Infidels Page 2

  But he doubted they felt his fear.

  He simply wanted the ritual over with so he could stop worrying about something going wrong. Once the truck left the mosque, it was no longer his responsibility until its return in seven days. During this time the Black Stone would be under the protection of the Royal Family, the House of Saud taking its responsibility as the protector of the most holy relics and sites of Islam seriously. It was the only time the Black Stone wasn’t under the protection of the clerics of his tribe, the Bani Shayba.

  And outside of the secure walls of the shrine.

  A shout rang out across the massive expanse of the shrine’s open Mataf area. The ceremonial guard didn’t flinch but Qasim did, nearly jumping out of his skin as Prince Khalid casually looked in the direction of the outburst.

  Qasim’s jaw dropped.

  Dozens of armed, hooded men streamed into the open-air mosque, opening fire just as the Prince climbed into his limousine. The ceremonial guard, slow to react, as this was unprecedented, began to unsling their weapons, but too late, the first of them cut down by the opening volleys. Qasim dropped to the ground, scurrying toward the only structure that might provide cover, the fairly imposing structure of the Kaaba, with its massive black curtained façade, the only shelter available in the wide expanse witness to hundreds of millions of feet over the centuries.

  He dove into the gap created by the removal of the Black Stone, hitting the ground, his old bones and joints protesting with stabbing pains, his breath now gasps as he tried to battle through the agony. As gunfire and screams continued outside the walls, his pain abated and he found himself irresistibly drawn toward the lone shaft of sunlight. Crawling gingerly toward the gap, he peered out from the darkness to see the bodies of the ceremonial guard lying on the ground, their blood staining this sacred place, this egregious sin unforgiveable. The gall, the arrogance, of attacking a holy site filled him with a rage that emboldened him foolishly.

  He pushed himself through the opening, shouting curses at the top of his lungs as he looked for those responsible. Swinging toward the gunfire, now sporadic, he froze, a lump forming in his throat as a single man walked briskly toward him, a handgun raised, pointed directly at his head.

  “You’re either brave or a fool!” shouted the man as the other attackers swarmed over the area, putting bullets in those not yet dead but merely wounded.

  “What you are doing is blasphemy! This is sacred ground, blessed by the Prophet himself, peace be upon him! To shed blood here of all places, is the most egregious sin one can commit.”

  The man lowered the weapon, still pointing it at him, but in a little less imposing way. “What I am about to do is far more so.” He turned his head toward his men. “Now!”

  Qasim’s jaw dropped as the men stripped out of their black coverings, revealing ceremonial guard uniforms. Inside of a minute they had been transformed, now manning the vehicles of the small security convoy that would take the Prince and his holy charge out of the shrine.

  And to his horror, they all seemed to be speaking English.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper now, the shock simply too great. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because Islam has worshipped at a blasphemous idol for too long. It is time for the true Islam to emerge from the yoke of oppression in all its forms, whether that be praying to this piece of stone, or allowing ourselves to be subjugated by the infidel. Today we fulfill the will of Allah as written in the Koran. Today we take the first step in establishing the Global Caliphate, where those who oppose us will either convert, or die.”

  “You’re mad!”

  The man smiled, raising his weapon once again.

  “Perhaps. But aren’t most great men?”

  The trigger squeezed, the flash from the barrel causing Qasim to gasp as his world suddenly went dark, his last thought a desperate prayer for forgiveness in failing in his duty to protect the holiest of relics.

  And his fear of no longer being worthy of Paradise.

  Sana’a, Yemen

  “This is a shit assignment.”

  “That’s what happens when you sleep with the boss’ daughter. I hope it was worth it.”

  Josh Pullman grinned at his cameraman, Bill O’Toole. “Sooo worth it.”

  Bill bent over and picked up a small rock. “Yeah, well next time just keep in mind your tallywacker”—he whipped the rock at Josh’s crotch—“ended up dragging me along with you to this godforsaken country and I didn’t get any of the good memories to go along with it.”

  Josh rubbed his stinging leg, the rock thankfully missing the boys. “You had your chance with her friend.”

  Bill snapped the camera case shut, lifting it off the dusty table. “Riight, the Program Director’s daughter. Brilliant. You do remember that I’m a happily married man?” He pointed at Josh’s crotch as he swung the camera equipment into the back of their van. “You really need to start thinking with the right head.”

  Josh reached for his crotch to give it a Michael Jackson when he thought better of it, the crowd of curious onlookers devoutly Muslim and most likely to frown upon any genital grabbing. “I’m young, dumb and full of—”

  “Jesus!”

  Josh spun to look at what had shocked Bill, jumping back as four masked men poured out of the back of a van, rushing toward them with AK-47s at the ready, their faces covered with balaclavas. Josh shoved off with his left foot, trying to put their own van between them and the approaching men as Bill stood frozen.

  “Run!” he shouted at his friend, reaching out to grab him, trying to urge him on. Recognition of their situation finally appeared in Bill’s face as his jaw snapped shut and he turned to rush after Josh. Suddenly his body whipped around as a shot rang out. Josh skidded to a halt, turning back toward his friend, his feet slipping out from under him on the gravel. His knees hit the ground, sliding on the stone and packed dirt and he winced as he skinned one of them, his hands painfully slamming into the shards of rock.

