thin, with patches of gray beginning to show at the chin, and it brushed against his chest as he moved his head. “I will have the face-to-face meeting with them in the morning,” he said. “I remain optimistic they will do as we ask.”

The king leaned toward him. “It is important, my brother, that you close the deal. The shipments have to go east through China! It is the only option we have!”

The al Qaeda leader nodded. “I swear to you, my brother, I will see to this task. But to seal the deal with the general, you might have to meet with him yourself.”

Al-Rahman nodded. “Make the arrangements. I want it done by tomorrow.”

“I will see to it, I swear.”

The king’s dark eyes lingered a moment, then he turned to another man sitting at his right side. “The first of the warheads has been hidden?”

“It is in place, my Sayid.”

“They do not know?”

The man didn’t hesitate. “They do not, my King.”

The king nodded, a feigned look of sorrow beginning to furrow his brow. Although his heart remained cold and unfeeling as a glacier, his face appeared to soften by the thought of the approaching death of so many of his brothers. “There are many valiant men among them,” he said, referring to those who would die. “They will be granted mercy in heaven. A just title will be written and a generous home given to them.”

The mullah nodded in agreement, though he kept his eyes low.

As the king studied the head of the mullah, he couldn’t help but think. Yes, many of their best men would die. Tens upon thousands. Maybe many more. The price of their brothers’ blood was substantial, but it was a good price to pay, for what blood was too precious to see their mission complete?

In a week, maybe less, they would see the destruction of their enemies throughout the Middle East. They would see the Great Satan literally brought to its knees. They would see the destruction of its offspring. It would be pushed into the deep sea, forever destroyed.

Yes, they would pay a price. Many of their men would die. And their wives. And their children. But what choice did they have? The final battle was upon them. The time of the goat’s blood was here.

*******

Lucifer watched his earthly angels, proud of their determination and very pleased with their work. They were so open to his whispers, so swallowed up in their pride, that they were as malleable to him as wet clay in his hands.

Through the centuries, he had deceived many men; many foul and evil souls had scrapped their way to him, but there weren’t very many he was more proud of than these. Who else had been so willing to cause the death of so many souls: their own people, their loved ones, even their own families?

A cold shiver ran through him.

How he loved this dark war!

Balaam was standing at the back of the room. Between him and Lucifer was a crowd of other dark souls, Satan’s inner circle of most trusted advisers. Balaam stared at their backs, feeling small and alone. How many centuries had he tried now! How many things had he done! He’d given up everything to be one of Lucifer’s trusted ones. But still Lucifer ignored him, always pushing him away, and Balaam finally realized that it would never be. Lucifer would never reward him for the sacrifices he had made. Lucifer had deceived him. It was that simple.

A feeling of deep sadness seeped into his lost soul. He often felt alone now. He knew that all of them did. But under the sadness was the constant, burning rage: rage at Lucifer for excluding him.

As Balaam glared at the angels who stood at Lucifer’s side, one of the favored spirits turned around and looked back at him. Her arms were so thin that he could see every bone, and a mat of long hair fell in a rat’s nest at her back. Her yellow eyes were wild and burning, her crooked smile fanged with rotting teeth. She smiled smugly, as if she had read his mind. “Get used to it,” she seemed to say with her smile. Balaam nodded and turned away.

Why they all had turned so loathsome, he didn’t understand. But they had and they knew it; they were ugly, raging souls. Without the Light, they were nothing but dreadful, deadly cores.

Balaam considered the angel, staring at her mat of hair. She had once been a beautiful woman with blue eyes and dark hair, and a face so fine and beautiful she could get anything she wanted with just a wink and a smile, which had been one of her problems, Balaam thought with a smirk. But now she was nothing but a loathsome, lying soul. She had no beauty. She was not happy. There was no light in her eyes. The only thing that she wanted was to make others share her pain, to cast her darkness on them, making them as unhappy and miserable as she was.

As Balaam’s mind raced, his lips cracked into a thin smile. He didn’t have a sense of humor—that had been lost long ago—but he had a bitter sense of irony that was sharp as a knife. And the irony was so obvious it simply could not be ignored.

In fighting to destroy the mortals we have only destroyed ourselves!

But the mortals didn’t understand that. They couldn’t see into his black soul. So they listened to Lucifer and his minions, always believing their lies. And the mortals would never understand how much the dark ones hated them—until the mortals had joined them in hell.

TEN

Washington, D.C.

Ammon Brighton walked out onto the porch and saw his twin brother sitting on the front steps in the dark. Ammon stood there a few seconds. Luke looked up and grunted wearily but didn’t say anything. He had turned off the porch lights, and the lights of the city hung over them like a soft, fuzzy bowl. Rain was in the air, flat layers of low clouds that reflected the bright city lights, causing a hazy, white glow. Their old Victorian house was built at the end of a narrow cobblestone street lined with huge oak and sycamore trees growing in old cement planters, and the soft wind blew now through the enormous branches. Some creaked as they moved, and their leaves fluttered lightly, creating a soft, rustling sound.

Ammon studied the clouds. “Think it will rain?” he asked.

“Supposed to,” Luke answered as he lifted his eyes to the wet sky.

“Going to be cool tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Luke spit. “You know what the temperature was in Baghdad today?”

Ammon shook his head. “No. But it should be cooling down by now.”

“Hundred and seven. Will drop to forty-nine in the desert tonight.”

“SWA’s a lousy place to be, ain’t it, bro.” SWA, short for Southwest Asia, was only one of the dozens of military acronyms the brothers had picked from their father. It was the military designation, and a more accurate geographical description for what most people called the Middle East.

“Got a short E-mail from Sam,” Luke continued as he peered into the dark. “He said he’s done some very cool missions the past couple weeks. Said he met a girl. Said it broke his heart, she was so beautiful, seeing how she lives and all.”

“Hmm,” Ammon hummed. “That’s kind of funny. Doesn’t sound like him. Think he’s falling in love?”

“Who knows. It’s a strange world. Maybe he’ll come home with a wife.”

The brothers looked at each other and started to laugh. Yeah, right! They were both thinking.

After a minute they settled down and were quiet. “You couldn’t sleep?” Ammon finally asked.

“I woke up a little after two. I’ve been kind of, you know, waiting for Dad.”

Ammon glanced at the driveway. His dad’s car was there, but that didn’t tell him anything since he was always chauffeured. “You check his bedroom?” he asked.

“Yeah. Mom’s in bed alone.”

Ammon nodded. He went into the house, walked to the refrigerator for a couple of sodas, over to the pantry for a bag of chips and salsa, then back outside to the porch. Sitting down, he heard three soft chimes and glanced through the glass and oak door to the old grandfather’s clock that sat on the marble floor. Three a.m. A pretty good time to eat.

He pushed one of the sodas toward his brother. Luke nodded thanks, popped it open, and grabbed a handful of chips. Dipping into the salsa, he grunted and stood, disappeared into the house, and returned with a miniature bottle of Tijuana Fire Sauce. The bottle was lime green, with a Spanish label featuring warning signs with skull and crossbones. He took the bowl of salsa and, like a chemist mixing a dangerous concoction, let the drops fall slowly. “How many?” he asked, counting each drop by the light of the street lamp.

Ammon felt his stomach. “It’s pretty late. I would like to sleep at least a couple hours. Better keep it to five.”

Luke huffed. “O ye of little gastrointestinal capability. I scoff at your five.” He counted ten drops, added one more for good measure, and then began to stir the Tijuana Fire into the salsa with his finger.

“Nice,” Ammon said, nodding at Luke’s index finger that was dipped in his sauce.

Luke hunched his shoulders, pulled out his finger and stuck it in his mouth. “Don’t worry, brother, this stuff is more powerful than alcohol. They used to use it to clean the open wounds of rebel soldiers during the Civil War. There isn’t a germ alive that can survive contact with this Tijuana Green.”

Ammon scooted over, took a chip, dipped it, and shoved it in his mouth. “Not bad,” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.

“Want another couple drops?” Luke asked.

The delayed reaction of the peppers or whatever was in the sauce began to kick in. Ammon started sweating, his mouth on fire, and he grabbed a mouthful of chips, knowing he had to suffocate the flames with something dry; the soda would only wash the burn down his throat. Luke, having destroyed most of his taste buds already, watched him and laughed, then dipped another chip.

“Good,” Ammon said after his mouth had cooled down.

Luke laughed. “You can’t fake it with me, bro.”

“No, really. I would have stopped at eight drops, but this is OK. Just kind of caught me off guard is all.”

Luke laughed again.

Looking at the two brothers, one wouldn’t have known they were twins. Ammon, blond and tall, cut his hair short and combed it back. Luke was shorter but thicker, his arms dark and tan. Luke acted fast. Ammon acted slowly. Luke was always looking for something exciting, and he loved having friends around. In fact, it almost seemed he hated being alone. Ammon, on the other hand, sometimes would lock his bedroom door and just sit by himself. He just had to get away, even if only for a few minutes.

Luke eyed the driveway, then leaned forward and looked down the empty street.

Ammon watched him, reading his mind. “Dad must not be coming home tonight. Mom didn’t even wait up for him, so you know what that means. I’m sure he called and said he got stuck at some meeting or ended up having to fly off somewhere.”

Luke nodded as he sipped his soda.

Ammon thought of his father. He used to think it was so cool, the fact that his father worked for the president. The first time the White House sent a military helicopter to land in the intersection at the end of their street to pick up his dad for some emergency meeting, it had nearly blown his mind. He remembered watching from the corner, the police escorts stopping traffic to let the helicopter land, his dad ducking under the blades and then turning around to wave good-bye. He had nearly dropped dead with pride.

But the glamour of his father working for the White House had worn off a long time ago. His dad was gone so much now. He worked all the time. And even when he was home, he was still far away. How many times had Ammon been talking to him, only to see that far-off look in his eye?

His dad tried his best to compensate. But he was crushed with responsibility and it was very hard.

It was just starting to rain, more a mist than anything serious, and Ammon watched the sidewalk grow wet. “Dad’s got it tough right now,” he said.

“Yeah,” Luke answered. There wasn’t much more to say.

“It’s hard on Mom, too. She wants to help him, but she can’t. And it’s hard on her, being alone all the time.”

Ammon gazed at his brother in the darkness, knowing it was hard on him, too. Luke needed their father more than Ammon did. It had always been that way, even when they were young.

When they were little boys, Luke would wake up in the night and want to sleep with his mom and dad. They let him for a night or two, but soon had quite enough of that. “You’ve got to stay in your own bed,” his mother had explained. “No more sleeping with Mommy and Daddy. You’re a big boy now, Luke. You need to sleep in your own bed.”

Next night, Luke had tried slipping into bed with them again. No good. They brought him back. He claimed to have had a nightmare. His mom had handed him his favorite stuffed toy, turned on the night-light, and told him to stay in his bed. Ten nights in a row he had tried to slip in bed with his mom and dad. Ammon had watched, enjoying the marathon contest of wills, though he never said anything. After it became obvious they were not going to give in, Luke had taken to slipping into the hall in the middle of the night, curling up by their door with his blanket, and sleeping there. That went on for a long time.

Ammon didn’t think his parents ever knew.

The older twin smiled at the memory, but it made him kind of sad. Sitting there on the front porch in the middle of the night, he realized that some things hadn’t changed. The front porch, the hall near their bedroom door, it was pretty much the same: Luke was missing his dad.

Luke took a final drink of soda. “I read something today. Really pissed me off,” he said.

“What’s that?” Ammon asked.

The clouds broke, a thin line of clear sky showing above the streetlight before falling behind the low clouds again. Luke kicked his legs out, extending them to the bottom stair. “OK, there’s this agency in Pakistan,” he began. “They work with refugees, orphans, that sort of thing. They’re trying to get food to this refugee camp. Have to haul it out there in these old, beat-up trucks, the only vehicles the Pakistani government will let them use. Yesterday, after a couple aid workers had taken a load of food to the camp, the bread and water ran out before everyone had a chance to get some. I guess a riot broke out. Here you have all these starving, dying people. No food. No water. So what do they do? They riot. Attack the relief trucks. Both of the aid workers were killed. One of them was trampled; the other one was dragged from under the truck and beaten to death.

“Now, I don’t know, Ammon, call me stupid, but I just don’t get it. Those aid workers were there to help them. It wasn’t their fault that they ran out of food. Yet the refugees went so crazy, they trampled and beat them to death.”

Ammon studied his empty soda can. “I guess people have to be pretty desperate for them to act that way,” he said.

“Desperate or crazy.”

“I don’t think you can say they were crazy. Have you ever been really hungry, Luke? I mean really, seriously hungry? Either of us misses a single meal and we act like we hadn’t eaten in weeks. We skip two meals and think we’re dying. But lots of people in the world, maybe most of the people in the world, miss one or two meals every day.”

“Yeah, well, I still wonder what those people are thinking sometimes.”

“Have you ever been so thirsty that you thought you might die? Have you ever been so dehydrated that you couldn’t sweat or spit or swallow because your tongue was so thick? Have you ever slept out in the desert with only the clothes on your back? Have you ever looked at a tiny cloth sack and knew it contained everything that you owned? Absolutely everything! You had nothing else! Have you ever been so scared for your family’s safety that you would have done anything?

“Think about this, Luke. I’ll paint a picture for you. You’re a young father. You used to live in a small village that was taken over by the resurgent Taliban and now you’ve been chased from your home in Afghanistan because of another war. The same thing happened to your father. Same thing happened to your grandfather before. Your wife was killed by Taliban rebels because she dared to appear in public showing part of her hair. You flee with nothing but a bundle and your little girl. You sleep in the desert for three days until you get to the refugee camp. When you get there, there’s no food and no water. Your little girl is going to die unless you get some for her. She’s crying. She’s begging. Then she doesn’t cry anymore. She just kind of lies there. Sometimes she’ll reach for your hand. She squeezes your fingers, but she doesn’t focus her eyes on you anymore. She’s dying and she knows it. She needs water now! The trucks show up, but there’s not enough, and neither of you get anything. You’re wild-eyed crazy with hunger. And you love your little girl. You would die to protect her. That’s not an American thing, a Western thing, or anything else—that’s a human thing. A father thing. You would die to protect her. But they have run out of food. She’s dying. She needs water, or she won’t live through the night.

“Think about that, dude, and maybe it will make it a little easier to understand what happened over there.”

Luke scrunched his face. “That’s a pretty horrible picture.”

“It takes place every day.”

“I know. And it helps to remember the whole story. But it doesn’t explain everything.”

Silence returned for a moment. “I guess there are some things we may never understand,” Ammon said.

Luke crossed his feet. “There’s a lot I don’t understand.”

“Me too,” Ammon said. “But let me tell you something important, Luke. Something I do understand.

“I’ve been watching over your shoulder, and I know more about you than you may think. I mean, come on, dude, why am I out here with you tonight? You can’t sleep, and I feel that. You get a cold, I do too. I know your moods. I know what you’re thinking. I sometimes think I know you even better than you know yourself.

“And I want to tell you something I’ve been meaning to tell you for the past couple weeks. You have a destiny, Luke, a reason you’re here. Think about it, bro—do you think it was the outcome of blind fate that brought you to this time, to this place? No! There had to be a reason. But just as you can seek out and complete your mission, you can screw it up as well.

“And that cute little girl who likes to hang on your arm, she isn’t right for you. Play with fire, and it burns you; any fool knows that’s true. I don’t care how cute or good-looking or rich or cool they might seem, this young thing and her buddies, they are poison for you, man. She cares about two things. Money and showing it off. So ask yourself something; if it wasn’t for our dad, would she be that into you? Is she interested in you or the fact that your dad hangs with the president? Because she strikes me as the kind of person who’s really impressed with that kind of thing. That’s not right for you. She will burn you. I know that. And you know that. Now stand up and be a man!”

Ammon stopped talking and stared at his brother. Luke didn’t say anything. Ammon turned back toward the streetlamp, looking into the dark night. “Don’t you dare screw this up, Luke,” he threatened, “or I’ll kill you, my friend. Don’t screw your life up over a chick with a lot of money who’s going to burn you in the end.”

*******

For the next couple of days, Luke spent a lot of time in his bedroom and driving around in his car. He was sullen and moody, and he seemed to glare a lot. Then, on the third day, he woke up in a very good mood. He came downstairs, kissed his mother, and made breakfast for them all.

Later that night he called her. “Alicia, I really like you,” he said in a determined voice. “But I can’t see you any longer. It’s not right. And it won’t work. I’m sorry, Alicia, I really am, but we’ve got to back off.”

She cried. She protested. She called him names and said he’d lied. She begged more than once, and then started crying again. She swore at him, and then said she loved him, but it seemed that he didn’t love her back.

Luke knew she was right. He liked her. He liked her friends. He liked her roommates. He certainly liked the Porsche she drove. They had a great time when they were together; they seemed to laugh all the time. She was interesting and sincere, and she listened to him. It seemed they could talk for hours. She would tease him. She would challenge him. And there was that smile. And that hair.

He caught his voice then answered slowly that he thought that she was right.

When they finally hung up, he was frazzled and frustrated. But he was not confused. He had done the right thing—not the easy thing, but the right thing—and inside he was calm.

It would be a very long time before he would see her again. The world would be very different. So would Luke. So would Alicia. Everything would have changed.

ELEVEN

The timing of the attacks had to be precisely coordinated. Like an enormous tsunami that would crash over the land, they had to be unexpected and devastating; with no chance of being repelled. The destruction had to be wide and deep, completely demoralizing and debilitating in every way. And they had to create a sense of passing, as if the old world was gone, leaving normal life shattered like broken glass on the floor.

They had to leave the world utterly breathless, with no chance to respond, no chance to think, debate or wonder. This wasn’t a military battle; King al-Rahman knew that it was a battle of wills, a test of resolve. So there was no desire on his part for measured escalation, no strategy of attacking, then sitting back and weighing the response, attacking and negotiating, trying to score a single military victory or political point. Indeed, just the opposite. The entire purpose of the plan was to create a sense of complete vertigo, overwhelming devastation, as if things had immediately and irreparably spun out of control. At the end of the day—a day was all it would take—his plan had to shatter the old preconditions, leaving no sense of proportion at all.

It had to be quick.

Then would come the opportunity to rewrite the rules and reorder the world.

*******

The first attack would never have been successful but for the fact that the enemies of Israel knew a secret no one else knew.

And though the terrorists had long been aware of the quirk in the aircraft hangar’s construction, they had waited, ever patient, for the right time to hit. With such an ace up their sleeves, they had been willing to delay, willing to stay at the table and keep their hand in the game until the stakes were the highest and they could win the whole thing.

So the attack had been in the planning stages for just over nine years. Logistics, munitions, communications, materials, recruitment, decoys, reconnaissance, explosives, and hardware—the list of technical specialists involved in the planning was very long indeed. And though almost a hundred men had been involved in the preparations at one time or another, only a handful ever knew all the details.

Unlike the Israeli military, an organization that had to rely on its superior technology and advanced weapons to protect its lands, the Islamists kept it simple and did it the old-fashioned way. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. A simple and straightforward plan.

All they needed was a man who was willing to die (there were many) and a single opportunity to fire. Then great patience. And a rifle. And just a tiny bit of luck.

