Watson looked over to where Ledford was staring at them. Sybelle Summers, wearing the black pants and white blouse of an IHOP waitress, was leaning back against the table, facing them, with her right hand holding a pistol that was barely visible beneath a white dishcloth.
Watson waved his hands slowly. “OK. OK. Make that call, Mr. Samuel L. Jackson, and tell whoever it is to set up a meeting between all the right people. Then both sides here know what’s what. This is obviously some kind of fuckup, and I don’t want to get shot over a stack of pancakes.” He winked good-naturedly at Summers. “Say, miss, could you put away the artillery and get us some coffee over here?”
Summers smiled sweetly and said, “Fuck you.”
8
HE DREAMED OF GREAT ropes of shining steel hanging in the sky, double-deck trusses, towering monopoles, and H-shaped pylons standing tall, probing into the clouds above wide bodies of water, and supporting wide carriageways and pedestrian footwalks, all illuminated by lights hidden in the ribs. Asleep, his brain amused itself by solving the mathematical and technical riddles of the complex Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong, the majestic sweeping curve of the Oresundsbroen, between Denmark and Sweden, and the impossibly beautiful Rion-Antirion over the Gulf of Corinth in Greece. All were works of art in his opinion, classical outdoor statuary that would serve mankind for ages. In the dreams, each bridge had an engraved stone that hailed the name of the greatest Islamic builder of the twenty-first century—Mohammad al-Attas: Chief Engineer and Architect. Then he awoke in his wide, soft bed and lay still. Just dreams. Someday, Allah willing, such miracles could come to pass for him.
For now, instead of building a sky-piercing colossus, he seemed to be working in the opposite direction, creating a smooth, single-arched bridge of rock across a flood-chiseled chasm in northeastern Pakistan. His task was to make it utilitarian and strong, unremarkable in every way, so that the casual eye would pass right over it instead of lingering and applauding the ingenuity involved. Al-Attas rose and went into his private bathroom to wash his face. This was not to be one of the great bridges of the world, but it might become one of the most important: the first of many along a highway of enlightenment being created for the New Muslim Order, and a protected secret refuge for its leader.
He stared into the mirror above the porcelain sink, and his intense black eyes peered back. He ran his fingers through his long hair and was disgusted when loose strands clung to them. Even as he shaved, more mathematic calculations unscrolled in his mind, a precise march of equations.
And his skin! He was becoming pale from the lack of sunlight and the constant work underground. The physician had given him a large bottle of vitamin D to help maintain his health, and al-Attas made a mental note to install more ultraviolet lights. If it was happening to him, it would happen to anyone spending much time in this self-contained underground fortress. That could not be allowed.
He pulled a fresh white towel from a cabinet and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water, soap, and shampoo fully awaken him. A hot breakfast would be waiting in the canteen; then he would put on his hard hat and take the elevator that was used to move freight up to the surface. An hour at least in the morning sun, and even a brisk walk to the little village that had sprung up at the west end of the bridge. Then back down in time for the noon teleconference and working on the computers. He checked his fingernails carefully and found them clean. His teeth got a hard brushing. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail, which he bound with a rubber band. Mohammad al-Attas was not a mole or a termite, and this bridge job was only a step toward greater things. He would endure. Why was the bathroom such a mess?
As he left his little apartment one hundred feet belowground, his silent manservant was already busy cleaning the bedroom. The man had been especially chosen because his tongue had been cut out as a child to make him a better beggar, and he could not talk. Al-Attas ignored him and left the room, dressed for the day in the Western style of blue jeans and loose shirts, with a billed cap turned backward.
The servant stopped his work and pressed his forehead to the burgundy carpet on the chill stone floor, giving thanks to Allah for letting him survive to see another morning. He was terrified of his young master. The man was very smart, the smartest the servant had ever met, smarter even than the elders in his home village, but the man’s mind was bent like a horseshoe. The servant entered the bathroom and found a stack of blood-soaked towels and clothing that had been flung into a corner. The shower would have to be scrubbed hard to remove the streaks of blood on the floor. Sandals crusted with thick mud needed to be cleaned. The weapons would be cleaned and sharpened, and put away in the cabinet. His young master was not what he seemed, and the servant could not, would not, ever tell a soul.
“THE MAN IS A lunatic,” said Major Najib Umair of the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the ISI. He had read the reports and seen the videos made by his agents at the bridge about the engineer running about in the night, killing people and cutting up bodies. They had even documented the cleanup and subsequent cover-up after the engineer slaughtered and brutally violated the entire team of doctors and nurses who had somehow stumbled into the most secret tunnels.
“A very useful lunatic,” reminded Lieutenant General Yahya Gul, the director of the ISI, who also had examined the latest reports. “Your agents say that because of his activities, the area is believed to be haunted. People in the villages speak of the Djinn and are afraid. That is not a bad thing for us.”
“A minor benefit, sir. He went crazy with bloodlust for a few hours. By killing that medical team, al-Attas put the entire operation at risk. He is not an evil spirit, just a very deranged man.”
General Gul lightly tapped his fingers together, then pushed up the rimless eyeglasses that had slipped down his sharp nose. He had seen many things in his time with the ISI, but the Djinn was unique. An ISI psychologist had concluded that the man was mentally unstable, perhaps having collapsed beneath the weight of being a scientific savant. He was embedded with an unknown number of different personalities; there was the gentle, brilliant engineer of the daytime, and the bloodlusting Djinn at night. The agents that watched him had heard him howl and bark. The psychologist had predicted other personalities could be lurking just below the surface, waiting to break out. Truly psychotic.
“Do you have him under control?” the general asked.
“Control? No, sir. That would be impossible. We do have him under constant observation, when he changes and becomes the fanatic. He leaves through what he believes is his own secret door in a bridge abutment. Three agents with night-vision goggles triangulate him but stay back unless he drifts too far afield. Then they capture and sedate him and haul him back to his apartment at the bridge. When he awakens, he does not remember that anything unusual has happened, because it happened to the Djinn, not to his dominant personality, the chief engineer.”
The general nodded approval. “Very well, Major. We will let him continue with his hobby for the time being. His value to this project far outweighs the lives of a few unlucky people. Al-Attas is building a fortification that stands in the open but is almost invisible. When he completes this first one, we will have all of his plans and inventions to build more, and can do so without his help. After what happened with Osama bin Laden, creating this safe haven for Commander Kahn is a very high priority with us. For now, we must keep al-Attas working to complete this bridge.”
“I have taken one more step, sir. I am assigning one of our best men to be his personal bodyguard, his keeper. The chief engineer has a huge, but fragile, ego and will willingly believe a cover story that a bodyguard is needed now that the infidels have issued a reward for his death because of his brilliance.”
“Good. Keep him safe. Should his insanity increase beyond our ability to handle him, we will adjust to the situation. It would be good to have the bodyguard close by to do the job quietly, but I want to be the one to make the final decision.”
“Yes, sir. I will make that clear to Hafiz.”
“You are giving this to Hafiz? Excellent choice.”
MOHAMMAD AL-ATTAS PUT ON a pair of wraparound sunglasses when he emerged from the mouth of a shaft and stepped to the side of the busy roadway. The sunlight was brash and hard and made him squint. He
