“I have heard,” Malik, the Iraqi, interrupted, wiping thick hands on a linen napkin as his spoke, “that the Prophet-may Allah be pleased with him-forbade the playing of chess.”
Several of the men at the table, all adherents to the strict Wahabi sect of Islam, nodded in agreement. Nassif, the deputy minister, kept his thoughts, if he had any, to himself.
Haziz al Duri, a wealthy hotel owner from Riyadh, put a hand to his goatee. “Indeed Ali-may Allah be pleased with him-said chess was gambling-worse even than backgammon.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” the Iraqi shook his jowly face. “It was Ibn Umar-may Allah be pleased with him-who said it was worse than backgammon.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Farooq raised his hand and smiled meekly. Only Zafir saw the twitch in his left eye that revealed his true displeasure with the Iraqi. “Though I am certain chess has value to the mind and is indeed halal if it does not cause us to miss prayers or gamble, I speak here only of a figurative game. Perhaps we might save our discussion of such merits for a later time.”
“I have pledged my assets to the effort,” Malik said. “I wish to see the Americans crumble as much as anyone.”
“And your generosity is appreciated,” Farooq said. “Our latest operation in France was only a test, but it was far more successful than we’d imagined it would be.”
“But we have heard nothing of consequence in the news,” the merchant from Riyadh said. “Only that an American airliner crashed into the ocean. I fail to see how that is a success.”
Farooq took a deep breath, then held it for a moment before exhaling through thin nostrils. “Again, if I might compare our work to the strategy of chess without beginning a debate. The American news reports the plane crashed, but I believe the Americans shot it from the sky. The U.S. is frightened because they believe they know what we are up to. At the same time, they believe they have won, because the French killed our Algerian brothers and took the contents of their lab. They are certain to think us incapable of anything more intelligent than infecting an airliner.
“Of course there will be those among the Americans who suspect more, but they will be disbelieved. It is their defense mechanism. And even if some do choose to believe, while they stand mesmerized by one battle raging on the board, we will strike from a completely different angle, ending the game while the haughty devils still believe they have beaten us.”
“Would you care to enlighten us with the remainder of your plan?” The fat Iraqi scooped a pile of al-kabsa onto his saucer with a piece of flatbread.
A smile blossomed on Farooq’s face, turning his lips into a pale gash beneath a sparse goatee. “My friend, I would be delighted to do just that. If you would all be so gracious…” The sheikh raised a hand. Ratib slid back the woolen curtain that covered a heavy glass partition separating them from a dimly lit room.
The men around the table grew pale. The hotel owner’s hand shot to his mouth and he turned away in horror. Nassif, the government man, tried to take another sip of coffee, but his hand shook too badly to get the cup to his lips.
Sheikh Husseini al Farooq reclined against his cushion and yawned. He considered the back of his manicured hand as he spoke. “We are fortunate, I think, to have the laboratories and veterinary scientists so near at King Faisal University. Of course, to do this to animals would be strictly haram. I would take no part in such a thing. Americans are worse than devils to be sure, and Allah, may it please him, will surely sanction our plan. What you see, Allah willing, is but a small taste of what the infidels have in store.”
Zafir stared at the glass, transfixed at the scene on the other side. Tonight was the night he would ask of his master the greatest of all favors-to play a more central part in the game. That’s what the sheikh called it- the Game. And with a man as supremely wise as Farooq pushing the pieces on the board, it was a game they were certain to win.
A rumbling gurgle drew the Bedouin’s attention away from the window. Malik, the fat Iraqi, had vomited in his plate.
CHAPTER 11
10 September, 1520 hours Andrews Air Force Base Maryland
Jericho Quinn’s BMW GS Adventure mirrored his personality. It was a powerful bike-tall, gunmetal gray, fast, and intensely aggressive. As a boy, he’d tacked Molly Hatchet’s debut album to the wall above his bed. The cover art was a Frank Frazetta painting of a horn-helmeted fantasy warlord, clothed in dark robes atop a muscular black warhorse- The Death Dealer. Sullen red eyes glowed under the knight’s helmet. Blood dripped from a battle axe in a brandished fist. Vultures circled overhead and steam blew from the beast’s nose. Jericho’s mother hated the painting, complaining that such a dark image was bound to inspire her son toward horrible things. His father, on the other hand, had only smiled and told his mother to be glad that was the only Frank Frazetta art Jericho had decided to hang on his wall.
The album cover did turn out to be an inspiration. Quinn had ridden motorcycles virtually all his life, from the first Honda 125 he used to scoot up and down the beach on while the family dug for razor clams, to the broken- down Harley Panhead he’d bought to tinker with during high school-and a dozen other bikes since. He loved them all for differing reasons. Some were fast, others were nimble, still others were hell on wheels off road. But he was never able to choose a single favorite bike-until he saw his first 1150 GS shortly after he’d graduated from the Air Force Academy. The first time he set eyes on one of the big black BMWs stopped at a light in downtown Anchorage on a drizzly gray afternoon, his mind had immediately flashed to the Death Dealer’s muscular warhorse. He’d sold his Firebird, a Honda CBR sport bike, and a Harley Davidson Road King to buy his first one. Though he’d eventually moved up to the 1200cc model, he hadn’t once been disappointed.
GS stood for Gelande Strasse, German for trail and street. Though the Beemer handled tamely enough on the manicured, vegetarian pavement of Andrews Air Force Base, the 1,200cc was a predator. A two-wheeled raptor, a hundred and five warhorses of beaked meat-eater, built to chew up rougher terrain.
The crossed war axes on his metallic gray visored Arai motocross helmet, complete with blood dripping from the blades, were a custom-painted tribute to the Frazetta painting of his youth.
Helmet in hand, Quinn stood beside the bike in the sunny parking lot outside AFOSI Detachment 331 Headquarters. A cell phone was pressed against his ear. A black leather Vanson motorcycle jacket covered his light blue uniform shirt. His darker dress tunic was folded neatly in the Touratech aluminum-top case on the back of the bike. The air was heavy with humidity and the scent of newly mown grass.
As an OSI agent, he normally worked in civilian clothes. It made interviewing people who outranked him much easier when he identified himself as special agent rather than a lowly captain. A Court of Inquiry, however, required service dress blues. He didn’t know if it was the gravity of his present situation or his starched collar, but Quinn felt as if someone were sawing off his head. He found it oddly entertaining that he considered himself in more danger now than he ever had in Iraq.
His ex-wife’s attitude didn’t help.
“So…” Her voice was distant, both in tone and geography. “How did it turn out?”
“What?” He put a finger to his free ear to block the roar of a passing lawnmower.
“That little court thingie.”
It was mind-numbing that Kim would minimize a proceeding that might very well cost him his military career by calling it a “little court thingie.” She did it with anything that frightened her. It was her way of coping, her way of not going crazy in an insane situation. She didn’t mean anything by it.
“Hasn’t started yet,” he said, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He almost told her how the worry was eating a hole in his guts. Luckily, she cut him off.
“We had a cow moose eating my apples along the driveway this morning,” she said. “Mattie couldn’t get to the bus stop so I had to drive her to school.”
It was better this way. Keep things light. “Was she scared?” As if Mattie Quinn was scared of anything. Jericho knew his little girl took after him in the bravado department. He wondered if that fact would serve or damn her.