Ben Gurion International Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

The Israeli prime minister’s aircraft touched down at 4:19 P.M. on a hot afternoon. The aircraft, one of five different, unmarked airplanes the prime minister used for his out-of-country travels, was a small corporate twin-engine jet with civilian markings and an untraceable tail number. It touched down on the thousand-foot marking on runway eight, the sun at its back, decelerated slowly on the twelve-thousand foot runway, then took the high-speed taxiway to the right, which led toward a large steel hangar on the west side of the airport. As always, the perimeter around the government hangar had been secured with uniformed soldiers, though there were plainclothes security officers also on patrol. Three black sedans waited in a line in front of the hangar, where the enormous metal doors had been rolled almost shut, leaving room for the automobiles to squeeze through but not so much as to reveal the outlines of the other four Israeli aircraft that were hidden inside: a white G-4, a highly modified Boeing RC-135 provided by the United States government, and two blue and red C-21s with “Mediterranean Airways” painted on their tails. As Talon One, the call sign for the prime minister’s aircraft this day, taxied toward the hangar, the three black vehicles waited until the enormous doors began to roll back, allowing enough space for the aircraft to taxi inside. Following the taxi lines, which changed from yellow to red once inside the threshold of the hangar, the pilot taxied quickly, then cut his engines and switched to auxiliary power, allowing the waiting vehicles to follow the aircraft without fear of having their windows blown out or being rolled over by the jet engine blast. Inside the hangar, the vehicles swung around to the right side of the aircraft, and the hangar doors were rolled shut again to avoid exposing the prime minister to any view from outside the hangar.

Thirty seconds after the aircraft had come to a stop, the cabin door opened and the small, chrome steps extended automatically from the aircraft’s floor. Two security men stepped from the aircraft and moved quickly down the stairs, but the prime minister and his wife did not emerge.

Outside the hangar, the uniformed servicemen moved on patrol. Three sniper teams had been positioned on the roofs of nearby hangars, and a single military helicopter flew slowly overhead. A thousand feet farther out, another security perimeter had been established with motion sensors, infrared detectors, and ultra-sensitive listening devices. Behind an enormous civilian airline hangar on the south end of the runway and hidden behind a row of trees, two Apache attack helicopters were waiting, their rotors spinning, ready to escort the prime minister’s convoy to Tel Aviv. Each of their munitions winglets was crowded with air-to-ground rockets, and their nose-mounted Gatling guns swung quickly, following the movements of the gunner’s eyes. The single airport road that led to the hangar had been secured. Beyond that, the main airport road was crowded with cars, taxis and buses. Several unmarked police cars moved through the traffic. Inside each vehicle, police officers watched the other cars carefully through their tinted windows.

The security measures around the prime minister of Israel were extraordinary even during the most peaceful times—and things were not peaceful now. The Israeli security operations were operating in Defensive Posture Two, the second highest state of alert. The security apparatus protecting the state of Israel had heard enough rumors and read enough message traffic to have their ears on the ground and their eyes reading the graffiti on the walls. Over the past week it had only gotten worse. They had seen too many suspicious travelers moving in and out of Gaza, and picked up enough troubling information from Iran and Saudi Arabia not to be on an increased state of alert.

Although they had their suspicions, they didn’t know exactly what the threat might be. But they had learned from experience it was best to be prepared. So the chief of security had ordered additional precautions, demanding extra layers of security to be added to a seemingly impenetrable security machine.

*******

Because the aircraft hangar had originally been designed and built for civilian purposes and only later converted for use as the prime minister’s official hangar, it had not been constructed with security as the primary concern. And though the hangar had been modified and upgraded by the Israeli Secret Police, the agency responsible for protecting the PM and other government leaders, there remained a few very narrow gaps in the security wall.

One of those gaps was high up in the structural beams of the hangar, the huge steel girders that provided the skeleton structure to the hangar. Deep behind the girders above the hangar’s rolling doors, four of the crossbeams joined together and formed a tiny crawl space that was fourteen inches wide, six feet long, and twelve inches high.

This was the little secret the terrorists knew.

Although the entire building was always searched multiple times before the prime minister ever arrived in the hangar, none of these patrols climbed up to the rafters to check the girders above. And because these security patrols were always initiated five days before the prime minister was scheduled to use the hangar, any other time the hangar was more or less accessible to the airport at large. So if a man were to arrive before the regular security patrols had begun, and if he were extraordinarily patient, he could conceal himself in the dead space of these girders, making it impossible for him to be seen from the ground. Then, once the security patrols had begun, if he remained in a prone position, the thick steel beams would protect him from the infrared scanners and the motion detectors that were used to sweep through the hangar every two hours or so. If he were very quiet, he might even avoid the sensitive listening devices that were planted throughout the hangar but only turned on once the prime minister was inbound.

*******

The assassin had been waiting in the rafters of the hangar for almost eight days, hidden above the section of crossbeams almost directly above the hangar doors. He had not eaten in two days now, and his water was gone. The batteries on his radio had grown so weak as to make it completely unreadable, so he had taken out his tiny earpiece and let it fall to the metal beside his shoulder. It didn’t really matter. There was no one left to talk to anymore. He had received the final instructions, and his commanders had long ago slipped away.

Eight days before, under cover of night, the assassin had infiltrated the prime minister’s hangar. Because the Israeli leader hadn’t been expected for more than a week, the security forces were on their lowest state of alert. Once inside the hangar, he’d used a small crossbow to shoot a thin rappelling rope over the crossbeams above the hangar floor, used an ascending device to pull himself up, secured the rope, and then hidden in the tiny crawl space directly above the rolling doors. There he had waited. He had enough water for a week, enough food for five days, a radio so he would know when the prime minister was expected to arrive, and a high-powered rifle to kill him when he did.

Now, after all of that time lying on the hard metal, his muscles were cramping miserably, leaving his body to hurt all the way to his bones. He was exhausted and weary in his body and soul. The yellow pills he took to keep him constipated had tied his stomach in knots, and the little plastic bags he had filled with his urine were beginning to leak.

Worse, though, was the problem of having far too much time to think. Too much time to lie there and consider his standing in the next world. Too much time to stare up at the girders and wonder what he’d been taught.

It was difficult to consider murder-suicide for eight days without slipping into a funk. And the pain of lying on the steel girders, wallowing in his own sweat and urine, only added to the blackness and the ache in his bones.

But the painkillers helped, and the Valium mellowed his fear.

And now it was almost over.

He lay there and listened to the aircraft’s jet engines wind down and the hangar doors begin to roll closed. His heart skipped a beat when he heard the voices below.

His muscles were so cramped that he didn’t know if he could stand or even push himself to his knees. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to. From where he lay, he had a perfect angle on the prime minister’s jet. All he had to do was lift his head half an inch above the girders.

Despite the pain and depression, the assassin was ready to complete the mission he’d spent years training for. He was in extraordinary physical shape, knew how to operate and repair his own radio, could take apart and reassemble his collapsible rifle in less than fifty seconds (fifty-two seconds in the dark), and could pull himself up a sixty-foot rope with just his hands and his feet. Most important, he was an expert marksman who could shoot a bullet through the face on a U.S. twenty-dollar bill at three hundred feet.

Now, after years of training, his mission was here.

The PM would be emerging from the aircraft any moment now.

The Palestinian adjusted his weight to his side, his muscles and joints screaming with every move. He was so hot and dehydrated that his vision was blurry. But he saw well enough, and the target was so close.

Peering over the metal crossbeam, he had a clear view of the door to the prime minister’s jet. It was forty feet below him and thirty feet to his right. It would be like shooting a pig with a shotgun from three feet away. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. Not from this range.

When the two security men emerged from the aircraft, the shooter had already positioned his rifle over the edge of the beam. He steadied the barrel on the metal rafter, and then placed his finger on the trigger, feeling the metal against his skin.

*******

Four days before the Israeli prime minister had been scheduled to return from his two-week trip overseas, the aircraft hangar had been swarmed with regular security patrols. Two days before his arrival, security agents had taken control of the hangar from the officers and mechanics whose job it was to maintain the prime minister’s jets. Beginning twelve hours before the prime minister had been scheduled to arrive, the hangar was swept with regular security patrols using infrared detectors and explosive sniffing dogs.

This was the easy part for the security team. Out of all the possible locations the prime minister could be assassinated, inside his own hangar seemed the least likely of all. So the Secret Service men relaxed just a little as the aircraft taxied in.

The Israeli prime minister stepped to the open aircraft door. He was old now, and not as agile as he used to be, so he held the handrail carefully as he descended the narrow stairs. His wife was walking behind him, her hand on his shoulders to help steady him. Four feet below him, two dark-suited men waited. They faced away from the steps, their backs to him. A half-dozen other agents formed a circle around the jet. The rear door swung open in the third black sedan, and one of the agents at the bottom of the stairs turned around. The prime minister reached the cement floor and started walking, his wife at his side. It was only twenty feet to the waiting vehicle. The security forces closed in around him as he walked to the car.

After more than two weeks touring through Europe, the prime minister was exceptionally happy to be back in his country again. He always felt safe here, and this was his home. He took a deep breath, smelling the tang of salt in the air, then glanced at his wife and smiled.

The prime minister of Israel received death threats almost every day. He’d been living under the constant threat of assassination for almost five years. Before that, as an army and intelligence officer, he’d lived through combat and covert missions, including the bloody Gaza operation about ten years before. Through it all, it had never occurred to him even once that he would not die from old age.

But the Palestinian watching from above him knew he had just drawn his last breath.

Union Station, Washington, D.C.

Union Station was always crowded with travelers and tourists as well as locals who worked in the District of Columbia, mostly on Capitol Hill. The station was a large and beautiful building, built on multiple levels, with a classical stone and pillar entrance, dozens of restaurants, a movie theater, and a shopping center as well. The Amtrak station fed the busy eastern corridor between Boston, New York, and the District of Columbia, and the Metro provided easy access for commuted.

And though Union Station was a standard tourist location, it was popular with the locals as well. A couple of the restaurants were very good, and it was close enough to the Capitol and the congressional office buildings that it was an easy walk for lunch.

Neil Brighton and his guest sat at a small table on the third floor of the Americana restaurant. Their table, very private, was positioned in a small alcove looking over the main floor, surrounded by potted flowers and plants. Brighton was wearing a blue Air Force shirt, with his pilot’s wings on his chest and two stars on his shoulders, but not his formal blue overcoat. Sara was wearing a blue dress with white pearls. She looked younger than he did, he knew that, but he had grown used to the fact. “Is this your wife or your daughter?” How many times had he heard that line before? But he didn’t mind—in fact, it only made him more proud of his wife. He had wondered all his life why she had agreed to marry him, and the marvel of her enduring beauty only made him love her more.

So he gazed at Sara, her blond hair and white smile, and wished once again that he could go home with her. They could sit in the backyard by the pool and absorb the afternoon sun. She could talk. He would listen. That was all he wanted to do. He didn’t want to think, solve any problems, or make any decisions right now. What would he give to go home, throw on some shorts and sandals, squeeze some lemonade, and just sit and not have to think? What would he give to lie in the sun, close his eyes, and just listen to her voice? What would he give to spend an afternoon just watching the sun in her hair?

How much had he given up already? How much had his family sacrificed?

He forced a smile. But she didn’t buy it. She knew that he was concerned. She picked at her salad, piercing a cherry tomato and placing it in her mouth. “You look tired,” she said.

He nodded. He knew that, and he felt worse than he looked.

“I got an E-mail from Sam this morning,” he said, not wanting to talk about himself.

“Good. How is he? Anything new?”

Brighton thought of the Cherokees, knowing he couldn’t say anything. “He’s fine,” he answered simply. “He didn’t say much. You know, he’s a man of few words.”

Sara didn’t say anything, but her face lit up. Any mention of her three sons always made her smile.

She picked another tomato, and then said, “I was talking with Ammon this morning. Did you know Luke is planning on going to Europe after Christmas? He wants to go see some of his old friends from Germany during the break.”

Brighton’s forehead scrunched. “Is Ammon going with him?” he asked.

Sara shook her head. “He doesn’t think that he can afford it—”

“But Luke thinks that he can?”

“Neil, you know how he is.”

“He’s supposed to be saving his money to help pay for college.”

“He says he’s got it figured out. He can use some of our frequent flyer miles and stay with his friends. He told me it wouldn’t cost him more than a couple days skiing, which is what Ammon plans to do.”

“Hmmm,” Brighton said as he glanced at his plate. He looked up at Sara. “How do you feel about Luke? You know, is he doing OK?”

Sara hesitated, and then answered, “He reminds me of you.”

“Me?” Brighton cried.

“Of course. Try to remember. He is you through and through. You were a rancher from Texas, determined to see the world, determined to knock off the cotton balls that were stuck to your boots. If there was anyone less focused than you were at that age, I don’t know who that would be. I mean, look at our romance. I was ready to get married, but it took you three years—”

“I would have married you after the first date, except I had to finish college.”

“Yeah, that’s a responsible line. You’re responsible now, Neil, but it’s not the way you were then. You were terrified of getting married. It makes me laugh sometimes to think of how you used to act. Here you are now, a big-shot general in the White House, a fighter pilot who has flown as many combat sorties as maybe anyone in the world. And you were afraid of getting married. You were afraid of me.”

Neil took her hand. “You still scare me,” he said.

“Only when you really make me angry,” she laughed. “But you know, Neil, you are so determined now, so focused and single-minded, but you don’t remember that you weren’t always like that. How many summers did you spend backpacking through Europe, going anywhere but home? You stayed away from West Texas like everyone there had the plague. You wanted to see everything that was out there, to experience the world. That’s how Luke is, Neil, but it’s not a bad way to be. Even after we were married, we were pretty free spirits, you know. Do you remember what we did for our honeymoon?”

Brighton smiled as he thought. “Wasn’t that great!” he said.

“Yes, it was the most, how would you say, entertaining two weeks that we’ve ever had. And now Luke wants to go roam through the Alps for a while. I say we let him. Besides, we couldn’t stop him. He will do what he wants.”

Brighton nodded while he thought, picking up the lemon in his water and sucking it between his teeth. “I just hope—” he said softly.

“Luke will be OK. He has a good heart. He cares more about other people than anyone I know. He isn’t focused right now, but he’s still young. This thing with Alicia has really strung him out. I say let’s let him stretch his wings for a few weeks.”

Brighton nodded and relaxed. He trusted her intuition more than he trusted anything. “All right, then,” he told her. “I guess it would be OK.”

Sara squeezed his fingers lightly, and then pulled back her hand. “I’m really, really glad that we could have lunch,” she said. “I appreciate you getting away from the White House. I know how difficult it is.”

“Sara,” he answered, “I would rather be here with you than anywhere in the world. I am busy right now, but someday things will be better, I promise. One day I’ll retire and then we’ll have lots of time to spend together. After a while, you’ll be so sick of having me around that you’ll beg me to leave.”

“I think not,” Sara answered, “but it will be fun to see.”

The two were silent for a moment. Brighton took a huge bite of his sandwich while Sara poked at her fish.

“Neil, I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.

Brighton stopped chewing. There was something serious in her voice. She looked up at him. “Were you ever going to tell me about Sam’s picture in the papers? Or were you going to always try to hide it from me?”

Brighton swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.

Sara watched him struggle, and then continued. “I know you were only trying to protect me, but it really doesn’t help. I mean, if one of the largest papers in the country has a story about my son, alleging that he and some other U.S. soldiers were involved in some atrocities, don’t you think that I’d like to know that? And I’d like to hear it from you, not my neighbor, and certainly not from the peace activist, military-hating, goober of a Greenpeace feminist who lives down the street.”

Brighton swallowed again. He didn’t know what to say. “The story wasn’t true,” he mumbled very feebly.

“Of course. I know that. Everyone knew.”

“I thought—I was worried—I just wanted to—”

“Protect me. That’s very sweet, dear, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it. I take things like that better than you do. So don’t ever do it again.”

She smiled at him sweetly, but then cocked her head to the side. That was his signal to say “I’m sorry,” and he quickly fell into line. She was right. He was wrong. It had been a dumb thing to do. It belittled her strength and courage, and though his heart was in the right place, it had been a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he told her humbly. And he meant every word.

“That’s OK, Neil,” she said. She smiled at him brightly. “This is very good,” she said as she took a bite of her fish.

Ben Gurion International Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

It was a single shot to the head. The prime minister’s brains exploded out of his skull. He hit the floor in a heap, his knees buckling mid-step.

His wife screamed in terror as she fell to his side. And though his arms and legs twitched and jerked, she knew he was dead.

The young Palestinian followed his instructions perfectly.

“Do not get caught!” they had told him. “Do not be taken alive. Do you understand us, Imir, you are not coming home! No man can resist them; they will force you to talk. So do not let them take you! You must follow the plan!”

Reaching to his side, the young Palestinian felt the beveled grip of the small handgun stuffed in the holster at his hip. He pulled it out, shoved it to his temple, and pulled the trigger one last time.

But before he squeezed the trigger, a final thought rolled through his head, “If I cannot go home, I shall go to Allah instead.”

The two shots, less than three seconds apart, reverberated through the enormous hangar like rolling claps of thunder through the air. The echoes bounced off the metal walls, making it impossible to detect from which direction the shots had emanated. As the prime minister mortally fell to the floor, the security men sprang into action. Weapons extended from their bodies and steadied in their hands, they contracted the circle, closing in on their charge. Machine guns appeared out of nowhere. Shouts and screams filled the air. The security men moved constantly, their eyes searching, ready to shoot instantly. The prime minister’s terrified wife fell at his side, her voice choking on a scream. Two of the bodyguards fell on top of her, driving her to the floor, the guards placing their bodies between the woman and the shots. Another guard fell on the prime minister to protect him as well, but he quickly saw and knew he was lying on a dead man.

Another body fell from the rafters with a sickening thud. Sirens wailed from outside the hangar, and the doors rolled open again. Security men began to swarm through the hangar, seeming to emerge from everywhere, armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, grenades, shotguns, and radios.

Less than fifty seconds after the first shot had been fired, an ambulance screeched through the half-closed hangar doors, retrieved the prime minister’s body, and then screeched out again. Another ambulance followed, but this one was a decoy that would take another road. Both of the ambulances were escorted by dozens of wailing sirens and police, some on motorcycles, some in cars. The prime minister’s wife was shoved into one of the waiting sedans, which made its way to the hospital by yet a third route.

Twelve minutes after being shot, the prime minister of Israel’s body arrived at Tel Aviv’s closest hospital.

Union Station, Washington, D.C.

General Brighton’s cell phone went off, then his emergency beeper. Sara hesitated, mid-bite, as he punched a small button to quiet his beeper and flipped open his cell. “Brighton,” he answered in a no-nonsense voice.

He listened a moment, his face growing tight. “Are you certain?” he demanded, then listened again. “How long ago did it happen?” He looked at his watch. “Do they know who did it?” he asked. Then he gritted his teeth. “All right,” he said grimly. “You know what to do. Tell Grison I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep the recall going. Get everyone in. No, no, no, don’t send an escort, I’ll catch a cab instead. Be there in five minutes. Keep this line open and call if you get any word.”

The general flipped the phone shut, pushed back his chair, and stood. His face was ashen and though he was looking right at her, Sara knew he didn’t see her anymore. “What’s going on?” she asked timidly. She recognized that look, and it scared her now.

“Let’s go,” Brighton answered.

“What is it?” she said.

Her husband dropped a couple of bills on the table, took her by the hand, and pulled. “You had Ammon drop you off, right?” he asked her.

She nodded as they ran.

“OK. Take the Metro home and turn on the television. It should be on the news by then.”

“Neil, you’re scaring me,” she told him.

He pulled hard on her hand. “It’s OK,” he answered.

Then he came to a sudden stop beside her.

He knew. He didn’t know how he knew, it didn’t make any sense, but he knew that it had started. The final war was here. He shivered and looked at his wife, staring into her eyes. “Go home,” he said simply. “Don’t worry. It’s OK. Everything will turn out all right. If I come home, it will be late, but I’ll call when I can.”

They had stopped at the bottom of the winding marble stairs that led down from the Americana Restaurant. He had to go right to the street. She had to go left to the Metro station. He turned and started walking, then came back to her. He held her shoulders tightly, looking into her eyes. “I love you,” he told her.

“I know you do,” she said.

Brighton kissed her and then turned and ran through the enormous brass doors that led out to the street. A small taxi turnout had been built in front of the station and he ran immediately to the front of the line. Two older men, both of them foreigners, were climbing into the first cab, but Brighton held their door open and bent down to them. “I must have this cab,” he said.

