Two members of the FBI SWAT team edged forward, one of them spoke into his radio, which went to the rest of the team including Jaxon. “Looks like C4. Pretty crude. If I can get close enough, I bet I can disarm it.”
“Allah be merciful,” Prince Bandar cried. “They have my family inside-”
Whatever the man was going to say next was lost in the explosion. He simply disappeared in a flash. As the smoke cleared, Marlene could see the two FBI agents on the ground. One was motionless, the other was writhing in pain.
At that moment, Agent Vic Hodges ran up with his gun drawn. “Ellis wants to know what the delay is.”
“I think we need to call it off,” Marlene said. She pointed at the chess pieces. “I just got those, and I think someone’s trying to tell us something.”
Hodges looked at the white pawns lying on the ground. “What the hell?” he said. “Chess pawns?”
Before anyone could answer, there was the sound of shooting from the house and women and children screaming. A girl, perhaps twelve, darted from the front door screaming. A masked man appeared behind her and shot her before an FBI sniper killed him. Another child screamed inside the house. The federal SWAT team started to rush toward the house.
“Tell your men to wait, Jaxon!” Marlene yelled. “It’s a trap!”
“This is Jaxon, stand down! Stand down!” the agent yelled into his radio.
But it was too late. Driven by the terrified screams of women and children, the SWAT teams were running for the house to try to save the hostages. One paused long enough to throw a flash-bang grenade through the front window, just as other officers were reaching doors and windows on all sides of the building.
Instead of the flash bang of the grenade, however, the entire house went up with a roar. Fifty yards away, Jaxon, Marlene, Lucy, and Hodges were flung to the ground.
Debris rained down on them for what seemed like minutes. When they looked back over the wall, it was at a scene of complete devastation. The house was gone, except for part of the stone fireplace and exposed foundation. A dozen fires burned among the debris of the house and scattered about the yard. There was no sign of the SWAT teams, the hostages, or the terrorists.
The whole world seemed stunned. No one spoke. There were no sounds…except those of Lucy crying.
Three days later, after the SWAT teams and the agency leaders and the postmortem investigators and Marlene, her daughter, and Ned were gone, Agent Vic Hodges-aka Andrew Kane-sat in a dark corner of the bar at the Hotel Jerome off Main Street in Aspen. He was soon joined by Ajmaani, also known as Nadya Malovo.
“And how’s the lovely Samira Azzam?” Kane asked.
Malovo shrugged. “She lives for the day she gets to die in a blaze of glory.”
Kane shook his head. “Save me from true believers,” he said.
“So she has no idea it was a near thing,” Malovo said, “the attempt on the old man. His son recognized me, and that woman-”
“Marlene Ciampi,” Kane filled in helpfully.
“Yes, Ciampi,” Malovo said, “…a dangerous woman. She recognized Azzam. She chose first to kill your man, otherwise she might have shot one of us.”
“Hazards of war, I guess.” Kane smiled.
Malovo didn’t return the smile. “Be careful, Mr. Kane,” she said coldly. “I am not one of your toys. I represent very powerful people who can put a stop to this little plan and turn you over to your friend, Mr. Karp.”
Kane blanched but then laughed as he regained his color. “Don’t threaten me,” he sneered. “Your people want my plan to succeed as much as I do. You need to blame this on the Chechen nationalists so that you can keep your little army in place, while your puppets supply you with oil and fat bank accounts. It is a good thing for both of us that others want us to succeed for their own reasons, isn’t that right, Mr. Ellis?”
Malovo looked up to see the compact, dapper figure and face of Jon Ellis of Homeland Security. “Yes, Mr…. Hodges,” Ellis said. “But enough of these little sideshows-we’ve gone along with your little personal vendetta, and now we want you to focus on the real task at hand.”
Ellis sat down at the table and ordered a double-malt Scotch on ice. He hated drinking with the psychopath Kane and the Russian agent almost as much as he was revolted by the idea of helping Islamic extremists accomplish another act of terror on U.S. soil. However, he and certain others-rich and powerful men and women from many walks of life and areas of the country-were dedicated to protecting the United States of America from enemies within and outside the borders. They were concerned that the American public was growing complacent about the dangers of international terrorism. Safe in their little homes with their big cars and big-screen televisions, they second-guessed actions that men such as Ellis needed to take if they were to win the War on Terror. Hell, they didn’t really get that it was a war…they saw bombings and beheadings as unrelated criminal acts by some shadowy, deranged people, not a battle of Armageddon proportions of Western civilization against the mongrel hordes of the third world. Even September 11, 2001, had been reduced to a three-digit call for help, 9-11, and the subject of anniversary specials on television.
The citizens of the United States just weren’t scared enough anymore. Which made them harder to control and manipulate.
So the rich and powerful people Ellis worked for had decided that the American public needed a new wake-up call. When the Russians had broached the idea that Kane had come up with, it seemed the perfect vehicle for the lesson plan. After this, Americans would realize just how dangerous these Islamic maniacs were and quit questioning the money spent on Homeland Security and the use of the American military to “stabilize” certain parts of the oil-producing world.
Of course, there was the side benefit of keeping the Russians involved in the War on Terror. Sooner or later, as soon as they quashed the pesky nationalists, they’d have to take on the Islamic extremists in Chechnya. And they could hardly complain about the use of the American military while occupying another country themselves.
“As you wish,” Kane said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to focusing on the ‘real task at hand.’ ”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Ellis replied, raising his glass. “To the real task.”
They all drank, then Ellis looked thoughtfully at Kane before asking, “I’m curious. What’s with the expensive chess pieces? It almost got you nailed by Ciampi, who I bet got it from Karchovski. If Jaxon didn’t have to run everything through me, your ass might be on its way back to New York attached to a U.S. Marshal.”
Kane frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
25
“The People call Zachary Stavros.” Guma looked to the side door panel through which the young man entered. He smiled in encouragement as his witness passed looking pale and shaky.
Sitting to Guma’s left, Karp watched his old friend, searching for signs of how he was holding up. The month preceding the trial had been particularly grueling as they prepared, searching for weaknesses, plugging gaps, working on witness prep and preparing their opening and closing statements.
After one particularly long weekend, Karp asked Guma how he was feeling. He said it lightly but was concerned as the circles under his friend’s eyes seemed more pronounced every week, and at other times, he didn’t seem to be quite in the same room, though he was well prepared for the trial, his opening remarks simple, to the point, and powerful.
Master of the understatement, Karp thought. Hell, it’s been a long year, although maybe the worst of it is finally over. Ever since the debacle at Aspen, in which eight law enforcement officers had been killed and a half
