“We’re fighting a war against these people, Joe. If you don’t even know your enemy, I respectfully suggest that the
“Where the hell do you get off—” Decker began, but Gray snapped, “The question we
CHAPTER
60
AFTER THE STUNNING DEMAND, Carter Gray had gone back to work with renewed purpose. The files at NIC contained no record of Farid Shah, so Gray had mulled where next to search. The FBI had its AFIS criminal files, yet Gray was almost certain the name Farid Shah would not be found there. One did not assume a false name with a criminal record attached to it. And as Gray had predicted, a search in the AFIS database also turned up negative.
Next Gray hopped a chopper to Brennan, Pennsylvania. A temporary morgue had been set up there, and Gray examined all of the bodies. The corpse of the doctor from Mercy Hospital looked familiar, but that was all. The problem was many of the photos NIC had in its terrorist files were anywhere from five to fifteen years old. People could change a lot in that amount of time. Gray then traveled to the dedication grounds, the garage, the hospital and finally the apartment building where the snipers had kept the police at bay. Nothing occurred to the NIC chief except his ability to marvel at the terrorists’ intricate planning. Who had set this in motion? Who?
On the chopper ride home he pulled out the photos he’d taken from Shah’s apartment. A sudden thought occurred to him. The chopper was redirected to Langley.
When he arrived, Gray gave the photos and also a mug shot of Farid Shah to the DCI and asked him to make immediate inquiries to try to identify any of them.
Late that evening, back at his office, Gray received a phone call from Langley.
They had turned up an Arab informant who thought he recognized one of the people in the photos. It was the young girl. She was the daughter of someone the informant had fought with in Iraq, first as part of an underground movement against Saddam Hussein and then against the American occupation. When the informant saw Shah’s mug shot, he identified it immediately, although the man’s appearance had changed drastically. He was the young girl’s father.
“What was the father’s name?” Gray asked impatiently.
“Adnan al-Rimi,” the CIA director said. “But that can’t be right. He’s dead.”
Gray acknowledged this, thanked the man and hung up. He immediately accessed the database, pulled up al-Rimi’s file photo and compared that picture with the current mug shot of the man calling himself Farid Shah. Though there was some likeness, even allowing for shaved hair and beard and weight changes, it was not the same man.
Gray sat back in his chair and dropped the photo on his desk. NIC’s database had been corrupted and photos and fingerprints altered. Patrick Johnson had been paid to do it and then killed. That all made sense now; yet where did it leave Carter Gray? He’d been fighting this whole damn war with flawed intelligence. It was far more than a disaster. It was the greatest professional setback Gray had ever experienced.
He walked outside and sat on the bench by the fountain. While Gray listened to the soothing water he stared up at the NIC facility, the greatest intelligence agency in the world. And right now he knew it was absolutely useless to him. This had been an inside job. His earlier suspicions about terrorists killing terrorists and then being “resurrected” had been confirmed. But who was the traitor? And how deep did the treachery go? Despite the vast resources at his disposal, Carter Gray was now very much alone.
Tom Hemingway sat on the concrete floor, his long legs folded under him. His eyes were closed and his pulse and breathing so slowed that it was not apparent at first glance that he was actually alive. When he rose, he moved fast down the hallway and entered another room. He unlocked a heavy door, passed through it, unlocked another one and went inside.
In a small enclosure, lying on a cot, her arms and legs chained to the wall, was Chastity Hayes. Her even breathing showed her to be asleep. Hemingway left Hayes and went to another room, where his other, far more important prisoner was also sleeping comfortably. Hemingway stood in the doorway and watched President Brennan for a while. And reflected on what had happened.
When everyone expected murderous violence, Hemingway had given the world restraint. When everyone anticipated that the stereotype of the fanatical Muslim would be repeated once more, he had thrown the world a curve of historic proportion. Yet it was not without precedent. Gandhi had changed an entire continent with nonviolence. Brutal segregationists in the American South had finally been beaten by sit-ins and peace marches. Turning the other cheek was Hemingway’s “new” way. He had no idea if it would work, but it was clearly worth a chance. Because without it, all he saw was the inevitable destruction of two worlds that he cared so much about. He was apparently ignoring the fact that what happened in Pennsylvania had terrorized thousands and injured hundreds, some critically.
Hemingway had agonized over how much to tell the Arabs about the mission. Would they follow orders if they knew not one of their enemy would perish? Yet finally, Hemingway had decided that if he was asking them to die for this cause, they should die fully informed. It was the right thing to do. So the men in Brennan, Pennsylvania, sacrificed their lives with the knowledge that their foes were safe. It was one of the most courageous acts Hemingway had ever witnessed.
Hemingway checked his watch. There would be another message delivered to the world shortly. It involved
Kate met with the Camel Club at Oliver Stone’s cottage and reported her failure with Alex Ford.
She said, “He blames himself for what happened to the president.”
“Having come to know him well over the years, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Stone replied. “He’s a proud man who takes his work very seriously.”
“
“Well, we’re running out of time,” Milton said. He had his computer on and pointed to the screen. “It’s getting very ugly out there.” They all crowded around him, staring at the news flashing across the computer. Milton said, “Even with the demand note saying they’ll let Brennan go, the violence is getting out of control. Muslims are being beaten and killed by mobs all over the world. And the Muslims are retaliating. Five Americans were ambushed in Kuwait and beheaded. And Iraq has become totally destabilized again.”
Stone added, “And now even the more moderate Islamic elements are calling for the kidnappers holding Brennan to extract a heavy price for him from America.”
“One group is calling for the kidnappers to demand nuclear weapons in exchange for his return,” Caleb said. “My God, the whole world is collapsing. Why can’t people just sit and read books and be nice to each other?”
Reuben raised a thick eyebrow at that naive comment. “The U.S. military is cocked and locked, just waiting for the word to go.”
“This might cause an all-out war with the Islamic world,” Caleb said.
“Some people might want war,” Stone said.
“What if the president is released . . . ,” Kate said.
“It might not matter,” Stone replied. “With the world so divided, all it could take is one single catalyst to set the final battle in place.”
“But if we can find out who did it?” Kate said.
“Us?” exclaimed Reuben. “We haven’t got a bloody chance in hell of doing that.”
“You’re wrong, Reuben,” Stone interjected sternly. They all looked at him. “Alex Ford once paid me a visit here; perhaps it’s time the Camel Club reciprocated.”