The two men scoffed at him. “Get lost,” one of them said, his English halting but self-assured.

“Please, I work for the White House. There is a problem. I really need this cab.”

The foreigner took in Brighton’s uniform and scoffed again. “Are you military?” he asked.

Brighton nodded eagerly.

“Then forget you,” the other sneered, and both of them laughed. One of the foreigners slapped the Plexiglas. “Let’s go!” he said.

The cabbie looked back and frowned. He was a huge black man with arms as thick as tree limbs and he didn’t look happy. He glared at Brighton’s uniform and then scowled at the men. “Get out,” he told them in a heavy Jamaican accent.

The two men glared back at him. They didn’t move, but they cursed bitterly.

Brighton reached into the cab and grabbed one of the men by his shirt, pulling him out of the cab and onto the street. The other man cried out, then rolled out of the other side of the cab. Brighton fell in and pulled both doors closed, and the cabbie turned around again. “Stupid French,” he muttered. “For one thing, they never tip. And their wives don’t even shave their legs.”

Brighton almost laughed. “Get me to the White House,” he said.

The cabbie looked surprised. “The White House. OK. You look like you’re in a hurry, mon.”

“You’ve got no idea, friend.”

“This some kind of national emergency?”

“You got it.”

“Cool, mon,” the cabbie smiled as he turned around and dropped his foot on the gas. “No worries,” he called back over his shoulder as he accelerated away. He started honking his horn to clear traffic before he even hit the main street. Brighton held on to the armrest as the cab sped along. The Jamaican screamed through the first red light, his horn blaring all the while. He bobbed, weaved and cut through traffic, driving like a madman.

Six minutes later they came to the White House. Brighton slapped him on the shoulder, threw some money in the front seat, then jumped out and ran.

Tel Aviv, Israel

The surgeons, the best in the world, worked frantically to save what was left of the prime minister’s brain. The surgery was chaotic, desperate, delicate, painstaking and frustratingly slow. But when it was over, they had failed. There was simply nothing else they could do.

The respirator breathed for him. The artificial heart pumped his blood through his veins. The electroencephalographic machines looked for brain activity, but there was nothing there.

The truth was the prime minister had died the moment the bullet had passed through his skull. Now there was no heartbeat, no breath, no life left in him at all.

The spirit had departed his body, leaving lifeless flesh and still blood.

Both of the surgeons recognized it. They had grown sensitive to the subtle changes that take place in the body when there is no more life there. So, though they fought frantically, in the end they knew they would fail.

Two hours after his hurried arrival at the hospital, the president of Israel spoke with the surgeons. He asked a few questions, nodding while he listened to the answers.

Walking to a chaotic reception area, he announced to the world that the prime minister was dead.

Jerusalem, Israel

The Knesset met in an emergency session before the sun had gone down. Outside the red limestone building in the center of the government complex at Gavet Ram, eighty thousand demonstrators had already gathered, a number that was growing by ten thousand every hour. Pockets of rioters had mixed with the crowd, and the Home Front Command had been called to help with crowd control. Although the city was technically in a lockdown, with curfew and travel restrictions imposed, it was impossible to know that from the size of the crowd. The mass of people was growing every minute in both numbers and rage, the Israelis’ emotions boiling like water.

Opposite the entrance to the Knesset building was an enormous menorah, symbol of the state of Israel. More than twelve feet wide and fifteen feet high, the sculptured menorah was carved with twenty-nine scenes depicting significant events in Israel’s history: the ancient prophets, the Ten Commandments, Ruth the Moabite, Spanish Jewry, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, creation of the modern nation-state. As the mass of mourning and bitter people gathered around the large sculpture, they sensed they would soon add another monumental scene to the carvings on the Menorah’s side. The history of their nation had been altered this day.

The crowd swarmed through the square, some chanting, and some singing. A few prayed, but most cursed, pumping their fists in the air.

At 9:15 A.M., not long after the sun went down, the meeting inside the Knesset was ready to begin. Only ninety-three of the one hundred twenty members were present, but it was a quorum, and the president stood at the podium and brought his gavel down. The dark wooden desks were positioned in a U-shape around him and the large chamber was noisy, the legislators talking and shouting and moving around. The president gaveled again, and the noise began to subside, though many still whispered in harsh, angry tones. The mood of the members matched perfectly the mood of the crowd on the street. Rage and resentment. A demand to do something now!

At 9:20 A.M., the emergency session of the Knesset was finally brought to order. The Knesset settled down to business.

At 9:38 A.M., a powerful explosion ripped through the room.

*******

It had taken more than three years for the bombs to be slipped into place inside the Knesset building. Piece by piece, pound by pound, the powerful C-4 plastic explosive had been smuggled into the building by a single maintenance worker, an immigrant Russian Jew who valued the money more than his adopted home. In order to avoid detection, the explosives had been molded into various forms: plastic milk bottles, fake bananas, radios, cell phones, books, the heels on his shoes, combs, CD cases—dozens of deceptions were required to gather enough explosives to make the nineteen high-power bombs. Once inside the building, the former Russian munitions expert had hidden the powerful explosives inside small metal drums filled with mineral oil to avoid detection from bomb-sniffing dogs, then hidden the drums inside the ceiling air vents. The last thing he did before hiding the bombs was to attach the remote-controlled, long-life RD-182 detonators.

At 9:38 A.M., the detonation signal had been sent from a small transmitter outside the government square, bringing the ceiling on the Knesset building down.

Smoke, fire, dirt, and debris filled the night air. The explosions were so powerful, and so brilliantly placed, that the entire roof collapsed, along with two outer walls. Nineteen powerful fireballs rose and merged together into one puffy, black ball, the outer edges illuminated by the heat of the core. The smoke rose, then drifted east, carried by the Mediterranean wind.

The explosions enveloped the crowd in a wave of smoke and heat. Those nearest the building were blown to the ground, pieces of broken tile and mortar piercing their skin and tearing their clothes. Everyone felt the heat, but no one was burned, for the police had kept the angry crowd a safe distance away. The debris began to rain down on the people: chunks of sandstone and rebar, cement smeared in blood, pieces of human skin and hair. As the explosions rocked the air, eighty thousand people turned as one, watching the building come down.

The crowd stood in horror, their disbelief so complete that not one of them spoke. A silent hush fell upon them as the sounds of wailing sirens filled the air.

The crumbled building was on fire, the smoke black and thick. The crowd remained in a stupor of horror and awe. Then the moans could be heard from the wounded, their voices drifting through the flames to lift over the silent crowd.

TWELVE

Headquarters, Israeli Defense Center, twelve kilometers west of Jerusalem, Israel

The senior Israeli military leadership had been evacuated to the underground bunker, a facility hardened against nuclear devices, cut deep into the granite that had been exposed by ten thousand years of wind and rainwater washing toward the Soreq River.

The Israeli Central Command Center seemed to cycle through moments of chaos, energy and uneasy silence. Three dozen officers manned their posts, taking in messages, coordinating rescue attempts, securing borders, and placing their military forces on alert. Outside the hidden facility, a dozen military helicopters circled in the air, ready for the orders to fly to Jerusalem and evacuate key members of the government to the underground capital.

Everyone knew things were different now. Israel wasn’t just responding to another terrorist attack. They were going to war.

Inside the CCC, the commanding general, Marshal Malka, watched the updates with a face of stone. He moved slowly and spoke in a calm voice, always in perfect control. While confusion and fear boiled around him, he was completely composed.

He knew what was coming. There was no doubt in his mind. He had prepared for this day for almost thirty years.

But still, in his gut, he quivered with fear. He had to move carefully. He had to be sure. So much depended on what he decided now.

His assistant, a colonel, moved toward him, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, his eyes burning with rage. He stood before the general. The two men stared at each other, but neither of them spoke. The colonel hunched his shoulders as if he expected something, but the general only watched him, giving nothing away. The colonel turned angrily, and then walked behind his general, pacing like a wild dog on a chain. He stopped suddenly, swept his eyes across the control center, and leaned toward the general’s ear. “They’re gone,” he said simply, his voice grim with rage.

The general’s face remained passive, almost unnaturally so, though he did move his head until he could see the younger man out of the corner of his eye.

“They’re gone, Marshal, gone!” the colonel repeated. “The prime minister! The legislators! This isn’t an act of terror. This is a savage act of war!”

The general turned away. “What’s the final count at the Knesset?” he asked.

“Who cares?” his aide hissed. “If it turns out some survived—and I’m sure some of them will—none of that matters; our response must be the same. This isn’t an original scenario, General Malka. We’ve thought this thing through. We’ve war gamed this option for how many years? You know what to do now. What are you waiting for?”

“Have you talked with the Home Defense Network?” the general demanded.

The colonel hesitated, and then nodded.

“What is the current tally?”

“They really don’t know.”

“What is their best estimate? I want to know!”

“Fifty, maybe sixty, dead. Another thirty wounded, most of them critically.”

The general sat back and exhaled.

It would have taken a very powerful bomb blast to kill that many members of the Knesset. How did they do it? He wondered for the thousandth time. How, when had they been able to plant the bombs in the building? Security was so tight. The entire government complex secure! How had they done it?

Then his brain shifted gears.

He quit wondering how they’d done it and started wondering why.

His assistant moved around his chair, standing before him again, tiny beads of perspiration forming on the top of his bald head. He looked at the general, and then lowered his voice. “You’ve got to Pinball this and you’ve got to do it now. They’ll expect us to be paralyzed by indecision, unable to move. But you know what to do.”

“We should wait to find out if the president survived before we—”

“No, General Malka,” the colonel hissed impatiently. “There’s no one left to consult with. This is up to you!”

The general shook his head. “I cannot act alone. And no one has confirmed that the president is dead or the senior leadership of the Knesset is wiped out.”

The other man huffed, his rage burning through. “Are you kidding?!” he stammered. “Do you think they would hesitate? You know what any of them would do! We have our instructions, general, and every minute you wait makes it that much more difficult. Every minute you hesitate makes it less likely that we are going to be able to finish this job.”

The general thought for thirty seconds, then exhaled a long breath. “All right,” he answered slowly. “It is time. Light the Pinball.”

THIRTEEN

Hatzerim Air Base

Hatzerim has been the primary Israel Defense Force/Air Force air base since its construction in the late 1960s. Located in southern Israel, with the rocky Mount Dimona rising dimly in the east, it is a modern military installation with huge aircraft hangars, hidden bunkers, an enormous and busy aircraft parking tarmac, and dozens of administrative buildings running parallel to the main runway. On a normal day, the taxiways and parking areas would have been packed with dozens of fighter and attack aircraft. With thirteen flying squadrons, the sound of screaming jets and the smell of burning jet fuel constantly filled the air. But the stop-launch orders had been given when the prime minister had been killed. The military needed time to increase combat sorties, time to get their pilots and their fighters ready to fight, so the parking ramp had fallen silent throughout the long afternoon.

As evening fell, the wind had picked up, blowing in from the Mediterranean Sea, kicking dust and humidity into the air. As the sun set, the western sky began to burn like a bloated fireball, the entire horizon turning an eerie purple and red. But then the wind suddenly quit, taking a breath before the storm.

Shortly after 10 P.M., the aircraft parking ramps became suddenly crowded again as hundreds of crew chiefs and maintenance workers started preparing their aircraft for the sorties ahead.

Twenty F-16 pilots were given the initial orders to attack. Their targets were an assortment of terrorist training camps, administrative buildings, homes, businesses, logistic centers, safe houses, and weapon storage facilities. Anything identified as being associated with any terrorist group—from their girlfriends to their families, from their businesses to their cars, from their guesthouses and retreats to their military training camps—they were going after them all.

The list of terrorist organizations they could target was depressingly long: Hezbollah, Ansar al-Islam, al Qaeda, Qa‘idat al-Jihad, the Islamic Army, World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders, the Islamic Salvation Foundation, the Usama bin Laden Network, ‘Asbat al-Ansar, Hamas, Harakat al-Muqawama al-Islamiya, the Islamic Resistance Movement, the Organization of the Oppressed on Earth, the Revolutionary Justice Organization, Fatah Revolutionary Council, the Abu Nidal Organization, Islamic Jihad, the Arab Revolutionary Council, the Arab Revolutionary Brigades, Black September, the Revolutionary Organization of Socialist Muslims. All of these organizations (and an unknown number of other unidentified terror groups) were pledged to the destruction of Israel, and any one of them could have masterminded the attacks against the Israeli government. Half had already claimed responsibility, eager to get their names in the news.

As the Israeli pilots prepared for combat, none of them knew for certain who was responsible for the assassination of the prime minister or the brutal attack on the Knesset. But they didn’t care anymore. They were going after them all.

The Pinball had been fired. They were free to bounce around now, hitting wherever and whatever target they could find.

The first twenty F-16s had been divided into five flights of four. Some were tasked to fly north toward Damascus or Lebanon, while others were going east toward Amman. Two flights were heading south toward Egypt and the south Jordan border. And these would be only the first of many sorties. Dozens of other jets were already in pre-flight operations. Hundreds of sorties would be flown in the first twenty-four hours. Thousands of sorties in the coming weeks. Israel Defense Forces were massing in defensive positions along their eastern and southern borders. Soon they would move into offensive operations. Special Forces teams, some of the best and most dedicated in the world, had already been deployed deep into Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt and Iran.

The monstrous wave of activity made one thing clear.

This wasn’t an operation. This was a full-out war.

*******

Captain Aharon Elnecave felt a tightness in his gut as he walked to his jet. His flight suit was soaked, and he could feel tiny drops of perspiration running down the side of his ribs. It was almost full dark now, and cool, but he continued to sweat.

His F-16 was ready to go. He walked around the aircraft, lovingly touching the jet. The little fighter felt cool, the metal and composite materials smooth to his touch. He did a hurried preflight inspection, concentrating on the weapons tucked under the belly of the jet. Two two-thousand-pound bombs. He stared at them, his throat tight and dry. Looking up, he nodded to the security man. The soldier watched him carefully, the overhead lights casting his eyes in dark shadows under the brim of his helmet. Aharon glanced left and right. Up and down the flight line, the security soldiers were everywhere, all of them dressed in full battle gear. He grunted a hurried greeting to the sergeant, and then turned back to his jet.

Fourteen minutes after walking to his aircraft, the captain had completed the walk around and preflight inspections, strapped himself in, run up the engines, and completed all of his pre-takeoff checks.

He turned to his right, where his flight leader was sitting in another F-16. At 10:56 P.M., the leader nodded and released his brakes, and the jets started to move. Turning east on the taxiway, two other fighters fell in with the flight, taking up the third and fourth positions behind their leader and Aharon. After taxiing onto a position at the end of the runway, the flight leader stopped and the other jets pulled into his side. The munitions crews were ready, six guys in fluorescent yellow vests standing off the right side. The four pilots gave the “clear” signal by placing their hands on the cockpit, always keeping them in view. Confident the pilots couldn’t hurt them by mistakenly moving the flight controls or inadvertently hitting the wrong switch, the munitions crews ran under the jets, where they pulled the arming pins from the weapons, then turned and ran back to the side. While they worked, Captain Elnecave glanced behind him and saw another group of fighter jets lining up behind him on the taxiway.

Once the munitions crews were clear, the flight leader signaled the other pilots and the four jets moved forward again. As the fighters began to accelerate down the runway, the pilots hit their afterburners, and a solid orange-and-yellow flame sprouted at the engines, then shot back fifteen feet. The calm night shattered as the sound echoed through the air, rolling over the airport like a long, thunderous roll.

The little fighters climbed to three hundred feet, then turned west, following in a half-mile trail.

It was a very short flight to their targets, and they had a lot to do. The pilots started their bombing checklist almost as soon as they were in the air.

White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

The Presidential Situation Room is a cramped series of offices built underneath the West Wing of the White House. Unlike the Presidential Emergency Operations Center underneath the East Wing, which had been designed for use as a command and control center during a nuclear war, the Situation Room is fairly small. Through the 1980s and 1990s, it had hardly been used. But now it seemed the president used it regularly.

There were several men and three women inside the main conference room. They sat around a large table that was cluttered with empty Coke cans, a coffeepot with plastic cups, scratch pads, and red-bound, top-secret security files. Three digital clocks on the wall showed the local times in Washington, D.C.; Jerusalem; and Riyadh. Behind them, the faux wood panel walls hid various communications gear and television screens. A white curtain at the front of the room had been pulled back, exposing an enormous flat-screen monitor, which was presently showing a real-time relay from an American AWACS command and control aircraft orbiting sixty miles west off the coast of Israel, over the Mediterranean Sea.

Everyone watched the tactical screen as five blue triangles emerged from the Israeli air base at Hatzerim, each triangle representing a flight of four fighters. The flights took off thirty seconds apart, and then headed in different directions, flying north, east, and south.

A Marine four-star general, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood at the head of the table and to the right of the screen.

“What are they?” the president asked.

“F-16 fighters, sir. Block 60s. Air-to-ground role.”

“So all of them are strikers?”

“Yes, sir, they are. We’ve been in constant contact with the Israeli commanders, and they have assured us that this first wave of attackers will be hitting well-established terrorist targets. After that, they will spread out, but we’ve got no problem with what they are going after right now.”

The group watched in silence as the blue triangles spread across Israel, seeming to saturate the skies. The country was so little, and the fighters moved so fast, it would take only seconds before they would be tossing their bombs.

The television monitor suddenly shifted, seeming to jump in its tracks, as the satellite feed from the AWACS burned through some electromagnetic static in space. The picture returned, a little more hazy and gray, but the president continued to study the screen. “Review the target list,” he demanded for the second time.

The Marine general looked down at a sheet of paper and read the targets again. “The training camp at Rafah, General Karak’s home in Khan, Hezbollah facilities along the Lebanon border … .”

The target list was long. Twenty aircraft. Forty bombs. Eleven separate targets in all.

The chairman finished reading the list, and then looked up at the president. “Sir, we have maintained regular communications with General Malka, acting director of the Israeli National Security Committee—”

The president lifted his hand impatiently. He wasn’t interested in General Malka; he needed to talk to the new prime minister or the president. He needed to talk to some kind of civilian leadership, not a military man. He turned in his chair, brushing his hands across his face. “Still no word out of Jerusalem?” he asked his secretary of state.

The gray-haired woman leaned forward. “I’m afraid nothing, sir.”

“We don’t know who is in charge there?”

“It seems that General Malka is, sir. At least for the moment, he appears to be in command.”

The president hesitated as he considered the subtle meaning of her words. “In command.” Yes, that was right. Civilians were “in charge.” Military leaders were “in command,” which was only one of the reasons he was nervous. His stomach fluttered again.

“What about Secretary Rabin?” the president questioned.

“No word from him, sir.”

“The senior member of the Cabinet of Ministers—”

“—was presiding over the Knesset,” the secretary of state interrupted. “He hasn’t been seen or heard from since the explosion. The Israeli press is reporting he is dead.”

The president was desperately searching for someone inside the Israeli government that he could talk to. The last thing he wanted was for this thing to blow out of control. And who knew what the Israelis were planning to do?

“Defense Minister Fuad Ben-Eliezer?” he asked in desperation.

“We do have some information on him,” the secretary of state replied. “Although he hasn’t tried to contact us, we believe he is being evacuated to a secure command center west of Jerusalem. We’ve been told he’s en route, but we don’t know for sure.”

The president fell silent, his shoulders slumping at the thought. He had a pencil in his hand and he rolled it absently, twirling it between his fingers, and then letting it fall into his palm. “And you’re certain,” he demanded, “that you’ve tried every possible means of establishing communication with President Bier?”

