Pursuit of Honor Part 32

"You don't scare me, Mr. Rapp. Give me the money and we will talk. Until then I am done with you." Ramirez started to stand.

Sidorov put his head in his hand and began mumbling to himself. After a moment the Russian looked up and said, "General, this is not the wise approach."

"Don't lecture me," Ramirez snapped.

Rapp reached out and clamped onto the general's wrist. "Sit." He pulled him back into his seat.

"Don't touch me! You Russians and Americans are the same. Your condescending ways have grown old. Neither of you scare me. One word from me to my bodyguards and you will both be dead. Like that!" Ramirez snapped the fingers on his free hand.

Rapp regarded him for a moment and then decided it was time to hit him with option number three. "General, you think that because I'm American I won't actually follow through with my threats."

Ramirez snorted. "That is correct. Every time you have tried subterfuge with Cuba you have failed. Just as you will fail to intimidate me."

"We'll see about that. That planeload of drugs you and your men helped off-load last week . . . any idea where it came from?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," the general said in a haughty voice.

Rapp ignored his denial. "Your new friend al Harbi-the guy you set up the drug deal with-he stole it from the Red Command Cartel." Rapp let the words hang in the air for a beat and saw a flicker of recognition in the general's eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"I really don't give a s.h.i.t if you believe me or not. The important thing is that they will believe me, because I have the intel to prove it. Satellite photos of your men off-loading the plane. My source told me you've already sold half your take. Phone intercepts of you talking about a new lucrative business partner." Rapp made some of it up, but he knew the general was too focused on the Red Command Cartel to doubt him. Of all the South American drug cartels the Red Command was by far the most violent. "I figure you have two problems. I tell the Red Command that you helped orchestrate the theft and then I tell the Brits what you did. They'll come swooping in and seize every offsh.o.r.e account with your name on it. All of those dollars you've squirreled away will be locked up in a legal fight for years to come. The families who lost people last week will line up by the hundreds to sue you, and they'll take every last penny."

Ramirez turned to Sidorov and said, "You will pay for this."

"For what?" Sidorov asked. "Trying to save your life?"

"Consider everything you have invested in my country gone. All of it."

Rapp laughed and said, "What an a.s.shole. Here Peter is trying to help you, and this is how you repay him."

"He is not trying to help me."

"Trust me . . . If it wasn't for him you'd already be dead." Rapp shook his head at the stubborn p.r.i.c.k and said, "You know, before meeting you, I thought I would make this clean and easy. You either tell me everything you know about this Hakim guy, especially any financial transactions, or I kill you."

"Please, enough of your false threats and theatrics. Pay me a million dollars or I will walk away."

"How about I tell you to go f.u.c.k yourself and call the Red Command Cartel and tell them that you helped plot the raid that killed seven of their men and looted one of their distribution facilities of approximately twenty million dollars in cocaine."

"You are bluffing."

"I doubt they will be so kind as to fly you to the Bahamas on their private plane. In fact, you will never see them coming. They'll show up at your house one night and slit everyone's throat. They'll kill your grandchildren, your servants, anyone and everyone they find, and they will probably keep you alive just to watch." Rapp watched him squirm for the first time. He stood, pushing his chair back and eyeing the Cuban bodyguards. "So what's it going to be, General? Do you want to live and keep your money, or do you want to die?"

Rapp waited five seconds. He watched the greedy general try to figure out what he would do. Five seconds after that Rapp decided he was done dealing with the idiot. "f.u.c.k you, General." Rapp started to walk away.

"Wait."

Looking over his shoulder, Rapp saw the general reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a pen and a small notebook.

"He told me he was Lebanese." The general began writing down a name. "Adam Farhat." He wrote a few more lines on the paper and then tore it off and gave it to Rapp. "That is the bank he used. He specifically directed me to contact a banker, Christian something . . . I can't remember the last name. The deposit was to be held in escrow until our deal was completed."

"Account numbers?"

"I do not have the account numbers, but I would imagine a man of your resources can figure that out."

You're d.a.m.n right, Rapp thought to himself. He looked at Sidorov and said, "We'll talk later." Then turning to the general he said, "For your sake, I hope we never cross paths again." Rapp thought to himself. He looked at Sidorov and said, "We'll talk later." Then turning to the general he said, "For your sake, I hope we never cross paths again."

CHAPTER 63.

Na.s.sAU, BAHAMAS.