  Bill screamed in pain as the four men rushed into view, two with their weapons trained on Bill, the other two swinging wide, their aim coming to rest on Josh as he pushed himself to his feet.

  “You are Josh Pullman?” demanded one of the men, walking swiftly toward him, AK-47 raised high and at Josh’s head.

  Josh nodded, his eyes flitting between the man and his moaning friend, blood oozing out from between his fingers as he clasped his shoulder.

  “You will come with us.”

  Josh felt bile fill his mouth as he realized what was happening. All through the Middle East journalists had been taken hostage by extremists, paraded around on camera and months or years later, beheaded for the world to see.

  There was no way he was going to have his parents see him die that way.

  He shook his head. “No goddamned way.”

  “Blasphemer!” The man turned the butt of the assault rifle around and slammed it into Josh’s stomach. As he doubled over in pain, collapsing to his knees, he realized at that moment this was the first time in his life he had ever been hit. By anything. He had never been in a fight, whether it was in a bar or on the playground as a kid.

  It felt far worse than he could have ever imagined.

  Two of their assailants grabbed him by the arms, hoisting him to his feet as the apparent leader walked over to Bill who lay on the ground, terror in his eyes.

  “We don’t need you.”

  Josh screamed as two bullets fired into Bill’s chest.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  CIA Senior Analyst Chris Leroux wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the beads forming on his forehead. He was definitely coming down with something, and from the hint of gray he had seen in his face a few moments ago in the bathroom, it was probably the flu.

  The last thing I need.

  His girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White had left yesterday on a protection detail, and if his understandi
ng of the flu was correct, she might be coming down with it at any time. And an agent had to be 100% at all times when on an op.

  Which had him worried.

  He always worried about her when she was in the field. Most of her work was fairly routine at the moment as she gained experience and was trained in other languages, something she seemed to have a knack for. Right now she was learning Russian, which also had him worried. He didn’t trust the Russians as far as he could throw one of them, and if the CIA was teaching her Russian it was for one reason.

  To work in Russia.

  Or Soviet Union 2.0 as he had come to think of it.

  Today he was in a briefing room with a dozen section heads like himself, all of them having received an emergency summons only minutes before. It wouldn’t surprise him if the Russians were doing something stupid again—but of course denying it—their propaganda machine now so ridiculous they actually believed their own message.

  If only the Russian people knew what was really going on.

  Then again, the Russian mindset was completely different from the Western one, despite them thinking they were European. They weren’t, never were, never would be. Which was one of the big mistakes inexperienced analysts made—trying to attribute Western styles of thinking to Russian actions.

  You’re better off thinking Chinese. Much closer.

  Everyone rose, Leroux a little slower, as the National Clandestine Services Chief, Leif Morrison, entered the room.

  “As you were,” he said, taking a seat at the head of the table, inserting a memory stick into a slot in front of him. The screen at the far end of the room activated and the first of a slide deck appeared with the CIA logo. “I’ll be brief as time is of the essence. Moments ago we began to receive reports that Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud was kidnapped in Mecca, his entire security detail killed. This man is fifth in line to the throne, and about the only one who is actually healthy enough to still be alive when the King dies—so in other words, he’s important. The White House has reached out to the Saudis but they’re denying it, of course.”

  Morrison motioned toward the screen, giving a quick rundown on what was known, which was little. Leroux watched, his eyes glazing over slightly as his general malaise took a firmer hold. Part of his mind continued to listen to his boss, but another part was trying to figure out what was nagging at him, for there was something there that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, something important, and if he were feeling better, he’d probably have already figured out.

  Perhaps analysts need to be 100% too.

  Then it clicked.

  “Sir, you said this happened today?”

  Leroux flushed as he realized he had just cut Morrison off in mid-sentence. The room turned, their chairs swiveling away from the screen and toward the youngest section head in the room.

  “Yes.” Morrison’s reply was curt but not annoyed, Leroux thankful the man was one of his biggest proponents. “What’ve you got?”

  Leroux leaned forward, suddenly queasy. “Well, in the morning brief there was a mention that the Governor of Mecca would be attending a ritual at the Kaaba. Apparently the Black Stone was to be taken for repairs.”

  Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall seeing that.”

  Leroux shrugged. “It was buried. Maybe it wasn’t in the briefs; I have my own crawlers looking for news items.”

  “Your point?”

  “Well, sir, if he was kidnapped today, then he might have been kidnapped at this ritual.”

  Morrison leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the tips. “You don’t think…” His voice drifted off as the room realized the implication.

  “Could the Black Stone have been stolen?”

  “Jesus,” muttered Donovan Eppes. “Who would dare do that?”

  Eppes’ ex-girlfriend and number one hater, Cindy Fowler, leaned forward. “Surely Muslims wouldn’t, would they?”

  Eppes seemed to forget their ongoing feud. “No, but I could see Mossad doing it.”