“Yes, sir, we have. We have no word of his status, which is clearly bad news. If he had survived the bombing of the Knesset, I think he would have emerged. We would have seen him, he would have made a statement, and we would have heard something by now. The silence indicates—and this is just my opinion, sir—but I think we have to assume he is incapacitated if he survived the bombing at all.”

The president moved his eyes around the table, inviting disagreement. No one said anything. It seemed they agreed.

“Then who’s in charge over there?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“No one knows, Mr. President. The Israeli people, the military, it seems that none of them know. Try to imagine, if you could, a parallel situation here in the United States. Imagine, Mr. President, that one day you were assassinated, and the vice president as well. Then later that night, during an emergency session of Congress, an enormous bomb goes off, killing most—at least half—of the senators and congressmen inside. Our lines of succession would be in tatters. Who survived? Who was ranking? None of us could say. Yes, we have doomsday operations and contingency plans, but we have never envisioned our chain of command being severed two hundred leaders down the line. We would reach the end of the line of authority in very short order, sir.

“That is the situation Israel finds itself in right now. So it will take a little time for them to figure out who is really in charge.”

The room fell into dreary silence, and the air seemed suddenly stuffy and warm.

“It doesn’t really matter,” a quiet voice then said in almost a whisper.

All eyes turned to look at General Brighton.

He lifted his eyebrows, looking back at all the faces that were staring at him now. “It doesn’t matter who’s in charge,” he said again. “Their response has been pre-determined. Whoever is left will carry out the same orders. It doesn’t matter who it is.”

The president shook his head. “Explain that,” he demanded.

Brighton was sitting two chairs to the right of the president and he placed his elbows on the table, looking down the line of men. “They knew that exactly this might happen, that they might have their chain of command severed at a significant location down the line. Knowing this was a possibility, they put contingency operations in place. The decision of how they’d respond was made a long time ago. The plan of operations is very specific. Who is in charge then, it hardly matters. He will have no choice. The plan is automatic. He’ll almost be an observer, just the same as we.”

The president shook his head and looked away in frustration.

As Brighton watched his leader, he noted the heavy droop of his shoulders. Sitting this close he could feel it, the nearly unbearable weight that crushed the president down. The president’s light hair had turned grayer over the past couple of years, the lines on his face were a little deeper, the flesh under his eyes less healthy and firm. Still, his eyes remained resolute, and his motions were quick and alive.

“A perfect strike,” the president mumbled angrily to himself. “They have effectively taken down the entire government in less than a day.”

No one said anything until the chairman of the Joint Chiefs announced, “The second group of fighters are launching.”

The president turned back to the monitor to see another group of triangles lifting off from Hatzerim. “These are F-15E strike fighters,” the general told him. “They are the second wave. There will be many more.”

The chairman held a laser pointer, which he flashed on the screen. “It looks like the first of the sorties are almost on target, sir.” He moved the pointer in a circle over the first group of fighters, continuing, “This group is heading to the Gaza Strip. They are eight or nine miles from their targets. That’s just more than a minute, sir.”

Brighton stood and started pacing as he watched the aircraft attack. Grison moved toward him and stood at his side. But the two men didn’t speak, keeping their eyes on the screen. Brighton coughed anxiously, and then glanced as Grison turned and motioned to him.

“This is it. They’re going to do it,” Grison whispered in his ear. “The Israelis are going to finish this. They’ll clean up in two weeks. Say good-bye to Hezbollah. Say good-bye to them all. They’ll take care of this problem. You know they’ll fight like madmen with their backs to the wall.”

Brighton only nodded. He suddenly felt nauseated.

He moved toward the screen, and then stood in silence. A deep, bitter darkness seemed to wash over him. His gut sank and his skin crawled up the back of his neck. He felt like crying. He felt like screaming in despair. He didn’t know why—it was confusing, utterly out of character for him to feel this way. He felt his knees start to buckle, and he had to take a step back.

The blackness was so powerful it made it hard to breathe. It was as if the very jaws of hell were gaping open to him.

Then he felt the darkest evil enter the room.

Perdition. King of Evil. Prince of the mortal world. He had come to watch his battle, stalking into the room. He had come to claim his victory.

Brighton felt him laughing, and he closed his eyes to pray.

*******

Lucifer stalked into the room, his great coat casting black shadows across the floor. Dark angels followed in hunching steps, their arms hanging loosely at their sides. They were so bent with hopelessness and anger they only looked half human, their eyes glowing with yellow light.

Lucifer paced toward the general, hatred turning his lips into a frown. “Go ahead and pray!” he sneered in anger. “Beg for mercy from your God. But you know that He can’t help you! It is happening. It is over. And you are the one to blame. You and all of these around you! They share in the coming destruction, too. Your pride. Your vain ambition. Your desire to suffocate the world. Liberty is what you offered. But it is a prize they did not ask for, a prize they did not earn. Freedom is a prize they did not honor. You assumed that they were like you, but now you know that you were wrong!” Lucifer stopped and laughed. Was it a lie or a mere distortion? He didn’t care. He didn’t know. “And now comes the final battle,” he sneered again. “Now comes the final war. First the Jews, then your destruction! But all of you will die.”

Lucifer stopped suddenly, his heavy brow burrowing into a scowl. He seemed to think, his eyes peering into the distance, as if he were looking at something that wasn’t there. His face turned passive. He shook his head.

His expression was different now, as if he had learned a secret, something he hadn’t known before.

He leaned toward the mortal that he hated. “All of you, General Brighton,” he emphasized his words. “All of you, General Brighton!” Lucifer wet his lips and smiled.

FOURTEEN

Jerusalem, Israel

The lone dark spirit looked over the edge of a deep glen on the downhill side of the old wall that had once completely surrounded the great city of Jerusalem. He sat at the top of a rocky lip that jutted over the dell, looking on the steep bank that fell at his feet. The bottom of the dell was bowl-shaped, with jagged rocks jutting out from the parched, barren ground. Thorn bushes and needle grass clung to the gravel on the opposite side. A large rock, three feet high, with a flat top and smooth corners, protruded from the center of the dell.

The spirit knew that the rock had been there for almost four thousand years. He knew that under the clinging grass growing up at its sides were the markings of ancient tools, as well as some faded names and symbols that were impossible to read, barely recognizable now as even being man-made. The rock also showed signs of ancient fires—its sides were blackened and the top smothered in soot that had been baked at such a temperature as to cook it into the stone.

Balaam stared at the stone, remembering, smiling as he thought.

Lucifer had enjoyed many playgrounds through all the dark years, but perhaps none was more special than this one.

The Greeks had called it Gehenna. The Jews had called it the valley of Hinnom. Lucifer had called it Eesh-al-Guturr. All of them meant more or less the same thing: the “valley of fire” or the “valley of death.”

Balaam knew that the ancient Christians and the Jews believed that the afterlife was divided in two. The good went to paradise. The evil went to a place the Greeks called Gehenna, which was named after this dell.

Balaam thought back on the things he had witnessed in this place, the blood, the crying, the shattered lives and broken hearts. This was the place where the idolatrous Jews had sacrificed their children to Moloch, one of the ten thousand imitation gods Lucifer had created out of greed, lust, or fear. Sitting at the rim of the dell, Balaam relived a few of the happiest moments that he had witnessed here, letting the scenes play out in his mind: tiny babies, little children, dark-eyed boys, pretty girls. Why the ancient Jews had been willing to offer their youngest and most beautiful to some powerless god had always escaped him, but the mystery had also added to the excitement of watching them die. He pictured the raised knives, the flowing blood, the songs and the smoke. He pictured the mothers as they watched their own children sacrificed, their eyes painless but opaque, as if they had already cast the very lives from their souls. He pictured the fathers who had participated, along with their priests, holding the arms of their children as the long knives came down.

He smiled again, a chill of happy memories slithering up his spine.

Years later, the valley of Gehenna had been abandoned, and then avoided, then turned into a burning garbage pit. For hundreds of years, the citizens of Jerusalem had thrown in their trash, adding fuel to the fire that always smoldered in the dell, a stinking, smoky fire that burned their wet garbage and waste.

What a fitting monument. The city had sacrificed their children, spilling their blood on the ground, then covered their remains with garbage and set fire to the place.

Fire and smoke. Heartbreak and pain. This place was steeped in dark memories that could not be erased.

Looking out on the little valley, he felt a swell in his chest. Would the good times come back? Almost certainly not. But the thing that was coming was even more grand—more compelling, more exciting, more intrusive and vast.

He raised his eyes to the great city and smiled once again.

The Arab fanatics who sought to destroy the Jews had a plan that would prove that Judaism was wrong. It was a simple plan, but brilliant, and, having contributed to its inception; Balaam couldn’t help but feel proud.

For more than four thousand years the Jews had believed that their Messiah would come to them in this great city. They had staked their future, their religion, on that desperate belief.

But Jehovah couldn’t appear to his children in Jerusalem if Jerusalem didn’t exist. If the city was destroyed, what would happen to their religion then? If the Islamists could destroy Jerusalem that would prove the Jewish prophecy was wrong, their core beliefs ridiculous, their faith utterly wasted on superstitions and lies. It would prove that Allah had prevailed.

Destroy their city, destroy their religion. It was as simple as that.

So Balaam looked out on the city in which he had spent so much time. He looked over the ancient buildings that he had watched the humans build. He looked over the temple, the mosques and the old city wall. He looked over it all, and then bid it good-bye.

Soon, the second sun would appear.

Weasel Four-One, Over the Gaza Strip

The Israeli pilot banked his aircraft to follow his lead. Their target was a group of four cement-and-brick buildings on the city square in Rafah, one of the depressing and squalid shanty towns that dotted most of the Gaza Strip. The buildings had been used for many years as a headquarters facility for Hezbollah, and because Hezbollah had been one of the first to claim responsibility for killing the Israeli prime minister, the Israelis were returning the favor by making their headquarters one of the first facilities to be destroyed.

The pilot went through his pre-bomb checklist for the third time, and then checked his targeting radar. The AN/AAQ-13 navigation and targeting pod combined a forward-looking infrared sensor with terrain-following radar to produce television images inside his cockpit, allowing him to fly at night as if it were day. The acquisition and targeting system maintained the white crosshairs on the southeast building, and then automatically slew to the left, confirming the coordinates for the southwest building as well before using the information to program the flight paths of the bombs. Cycling one last time, the computer confirmed the location of the southern buildings in the compound. His flight leader would take out the two buildings to the north. These two buildings were his.

The pilot took a quick look to his right. Five seconds before, the third and fourth aircrafts of the formation had split off and were already out of sight, their aircraft’s deep gray skin melting into the darkness. They would hit their targets in the southern edge of Rafah; then they would rejoin the formation for the short flight back to base.

The pilot nudged his sidearm controller, a barely perceptible movement of his right hand, and the fighter’s nose turned a little more than a single degree to the left.

He was alert, but not anxious, and certainly not scared. This mission was easy, and he felt in complete control. Flying above the Palestinians’ anti-aircraft guns, and out of range of their feeble surface-to-air missiles, a group of old and poorly maintained Russian SA-2s and SA-3s that would have trouble targeting a 747 unless it was on fire, the pilot knew he was not in any real danger of being shot down. In addition, the target was easily identifiable—the computer would command the bomb run and automatically release the weapons at the exact dropping point. No, this mission wasn’t particularly challenging, but still, he was glad to be in the air. The big party had started. Let’s do it! he thought.

Two minutes from the bomb release point, the pilot quickly glanced over his shoulder, checking the air behind him, and then turned forward again. He reached up and touched the instrument panel, gently stroking the jet. He loved the F-16 Fighting Falcon. It was a pure joy to fly. The bubble canopy gave him such an unobstructed view that it felt like he was riding on the tip of a spear. His seat reclined 30 degrees, and the fly-by-wire system provided the ability to exercise precise control of the aircraft during high G-force maneuvers. The warning system and countermeasure pods were exceptional at detecting and defeating airborne or surface electronic threats, and if everything else failed, the fiber-optic-towed decoy provided the aircraft with a final means of protection against modern radar-guided missiles.

But of course, he wouldn’t see any of those threats tonight.

Yes, an easy mission. Almost embarrassingly so.

“Weasel Two,” the captain heard over his secure radio.

“Go,” he shot back to his flight leader, speaking into the microphone in his oxygen mask.

“Confirm lock on buildings three and four.”

“Roger. Two is ready.”

“You see the vehicles outside building one?”

The pilot studied his air-to-ground mapping radar, which illuminated the target scene. He could see the headquarters complex, the vehicles, even the guards at the gate. His targeting crosshairs floated over building three. “Roger,” he replied after taking in the scene.

The flight leader hesitated, and then called back again. “Does that look like a school bus in the corner?” he asked.

The captain swallowed hard. He touched the pointer on his targeting radar, moving it fifty feet to the right. Then he saw it. A long vehicle. Could it really be a bus? He studied the image. It just wasn’t clear enough to know for certain, but this much he knew: it would follow with the terrorists’ rules of engagement to move a busload of children and park it at their headquarters in order to protect themselves. The captain swore in frustration, and then tightened the shot on his radar. The picture came in tighter but fuzzier and a little less clear. Then he saw the dual axles and a tractor on the back of the truck. He breathed a sigh of relief, pressing in his microphone switch. “Weasel, bogey looks to me to be a flatbed trailer. We’re still good to go.”

His flight leader hesitated, and then came back again. “Roger that. I confirm. Fifty seconds to release.”

“Two is ready.”

“We are clear.”

“Bombs in forty-five seconds now.”

Washington, D.C.

General Brighton stared silently at the monitor on the wall, watching the Israeli pilots fly toward their targets. There were only seconds to release point, and he swallowed painfully against the knot in his throat. Taking a step forward, he muttered under his breath. “No. Call them back. It’s not too late!” he said.

The National Security Adviser turned toward him. “What did you say?” he asked.

“Turn them back,” the general repeated, a look of dread on his face. But even as he said the words, he knew they didn’t make any sense.

“Turn who back? What are you talking about? What do you want us to do?” Grison shot back.

“Tell the Israeli pilots to turn around. This will be our last chance!”

“Turn them back? Are you crazy? Why would we ever do that? Our last chance to do what? What are you talking about?”

But it was too late, and Brighton knew it.

He heard the guttural laughing again.

Hezbollah Auxiliary Headquarters Building, Gaza Strip

The man wasn’t Palestinian, he was a Saudi; in fact, there were no Palestinians anywhere to be seen. The complex had already been abandoned, their leaders having warned them that the Israelis would attack. It hadn’t taken a genius to know this headquarters building would certainly be one of the first casualties. So the complex had been emptied but for a few men standing guard outside the wall and on the narrow streets to the north.

The Saudi sat alone in the corner, waiting for his death, which would come in an instant of fire and heat. He hunched in the corner, the electronic trigger sliding against his sweaty palm. He was mesmerized by the silver container that sat on a reinforced metal table in the middle of the room. He wanted to touch it, to feel it. He knew what was inside. He wanted to feel its heat, its power, and its magnificent strength. The Destroying Angel. The Prophet’s Horseman. The Tip of Allah’s Sword. It was their Avenger, their angel who had been sent to them from Allah. He started inching toward it, reaching out with his hand, then stopped and pulled back, suddenly afraid. Changing his mind, he scurried back to the corner and waited for death.

While he waited, the hissing and bitter voices that seemed to fill every space in the room starting chanting, “Kill them! Kill them all! That is what you must do! You are good. You are righteous! This is the right thing to do!”

He shook his head violently, and then rubbed his hands at his eyes. But the voices wouldn’t leave him. Indeed, they started screaming louder, the sound more shrill, and their chants more intense.

Balaam stood with the other dark angels, forming a circle around the shivering man. They glared and bared their teeth to each other as they concentrated their energy on the mortal who huddled in the corner.

It might be he couldn’t do it. He might back out of the plan!

They could see that he was weak and vulnerable. Even now, he could still reason. He could think! His judgment hadn’t been utterly clouded. He still understood right from wrong. What he was going to do was so evil; they could not give him time to think. So they kept up the constant noise and evil chants in his ears.

Although they could discern his thoughts only from the look on his face, they saw the hesitation and uncertainty, the concern for his brothers and the children that he knew. They saw the soft light of goodness, and they worked in a panic to crush it out. It was critical now to keep their Enemy and His bright soldiers at bay. He would certainly try to stop them, and they could not lose this man.

This was the moment they had been waiting for. This was the tipping point, the start of the Great War. So they had to keep this man panicked; they had to keep the hate and confusion in his head. They had to keep him from thinking of what he was about to do.

So they hissed and they danced and they cried in the air. They swooped and leaned toward him, swearing and lying in his head.

“Do it! It is good!” they lied in his ear. “It is right! God will reward you! Now go! Go and kill!”

Weasel Four-One, Over the Gaza Strip

The Israeli pilot had his head down in the cockpit, watching his targeting screen. The time-to-go display showed fifteen seconds to go. The crosshairs lay exactly over the targets. Altitude, twenty-four thousand feet. Airspeed, four-eighty. On time. On target. The time-to-go display now showed ten seconds to go.

He glanced up and checked his leader, who was half a mile ahead and twenty degrees to his right. He looked down and flipped the master arm switch, giving the final release command to his bombs. Seconds later, he felt a sudden snap as the pins fired and the two bombs dropped away. His aircraft bobbed up from the sudden reduction in weight, and he pushed the nose down. He banked the jet up and jammed the throttle up to military power, then watched over his shoulder, keeping the target in sight. He wanted to see the two explosions before he turned back to base.

*******

The two bombs fell silently through the dark night. They separated gradually as they moved toward their targets, but always remained abeam from each other as they slipped through the thin atmosphere. Two hundred feet after dropping from the undercarriage of the F-16, the bombs had reached terminal velocity. Small propellers popped out from the cores, spinning in the wind to arm the warheads. Then the nose cones slowly dropped, the miniature steering fins at the back of the bombs guiding the weapons with adjustments that were too quick to see.

Fifteen thousand feet and falling. Twenty-one seconds to go.

*******

Seven thousand feet below the bombs, the Saudi’s cell phone rang. Eyes wide in terror, he stared at it, and then shook his head.

So many voices.

So much confusion.

So many spinning thoughts inside his brain.

*******

The air turned from crisp and cold to warm and wet as the bombs fell, the humidity and heat of the ocean warming the lower atmosphere. The bombs made no sound but a soft whoosh, like the wings of an angel that slipped through the dark night.

Eight thousand feet and falling.

Little more than ten seconds to go.

*******

The Saudi’s telephone continued ringing, its high-pitched tone seeming to pierce the dark night like the cry of a child from some tin-covered pit. Moving slowly, he flipped the phone open and placed it at the side of his head. “NOW!” he heard his master’s voice scream in his ear.

The Saudi mumbled something, but he didn’t do anything.

“NOW!” he heard his master scream once again. Although thirty miles away, his voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to him. “Now! Hit the trigger! You know what to do!”

The Saudi took a breath and looked down at the trigger in his palm. He closed his eyes and pressed the button.

And that was all he knew.

*******

The flash from the nuclear device illuminated the night, turning it into a brazen, white day. The light was unnaturally bright, like the surface of the sun, with tongues of white fire that flashed across the entire sky. Like a burst of stark lightning on the darkest night, the blazing strobe of nuclear power flashed, blinding and burning every eye that was unfortunate enough to see.

The Israeli pilot glanced over his shoulder as he banked his aircraft to the north, and though he didn’t see the flash, he felt the piercing heat penetrating his eyes, as if a white-hot, burning needle had been jammed in his skull. Immediately blinded, he cried out in pain.

Confused, terrified, he rubbed at his eyes. He heard his formation leader begin to call him, his panicked voice crying over the radio. Then the heat blast fell upon them, tearing their little fighters apart.

The shock wave moved across the ground at the speed of sound, a wall of heat and energy that burned up or exploded everything in its path. Then the awesome wind followed, blowing out everything before it in a powerful explosion of superheated air that suddenly reversed to fill the vacuum that was left from the nuclear fireball.