THE transfer in Miami was easy. Hakim got in line at the gate and was given his seat a.s.signment for the flight over to the island. He didn't get first cla.s.s this time because there was no first cla.s.s. The plane was a turboprop operated by American Eagle. The only real moment of stress came on the other end when they landed at Lynden Pindling International Airport. When clearing customs he lied on his form and said that he would be staying at the megaresort Atlantis. He planned on going nowhere near the place and grew worried as the customs agent punched in his name and allowed his eyes to linger on his computer screen for what seemed an unusual amount of time. He had used the pa.s.sport on other occasions, but this would be his last. When Michael Andros didn't show up for his return flight on Monday morning the pa.s.sport would be flagged, but by then Hakim planned on being at least a few hundred miles south of the current location. transfer in Miami was easy. Hakim got in line at the gate and was given his seat a.s.signment for the flight over to the island. He didn't get first cla.s.s this time because there was no first cla.s.s. The plane was a turboprop operated by American Eagle. The only real moment of stress came on the other end when they landed at Lynden Pindling International Airport. When clearing customs he lied on his form and said that he would be staying at the megaresort Atlantis. He planned on going nowhere near the place and grew worried as the customs agent punched in his name and allowed his eyes to linger on his computer screen for what seemed an unusual amount of time. He had used the pa.s.sport on other occasions, but this would be his last. When Michael Andros didn't show up for his return flight on Monday morning the pa.s.sport would be flagged, but by then Hakim planned on being at least a few hundred miles south of the current location.

The man gave him the proper stamps, and he went out front to catch a taxi. He was hyperalert now. Too alert. Behind every pair of sungla.s.ses he saw a potential spy watching his every move. He decided he needed a good long sleep in a warm bed. Hakim directed the driver to take him to Princess Margaret Hospital. The drive through town was uneventful, but then again he couldn't turn around to see if anyone was following them. The driver asked him if he wanted to go to the emergency room or the main entrance. Hakim told him the main door.

He paid the man in American dollars and gave him a five-dollar tip. He spent five minutes walking through the hospital, his suitcase trailing behind him. At the first garbage can he found he ditched the cotton b.a.l.l.s. When he got to the emergency area he leaned his cane against a chair and exited the building. Across the street he found a string of cabs. He carefully slid into the backseat of the first one and asked the driver to take him to the Towne Hotel. Hakim had stayed there before. It was nothing special, in fact it was pretty down-market, but it would do for one afternoon. The drive took just a few minutes. When Hakim got out he looked across the street and laughed at the irony. The entire block was dominated by the American Emba.s.sy.

The clerk behind the desk was a young man. Hakim pulled out a wad of cash and said, "A room for one night, please."

"Just you, Mr. . . . ? "

"Smith," Hakim said pleasantly as he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

The clerk glanced toward the restaurant to see if anyone was watching and then casually pulled the bill toward him and placed a stack of envelopes on top of it. "Will you be paying cash, Mr. Smith?"

"Yes."

The clerk quoted him the rate and then added the taxes. All told it came to a little less than ninety dollars per night. Hakim gave him another hundred and told him to keep it. He took the key and moved down the hall toward his room, smiling to himself. He couldn't wait to feel the sand on his feet, but first he had to make a phone call and ask for a favor. When he reached the room he left the suitcase by the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the phone for a second and made sure he remembered the number. His eyes danced over the keys and then he picked up the handset and dialed his friend's number.

"h.e.l.lo," the male voice on the other end said.

"Christian," Hakim said in a happy voice that concealed his nerves. "It's Adam. How are you?" He listened intently for even the slightest sign of nerves from the other man.

"Adam! I was wondering when you would pop up. I received some very nice deposits for your account this week. Quite a bit more than you told me."

"Yes," Hakim said, thinking of the two pallets of drugs. "My importer decided to double their order at the last minute."

"That's a lot of coffee."

"Yes." Hakim thought he sounded normal and was apparently still buying his story that he was a coffee bean importer. "Even during a recession people need their caffeine."

"I know. I couldn't live without it. At any rate, I must thank you. My boss is very happy with your deposits. You are making me look very good. Now I suppose you will want to move it."

"Not before I give you the chance to try to sell me some investments."

"Good. Are you free for dinner?"

"Possibly . . ." Hakim honestly wasn't sure. He needed to put something on the table so he didn't surprise Christian too much when they met. "I was in a car accident and am not feeling 100 percent."

