It seemed her opponent was able to move even more quickly than she had imagined. And he seemed to have some height.
She dove again, this time moving back to her first position, which she hoped would be the last move he would expect. Her body collided on hard cobblestone, and the tremendous pain in her leg reminded her that even a creasing wound from a bullet will hurt and bleed. She could steel herself, using the powers of combat concentration Abbas had taught her. But eventually the leg would weaken. The killer would catch her.
While she still could, she sprang from behind the stone tomb and ran. Navigation was difficult in the darkness, even with her glasses, but she had little choice. If he was above her, perhaps poised on a high tomb, then she must get closer and below him. It was the only place she would be safe.
As soon as she emerged, the rain of automatic bullets cut a trail behind her, bouncing off stone surfaces all around. But she knew he had not had a chance to change his position. So long as she remained to his left, it would be difficult for him to get her. He was trying to frighten her, or slow her down, to buy himself time.
The bullets stopped. She heard footsteps above her, not far in the distance.
He was atop a redbrick tomb, large enough to be a small house or garage. She had noticed it on her way into the cemetery. Greek Revival style, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ran for it, hoping to her God that the darkness would hinder the killer just as much as it did her.
Bullets rang out. She kept on running. Another bullet hit her arm, this time a much more solid hit. She kept on running. When she approached the tomb, she did not stop. She executed a quick series of kao moi steps and moved vertically up the side of the building, faster than gravity could restrain her. She flung herself on top of the tomb, her hands grasping for purchase.
What she found was a boot. The sniper’s boot.
“May I help you up, 355?”
“You may burn in the land of the damned,” she shot back. She struggled to pull herself all the way up, but he held her back. “Where is the General?”
“Did you really think he would come? Then you are more stupid than everyone says.”
“I told him I would not appear unless I saw him first.”
“But I found you, didn’t I? Stupid woman.” He grabbed her long black hair and yanked her onto the roof, scraping her face on the surface. She started to rise to her hands and knees, but he jabbed the barrel of his rifle against her face. “Unclean harlot. I spit on you.” And he did.
“Throw away your rifle and we will see who is weak,” she snarled.
He sideswiped her across the face with the butt of his gun. Blood spilled from her lips. “You do not cover yourself. You have no husband. You do not follow the ways of the Qur’an.”
“The Qur’an does not require marriage and it only says that both men and women should dress modestly. Perhaps if you had read it, you would know more about its teachings.”
He hit her again, this time even harder. “Eliminating you will buy my ticket into heaven.”
“Murder will only make you the pawn of a man who has destroyed lives many times over.”
“You know nothing!” he shouted. A cruel smile spread across his face. “Perhaps I will take my advantage before I kill you. There can be no crime in taking pleasure from one already so soiled.”
“If you touch me, I swear that I will kill you.”
He moved forward, pointing his rifle. “I will cripple you like a pig. I will shoot you in both legs. You will not be able to resist me as I take what I want.” He put his eye to the sight and aimed at her right leg. “I don’t know which will give me more pleasure-hurting you or having you. I shall do both, many times.”
His finger moved toward the trigger.
Shohreh closed her eyes.
A moment later, he was on top of her. But he was not moving.
She opened her eyes and pushed his heavy body away. A broad-shouldered white man stood behind him holding a large stone in his hands.
“Yeah, it’s crude, I know,” he said, smiling. “But I had to do the best I could with what was handy.”
She stared at the man, dazed, uncertain what to say or do. “Have-have you also come to kill me?”
“Nah. I just wanna chat a little.”
“You-don’t work for the General?”
“No, I work for the senator. Ben Kincaid. Well, technically, at the moment, I’m workin’ for his wife.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Loving. Why don’t we get your wounds taken care of? Then maybe we can jawbone a little. You got no idea how long I’ve been lookin’ for you.”
21
Joel Salter never ceased to be amazed by the high-tech laboratory the Bureau called the Computer Investigations and Infrastructure Threat Assessment Center (CIITAC). The transparent acrylic dividers, the countless blue-flickering computer screens, the constant clickety-click of printers recording data: all seemed like something out of a Steven Spielberg movie, not anything that could relate to real-life law enforcement. But it did. CIITAC superficially had many domestic purposes relating to Internet activity, such as protecting the Net from viruses, worms, and other invasive programs that could cause havoc with American computer networks. But inside the hallowed halls of this building, no one had any doubt about the true reason Congress had authorized the tens of millions of dollars necessary to put this sci-fi dream together.
Terrorism. After 9/11, the FBI, which supposedly focused on domestic federal crime prevention, was all about the international threat. The Bureau’s number one priority was counterterrorism-the detection and prevention of crimes of large-scale violence. Its number two priority was the gathering of counterintelligence, once the sole province of the CIA and NSA. But those days were long past. Today most people cared far less about kidnappings and bank robberies and far more about airport security, the water supply, and the white powder that might spill out of the morning mail.
Salter had not been happy about watching his job at the Bureau mutate from what he signed up for to something that, in his opinion, he had no business doing, didn’t do well, and left other important duties neglected. He knew he wasn’t the only one who lamented the transformation of FBI agents from door-kicking G-men to intelligence analysts. The CIA did spies; the FBI caught crooks. At least, that was the way it was supposed to be. But the Joint Terrorism Task Forces, an initiative that allowed the FBI to work with state and local law enforcement agencies, had expanded from thirty-five to 101 offices-and more were likely forthcoming in the future.
The Patriot Act had granted the FBI greatly enhanced powers, in particular the ability to wiretap with more leniency and to monitor private Internet activity. Salter knew this was a slippery slope, and sure enough, it was almost no time at all before the FBI was using the “sneak and peek” provision of the Patriot Act to search houses while residents were absent without giving prior notice, or snooping into individuals’ library records. CIITAC was used to keep the FBI abreast of the ever-advancing telecommunications industry and the various ways to invade it, including all forms of electronic surveillance. Just as the fear of communism in the 1960s had resulted in FBI surveillance of Martin Luther King, Jr., and John Lennon, so the current fear of terrorists could lead to even greater abuses.
Fabulous powers to have in a crisis, Salter acknowledged. And dangerous powers in the wrong hands, a fact he was constantly reminded of as he watched the newly appointed director of Homeland Security’s eyes light up like a cocaine addict’s as he explained what all these computer gizmos could do. For someone who had such contempt for the FBI, he sure did like its toys.
“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” Lehman said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “You have the ability to eavesdrop on Internet communications as they are made?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Salter acknowledged. “Of course, that would be unconstitutional absent a warrant, even under the Patriot Act.”
