The Camel Club

crowd coughed up a million dollars for Brennan’s political party. That was certainly worth a private ride in the Beast.

Gray was whisked away from the White House moments later. Contrary to the president’s advice, Carter Gray had no intention of going to bed, and forty-five minutes later he was striding onto the grounds of the National Intelligence Center headquarters in Loudoun County, Virginia. The facility was as well protected as NSA in Maryland. Two full army companies — four hundred soldiers strong — were devoted to the exterior security. However, none had the necessary security clearances to set foot inside any of the structures except in the event of a catastrophe. The main building looked like it was all glass with commanding views of the Virginia countryside. There actually wasn’t a window in the place. Behind the glass panes, the bunker-thick concrete walls, lined with specialized material, prevented human or electronic eyes from peering in.

Here more than three thousand men and women armed with the most sophisticated technology labored 24/7 to keep America safe, while the other intelligence agencies fed NIC with more data every second of every day.

After the intelligence failures surrounding 9/11 and the CIA’s WMD disaster, many U.S. leaders were left wondering if “American intelligence” was an oxymoron. Subsequent governmental attempts at reform had met with little success and had actually created more confusion at a time when clarity and focus in the intelligence sector were national goals. A National Counter-Terrorism Center with its own director reporting to the president and a brand-new Intelligence Directorate at the FBI were added to the plethora of existing counterintelligence ranks that still largely refused to share information with each other.

At least in Gray’s mind, saner heads had prevailed and shredded all these unnecessary layers in favor of a single national intelligence director with his own agency personnel, operations center and, of critical importance, budget and operational control over all other intelligence agencies. It was an old adage in the spy business that analysts got you in political hot water but covert op people landed you in prison. If Gray ever went down, he wanted to be responsible for his own professional demise.

Gray entered the main building, went through the biometric identification process and stepped into an elevator that whisked him to the top floor.

The room was small and well lighted. He entered, took a seat and put on a headset. There were four other people in the room. On one wall was a video screen, and on the table in front of Gray was a dossier labeled with the name Salem al-Omari. He knew the file contents by heart.

“It’s late, so let’s get to it,” Gray said. The lights dimmed, the screen came to life and they saw a man sitting in a chair in the middle of a room. He was dressed in blue scrubs with neither hands nor feet bound. His features were Middle Eastern, his eyes haunted but also defiant. They were all defiant, Gray had found. When he looked at someone like al-Omari, Gray couldn’t help but think of a Dostoyevsky creation, the displaced outsider, brooding, plotting and methodically stroking a weapon of anarchy. It was the face of a fanatic, of one possessed by a deranged evil. It was the same type of person who’d taken away forever the two people Gray had loved most in the world.

Though al-Omari was thousands of miles away in a facility only a very few people even knew existed, the picture and sound were crystal clear thanks to the satellite downlink.

Through his headset he asked al-Omari a question in English. The man promptly answered in Arabic and then smiled triumphantly.

In flawless Arabic Gray said, “Mr. al-Omari, I am fluent in Arabic and can actually speak it better than you. I know that you lived in England for years and that you speak English better than you do Arabic. I strongly suggest that we communicate in that language so there is absolutely no misunderstanding between us.”

Al-Omari’s smile faded, and he sat straighter in his chair.

Gray explained his proposal. Al-Omari was to become a spy for the United States, infiltrating one of the deadliest terrorist organizations operating in the Middle East. The man promptly refused. Gray persisted and al- Omari refused yet again, adding that “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“There are currently ninety-three terrorist organizations in the world as recognized by the U.S. State Department, most of them originating in the Middle East,” Gray responded. “You have confirmed membership in at least three of them. In addition, you were found with forged passports, structural plans to the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and bomb-making material. Now you’re going to work for us, or it will become distinctly unpleasant.”

Al-Omari smiled and leaned toward the camera. “I was interrogated years ago in Jordan by your CIA and your military and your FBI, your so-called Tiger Teams. They sent females in wearing only their underwear. They wiped their menstrual blood on me, or at least what they called their menstrual blood, so I was unclean and could not perform my prayers. They rubbed their bodies against me, offered me sex if I talk. I say no to them and I am beaten afterward.” He sat back. “I have been threatened with rape, and they say I will get AIDS from it and die. I do not care. True followers of Muhammad do not fear death as you Christians do. It is your greatest weakness and will lead to your total destruction. Islam will triumph. It is written in the Qur’an. Islam will rule the world.”

“No, that is not written in the Qur’an,” Gray rejoined. “Not in any of the 114 suras. And neither is world domination mentioned in the sayings of Muhammad.”

“You’ve read the Hadith?” al-Omari said incredulously, referring to the collections of sayings and the life of the Prophet Muhammad and the first Muslims.

“And I’ve read the Qur’an in Arabic. Western scholars have never done a good job of translating that language, unfortunately. Thus, Mr. al-Omari, you should know that Islam is actually a peaceful, tolerant religion, though it is a religion that defends itself vigorously. That’s understandable, since some ‘civilized’ cultures have been trying to convert Muslims to their faith ever since the Crusades, first with the sword and then the gun. But the Hadith says that even in jihad, innocent women and children must be spared.”

“As if any of you are innocent,” al-Omari shot back. “All of Islam must fight back against those who would oppress us.”

“Islam represents one-fifth of the face of humanity, and the overwhelming numbers of your brethren believe in the freedoms of speech and press and also equal protection under law. And more than half of the world’s Muslims live under democratically constituted governments. I know that you were trained at a madrasain Afghanistan, so that your knowledge of the Qur’an is limited to rote memory, thus I’ll forgive your seeming ignorance on these issues.” Gray didn’t add that at the madrasa al-Omari’s training would have also included automatic weapons and how to fight holy wars, earning such a training center the dubious title of Islamic West Point.

Gray continued. “You aspired to be a shahid, but you had neither the nerve nor the zealotry to be a suicide bomber, nor did you have the backbone and instincts to be a mujahid.”

“You shall see whether I have the courage to die for Islam.”

“Killing you does me no good. I want you to work for me.”

“Go to hell!”

“We can do this easy or hard,” Gray said, checking his watch. He had been up for thirty hours now. “And there are many ways to attain Janna.”

Al-Omari leaned forward. “I will get to Heaven my way,” he said, sneering.

“You have a wife and children living back in England,” Gray noted.

Al-Omari folded his arms across his chest and assumed a stony look. “Bastards like you will serve us well in the next life.”

“A son and a daughter,” Gray continued as though he hadn’t heard the man’s retort. “I realize that the women’s fate may not overly concern you. However, the boy—”

“My son will gladly die—”

Gray interrupted in a very firm voice. “I will not kill your son. I have other plans for him. He just turned eighteen months old?”

A trace of concern crossed al-Omari’s face. “How did you know that?”

“You will raise him in the Muslim faith?”

Al-Omari did not answer; he simply stared at the camera.

Gray continued. “Well, if you do not agree to work with us, I will take your son from his mother, and he will be adopted by a loving couple who will raise him as their own.” Gray paused for the emphasis he would place on his next words. “He will be raised in the Christian faith in America by Americans. Or not. It’s all up to you.”

So stunned was al-Omari that he rose from the chair and staggered toward the camera, until hands appeared