"Oh, my gosh . . . I'm sorry to hear that. How serious?"

"Some broken ribs, but mostly bruises."

"Can I help? Are you on the island? Do you need to stay at my place?"

"I am. I just arrived. I planned on getting here yesterday, but wasn't well enough to travel."

"What can I do to help?"

"Well . . . I need to get something out of my safety deposit box. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I remember when I purchased the box you told me that for special clients access to the box could be arranged on weekends as well."

"Absolutely! You are one of my best clients. When would you like to access your deposit box?"

"Would an hour from now work?"

"Absolutely! And I hope you will allow me to buy you a drink. And we need to get our fishing trip planned. Remember . . . you promised me."

"We will," Hakim said with a laugh. "Don't worry. I will see you in an hour." Hakim hung up the phone with the confidence that his cover was secure. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels until he found CNN and then he froze. Plastered across the screen were two pa.s.sport photos that Hakim instantly recognized. They were headshots that he had had Karim take while he was training the men in the jungle near Ciudad del Este. Karim then emailed him the photos and Hakim used them to purchase two fake pa.s.sports, one for Karim and the other for Ahmed. They were the pa.s.sports that he had placed in the backpacks and had stashed in the barn back in Iowa. The same barn that Karim was convinced had been burned to the ground.

CHAPTER 64.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THEY pa.s.sed through Centerville on Interstate 66 just before noon. The plan had been to reach the outer-ring suburb at 8:00 A.M., but they had taken a wrong turn in Tennessee. The quickest route to Washington would have brought them back up through St. Louis, and Karim reasoned the last thing they wanted to do was head back in the same direction they had come, so they swung down south and took a very confusing route. That's what Karim kept telling himself, because the alternative was to take the blame, and that simply wasn't going to happen. He had been at the wheel when the mistake was made, while Ahmed was in back sleeping. pa.s.sed through Centerville on Interstate 66 just before noon. The plan had been to reach the outer-ring suburb at 8:00 A.M., but they had taken a wrong turn in Tennessee. The quickest route to Washington would have brought them back up through St. Louis, and Karim reasoned the last thing they wanted to do was head back in the same direction they had come, so they swung down south and took a very confusing route. That's what Karim kept telling himself, because the alternative was to take the blame, and that simply wasn't going to happen. He had been at the wheel when the mistake was made, while Ahmed was in back sleeping.

Karim was tired and irritable, but with Washington on the horizon the prospect of revenge helped lift his spirits. He was a man of action. Cowering in a farmhouse did not suit him, although the betrayal of his closest friend was weighing heavily on him. He knew that was the real reason he had missed the turn. He had been absorbed in his own self-pity. For the benefit of Ahmed, he was trying to act as if none of it bothered him, but it did, and in ways he could have never imagined. The betrayal, the words, the deeds of someone so selfish. He had given Hakim so much and this was how he repaid him. How could he not have seen it earlier?

All of his careful planning, his bold moves, his bravery, all of it was on the verge of being destroyed, by one man, a man who was supposed to be his friend. Looking back on it now, though, the signs were obvious. Hakim had never been a true Muslim. He had always questioned their teachers and their clerics. He had been poisoned by all of his time in the West. His obsession with American literature and sport fishing. All of it should have been a warning to him, but he wanted to believe his friend did it only for show, so he could blend in and pave the way for his elite group to strike Washington. It had been Hakim's idea to flee to Iowa and wait for the storm to blow over. He had named him the Lion of al Qaeda. He had planted the seeds of doubt in regard to the al Qaeda leadership. Hakim had whispered in his ear not to trust them. That they could finance the operation on their own. Karim could not believe he had been so naive as to not see the true selfish motives of his friend.

And now the coward had run away and was threatening to spread lies, complete fabrications that would make him the laughingstock of the Muslim world. Karim had spent much of the night behind the wheel of the RV telling himself that Hakim either would not go through with it or was not capable of pulling it off. As the miles ticked by, though, he knew that he was wrong on both counts. Hakim had helped create the Lion of al Qaeda, and he was surely capable of destroying the carefully constructed legend. At one point, when Karim was sure Ahmed was asleep, he actually wept. It had been the first time in years. The tears flowed over the injustice. How could a fellow Muslim do such a thing? When the tears finally stopped, Karim turned the anger on himself. He had allowed his friendship and affection for Hakim to blind him. For too many years he had allowed Hakim to get away with things he would have never tolerated from another warrior.