Across the ghettos and slums and neighborhoods of Gaza, there was fire and heat and nuclear radiation as the nuclear explosion destroyed everything in its path. There were crumbled buildings, burning rubble, and melted concrete and steel. Pain and death were everywhere.

From ground zero to four miles out from the core of the explosion, only a few were left alive. From four to seven miles out, most were burned or radiated beyond what they could survive. From eight miles out, the devastation was survivable, but one hundred twenty thousand were dead or dying inside the ring of fire.

The mushroom cloud rolled up into the night sky, an orange-and-red fireball that seemed to churn and boil and feed on itself, growing larger and more violent as it climbed into the upper atmosphere. The flash of white light and the burning fireball could be seen for hundreds of miles, each sign announcing the change of times to the world.

White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

The radar picture from the American AWACS circling over the Mediterranean Sea suddenly collapsed on itself, seeming to suck into a small dot at the middle of the screen before it snapped and disappeared. The image was replaced by noisy static, and the members of the White House national security team seemed to pause and take a breath as one. A couple of them turned to each other and shrugged their shoulders. The watch supervisor sitting behind a glass-enclosed cubicle at the back of the room pressed a button under his desk, calling on the IT staff. The screen had lost connectivity, he figured, and he needed it fixed right now!

General Brighton stood without moving, staring at the blank screen, a sinking feeling in his gut.

The president turned to the vice president. “What happened to our picture?” he asked.

The vice president looked confused, and then reached for a button on the communications panel directly in front of him. But before he could do anything, the room was filled with a panicked voice that was filled with fear and cold dread. “Bull’s-eye, this is Falcon,” the pilot called before his voice was swallowed up in static.

“Who the devil is Falcon?” the president demanded.

The controller inside the glass cubical answered the question. “Falcon is the call sign for the AWACS reconnaissance aircraft flying over the Mediterranean Sea.”

“What does he—”

The president stopped talking when the AWACS pilot started broadcasting again. “Bull’s-eye, this is Falcon. We’ve got … fire … into the sky!”

The president hesitated. What was he talking about? He jammed his finger against the broadcast button on the communications pod. “Falcon, what are you saying?” he demanded in a sharp voice.

“Bull’s-eye. We’ve had … explosion over the Gaza Strip. Repeat, we’ve … nuclear fireball. It looks like … holy … .” The pilot’s voice trailed off, crackling with the static that was building from the electromagnetic disturbance in the upper atmosphere. “It looks like,” his voice came back after a moment of white noise, “it looks like the Israelis have just nuked all of Gaza and half of Egypt as well!”

FIFTEEN

Middle East

The world sat in stunned and breathless silence for almost a day. Shock. Trauma. Terror. The emotions boiled high. Like a man who’d been shot, the world seemed look down in surprise, astonished to see the blood begin to seep from his chest. The pain would come, but it was slow, the shock keeping the anguish at bay.

Rescue operations were sluggish and cumbersome, for the area was so radiated that it was impossible to work. The dead remained in the streets of Gaza. Without assistance, many of the sick and the injured died, and the stench of rot filled the air.

Devastation and destruction. More than 140,000 dead. Five thousand more had died in the first day alone.

Israel pleaded with the world, declaring its innocence. “We did not do it! We did not do it!” they cried.

But no one believed them. The evidence was in and it was crystal clear. Everyone had seen what had happened. It was too obvious to deny. The Jews had been desperate. They had panicked. In a moment of fear and rage, they had overreacted in the most horrible way.

And now they had to pay the price. A hundred forty thousand dead and dying Palestinians could simply not be denied.

*******

The president of the United States made a quick statement, begging for a calm and measured response to the attack. “We don’t really know what happened,” he declared to the world. “We must be patient. We must be careful. We must not condemn until we know. And we will stand by our ally until we know who to blame. Israel is our closest friend and our most important ally in the region, and we will not desert them until we have proof they are responsible for the attack.”

But everyone knew that was what the U.S. president would say. No one listened to him. They were finished listening to him now.

The first world leader to speak after the U.S. president was the Secretary-General of the U.N. The lead diplomat stood before the General Assembly in an emergency meeting, his white hair shining brightly under the television lights. His voice rose and fell with emotion. He was on key, a perfect delivery, indignant and full of self-righteousness. “What we have just witnessed,” the Secretary-General began, “is nothing but genocide. Ethnic cleansing and vile hatred of the very worst kind! Not since the last century has our planet, our home, been polluted by a nuclear device. Not since the closing days of World War II have so many innocent people died. How many guiltless Palestinian families were killed yesterday? How many more are dying even as I stand here? How many more will die before the death count is complete?

“We must identify and punish those Jewish leaders who have committed this atrocity. We must hold them accountable for the genocide. Crimes against humanity cannot be simply swept away. And we must ensure that the people who supported them will be held accountable as well.

“And then, my fellow leaders, we must consider the next step to take.

“How many years now has the world been roiled in strife? Since the founding of Israel, we’ve seen nothing but war. There is no peace, and there will be no peace, until we take the next step.”

He left the next step undefined, but everyone knew what he meant.

“Do we need any more excuse,” the Secretary-General completed, “or have you finally seen enough? Have we need of further evidence than what we were shown yesterday? I think not. I think not.”

Within an hour of his speech, the European Union made a formal statement, condemning the state of Israel as well as any who had supported them in this most horrendous attack. Already, European Muslim immigrants, almost fifty million in all, were rioting in the streets, demanding justice, demanding punishment, demanding the destruction of Israel and the United States. Watching their own streets erupt in Muslim fury, the European leaders cowered. They knew that the immigrants had been growing in numbers, but now there were so many. And they were so strong! So many Muslims. So much fury. They could wield a furious power of destruction if the leaders didn’t tread carefully.

On the evening of the second day, the United Nations Security Council met in an emergency session. It was almost midnight when the meeting got under way, and for the first time in the history of the U.N., the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations was not allowed to attend. A security delegation of the General Assembly stood at the doorway to keep him from entering the Security Council room.

The U.S. ambassador protested and argued, but it didn’t change anything, and the meeting was called to order with him standing outside the closed door. For almost ten minutes he stood there, looking like a fool to the gloating press, then finally left in a rage, disappearing down the winding stairs.

The French ambassador called the meeting to order. “Israel has created an enormous problem,” he started. “One that will be extremely difficult to deal with, I’m sure you agree. And yes, it is true that Israel must be punished, and we, as a body, must soon turn our attention to that. What will happen to her, I don’t know, I don’t think anyone can predict. It will be dire. It will be unpleasant, but we have to remember this: The problem isn’t only Israel. The much greater problem is the United States.”

The German and Russian ambassadors all nodded, clapping their hands to agree. The Chinese delegate remained silent. This was all good to him. The English ambassador huffed for a moment, and then remembered the twelve million Muslims who lived inside England now. He remembered the strident anti-American candidates who had gained so much power in the local elections. He considered the anti-Semites who had become brazen now, picking up power at almost every turn. He remembered the pictures he had seen of the nuclear explosion over Gaza, the charred and burning bodies, the dead children on the street. He remembered all this, then sat quietly and listened.

The German ambassador stood next to his European brother. Together, they proposed a joint resolution. The time had come for the world to move beyond the postwar perceptions and recognize things for what they were. The United States, once a great and benevolent nation, was no longer a force for good. Instead, the Americans and their allies had become the greatest threat to peace in the world. Always arrogant and self-serving, they had grown far too powerful. And their few allies had grown evil as well, the puppet state of Israel having proven that beyond any doubt.

But if they could neuter the Americans, her allies would be neutered as well. Without the United States, her puppets wouldn’t have the power to wreak such havoc in the world.

Therefore, the two ambassadors proposed a drastic resolution.

Two hours later, after a nearly unanimous vote, the United States was kicked off the Security Council. It seemed the best way to indicate the world’s disdain.

As the second most populous nation in the world, India would be given the old U.S. seat. And yes, the U.N. charter would have to be either amended or ignored to accommodate the resolution, but no one seemed particularly concerned with the governing rules right now.

The proposal was put before the General Council, where it passed overwhelmingly.

And while the United States protested angrily, the rest of the world seemed to cheer.

*******

On the evening of the third day after the attack, King al-Rahman of the House of Saud was given time to address the General Assembly. Before doing so, he informed the U.N. leadership that he had been asked to speak for the entire Muslim world and all Arab-speaking peoples. It would be his task, he told them, to provide their formal response to the nuclear attack.

The world breathlessly waited to hear what he said.

King al-Rahman stood at the enormous podium, looking down on the representatives from virtually every nation on earth. His comments were being broadcast throughout the entire world. Almost five billion people watched him as he stood tall and proud before the cameras. He was a handsome man. Well mannered. Well manicured. He certainly looked reasonable. A man the world could work with. Not a man to fear. He even looked like a king! Strong. Compassionate and yet defiant. Confident and still kind.

“I stand here before you,” the king started to say, “because I have been asked to speak for my people, to speak for my fallen kin.

“Now, I understand what you expect. You want me to stand and condemn the state of Israel. I should. And I will. But this is not where I want to begin. You see, we have been hacking at the leaves of this new evil for far too long now. We hack at the leaves, and they keep growing because we ignore the root.

“So I stand here, my brothers, my fellow human beings, to declare the need to let the leaves blow, for they will fall in the wind if we can destroy the root!”

A silence fell over the assembly. The cameras rolled. All sat grim-faced. A deadly hush filled the air.

“My oldest brother has been killed recently,” the dark-haired king continued in a solemn tone. “My own father, the beloved king, killed as well. Enemies of the state of Israel, I wonder now who had them killed?

“So I stand here as an Arab and a Muslim, one who has felt the harsh sting of death. I stand here as a brother to one hundred and fifty thousand Palestinians—and the number is still growing—who have been mercilessly killed, as the son of a dead father and a dead brother, my prince. I stand here to cry out for justice and vengeance as well.

“We can talk all we want about Israel. We scream and condemn. We can point fingers and plan retaliations. We can pound our fists on our desks. We can do this and more, but we would be wasting our time. You see, my fellow world citizens, I know now, we all know, where the real problem lies.”

The king paused and lifted a large photograph and held it for the cameras to see. “U.S. combat soldiers operating inside Iran,” he explained. “A clear and warlike violation of this nation’s borders and integrity. Now, how would the United States react were an Arab nation to secretly send its combat troops to operate within U.S. borders? You don’t have to think very long. The answer is clear.”

The king dropped the picture and lifted another. “Muslim men being tortured in a U.S. military prison,” he explained. “This is only one of many U.S. gulags in the world; it just happens to be the most famous one: Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. But there are many more: Abu Ghraib in Iraq, Saud el-Amin in Pakistan, and Bagram prison in Afghanistan, Ishmet in Indonesia, to name just a few. From one hemisphere to another, there are military prisons everywhere. Most are secret. None are open. The International Red Cross cannot get in. These torture chambers have become such a scourge that Hitler and Stalin would be proud. Tens of thousands of innocent victims sit and rot in these prisons where they are tortured, starved, and beaten every day. And why are they held? What crime have they done? Even according to many U.S. courts, they have committed no crime. Their only crime, their only sin, is that they are Muslim men. From this evidence, and more, it has become clear that the United States is waging a war against my religion and my people, against a culture and ethnicity that is different from theirs.

“Who will speak for these prisoners? Who?

“That is why I stand here. I speak for them today!”

The king stopped and looked out on the delegates, their eyes all fixed on him. They smelled blood now, and they wanted to get in on the kill. The king’s black-and-white headdress fell perfectly down his neck, and his dark eyes stared out as he brought his hand to his chin. “And now I must tell you, fellow delegates, that I have further devastating news.

“I have been informed that we have evidence, even proof, that Israel coordinated its attack on Gaza with the U.S. president. In addition, the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency has informed me that the nuclear bomb that was dropped over Gaza was supplied by the United States. Every nuclear detonation leaves a particular fingerprint, one that is traceable, and this warhead was almost certainly produced by the U.S. weapons facility in Tennessee. The head of the IAEA has assured me that they will know for certain very soon. But either way, the United States must have known what was coming. How could they not know? Israel would never have taken such a step without the express approval of its master. In fact, it is my opinion that the United States not only approved the attack on Gaza, they commanded it. Think about it, fellow delegates. Haven’t we seen this before? Think of what the Americans consider an appropriate response. A few thousand Americans are killed in this very city in an attack—an attack, I might add, that was roundly condemned by virtually every Arab state. Yet how does the United States respond? They invade a sovereign nation, causing an untold number of civilian deaths. They destroy an entire government. An entire country is taken down.

“But does the United States stop there? No, they are merely getting started. Iraq was to follow, a nation that had virtually nothing to do with the World Trade Center attack. Who was to follow after that? Iran has been living under threat of invasion for more than a generation! Is North Korea next? How do we know when they’ll stop? Is this the American’s idea of proportion? Is this the American’s idea of a fair and appropriate response? Something nips at their heels and they crush their heads. ‘Be our slaves or we destroy you. Do our bidding or you die. You are either with us or against us.’ How do you reason with that?

“But that, my fellow citizens, is the great lesson they have taught us today. That is the lesson of this new century.

“And now we have seen that Israel has learned the lesson from its master very well.

“But I reject it. I reject it! And we must stop them now.

“The blood of a hundred thousand Palestinians cries out from the ground. Ten thousand tortured Muslim prisoners cry for vengeance as well. Israel must be punished, but so must its master, for the slave does not do but what the master bids it to do.

“So I come to you, my brothers, and beg you to act. And if you will not act, then don’t condemn me. If you will not act, if you don’t have the courage to finally make a stand, if you don’t have the courage to defend those who are defenseless, then at least stand out of the way. If you have no courage, then don’t try to stop me from what I am then forced to do.”

The king stopped and looked out into the audience of world leaders who immediately burst into applause.

SIXTEEN

El Saud bin el-Aziz Auxiliary Air Base, Northern Saudi Arabia

The Chinese general was escorted across the dry airfield by a Saudi aide holding an umbrella over the colonel’s head, not so much to block the sun as to hide the rank on his shoulders from the American satellites or reconnaissance aircraft that might be prying overhead. Yes, the Saudis thought they had a handle on most of the U.S. intelligence satellites, but they often varied their flyover schedule, and the high-flying drones might be overhead at any time.

As the Chinese general walked, he glanced around the remote airfield. A few trucks had been parked at the opposite end of the runway, while a pair of French Mirages and two early version American F-16s sat on the far tarmac. A herd of white goats grazed in the center of the field, their shaggy coats attracting gnats and black flies. The few men present were dressed in military attire. There had to be more guards than he could see, the general suspected, but they remained hidden from his view.

The general hacked and spit nervously. The king of Saudi Arabia had agreed to his demands for a personal meeting, which was very important in order for him to save face. But with the kind of money they were talking about, he would have agreed either way.

The Chinese general was escorted down a long ramp that led under the desert sand, through a set of steel double doors, along a long hallway, down a winding staircase, and through more steel doors. He ended up in a small conference room. No windows. One door. A single table. Nothing else.

The Saudi king was waiting. He stood when the general appeared.

The conversation was fairly short. It was a simple request.

“Do you understand what I am asking?” the king finally queried.

The general had a few questions. What was in the crate? Was it drugs? Heroin? Counterfeit American bills? No. Obviously not. Had to be much more important, much more valuable than that for the king to be involved. Where was it going? What was the hurry? Why must it have an escort? All this, he needed to know.

The Arab king frowned as he raised his hand. “Too many questions,” he answered bitterly. “Too many things, I cannot tell you right now. But what I ask is very simple. Only one crate. That is all. One crate to be shipped across your country. That is all I ask. If you can assure me of its safe arrival in Shanghai, then my people will take it from there.”

The general smiled, mentally counting the money. Five million U.S. dollars. Twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. All for assuring safe passage of a single crate for the king. When he considered the money, his questions didn’t seem so important somehow.

The two men talked a few minutes. Then the Chinese general agreed.

He would allow a single crate to transit his country. But only one. And only once. And, not knowing its contents, he insisted on measures that would guarantee deniability for both him as an individual and his government. No records would be kept anywhere along the way. A Chinese military transport would pick up the crate at a small airport on the border and carry it to Beijing. The transfer to the civilian freight carriers in the city had to be under the general’s direct control. One of the Chinese intelligence organizations at the port facilities in Shanghai would see that the crate was cleared through customs without leaving a trail. Nothing would be documented or written down.

“And there will be no inspections,” the king insisted again. “The crate will never be opened or inspected. You will see to this!”

The Chinese general nodded. For five million dollars he would.

“And you will get it across your country in twenty-four hours?”

The general bowed and nodded. He certainly would.

The Arab king smiled. Half the money would be presented up front, half when the crate was safe in Shanghai. The two men stood and shook hands, and the deal was done.

“Soon. Soon,” the king emphasized as the general walked away.

The general left immediately to make the arrangements. Six hours later, he called the king with good news. He had taken care of everything.

That night, in the underground bunker beneath the expansive airfield, a Saudi technician went to work attaching the barometric trigger to the firing device. His work was monitored at all times by three highly motivated Saudi military officers. The nuclear warhead was then carefully extracted from its box and put on a metal stand. A blanket of composite material, impossible to purchase on the open market, secretly built in a Malaysian factory outside of Kuala Lumpur, was wrapped around the warhead and heat-sealed with electric blowers. The composite material would absorb any leaking radiation from the warhead, making it impossible to detect for at least a few days.

The warhead was sealed, and then carefully packed into a nondescript, reinforced wooden crate. Under cover of darkness, the crate was carefully put onto the back of a small military truck, carried across the airfield, and loaded on a Saudi military transport, which took off immediately.

Ten armed guards, all of them dressed as civilians, accompanied the crate, never letting it out of their sight. They were some of the great king’s most trusted agents, but they worked under the clear threat of death.

The Saudi transport flew across all of southern Asia, eventually landing in a busy airport on China’s western border

From there, the crate was loaded into a Chinese civilian transport, one of the nondescript and undercover aircraft the general’s organization used every day. The steel and aluminum aircraft took off a little after noon and made its way east toward the glimmering city on the coast. En route, the aircraft stopped to refuel and change crews. After it had taken off again, the original crew members were driven to a deserted spot on the airfield and shot.

Seven hours later, the aircraft touched down again. The new crew members were also silenced, and the crate was delivered to the general’s men in Shanghai.

Shanghai International Airport, Shanghai, China

It took less than a day for the crate to clear customs at Shanghai, and that was a record, for normally it would have sat in a warehouse on the south end of the airport for a week or ten days before its paperwork would move to the top of the pile.

But a single call from a small brick-and-stucco office outside the fenced perimeter of the airport guaranteed that the crate would move through the international shipping terminal without delay.

Two hours after the phone call came through, the crate was inspected, approved, and stamped for shipment to Taiwan via PacEx Express, the largest commercial air transport that flew out of Shanghai. The freight manifest indicated that the contents of the crate were offshore oil drilling bits and platform braces from a manufacturer in central China. The inspectors at the customs facility were not surprised to see that their inventory system contained a computer-generated request for the parts from a Chinese-owned supplier in Canada as well as a receipt for the parts from the factory.

The crate was postmarked to Québec. Like most international package carriers, PacEx would make several stops along the way, including a stop in Taiwan, where the huge crate from China would be loaded onto another aircraft. That aircraft would in turn make stops in Honolulu; Los Angeles; and Washington, D.C., before ending up in Québec.

The PacEx Express Airbus 300 lifted off the runway at Shanghai International Airport, its wheels dropping a few inches against their pistons as the aircraft elevated into the night air. The humid atmosphere, hot, wet, and steamy from the afternoon storms, created miniature vortices off the wingtips of the jet, misty horizontal tornadoes that funneled through the air and dipped toward the tarmac before fading away. The intricate maze of blue, green, and white airport lights receded as the Airbus climbed into the night. Onboard the aircraft were six crew members, four tons of mail, twelve thousand seven hundred small packages, each of them boxed in the bright green and yellow PacEx Express colors, and various larger boxes and industrial crates.

