Better to leave them alone. A relief patrol would come down at dawn. Maybe the Taliban would be braver in the daylight.
Up top, three sports utility vehicles sped onto the bridge with their lights off and were guided into the underground garage by men carrying soft red lights. When large doors to the outside slid closed, all of the lights came on again, work resumed, and Sergeant Hafiz approached the middle vehicle. Guards with machine guns pounced out of the lead and trail SUVs and formed a perimeter; then the door of the middle Ford Excursion opened, and a slender, bearded man in the rugged clothes of a mountain dweller stepped nimbly onto the concrete. His dark eyes rapidly swept his surroundings, and then he exchanged greetings with Hafiz. Ayman al-Masri, the head of personal security for Commander Kahn, did not smile. He seldom did.
WHEN THE FIRST SIREN began to turn over with its slow growl, Beth Ledford jumped in surprise. Instantly, there was a hand resting softly on her back. “Steady, Coastie. Keep sharp while we see what’s happening.”
“All of the lights on the big bridge just went out,” she said. Her voice was as tight as a piano wire, as was the rest of her body.
Swanson grunted in acknowledgment. He could see that, and therefore no words were needed. “Get into your sniper mode. Loosen up so that if you have to take a shot, you can make it count. Alert, but don’t engage. Scoot around so you’re still covering our six, and have your weapon safety off and ready.”
The sirens grew to a full howl, the volume at earsplitting decibels as it echoed through the long valley. Swanson propped his CAR-15 beside him and checked the load, then went to the night-vision goggles. The only available light was the campfire, which was still flickering merrily down below, and it did not seem that any of the men around it had even changed position. So whatever was happening at the top of the valley had not disturbed them: It was expected. The alarm sirens were turned off, and the shrill whine spun back to silence; then the lights came back on.
“No movement here. You got anything?”
“No. Just darkness back this way.” Beth kept her eyes on the hillside. “That was all kind of spooky. You think an electrical failure?”
“More likely, they were doing something they didn’t want anybody to see.” Kyle smiled at her. “It doesn’t matter to our mission. These things always have unexpected wrinkles. Stay cool.”
“I am cool, Gunny.” She shuffled back away from the entrance.
“OK. Your turn to catch some sleep. We’ll pull out in about another hour. At around four in the morning, the biorhythms of those guards will be dragging them down like anchors. Their heart rates and blood pressure will be so low they might as well be offline. Even whoever is standing watch will be about to fall over with sleep. That’s when we go. You take a combat nap now, so you can be fresh.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” she said, lying back. “Too darned tensed up.”
“Coastie, you sleep when you’re told. So rack out.” He turned away and watched the empty valley, wondering about the momentary blackout.
AYMAN AL-MASRI WALKED WITH Hafiz to a row of brightly painted golf carts. “The last time we met, Hafiz, I believe you held the rank of colonel. You have been severely demoted.”
“I wear whatever rank my orders tell me to wear, although I prefer no official rank at all.” Hafiz motioned to the lead cart. “I need to show just enough to get the job done.”
“And is the job done here? Is this place safe for the Commander?”
“That’s for you to decide, not me. All I can tell you is that I like what I have seen. It is a virtually impenetrable place with an automatic defense umbrella the likes of which you have never encountered. Even most bombs would just bounce off. When fully online, it would take a long, all-out assault by a determined enemy to defeat it.”
Al-Masri got into the cart and settled his robes. “Frankly, I find such claims hard to believe. I saw what the Americans did to the caves of Tora Bora with their devil bombs, and believe they can do the same here. I will not put the Commander in jeopardy.”
“I had a lot of doubts, too, when I arrived. Now, after studying it, I cannot think of any better place to ride out a storm. There were no defense systems at Tora Bora, just caves. Surely this place could eventually be taken down—history has shown that no defensive position can hold out forever—but to do so would extract an enormous cost, and become a gagging bone in the throat of any attacker.” He pushed the accelerator, and the battery- powered cart jerked forward. “This is only the prototype, the first of many, each to be stronger than the one before it. We are drawing a line which the Americans and their allies will think twice about attempting to cross. They are not used to fighting against technology and modern defenses that match or surpass their own, and the sort of little Special Forces raid that took the life of Osama bin Laden could simply never happen here, my friend. However, before dazzling you with the missiles and guns and electronic wonders of it all, I want to get some bad news out of the way. The genius who created this has gone totally insane. I have him secured in the infirmary, and I’m waiting for final orders from the ISI about what to do with him. You should see him first.”
“To the infirmary, then, Hafiz. I need to inspect it anyway.” The string of carts buzzed down the wide main tunnel.
IT WAS FIVE IN the afternoon in Washington, nine hours behind the time at the bridge in Pakistan, and the small staff that worked at the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs building on Observatory Circle was shutting down for the day. Undersecretary Curtis tidied up his own desk and left with them, courteously calling the clerks by name as everyone headed for their cars, joking that thankfully there would be no receptions or official dinners tonight. Everybody deserves a night off now and then.
The day in Washington had been a scorcher, with high humidity adding to the misery of being outside, even for a little while. Only tourists braved the heat. Curtis’s personal automobile, an elegant metallic red BMW M3, was parked beneath cover in a reserved space, but even so, a blast of roasted air rushed out when he opened the door. He opened the passenger door to let the furnace heat dissipate with a cross-draft. Out in the parking lot, others were doing the same. No true Washington resident would get straight into a car on an afternoon like this. Let the trapped hot air escape, then jump in just long enough to turn on the engine and get the air conditioner pumping on high, then get back out. It took at least two minutes before even the most anxious commuter would slide onto the hot seat and grip a steering wheel that had been baking for hours.
Curtis removed his coat and tie and folded them carefully while he waited for the powerful BMW V6 engine to cool the interior down to a comfortable level. In another minute, he was motoring away from the BAIA, enduring the rush hour traffic northwest around the Beltway to McLean, where he peeled off onto State Route 267, the Dulles International toll road. Once on the long straightaway, it was almost impossible to get off of that road until you hit the airport exit, and Curtis had to fight the urge to let his machine really run, to set free the 414 horsepower as he passed the Leesburg Pike and Wolf Trap, and the pavement unrolled ahead. Instead, he stayed in the slow lane, moving in behind a small hotel bus. He would get the chance to open her up on the return trip.
Once settled into the pack, he activated the automated built-in cell phone and instructed it to dial a number in New York. The big ears of the National Security Agency constantly swept international conversations in the D.C. area, but Dulles was almost a dead zone; there were so many calls going on between thousands of passengers and their homelands that even the NSA system was overwhelmed. A carefully conducted call to a foreign mission at the United Nations would hardly be noticed if the words “terrorism” and “bomb” were not mentioned.
Cultural attache Mohammed Javid Bhatti had been expecting the call and he answered on the third ring. They chatted aimlessly for a full minute. Was it hotter in New York or Washington. How the traffic was. How the UN was empty in August, and how they were both looking forward to the weekend. The attache confirmed that he would be attending a reception the following week.
“Will you be bringing your guest?” Curtis asked.
There as a pause. Javid Bhatti deliberately gave the response that he had memorized. “No, I will arrive alone. I have communicated with my home office, and the guest will not be able to make it. There will be no one sent to replace him.” He meant that the Pakistani ISI had decided not to risk having one of their trained assassins being captured while operating on American soil.
Now there was a longer pause. When William Lloyd Curtis asked a favor, he normally got it. He swallowed his disappointment and kept his voice even. “That’s fine, then. So I will see you at the reception.”