Early in the morning, as they pa.s.sed over an unknown mountain range, Karim was greeted with perhaps the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen, more beautiful than all the sunrises combined that he had witnessed before going into battle against the Americans in Afghanistan. Fog clung to the valley below and it looked as if they were in paradise looking back down on earth. It was in that dazzling, beautiful moment that Karim felt Allah calling for him. Hakim had deceived him and distracted him from his destiny. He had robbed him of his deserved glory, of the honorable death of a commander leading his warriors in battle, standing by their side and dying with them. The tears came again, but this time they were tears of anger, not self-pity. He thought of his brave, beautiful warriors charging into the teeth of Satan himself. Not a single one of them hesitated or even looked back. It was the bravest thing he had ever seen.

And the American president called them cowards. Karim gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought he might break it. He had lied to the world and flaunted the inflated tactics of his own people-this Mike Nash and his meaningless medal. Every time he recalled the orchestrated press conference he wanted to scream. The American president couldn't open his mouth without spewing lies, yet there was the press, complicit in every way, repeating and amplifying the lies. Karim would wake them up. He would give them something to remember him by. He would make his men proud, and he would show the world that America's president was a liar.

Karim had the address as well as the phone number memorized. It had been emblazoned on his subconscious nearly a year earlier. It was part of the original plan orchestrated by al Qaeda's senior leadership. They were not far from the safe house, but first he needed to get rid of the RV. Karim called for Ahmed to join him up front.

"Two more exits. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Karim stayed in the right lane, slowing with the merging and exiting cars. At the Fairfax County Parkway exit he looped around and headed north. He took his second right turn at Fair Lakes Parkway and then followed it straight to the big mall. The place was huge, with rows and rows of cars to choose from. Karim pointed out several cameras as well as a mall security vehicle parked close to one of the main entrances.

"Remember," Karim said, holding up the phone. "Turn yours on and we will use the talk b.u.t.ton on the side."

"I remember."

Next to a gra.s.sy boulevard with a row of trees, Karim brought the big RV to a stop. Ahmed exited the vehicle and crossed the boulevard. Ten seconds later he was wading through a sea of cars, working his way toward the Macy's entrance just like the thousands of shoppers who would attend the mall on this sunny Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Karim drove a hundred meters and parked in the area farthest from the mall. The parking lot was about 70 percent full. He glanced down at his digital watch. Every man on his team had been taught how to steal a car. They focused on the most common makes and models and knew exactly what wires to clip and how to disengage the steering lock. Even so, Karim's heart was racing.

His phone beeped and for an instant Karim thought Ahmed was trying to talk to him. He looked at the screen and saw that the message light was blinking. He stared at the phone, wondering if he could listen to the message and still receive a call from Ahmed. He knew the message was from Hakim, and the pull to find out what he had said was too much. Karim pressed the message b.u.t.ton and waited for voice prompts.

Karim's eyes scanned the parking lot while the quiet voice of Hakim played over the tiny speaker. "It's too bad you didn't trust me. I'm already on my way out of the country. I suppose you're stuck somewhere in the middle of America getting ready to kill another innocent woman. The Lion of al Qaeda . . ." the words were followed by mocking laughter. "It should be the Lamb of al Qaeda." Karim's jaw clenched. "It's too bad you don't have the genitalia to fight a real man face to face."

Karim let loose an unbridled scream of anger that echoed through the RV, while he smashed his fist repeatedly down on the dashboard. When he was done he looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear and then repeated the process. He didn't think he had ever wanted to kill anyone more in his life. Karim replayed the message one more time and then pressed the b.u.t.ton to reply. At the beep, he said, "You are a coward and you have always been a coward. You have proved it once again by running away and leaving me to fight. I will prove to the world that I am the lion and you are the lamb. My only regret is that I will not be able to kill you with my own hands, but do not worry . . . I will make sure that you are marked as a traitor to Islam and hunted to the ends of the earth."

Moments after he left the message the phone crackled with the voice of Ahmed. "I am pulling up behind you."

Karim checked his side mirror and saw a dark blue pickup. He pressed the b.u.t.ton on the side of the phone and said, "Follow me."