The crate from China was packed in the rear of the aircraft and strapped down carefully.

As the aircraft lifted into the air, the pilot, an English gentleman who had earned a whopping three hours of combat flying time during the First Gulf War, climbed to five hundred feet, and then pulled the nose skyward to an angle of ten degrees. The copilot glanced at his instrument panel. The three lights depicting the main and nose landing gear turned momentarily red as the gear finally tucked into the belly of the jet. A solid thunk could be felt as the gear locked in place on their hydraulic arms. “Gear up,” he announced.

With the gear up, the leading edge slats at sixty percent and the engines at full power, the aircraft climbed quickly through one thousand feet while maintaining a perfect heading of two hundred seventy degrees.

“Departure, PacEx 687 is with you, passing through one thousand for nine thousand feet,” the pilot spoke into the tiny microphone attached to his headset. His accent was only one of many in the skies, for the Asian airways were filled with accents from all over the world, some barely understandable over the busy radios.

The departure radar controller answered immediately. “PacEx 687, direct to Ryukyu, climb to flight level one-two-zero. Switch over to my channel on one-two-four point six.”

“Direct to Ryukyu, up to one-two-zero, switching to you on one-twenty-four point six.” As he spoke, the pilot nudged the aircraft to the right, banking to 20 degrees. He was so smooth on the controls that the copilot didn’t even notice the turn.

“Slats and flaps retracted,” the pilot called back.

The sound of the rushing wind over the aircraft began to abate as the wings became a clean airfoil once again. The huge aircraft passed through a thin layer of smog and cloud around one thousand four hundred feet, creating another series of wingtip vortices. The pilot concentrated on flying the aircraft on the heading.

*******

Below, the East China Sea slipped into view, the moon illuminating the whitecaps against China’s eastern shore. As the Airbus passed over the coast, the air became very clear, providing the cockpit crew members with an unlimited view. The lights along Shanghai’s shoreline snaked north and south, millions of flickering candles illuminating the night. As the aircraft turned, the towers of downtown Shanghai moved into view. The web of lights from the high-rise office buildings reached up for the aircraft, concrete barriers stretching into the sky. They looked dangerously close, as if they were scraping the jet’s wings. It was a visual illusion that took the copilot’s breath away. He reached absently up and touched his cockpit window, superimposing his hand over the outline of the buildings. Beneath the skyscrapers, the curving lines of the highways flowed continually with light. Shanghai never slept. It was the hub of so many international corporations, organizations doing business in virtually every corner of the earth, that there was not a time when business was not being done. No time to sleep when there was money to be made.

Continuing to climb, the Airbus turned on the heading. The lights along the Chinese shoreline faded in a thick bank of fog that had blown in from the sea. The pilot sat back, adjusting himself in the seat. The aircraft engines created a comforting and powerful drone. It was a three-hour flight to Taipei, and he expected to enjoy it.

At 2:35 A.M. local time, PacEx 687 passed over the international reporting point called Ololo Teypa. After making the required radio call, the copilot noted the time, heading, fuel, altitude, airspeed, and outside temperature in the flight log. The Airbus was cruising at thirty-three thousand feet and five hundred twenty knots. The skies were crystal clear, unusually so, with a deep Milky Way spreading overhead and Venus so bright it looked more like an orb than a star. Visibility was thirty miles or better, but the night was very dark, for the half-moon had just set. There was no visible horizon between the sea and the sky, only a complete, sullen blackness between the stars and the water.

Inside the cockpit, the two crew members took turns “flying the aircraft,” which consisted of nothing more than monitoring the instruments before them. Neither pilot had touched the controls since leveling at thirty-three thousand feet. The autopilot held the course, altitude, and airspeed with precision. The copilot, who was “flying,” stared into the night, glancing at the displays every sixty seconds or so.

The aircraft landed at Taiwan’s international airport at 2:58 A.M. local time.

The crate with the nuclear warhead was the first thing unloaded from the jet.

As the crate was unloaded from the belly of the jet, a digital timer clicked on. The internal GPS searched, and then locked onto the orbiting satellites, determining its position down to a few feet.

The crate was then loaded onto a Boeing 757 aircraft that would fly it to the United States. Strapped to the side of the warhead, the internal computer and GPS receiver tracked its way across the Pacific Ocean. The tiny computer recognized the descent and landing at the three intermediate stops: Taiwan, Honolulu and Los Angeles. Then it tracked the aircraft’s course across the United States en route to Washington, D.C., recognizing the aircraft’s descent and approach for landing at Reagan International Airport.

The coordinates of the target were already fed into the machine. When the package carrier began its descent into Reagan International Airport in downtown Washington, D.C., the barometric trigger would kick in. Passing through three thousand feet, the firing device would explode. The nuclear warhead would go into a final two-minute countdown.

Five hundred milliseconds later, most of Washington, D.C. would be gone.

SEVENTEEN

Washington, D.C.

Sara Brighton got up at her usual hour, which was early, and walked down the old wooden stairs to the high-ceilinged kitchen. Her two sons were still sleeping, and she stood alone by the sink, staring at the huge oak trees that lined her backyard.

A sudden shiver ran through her and she snuggled against her own arms, wrapping them around her chest and holding herself tight. She’d been anxious all night. She’d been anxious for days. She’d fought it, but it would not go away, this feeling of dread, oppression and anxiety in her heart. She had felt this feeling before. It was a warning, she knew, and it was as clear to her now as the morning sun on her face or the cup of juice in her hand.

She turned and picked up her cell phone and dialed her husband’s cell number. It rang only twice, and then went to his voice mail. She didn’t leave a message; it was at least the tenth time she’d called. She knew that the White House was jamming all incoming and outgoing cell phone signals—standard procedure when there was a national security crisis. It was irritating, but it was also the only way the White House could ensure communications security during a critical time.

She hung up her phone, sipping her orange juice again. She hadn’t heard from Neil since the morning before, when he’d called very quickly just to see how she was. He couldn’t talk long. He had sounded utterly drained—not merely stressed, and not tired. He was far beyond that. He sounded used up. Worn out. Like a patch of thin cloth.

It had been four days since the nuclear bomb had gone off over Gaza, four days of continual world condemnation of Israel and the United States, four days of panic in the stock markets, a flat-out collapse, four days of $300-a-barrel oil, gas shortages, military posturing, and a continuous stream of vile invective and hatred directed against the United States. It had come from Europe, Asia, Russia, China, South America, Africa, and, worst of all, of course, the Middle East. No one seemed willing to stand up and defend the Americans. They had no allies now—not even the United Kingdom, where the prime minister had already resigned, forced out of office, his personal relationship with the United States and Israel simply too much for his people to bear. And certainly not Germany and France, who declared their continued opposition to American and Israeli interests abroad. In Italy, the United States’ second closest ally in Europe, the prime minister had not been seen for two days, after narrowly escaping an attempt on his life. And he wasn’t alone. Many of the European leaders seemed to have gone into hiding, unwilling to be seen in public until things had settled down.

The United States stood alone now, completely isolated from the rest of the world.

Even within its own borders, there was an almost frenzied dissent. Two million protestors filled the streets of Washington, D.C. Anti-war vigils were held in every city nightly; calls for the immediate withdrawal of the military from the Middle East were issued from the Senate and House, action that would have no effect but to leave Israel alone, adding to its isolation. Having learned they were unlikely to persuade enough of the people through public protests, the anti-war activists were ready to try something new. Turning to the federal courts, they sought emergency decrees. It wasn’t hard to find willing judges. A federal court in California issued an order freezing all Israeli assets within the country as well as prohibiting international aid to Israel until the appropriate use of the money could be reviewed by the courts. Another federal judge in Massachusetts issued an emergency injunction opening the door for the federal courts to hold senior military commanders and even the secretary of defense as war criminals if it was determined they had colluded with Israel in the nuclear attack.

It had been four days of extreme crisis such as the world had never witnessed before. Not since—Sara didn’t know. There was nothing in her experience she could compare it with. Pearl Harbor, perhaps, but this was far darker. It was as if a suffocating blanket had been hanging and then suddenly dropped, draping the world in an uncertain cloud. This was a nuclear drama of a category beyond which she had anything to compare.

She huffed in frustration, and then dialed her husband’s cell phone again. She got the same message and hung up the phone. Then she dialed his office number, but the White House switchboard picked up.

“White House,” the operator said. “Is this an emergency?”

“No, no,” Sara answered softly. “My husband works in the West Wing.”

“Is this an emergency, Mrs. Brighton?”

Sara hesitated. “How do you know who I am?”

“Caller ID, Mrs. Brighton.”

Sara knew it wasn’t as simple as that. The White House communications office was a very powerful office.

“I want to speak to my husband.”

“All of the national security staff have been sequestered, Mrs. Brighton. I’m sure you know that is standard procedure during a time of crisis, ma’am. Now, if this was an emergency, we could pass a message to your husband, but otherwise, the president is asking for your patience. He and the national security staff are working through some very difficult issues right now, and security is obviously one of their highest concerns. Communications will probably be limited for just a few more days. Meanwhile, the president wishes to convey his appreciation for the sacrifices of all of the families of the national security staff.”

Sara huffed once again. “There is nothing I can do, then?”

“No, ma’am, there is not.”

“Could I send him a message?”

“If it’s an emergency, ma’am.”

“You already know that it isn’t.”

“Then I’m sorry, Mrs. Brighton.”

Sara started to say something, and then simply gave up. “All right, then, thank you.”

The phone line went dead.

Sara stared at the floor, the uneasiness building inside. She felt so alone, so helpless, so frustrated and scared.

But she was no longer uncertain.

She knew what she had to do.

Having finally made a decision, she started to relax now for the first time in days. She moved quickly. Her sons’ bedroom was at the top of the stairs. She pushed their door open and pulled up the shades. Luke and Ammon groaned together.

“Hey!” Luke protested sleepily, his head shoved between his pillow and the wall.

Ammon lifted his head from his pillow and saw the look on her face. “What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked as he rolled out of bed. Luke turned and looked at her, then swung his feet onto the floor.

“We’ve got to go,” she told them, her voice trembling now.

“Go?” Ammon stuttered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we are leaving. We’re going to get out of the city!”

Ammon stood up and started pulling on his pants. Luke rubbed his eyes wearily, but didn’t move. He didn’t understand yet, and his face was confused. “That’s crazy talk, Mom. What are you planning to do?”

“We’re getting out of the city—”

“Have you talked to Dad?” Ammon interrupted anxiously. “Did he tell us to leave?”

Sara shook her head. “They still won’t let me through to him.”

“Does he know what we’re doing?”

“No, he does not.”

Ammon hesitated. “Are you certain then, Mom?”

She stopped, her face pale as gray paper. She took a step toward him and her shoulders slumped. Moving her hand to her mouth, she tried to stifle a sob. She fought the overwhelming rush of emotion, but she couldn’t hold it in, her face growing tight in fear, her body heaving as she dropped her eyes. Ammon immediately walked toward her and pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right, Mom, it’s all right,” he said.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and then suddenly pulled away. “Listen to me!” Her voice was firm now, though her eyes were wet with tears. “I don’t think that we have a lot of time. We’ve got to leave right now. Every minute we stay here, I get a bigger knot in my chest.

“Ammon, take the Honda. It won’t hold as much stuff, but it’s much better on gas. Go down, fill it up. Take those red gas cans your dad has in the back of the garage and fill them too. If you can find something else to carry gas in, take it as well. Fill up the gas containers, then run to the grocery store and buy all the bottled water you can.”

Ammon was simply amazed. Frightened and nervous, but amazed all the same. She was so together.

Sara turned to Luke. “Get the three-day emergency kit. You know where it is. Check everything. Then run downstairs and get some food, get everything that is in cans—and don’t forget a can opener—and a knife, we might need that.”

Luke gritted his teeth in frustration, but did not move. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he grabbed his hair as he cried. “Why is the White House so stupid? I want to talk to my dad! Why can’t they let us talk to our father? I think it’s important we talk to him before we do something dumb!”

“Listen,” Sara said, her voice even and calm. “You’ve got to accept this, Luke, it’s the way it has always been. The military, the White House staff, they live in a world of their own. They have a far greater weight and responsibility than you and I could ever imagine. The future of our country, the entire future of the world may be hanging in the balance right now. They don’t do these things just to make it harder for us; this is the way they have to operate! You know that. You’ve seen it. You know how the military works. How many times have I had to do things without your father? How many times has he been forced to leave us? He was gone for a whole year during the Second Gulf War. I know you might feel abandoned, but there’s nothing we can do. And you know that your father would help us if there was any way that he could.

“Now get dressed and get the emergency kit. Come on! There’s no time.”

“No time, Mom! You’re kidding. What are you talking about? Why don’t we have time? We should wait to talk to Dad! We should take the time to think this through. Why do we need all that stuff, the emergency kit, all that water? What are you not telling us?”

Sara took a patient step toward him. “Listen to me, son. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I have no idea. None at all. I haven’t seen a vision. I had no revelation in the night. But something is telling me that we have to leave. It’s been telling me for days.” She glanced quickly toward his brother. “Ammon feels it too. I can see it by the look on his face.” She turned back to Luke. “Now that’s a bummer, and I know that! Your dad is locked away inside the White House. The world is going crazy at the door. But it is what it is, Luke, and that is all I can say. Now, are you going to trust me, or am I going to have to fight you? If I have to fight you, that’s fine, I’ll do what I have to do. But it sure would make it easier if you would trust me, at least for now.”

Luke looked at her, his face uncertain and grim. “You’re going to pack up and leave. Just like that, bang? We’re gone?”

Sara pressed her lips together. “If your father were here, would you listen to him?”

“If Dad was here, I don’t think we’d be packing up to leave! I mean, come on, Mom, where are we going to go? What are we running from? What is your plan?”

Sara took a breath and looked directly into his eyes. “My plan,” she said simply, “is to follow this feeling, this sense of warning that I have. I plan to follow where it leads us; that’s all that I know. I can recognize the voice of God; I have felt it in my life before. I have felt it! You have felt it! I know what it is telling me right now: Get out of the city. I am as certain of that as I am certain of anything. Now, if you can’t trust me, I understand that. It’s a pretty big leap. But I’m telling you, Luke, this is what we’re supposed to do.”

His face began to soften as a warmth filled the room. He felt it, a sudden burning from somewhere deep in his chest. “All right, Mom,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

She embraced him, and then held his shoulders. “Get us some food. I don’t know if we’ll need it, but it might come in handy somehow.”

Luke nodded and got dressed quickly, then disappeared down the hall.

Sara turned for her bedroom. “I’ve got to get dressed,” she said.

“Where are you going?” Ammon asked her.

“To the bank. I’ll have to go down to Main. There’s a branch that opens early. I’m going to go get some cash.”

“How much?”

“I think ten thousand is the most they will give me at any one time. Especially right now, the world going crazy, I’m sure I’m not the only one taking money out of the bank. If they’ll give me more, I’ll take it. I’ll get all that I can.

“How much do you have available?”

“We’ve got about forty thousand in our emergency fund.”

“Get it all if they’ll let you.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“I’ll get the fuel and some extra containers. Then I’m going to E-mail Dad. I’ll also leave him a note on the counter and tell him where we’re going.”

Sara stopped suddenly. “Where are we going?” she asked Ammon.

He looked straight ahead. “West. We should go west.”

“All right, then West Virginia?”

“We could stay the night in Charleston,” Ammon suggested. “Remember our old friends from Germany—what were their names; I think they’re retired out there.”

Sara thought for a while. “No. Let’s just get out of the city, and then see how we feel. Maybe this whole thing will blow over. Who knows, in a couple of days we might feel like it’s safe to come home.”

“Yeah, Mom, OK. Now get down to the bank.”

Sara hurried to her bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she came out, Ammon was waiting. “I told Luke to pack some clothes.”

“Good,” Sara said as she passed him in the hall. Ammon touched her shoulder and she stopped. “Mom, I’m going to bring Dad’s pistol.”

Sara hesitated, a shiver running through her. “Get it,” she whispered, then turned and ran down the stairs.

EIGHTEEN

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Major General Neil Brighton got the phone call while working at his desk. The White House operator buzzed his personal line. Her voice was low and professional, but Brighton could sense a slight strain.

“General Brighton,” she said when he picked up the phone, “I’ve got King al-Rahman from Saudi Arabia on the line.”

Brighton almost gulped. “You’re kidding!” he said.

“No, General Brighton. He is demanding to speak with you.”

“Me! Are you certain?”

“Most certain, sir.”

“Has he said what he wants?”

“He has said nothing, sir.”

The general took a breath. “All right, get your voice recorders going. And call Grison. Tell him who I’m talking to and get him in here.”

“Yes, General Brighton. Are you ready for the king now, sir?”

“No, no, not yet. Where is the president? Where is he right now?”

“The president’s caravan left the White House just a few moments ago. He’s on his way to the State Department to meet with the NATO ministers.”

The general’s heart skipped a beat. “Get him on the line,” he commanded. “Tell him to stand by.” The general didn’t know why he had said it, there was no reason to, but something inside him was screaming. “And call the Secret Service,” he continued.

The operator hesitated. “What exactly shall I tell them, sir?” she asked in an uncertain tone.

Brighton shook his head. He didn’t know! “OK, hold before you do that, let me talk with the king first. But get Grison in here.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Now are you ready for the king?”

“Put him on,” Brighton answered.

The king’s voice came through the phone, gruff and proud. “General Brighton, you remember me, I hope,” the king of Saudi Arabia said.

“Of course, your Highness. My condolences regarding your father and your brother.” Brighton could not resist.

“Yes, thank you. You are gracious. Now, general, as you will soon see, time is of critical essence at this moment, and I must get immediately to the point. You know, I hope, that my brother held you in such high regard. I would even say that he loved you, certainly respected you, which is why I’m calling you now.”

“What can I do for you?” Brighton replied. Undiplomatically, he didn’t try to hide the disdain that he felt.

“What time is it there, General Brighton?” the king replied in an equally sour voice.

Brighton hesitated while he looked at his watch. “Why do you ask, your Royal Highness?” He noted the time.

The king snorted, then said, “Isn’t it 4:45 P.M.?”

“Yes,” the general answered.

“And I’m guessing that you have already asked to have your president put on the other line?”

“Yes,” Brighton answered.

“Is he on with us right now?”

Brighton glanced at the telephone console. “No, he has not joined us yet.”

“That is fine,” Al-Rahman said. “Either way, it does not matter. Now, I want you to tell him something for me. He has seven minutes. That is all. Seven minutes from now. I hope that is enough time, but it might not be. Still, I hope they are able to evacuate him before it happens, for I want him to see the death and destruction that he has caused. That is the only reason I am calling. I genuinely want him to live. I want him to see the downfall of his nation, the great whore of the earth. I want him to see his great city after it has been turned to black ash. I want him to see the fireball like those in Gaza did.

“Now, as for you, my good general, I’m sure it is already too late. They may have time to evacuate the president, but they will not evacuate you. So please, give my regards to my brother. And my father as well.”

The telephone clicked. The phone line went dead.

The general didn’t move, staring straight ahead.

His hands started shaking. His mind filled with fear. He thought of Sara and his children. He thought of the president. He thought of the city and the nation he loved so much. He sensed a sudden trembling, as if the world shook right beneath his chair. His heart started racing; his palms were sweaty, his vision blurred.

Grison raced into his office. “What did the king want?” he cried.

The general thought again of Sara. He thought again of his sons.

He stared at the national security adviser, a single tear in his eye. Grison glared at him, his face pale. “What is it?” he demanded in a piercing yell.

“Flashdance!” the general breathed.

Grison staggered back.

The general shook his head, and then picked up a red phone on the corner of his desk.