  “If it was stolen, they’ll find some way to blame us.”

  The room fell silent, Fowler turning to Eppes. “If they do, every Muslim in the world will declare war on us.”

  Leroux felt his chest tighten at the thought.

  “God help us all.”

  Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

  Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, literally translated as Khalid, son of Abdullah of the House of Saud, stepped down from the transport truck he had been travelling in for hours, tired and weary. He had been given the option of travelling in comfort in the rear of his own limousine, but he hadn’t wanted to let the Black Stone out of his sight.

  He stretched, hard, pushing his old joints to the limit with a groan, something one would never see a British Royal do in public, but the Saudi monarchy was an entirely different beast—decorum wasn’t the name of the game, power and obedience were.

  His had been a life of privilege, incredible privilege. His family was large, direct descendants of the first king numbering well into the hundreds, with distant claims in the thousands, and they controlled the country with an iron fist, their loyalty bought and paid for with oil.

  And as fifth in line to the throne, he was beyond rich. He had read intelligence reports that the CIA estimated his family’s worth at over fourteen trillion dollars. Having seen the official numbers himself, he had to guess that the number was a little low. It was why people like him could buy yachts and airliners worth hundreds of millions of dollars without blinking.

  It was why he always drove in comfort.

  Except today.

  “Your Royal Highness.”

  Prince Khalid turned to the voice as Abu Tahir al-Qarmati approached him, his smile broad, his arms open wide. Khalid smiled as they hugged and kissed. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

  “I am pleased you are safe. Our men are well-trained however when bullets fly, sometimes the innocent are killed.”

  “Fortunately I was in my car when the first shot was fired.” He watched as the men, still in the ceremonial guards uniforms he had provided, unloaded the holy relic. “I fear if they had known it was I who had betrayed them, my guard would have killed me without hesitation.”

  Al Tahir laughed. “From what I understand, they barely did any shooting, so perhaps even then you would have been safe.” He patted one of the men on the back. “I can’t imagine things having gone any better.”

  Khalid rotated his shoulder, wincing slightly.

  “What is wrong?”

  Khalid shook his head. “Nothing. One of your men pulled me out of the car a little roughly, but it is no matter.”

  Al Tahir’s face flushed with anger as he turned toward his men. “Which one of you hurt His Royal Highness?”

  Eyes all dropped to the ground, one man glancing nervously at another who was trembling.

  “Step forward, now!”

  The man, visibly shaking now, took a hesitant step forward.

  “Explain yourself!”

  “I-I didn’t mean to hurt His Royal Highness. I merely wanted it to look real in case anyone was watching. If-if I was too gentle, p-people may have become suspicious.”

  Al Tahir nodded slowly, looking at Khalid. “He’s right, of course.”

  “Indeed.”

  Al Tahir unholstered his handgun and put two bullets in the man’s chest, the look of shock on his face as he grabbed at his wounds while collapsing to the ground matched by no one—none dared show surprise at Al Tahir’s ruthlessness. Khalid had been dealing with the man for several years now and had found him to be a violent, temperamental tyrant who never accepted failure.

  He was also an incredibly effective leader, his men loyal to a fault, his charisma when he spoke of their cause infectious, even Khalid swayed to his way of thinking after hearing him speak only once.

  For his analysis of the Koran and the hadiths could have only one logical interpretation, and once their plan ha
d been completed, Islam would be returned to the true path.

  “Back to work!”

  The men all jumped then rushed back to what they were doing, those who hadn’t been busy quickly making themselves look so. Al Tahir turned to Khalid.

  “I apologize for my man’s actions. I will arrange for your physician to be brought here at once.”

  “It’s not necessary. Besides, he’s served me faithfully over the years and I’d hate to have to kill him just for knowing what we are involved in.”

  Al Tahir smiled. “Soon it will be of no matter. Once our task is complete, he will have no choice but to believe, and after a few years have passed, all Muslims everywhere will wonder why they ever followed such a blasphemous practice.”

  They entered a large Bedouin tent, tea steeping in a fire at the entrance. A servant leapt forward with a bowl of rose water, Khalid washing his hands and drying them with the provided towel. He lay down on a thick carpet, pillows abundant, and made himself comfortable as tea was brought. He looked at Al Tahir, sitting across from him.

  “Our message must be seen by the world. Have you secured the reporter yet?”

  Al Tahir nodded. “He will be here tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. The sooner this task is done the better. Though I have faith we are doing the Prophet’s work, peace be upon him, I fear Satan may interfere with our actions.”

  Al Tahir nodded.

  “Or the Great Satan.”

  Khalid smiled.

  “With our men speaking English, suspicion will be directed at them. By the time they know what’s going on, it will be too late.”

  Mabahith General Investigation Directorate

  Ministry of the Interior, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  “This is unbelievable! Unacceptable!”

  Colonel Faisal bin Nayef watched as his General ranted from behind his desk, picking up a stapler and hurling it into the corner, it smashing against the marble wall and clattering to the floor, joining several other objects that had been within his reach during his tirade.