They left the mall lot and went back down Fair Lakes Parkway. Karim remembered seeing an office park not far away. It would be mostly empty on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. He took a right at Fair Lakes Court and pulled into the tree-lined lot a few hundred meters ahead on his left. He was pleased by the absence of security cameras. Karim parked the RV, climbed out of the driver's seat, and went back to the kitchen area where two bags were packed and waiting by the door. He went out the side door and locked and closed it behind him. Ahmed had already opened the rear-side storage compartment. He took two bags from the compartment and placed them in the back of the pickup before going back for a third.

Ahmed then climbed back behind the wheel of the Ford F-150 while Karim jumped in the pa.s.senger seat. Karim pulled the map from his pocket and checked their location one more time before telling Ahmed where to go. He led him back toward the mall and had him take a left on Ox Road. They wound through some plush residential neighborhoods until they found themselves on Stuart Mill Road. The rolling tree-lined street held some of the county's most expensive homes. Karim, however, was not impressed.

The house was ahead on the right. Karim instantly recognized the gate even though it had been nearly a year since he'd looked at the photos. Before leaving Pakistan they had spent weeks going over every detail of the plan. Originally this place was to serve as the staging area for the attacks. The hilltop estate was shrouded in trees and was big enough to house a battalion of men. Over thirty-thousand square feet of opulence owned by Saudi Aramco. It was used to entertain and house the man who ran the Saudi-owned national oil company's Washington office. Karim had been a.s.sured the executive would be out of the country for the week before the attack and the week after. The staff would also be given time off.

They pulled up to the gate and stopped. Both men looked up the long, paved driveway. From their vantage they could glimpse just a portion of the house. Karim glanced over at the keypad and remembered the code. It was simple enough. "The four corners," he said to Ahmed. "One, three, nine, seven."

Ahmed pressed the numbers and the gate slid open. They drove slowly up the driveway, continued past the circle that led to the front door, and went around the right side of the house where the garage doors were located. Karim drew his gun and spun the silencer into place before jumping out of the vehicle. He found the keypad on the first of four doors, punched in the same code they used for the gate, and then hit enter. The door began sliding smoothly up. Karim moved off to his right and looked around the corner of the house to the backyard. It was landscaped in such a way that his view was blocked. He moved back to the edge of the garage and bent to look under the rising door. The s.p.a.ce straight ahead was open, but the other three were occupied. Karim was pleased. He ducked under the door and moved across the gray floor. Ahmed put the truck in drive and followed him.

When the vehicle was clear of the door Karim pressed the b.u.t.ton and lowered it. Ahmed turned the truck off and jumped out. Before Karim had to tell him, the Moroccan drew his pistol and quickly spun a silencer onto the end of it. Karim placed his hand on the doork.n.o.b.

He'd been told it would likely be unlocked, but if it wasn't there was a key hidden behind the garbage can. He tried the handle and it moved. Both men stepped into a back hallway and turned their attention to the buzzing keypad on the wall. Karim punched in the code, but in reverse this time. The buzzing stopped a split second later and they both breathed a sigh of relief that did not last long.

Footsteps could be heard down the hallway and then the voice of a man called out. Karim leveled his gun and glided down the hall in near silence. Ahmed trailed two steps behind. The wide hallway had doorways on the left and the right. Karim bypa.s.sed both of them, leaving them to Ahmed. A modern oil painting hung on the wall straight ahead and there were open archways to the left and the right. Karim moved to the right side and took a quick look into the room on the left before springing back to his left so he could get a better angle on the room where he thought he had heard the voice. There was movement. At least one person. Karim charged ahead, his gun ready to dispatch any threat. A man was seated at the kitchen table in a white robe and a woman was standing in the middle of the kitchen, also in a white robe, frozen like a statue with a coffee cup in one hand and a saucer in the other.

Karim would never know if it was the dropping of the cup and saucer and the way they shattered on the stone floor or the woman's earsplitting scream that caused him to squeeze the trigger, but he did know that it happened without any forethought. The bullet sailed clear through her open mouth and blew out a good portion of the back of her head. An instant later she was on the floor twitching among the broken white ceramic shards of her coffee cup and saucer. Karim glanced at her and then his eyes traveled back to the white cupboards that had been behind her. They were covered with brain matter and blood and looked amazingly similar to the modern painting he had just pa.s.sed in the hall. His eyes traveled next to the silent man at the table. He was in his fifties and was undoubtedly Arab. The woman could have been his daughter.

The man swallowed hard and then with a quivering lip said, "Please don't kill me."

Karim nodded and asked, "What is your name?"

"Khalid," he said. "Khalid al Saeed."