PacEx 178

Five miles southeast of Ronald Reagan International Airport, Washington, D.C.

The 757 package carrier descended to five thousand feet. It was flying northwest toward the airport, having been diverted over the Chesapeake Bay. The runway at Washington’s Reagan International Airport stretched roughly north and south at the ten o’clock position, and the aircraft was in a gentle turn to line up for its final approach. In the distance, the pilots could see the National Mall, with the Capitol Building on the east side and the Lincoln Memorial on the west. Midway between them, the White House was hidden in a group of tall trees. The pilots knew that the airspace immediately around the White House was a strict no-fly zone. If they penetrated the airspace they would be shot down.

The air traffic controller gave the PacEx carrier his final landing instructions. “PacEx 178, continue left, heading three-three-zero. Intercept the glide slope. Call the runway in sight.”

“Left turn to three-three-zero. Tally on the runway,” the freighter pilot replied.

“PacEx 178, you are number three to follow American 168 and Delta 352 on final. Descend to one thousand five hundred. Contact tower now on one two four point five.”

“Tally on the Delta,” the pilot said. “Descending to one point five and switching to tower.”

“Roger, PacEx 178. Good day.”

The pilot pulled back his throttles, and the aircraft began to descend. With the flaps at twenty percent, the increase in drag brought the aircraft down very quickly.

Presidential Caravan, downtown Washington, D.C.

The president was in his limousine with two other men, members of the national press who had been invited to join him for a quick interview as he was driven to an emergency meeting with NATO ministers at the Department of State. The presidential motorcade proceeded down E Street and drove quickly west, then turned south on Virginia Avenue before pulling a U-turn into the parking area outside of Department of State. The president’s closest bodyguard, a senior Secret Service agent code-named Bull, was sitting in the seat opposite him. As always, a small ear plug was stuffed in the Secret Service agent’s ear. He was tense and alert, but intensely fatigued. Being assigned to the president’s detail, he worked sixteen-hour days. Since the nuclear explosion over Gaza, he had hardly slept.

As the motorcade proceeded to the north side of the State building, the president was finishing his interview with the members of the press. Unexpectedly, he heard a sudden chime from the telephone in his armrest. At exactly that moment, an alarm sounded in Bull’s ear. “FLASHDANCE. FLASHDANCE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”

For just a fraction of a second, the bodyguard didn’t move, a terrified look in his eye. He leaned into his lapel. “Confirm Flashdance!” he said.

“Roger that! Flashdance. This is not a drill!”

Bull frowned. It couldn’t be! “FLASHDANCE. SEVEN MINUTES!” his radio cried.

The Secret Service agent swallowed.

Flashdance in seven minutes.

It was not enough time.

It took at least eleven minutes to get the president out of Washington, D.C. They had drilled it and practiced it at least a thousand times.

Seven minutes was impossible.

Which meant that the president was going to die.

More than two hundred protective agents slipped into gear.

Peeling away from the building, the motorcade began to accelerate, moving past the entrance to the State Department’s secure parking area. The chime continued from the speaker in the armrest, then fell suddenly mute. Three, then six police motorcycles moved in on the limousine, their sirens blaring, their lights flashing bright. The bulletproof window separating the front seat from the presidential cabin rolled up.

The president frowned and looked over. “What’s going on, Bull?”

The Secret Service agent didn’t answer because he was speaking into his lapel. But the president had picked up the code word, and he knew what it meant.

Flashdance. Code for an impending nuclear attack.

The limousine moved fifty feet down the road, and then came to a sudden stop, its wheels screeching on the asphalt, nearly causing several collisions behind it. Bull opened the back door. “GET OUT!” he yelled at the two members of the press. The frazzled men were pushed out the door and onto the street. Three additional Secret Service agents then jumped into the automobile, their handguns drawn, and their eyes wild and darting. They pushed the president into the center of the limo and held his head near the floor. Four other agents wielding Uzi machine guns with collapsible stocks jumped onto metal running boards that had been extended from the lower carriage of the black limousine. They gripped the handholds with one hand and held their machine guns with the other. The limousine moved forward onto 23rd Street, screeching through the intersection, surrounded now by more than a dozen police escorts. Ahead of them there was a sudden squeal of automobile tires, then a solid crunch as a D.C. police car intentionally rammed into the side of a Metro taxi that had proceeded into the intersection in front of the presidential limousine. Jamming his gas pedal, the policeman pushed the taxi out of the way, smashing it into the side of another car. Two Marine Apache attack helicopters swooped down from overhead, sweeping over the motorcade from their security perch. Higher up, an F-16 pilot hit his afterburner until he fell into position over the presidential caravan, his air-to-air missiles armed and ready to go.

*******

The suburbs outside the Beltway passed underneath PacEx 178’s nose. To the pilot’s right, the waters of the Chesapeake Bay sparkled in the afternoon light, the slanting rays creating brilliant, flashing diamonds at the crest of each wave. The sun was low now, but the skies were clear and bright. The pilot passed over Interstate 495, which was jammed with stop-and-go traffic, as always, the fourteen lanes of traffic hardly seeming to move. Rush hour was just getting under way, and the city was packed from one end to the other. To their left, in the distance, the Pentagon parking lot was a madhouse of traffic; same for Bolling Air Force Base that was across the Potomac River from the airport. Directly ahead now, Reagan International Airport’s main runway, eight thousand feet of white concrete, shone brightly against the backdrop of downtown Washington, D.C. The copilot directed his attention below their flight path, keeping the proceeding aircraft in sight while the pilot adjusted his throttles, further decreasing his power. The aircraft continued to descend.

*******

As part of the Flashdance alert, all airline traffic at Reagan International Airport was commanded to hold. Seconds before, a single Delta airliner had taken to the air, too far down the runway to abort without ending up in the Potomac River. The F-16 pilot saw the Delta climb as it tucked in its landing gear. He slammed his throttle forward and was pushed back in his seat. He lowered the fighter’s nose and moved a small piper on his head’s-up display, targeting the Delta airliner with two of his air-to-air missiles. The earpiece in his helmet growled. The airliner was locked up. The Delta airliner continued flying north, taking a path that would place it less than two miles from the presidential motorcade. A small course correction and ten seconds were all it would take to turn the airliner into a missile targeting the president. The F-16 pilot tensed up, his gut in a knot. But he had his orders, and he would not hesitate. He switched his radio to National Guard frequency and cried, “Delta aircraft taking off from Reagan, break left right now! Turn left now, Delta, or I will fire!”

The Delta airliner wobbled, then turned hard to the left, rocking up on one wing, moving away from the presidential motorcade that was now screaming through the city. The fighter pilot drew a deep breath and pulled his finger away from the fire button.

*******

Below the pilot, the presidential limousine raced south on 23rd Street. Bull had a decision to make and only seconds to make it: Keep the president on the ground and try to get back to the underground bunker at the White House, or get him in the air?

“Ground or air evacuate?” the Secret Service controller demanded over his radio.

Bull turned to his watch. A little more than five minutes to go. Not enough time to get back to the underground command center at the White House. “Air evacuate the Cowboy!” he yelled.

The senior agent looked at his men sitting on both sides of the president. “You copy that?” he asked. They nodded their heads. “Twenty-third and Constitution!” Bull commanded into his microphone, telling the helicopters where to land.

“Roger, 23 and C,” the controller replied quickly.

The president remained quiet. He was nothing but baggage now. If he were to say anything, he would be told to shut up.

He sat back and placed a trembling hand over his face, then groaned once in anguish as his limousine screamed down the road. By now there were more than forty police and security vehicles in the caravan. More were joining by the second. The entire district seemed to wail, from the north and the south; flashing lights and police sirens could be heard everywhere. Fifteen miles to the southeast, a flight of two F-16s took off from Andrews Air Force Base and flew in afterburner to set up a combat patrol overhead. Below them, a single Air Force helicopter took to the air, followed by four other emergency evacuation helicopters, all of them heading toward the National Mall. They would set down in the grass outside the Capitol Building to begin the evacuation of the senior congressional leadership.

The Marine presidential helicopters had moved into position. “Birdeye is ready,” the lead pilot said.

The limousine and its security escorts accelerated down the crowded city street to seventy miles an hour. At the corner of 23rd and Constitution Streets their brakes squealed and burned, hot smoke belching from their tires. The road had already been cleared by Secret Service SUVs, and the two helicopters were sitting down in the middle of the street.

*******

The cargo aircraft continued flying toward the airport. Inside its main compartment, a series of valves opened up, allowing outside air to begin to cycle through.

The cabin pressure inside the aircraft was equal to the outside pressure now.

At 4:49 P.M. local time, PacEx Express Flight 178 passed through three thousand feet. Inside the crate packed with the nuclear warhead, the barometric sensor detected the appropriate altitude.

The final countdown began. Three minutes to go.

*******

“GO!” Bull yelled before the limousine had even come to a stop.

The doors to the president’s black sedan burst open. The agents pushed the president out, nearly knocking him down. Six men were waiting to surround him and they grouped together, forming a protective ring, before shoving him into the second helicopter. The president felt like a child, helpless and weak. A group of other agents propelled a presidential look-alike into a second limousine, and it squealed away. In seconds, it was over. Doors slammed. Tires squealed. Helicopters lifted into the air. The decoy presidential limousines drove away, heading east on Constitution Avenue for two blocks, then split up, each limousine heading in a different direction toward the White House.

Inside the Marine helicopter, the president was surrounded by his men.

“Which way?” the pilot shouted.

Bull did not know. Where was the attack coming from? What was the safest direction to go?

“Give me a vector!” the pilot demanded again as the helicopter lifted into the air.

Bull spoke into his radio. “We don’t know, we don’t know!” was all he heard in reply.

Bull looked north and then south. The helicopter was at five hundred feet. Glancing out his window, he saw the line of airliners flying away from Reagan International Airport. They had all been turned away when the Flashdance had been called.

Could it be the weapon was loaded on one of the airliners? he wondered. It was only a guess, but it was all he had.

“Turn north!” he yelled to the pilot. “Get away from all the airports as quickly as you can!”

The helicopter’s nose dropped as it accelerated. The pilot let it fall, leveling to just above the trees. He steered toward the small canyon that wound its way on the west side of Washington, D.C., following the contours of the Potomac River, seeking cover from the cut-out terrain.

The Secret Service agent looked down at his watch.

Less than one minute.

He took a long gulp of air.

*******

The control tower at Reagan International Airport was set in a panic. The senior air traffic controller’s voice suddenly crackled over the radio. “All aircraft approaching Reagan International Airport, turn away from the airport now! This is an emergency message. ALL AIRCRAFT MUST COMPLY! All inbound aircraft turn away. Proceed under VFR flight rules to your nearest holding point. All aircraft on the ground at Reagan, hold your position now! This is a national emergency and this is not a drill. I say again, all aircraft approaching Reagan, clear this airspace now!”

The PacEx pilots didn’t hesitate. The aircraft banked up and started turning away. They were very low, only three hundred feet in the air. Their gear had been extended. They had been ready to land.

Inside their cargo compartment, the timer continued counting.

Thirty seconds to go.

The aircraft’s wing dipped and the nose climbed as the jet turned away. The pilot shoved up the power and accelerated, then set a course for their hold point on the east side of the city. The aircraft’s landing gear receded into its belly.

They were on the southeast side of the White House by now.

The Potomac River drifted under the aircraft’s nose. To the west, the Pentagon was only half a mile away.

The aircraft continued turning, banking up on its wing.

Twenty seconds to go.

The White House fell in the distance behind it, little more than three miles away.

The aircraft leveled out and kept climbing.

Five seconds to go.

“All aircraft …” the controller started crying through the radio once again.

Then there was a bright light, and his world disappeared.

*******

The presidential helicopter was four miles from the epicenter of the nuclear fireball. It was low, seeking shelter among the wide canyons that had been carved by the Potomac Falls. The light flashed from behind it, causing the nuclear-hardened windows to turn opaque instantly. Then the wall of superheated air approached the helicopter at three times the speed of sound. The compressed air smashed the helicopter, sending it up on its side.

The Secret Service agent threw his body across the president to protect him, all the time crying in fear.

*******

The energy released in a nuclear reaction is ten million times greater than in an equivalent chemical reaction. While a conventional bomb derives its power from the rapid decomposition of a burning compound, this reaction only releases the energy from the outermost electrons in the atom. An atomic bomb, on the other hand, reaches deep into the nuclei, destroying the very nucleus that holds it together.

The Pakistani nuclear physicists who designed and built their nuclear warheads didn’t understand everything Einstein taught in his Special Theory of Relativity, but they understood the basics: The combined energy of mass times the speed of light squared equaled a very big bang.

The Pakistani warhead hidden inside the PacEx aircraft was a medium-sized weapon, one of the newest the Pakistani government had produced. It was a simple device similar to the Little Boy that was dropped over Hiroshima, Japan. It was small and yet extremely powerful.

*******

The shelter under the White House was not large enough to protect all of the staff. More than a thousand people worked in the White House, and the underground shelter could take no more than half of them.

General Brighton was on the access list to the shelter, but he remained at his desk for as long as he could. The other staff evacuated around him, but he remained on the telephone. Once he knew that the president was onboard the evacuation helicopter, he made one more frantic call to the Pentagon to tell them what was going on.

He looked down at his watch. 4:50 P.M. Less than two minutes to go.

Standing, he turned and ran for the stairwell. He had drilled it many times, and he knew exactly where to go.

He ran down the hallway, turned right down another hallway and across the Portola porch. Down a flight of stairs, a short hallway. He came to the double doors. He glanced again at his watch as he ran. Fifty seconds to go.

He pushed on the door.

It didn’t move.

He pushed again, and started calling.

The door was locked.

Someone had panicked. They hadn’t waited. The door was shut tight.

He banged the door with his fist, then turned and started running. Up the stairs, on the other side of the hallway, was another set of stairs, another bunker access door.

He started up the stairs, reached the top, and then saw the bright flash of light.

The stairwell collapsed in a fury of white heat and smoke.

But General Brighton felt none of it.

He was already dead.

*******

Over the landscape of downtown Washington, D.C., the bright light flashed across the sky as the second sun appeared.

The fireball over Washington, D.C., was a horrifying sight, a boiling mushroom cloud capped with a crescent of white from condensation and heat. The fireball was white in the center, with orange and red tints at the rim. Below the fireball, a thick column of fiery dust and smoke reached down to the ground, a solid pillar of fire that seemed to support the fireball like a golf ball on a tee.

There was no time to react, no time even to look up.

The initial destruction of heat was almost instantaneous.

A burst of supersonic pressure moved across the ground, demolishing everything into cinder and smoke. A doughnut ring of debris rolled outward from the center of the explosion. The fireball illuminated the day much brighter than the sun, creating devilish shadows that danced in front of the expanding ring of debris.

The first indication on the ground was a two-second blast of white light and heat. Then the fireball rolled upward through the sky, more than a thousand feet wide. Ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit at the center, the thermal radiation burst outward at the speed of light, burning everything it touched almost instantly. Clothes, flesh, hair, wood, asphalt, paper, shingles, plastic, steel—everything turned to ash underneath the rolling cloud. Then, like thunder after lightning, a high-pressure blast wave followed the burst of radiation by a second or two. It moved across the ground, creating a ring of enormous overpressure at the front of the blast while tornado-force winds rushed in to fill the vacuum behind. Steel buildings blew apart as if they were made of paper and sticks; houses fell over and burst into flames; high-rise hotels blew to pieces. Oak trees snapped at ground level and vanished into ash, smoke, and heat. The sand on the beach along the river was instantly baked into glass, leaving human shadows etched in the glassy formations where children had been playing. Water in the Chesapeake Bay boiled and rose in clouds of radiated steam, then fell almost instantly back to earth as contaminated rain. Ash, dust, and dirt were pulled thirty thousand feet into the air and sucked into the rolling fireball in the upper atmosphere. The fallout blew northeast, toward the city of Baltimore and the suburbs on the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

As the fireball rose, it grew dark, a horrible red and purplish hue. Below it, there was nothing but black ash and baked earth.

The fireball began to dissipate.

Across the city, the devastation spread for miles in a near-perfect ring. Two miles under the detonation, there was nothing but blackness and smoke, a circle of smooth ash and nearly perfect level ground. Here and there, a steel rod or square of cement protruded from the smoothed-over debris, but that was all. Three miles from the center, a few steel structures remained, the framework of once-mighty office buildings and grand hotels. Here, the sidewalks were baked into ash and the hulks of burned-out cars were tossed on their sides. Four miles from the epicenter, at Bolling Air Force Base, the presidential fleet of helicopters had been burned in their hangars, melted like wax. Cars and buses had been lifted, blown into pieces, and scattered through the air. The devastation grew less intense with each passing mile, but it was seven miles out before there could be found a green blade of grass.

A few minutes after the explosion, the fireball rose into the atmosphere and normal daylight returned.

Then the sounds and smells of human suffering began to drift through the air.

NINETEEN

Blade 45, twenty-six miles southwest of Basra, Iraq

Captain Samuel Brighton sat in the gunner’s seat, looking out on the nighttime desert as it passed below. Bono sat opposite him. They were the only two men in the helicopter, except for the pilots, who were sitting in the cockpit in front. The cabin doors of the HH-60 helicopter were pinned back, and the cool night wind gusted though the open cabin. The pilots were talking to each other, using the helicopter intercom. Sam and Bono sat in silence. They wore their combat fatigues, and underneath their seats were four tan-and-brown canvas bags. All of their gear had been stuffed inside them. They held their Kevlar® helmets in their hands.

“Where we going?” Sam asked Bono. He had to yell above the roar of the engines and blades to be heard.

Bono shrugged, and then leaned closer to Sam’s ear. “We’re picking up a charter flight down in Basra. Someone’s going to meet us. That’s really all I know.”

“Come on, come on, I think you know more than that.”

Bono shook his head. “Really, that’s all the colonel would tell me for now.”

Sam sat back, satisfied. “We’re going to be Cherokees, baby!” He slapped Bono on the knee. “The best of the best. The razor tip of the spear!”

Bono leaned closer to him so he didn’t have to yell quite so loud. “I thought that Deltas were the best.”

“Yeah, well, that’s before we were invited to join the Cherokees.”

“You realize, of course, that we’re so good we won’t even be able to tell anyone what we do. There’ll be no pride or ego. We won’t be able to say anything. The Cherokees are so highly classified; we can’t even confirm our code word. We can’t brag. We can’t talk. And when we hear the cover story they provide us, I bet we’ll see that the girls will not be impressed.”

Sam deflated a little, and then brightened up again. “When it’s over, we can tell them.”

Bono smiled and nodded.

Sam peered at the moonlit night passing by. Reflecting the moon, the desert looked like a huge, silver ocean, the dunes enormous waves that were frozen at their crest. “Why do you think they chose us?” Sam asked after a while.

Bono was sucking on a lollipop, and he pulled it from his mouth. “They chose me,” he yelled, “because I’m fluent in Arabic. That, and I could pass for any of the locals, thanks to my mother, you know. They chose you because you’re a combat stud. Best leader in the unit. Since the day that I got here, that’s how I felt. After what you did for that girl—”

There was a sudden motion from the front of the cockpit, and both men looked forward. One of the pilots was shaking. The other one had lifted both arms to the sky. He seemed to cry out in anguish, and the helicopter wobbled up on its side. The two soldiers glanced at the pilots, and then looked at each other. “What’s going on?” Sam asked.

Bono shook his head.

The helicopter suddenly dropped toward the desert, flared aggressively, then set down hard on the rocks and bounced until it came to a stop. The engines kept going, but both pilots stared ahead. One of them wiped his Nomex® glove across his face. The other one bowed his head. They seemed to have forgotten about the two combat soldiers in the back completely.

Bono watched, shaking his head in confusion. “Might be engine trouble,” he said.

Sam had been on helicopters when they’d had engine trouble before. This wasn’t an engine problem. This was something else.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he shouted to the pilot nearest him.

Both of them ignored him. Either that or they didn’t hear.

“I’ll find out,” Bono said. He undid his harness and crawled forward. “What’s happening?” he asked.

Both of the pilots were crying. Bono’s face showed confusion and fear. Sam watched him carefully, a sickness rising inside him. The copilot rolled the throttles back so he could talk to Bono without yelling. Bono listened, and then seemed to crumple as if someone had punched him in the gut.

He looked up to ask another question, but the pilot shook his head.

Bono hunched his shoulders, looked away, and then pushed himself backward across the cabin floor. Even in the dim light, Sam could see that his face was pale. “What is it?” Sam demanded.

“Oh, geez,” Bono muttered.

Sam felt a rising sense of dread. “Tell me!” he demanded.

Bono took his hand. “There was a nuclear detonation. They said that D.C. is gone. They think a quarter of a million people are dead. The president, all his cabinet, the Congress, the Supreme Court, everyone, all the city, everything is gone.”

Sam sat back. He didn’t believe it. Not at first. Then he thought of his father in the White House. His mother and brothers lived not too far from there. “No,” he muttered weakly. “Bono, you have to be wrong.”

“Everything,” Bono stammered. He didn’t look at Sam anymore. “Everything—everybody—our government gone—” Then he stopped suddenly. How could he be so stupid? How could he have forgotten?

He turned back to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam—your family—”

Sam angrily shook his head. “It can’t be!” he almost shouted. Bono just stared at him.

Sam saw the anguish in his expression and it finally sunk in. He took a slow breath and held it, then unbuckled his lap belt and leaned over, falling out of the helicopter onto the cool desert sand.

State Road 68, southern West Virginia

After the explosion, Ammon wrestled the car to the shoulder and replaced the alternator, the starter, fuses and the battery with the one his father had placed in their grounded Faraday boxes in the car’s trunk, following the very specific written instructions his father left within each box. The battery was stored dry, and Ammon carefully poured the sulfuric acid into the battery. He positioned the battery charger’s solar panels and waited several long hours until the battery was full.

After the battery was charged, Ammon kept driving, his eyes tearing, his hands trembling on the wheel. Luke was sitting in the backseat, holding his face on his palms. Sara looked straight ahead. She seemed not to react at all.

The radio announcer cut back and forth from one special report to another. Everyone knew precious little about the situation in Washington, D.C., and the reports from across the rest of the nation were incalculably bad.

There had been no communication with the president. Was he dead or alive? Congress had been in session at the time of the detonation, and most of them were certainly gone. The reports of destruction throughout the capital were simply unbelievable. There was little left inside the Beltway. Two hundred thousand, perhaps a million, who knew how many were dead?

The U.S. government had not yet responded to an Al Jazeera report that five American cities would be destroyed, one city hit with a nuclear bomb every day for the next five days. Across America, there was panic in many city streets. The grocery stores had been raided within a few hours, leaving their shelves empty. The freeways were crammed with hordes of panicked masses fleeing all the major cities. Fuel was being hoarded, the pipelines and fuel tanks that fed each major city running dry within hours. Most places still had electricity, but in order to conserve the suddenly limited reserve of energy resources, all of the power plants had been ordered to cut back their output, leaving brownouts and blackouts across almost every state.

The reports went on and on: riots in New York City, rumors of an impending nuclear attack on Los Angeles, news of thousands of people trampled or run over in the streets as millions tried to flee.

Within hours, order had been replaced by chaos. The sense of invincibility that had permeated the nation for more than two hundred years had been replaced by an utter sense of pandemonium and chaos.

All in one afternoon. After a single attack.

The reporters kept on talking. All of the airports had been closed. No civilian air traffic was allowed to take off, and all airliners already in the air had been diverted away from the major cities to alternate landing airports. The roads leading out of New York City were completely impassable now; more than four hundred accidents had been reported on the New Jersey Turnpike alone. Hundreds of thousands could be seen walking in Seattle, Chicago and Dallas. There was pandemonium, armed men stealing people’s vehicles, siphoning the fuel right out of their gas tanks. There were shootings in Nashville, looting in Manhattan, fires reported in downtown Chicago. The Secretary of Interior was the highest ranking government official to be identified. He broadcast a desperate call for order from some unknown location, but he had not been seen on television. There were false reports of foreign terrorists taking hostages in downtown Miami … .

Ammon listened, shaking his head in despair. He drove west, away from the city, away from their home. West. Toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. Toward what, he did not know.

The anchorman suddenly cut to another reporter: a military pilot had reported flying directly over the White House, or at least he thought it was the White House, or where the White House used to be … .

Sara moaned in anguish as she listened to the reporter’s voice. Ammon reached for her hand and held it painfully tight. “Remember, Mom, there’s the underground Situation Room. He would be safe down there. He’s all right, I promise,” he squeezed her hand again, trying to sound convincing.

But Sara knew it wasn’t true.

She knew that he was gone.

She had lost her husband, the only man she had ever loved, the light of her life for the past twenty-five years, the man who had brought her more joy than any person had a right to ask. The father of her children, the Polaris in her life, the man who had held her, loved her and kissed the tears from her eyes.

He was gone now. She knew that, because she felt him near. He was speaking to her as he always had. The same voice. The same manner. She almost reached out for his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to be with you, but it was supposed to end this way. Keep the faith. Keep strong. And remember, I’ll be waiting for you, Sara. And I will always be near. You will feel my breath in the morning, in the soft warmth of the sun. I will look for you in the evenings. We will be together again.”

Sara brought her hand to her face to hide her quivering lip. “I love you, Neil,” she muttered.

But his spirit was now gone.

Ammon glanced over at his mother. “What did you say, Mom?” he asked.

She turned to him, her eyes red, her cheeks stained with tears. “I said I love …” she answered, then glanced back at Luke. “I love you both so much!” she repeated.

Ammon kept driving, but he had slowed to a crawl. He wiped his eyes and bit his lip and kept the car moving west.

Luke leaned forward from the backseat and put his arms around his mom. He leaned into her shoulder and wept like a little boy. “I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad,” he cried.

Sara turned around and held him. “I love you, Luke,” she said as she held his head. “Your father loves you. You know he loves you.”

“I want my dad,” he cried again.

TWENTY

Mount Aatte, north of Peshawar, Pakistan

Omar carried the young boy on his shoulders as he made his way up the final crest on the trail. It was steep and dangerous, with a vertical drop on his left that fell almost three thousand feet. The mountain was rocky and bare, and the trail cut back and forth a dozen times as it wound its way up. Omar huffed and puffed as he toiled, gasping though his footsteps remained steady as he climbed.

A third of the way up the mountain the ridge suddenly dropped, revealing a hidden valley on the other side, a gentle canyon tucked neatly between the extended ridgeline and the mountain: rolling green hills, a small river, fruit trees, long grass. It was wet, the ground spongy and soft from the previous night’s storms. Above the river, against the mountain, the rising terrain had been leveled, a thousand years of backbreaking work turning the side of the mountain into ascending terraces, some less than ten or twelve feet across. Poppies had been planted on each terrace, and the pods were full now, plump and almost ripe. The growing season was short on the mountain, and the poppies would barely have time to mature before the first snowfalls came.

A small group of buildings lined the river. To call the cluster of mud huts and thatch barns a village would have been an overly generous description. There was no road to the houses, no electricity, and no water except what they drew from the river.

Omar stood at the crest of the hill where the trail broke from a thick stand of pines. Looking down on the hidden valley, he finally smiled.

Remote. Isolated. The people who lived here were shepherds and farmers who worked the dirt with their hands. The outside world meant nothing to them. And the feeling was reciprocated—they meant nothing to the world.

Omar relaxed for the first time in days.

It was a very long way from home, a long way from Iran. Even farther from Saudi Arabia. He had come to another world.

The prince would be safe here.

He adjusted the boy on his shoulders, and then started down the steep trail. The air grew warmer as he descended, but his burden was light.

The village leader was waiting. Omar paused at the door to his home, the finest mud hut in the village. It had three tiny rooms, an indoor cook stove, and the ultimate luxury, an ancient clay pipe that drew water from the river upstream and brought it right to his front door.

The leader was a young man, perhaps less than thirty years old, though his thick beard and sun-baked skin made it difficult for Omar to know. He sat on the floor in the corner and listened to Omar while chewing brown leaves. His face was hard, but it softened just a little as he glanced at the child.

“You take advantage of my generosity,” the young shepherd said.

Omar shook his head. “I bring you a gift. A chance to serve Allah. I call upon the Pashtun law of sanctuary, and that is always good.”

The leader studied Omar and then nodded. That was true. And they were honor-bound, for Pashtun law required them to render aid to the homeless, the wounded, those who had no one else. Several times, the village leader had stood up to the Taliban, hiding young boys they had forced into service. On this matter the leader considered the Qur’an to be clear. He had a moral obligation to provide sanctuary and he would not disobey the holy word of Allah. And though the Taliban had threatened to destroy him and the village for defying them, they had not carried through with their promise. At least not yet.

The village leader considered a moment, and then stood and walked toward the young boy. Kneeling, he smiled at him gently and held out his arms. Sensing safety, the young prince walked into his embrace.

Omar watched, and then reached into a deep pocket under his robe. “You will keep him?” he asked, pulling out a thick wad of cash.

The village leader glanced at the money, scowled, and looked away.

Omar extended his hand. “Not for you. For him. His expenses—”

“He will have no expenses that Allah will not provide. I don’t do this for you, Omar. I do this for Allah. I do this for the law.”

Omar nodded and begged forgiveness. Then he walked toward the young prince and knelt down by him. Reaching into another pocket, he pulled out a slender gold chain, thin and fine, with a single diamond attached at the end, a beautiful star radiating slivers of light. He unlatched the chain, placed it around the boy’s neck, and kissed him on both cheeks. “I give you this to remind you of who you really are,” he said. “You are the diamond of the future. You are worth every star.”

The boy looked at the diamond, then at Omar, and smiled wearily.

Does he really understand? Omar wondered. Does he have any idea at all?

He tucked the jewel under the young boy’s clothes, placing it near his chest, then pulled back and held the prince by the shoulders. They stared at each other a long moment, as if they could communicate without saying words.

“What have I told you?” Omar finally asked him, breaking the heavy silence.

“You will come for me,” the young prince said.

“That is my solemn promise.”

The boy looked at him but didn’t answer.

“And until that day?” Omar asked.

“I am to prepare myself.”

“Prepare yourself for what?”

The young boy lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, his eyes burning with a sudden light. “For the day that I will serve.”

“Yes, for the day that you will serve. You were born to be a king. You must prepare. You must be worthy. You will reclaim the kingdom. Now, I know that is difficult for you to understand, but you are wise. Even now I can see there is wisdom and great strength in your eyes.”

The young prince only nodded. Omar pointed at the shepherd. “You must listen to him.”

“I will, Master.”

Omar pressed his lips, then stood and touched the boy on his head.

He had no sons, only daughters, and he loved this young boy as if he were his own. He would have died to protect him. He would have done anything.

But it was time that he should go now. His presence brought danger to the village. Omar drew a long breath. Looking around the room, he wished he could think of the right words to say good-bye. In order to make it to this village with the boy, it had been necessary for Omar to leave the Prince’s mother behind. Her weakened condition was making an already arduous trek impossible. Omar was all but certain that the Princess had perished. He felt so many emotions. Then he leaned toward the child and whispered in his ear:

And brightness like that of the noonday, shall arise to thee at evening: and when thou shalt think thyself consumed, thou shalt rise as the day star.

And thou shalt have confidence, hope being set before thee, and being buried thou shalt sleep secure.

Job had spoken those words such a long time ago. It wasn’t much, but he meant it, and it was all he could think of. And the words were as true now as they had ever been.

“Hope. Always hope,” he whispered to the young prince again.

Two Blocks south of the Interstate 495 Beltway, Kensington, Maryland

Sara stood at the crest of the hill. Around her, leaves and bushes, generally full and green at this time of year, had turned brown and brittle. The sky was dark, with gray ash hanging in the air and a low bank of rain clouds forming on the western horizon.

She and her sons had been wandering around the outskirts of the city, seeking information on her husband, trying to confirm his death, trying to get as close to the bomb site as they could safely get. But after it all, they had ended up here, in a wooded park on the north edge of the city, standing on a small hill that had enough elevation to look out on the burned out capital.

Sara Brighton gazed toward the district. Farther south, the damage became more stark and terrible. If she squinted, she could make out bent metal girders and burned out cement walls in the distance. The damage was eerie and irregular, for the aircraft that had been carrying the nuclear warhead had been lower than the Saudi scientist had hoped for when the bomb went off. The blast from the heat wave had followed the contours of the ground, burning everything it touched directly but sparing those buildings that were protected behind any rising terrain. It was remarkable, almost unnatural, how some areas had been spared. Arlington National Cemetery—destroyed up to the crest of the hill, yet General Lee’s mansion and the graves on the western side of the hill had been spared. The White House and Mall—entirely destroyed, but some of the smaller buildings directly behind them had survived. Most of the government offices that housed the Congress had been destroyed, but the northern wing of the Capitol Hill building was still intact. The list went on and on, and a pattern began to emerge: areas west and south of the Potomac had been spared; east and north, turned to ash.

Sara squinted again, then lifted her hand to shade her eyes. Luke and Ammon waited behind her, their heads bent, looking down. It was just too hard to look at, too painful, too bleak. Their mother stood without moving, then turned back to them. “I wish they would let us go down there—you know, just to see.”

Ammon nodded, but inside he was relieved. He had seen enough—more than enough. He knew his father was dead, killed in the blast, and he didn’t feel a need to explore the place where he had died.

Luke shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to see any more.

It would be months, maybe much longer, before civilians would be allowed to go into any of the areas that had been affected by the blast. Out here in the suburbs, where the winds had kept the radiation at an acceptable level, refugee camps and tent cities had sprung up, but downtown was deserted except for the special military units and emergency response teams, all of them protected in radiation suits. The teams were plodding through the wreckage, looking for survivors and chronicling the damage for the day when they might be able to rebuild, or at least go in and try to retrieve some of the documents, government records, and artifacts the government needed in order to exist.

But the truth was, there wasn’t much left of the federal government. It would take many years and an unbelievable amount of work to recreate even a fraction of what had been lost.

Sara thought for a moment longer and then walked toward her sons. Ammon turned toward her. “It’s time,” he said. “We’ve got to decide.”

Sara knew that. She’d been avoiding the decision because she felt so unsure. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Mom. I really don’t—”

Luke ran a dirty hand through his hair. For a moment he thought of Alicia, wondering if she was alive. Had her money saved her? He doubted it, but didn’t know. He thought of his other friends and loved ones, people he really cared about. What had happened to them? It was impossible to find out. Communication was nearly impossible. He realized that he would probably never know. He watched his mother, knowing that everything about his previous life was at an end now. “We should leave,” he said. “Go west. Maybe to Denver. There’s no reason to stay here anymore.”

Sara cocked her head toward him. “You really think so?” she asked.

“Yeah, Mom. There’s nothing left here for us now.”

Sara turned and looked west. “We might be protected in the mountains. Protected from exactly what, I don’t know, but it just seems to be safer there. Less people. We could stay with my sister for a while. Let things settle. See what happens.”

Ammon followed her eyes. “It’s not going to be easy to get there. Not safe to travel. Everything and everyone is going crazy. But I think we’ll be OK.”

The three were silent a long moment, all of them thinking.

“I hate the thought of just leaving dad,” Luke said. “I mean what if—I know he’s not, but what if—it just seems like we should do something, find something—have some kind of ceremony to say good-bye.”

No one answered. They all felt the same.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Sara said. “There’s more to come. This isn’t over. It’s not the ending, it’s just beginning.”

Ammon and Luke knew immediately what she meant. Luke sadly shook his head, his lower jaw trembling as he struggled inside. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Sara reached out and squeezed his hand. “Of course you can, son. We wake up. We keep on living. We keep our faith. And we stay strong.”

Camp Smash, Eastern Iraq

Sam Brighton stared into the small fire. It was raining and, though his poncho kept him dry, he still felt chilled to the bone. There was a scattering of tents behind him, small, camouflaged units that sat low to the ground. There were only a dozen or so men at Camp Smash, and Sam and Bono were the only ones that were awake. It was almost 3 A.M. Neither man was tired, though Sam was considering getting a few hours sleep before the sun rose, though he wondered if it would ever break through the clouds and rain.

He glanced at Bono, who had closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if he were listening to something in the night. Sam watched him a moment. “Bono?” he asked.

“Yeah buddy,” the other captain answered.

“You know that King Abdullah ordered the nuclear attack on D.C.”

Bono was silent a moment. “That’s what we’re hearing.”

“Then you know, once they confirm that, they’re going to take him out. No way the United States isn’t going to go after him. They’re going to bring him down. Drag him to the gallows. And if they do, they will use us. The Cherokees will go.”

Bono hesitated a moment. “Probably right,” he finally answered as he pulled his poncho around his neck.

Sam folded his arms, holding them near his chest. “I guess I need to repent, then.”

“Why’s that, buddy?”

Sam shifted his weight, leaning toward his friend. “He killed my dad. Two hundred-fifty thousand of my countrymen. Brought our nation to its knees. Now I want to be the one who gets him. I want to be the guy who gets revenge.”

COMING IN EPISODE FIVE…

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“All right, people,” the general commanded in a booming voice. “At 00:47:34 Zulu Time, the president of the United States directed a WhiteWolf operation. His orders have been formally confirmed by National Command Authority and my staff.

“We’ve prepared for and war-gamed this for more than fifteen years. You know all the procedures. Now it’s time to get to work.”

*******

The Great One looked out on the devastation that he had created in Washington, D.C.

He stood alone, his callous face dull and lifeless. Even here, in the nonmortal world, the eyes were still the windows that looked into the soul—and his eyes, once so bright and full of joy, had narrowed to angry slits that boiled from the pollution in his being.

*******

After the nuclear detonation over D.C., the small group of scientists inside Snapper worked literally twenty-four hours a day. Air and ground samples had to be taken from the bomb site, the material had to be broken down and analyzed, coded, and then matched to the existing database. The supercomputers, some of the most powerful in the world, spun through the computations, a billion calculations every second.

When they got their initial results, the director of Snapper shook his head in disbelief. “Do it again,” he demanded. “That can’t be right.”

*******

Israeli satellites watched as Iran began to fuel its long-range missiles. The United States, China, and Japan watched as North Korea did the same thing. India went to the highest level of alert. The entire Middle East sat on the edge of a razor—Hezbollah soldiers moving to the southern Israel border; Hamas (or what was left of them after the previous nuclear attack against Gaza) declaring open war against Israel from the northern Gaza strip; Jordan and Syria forming an alliance and moving most of their military forces into Lebanon and the Golan Heights; Egypt declaring (to everyone’s amazement and despair) that they had developed their own nuclear warhead and would conduct an underground nuclear test; Chechan rebels attacking again in Moscow; twenty million Muslim citizens rioting throughout Western Europe streets.

*******

King Abdullah paced, his eyes cold and sullen, his skin tight, the hollows of his cheeks deep and dark. He seemed to cast a spell upon them as he moved, drawing them in to his world. “Some of you are wondering,” he started, “so I will tell you. Yes, I killed our father. Yes, I killed Crown Prince Saud. I killed his wife, Princess Tala. I killed their children. I killed them all.”

*******

The flash was sudden and bright, white-hot, blazing and intense. It burst down from the night sky, leaving a yellow glow that quickly faded and then disappeared.

Everything fell silent. Their car stopped suddenly. No chug. No cough or sputter. It was as if someone had reached over and turned the key off.

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Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

COMING IN EPISODE FIVE…

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

COMING IN EPISODE FIVE…