and unassuming block building that served as the local mosque, carefully working his way around pecking chickens that darted underfoot and seemed determined to hurl him off the cliff to his death. The only door was on the west side, so that all who entered would be facing east toward Mecca, the birthplace of the Prophet.
At the end of the room was a window with a startling view of a fertile valley shielded by steep mountains, where ridgelines gave way to terraced gardens that were still green, even this far into autumn. Monstrous boulders the size of trucks stood out like ragged statues. Shaggy buffalo, a commodity so valuable that they lived indoors with their owners, hauled huge loads of goods and produce along the dirt roads. The mosque overlooked a busy little village of adobe-style mud and log homes, and on one flank of the town was a special cemetery reserved for fallen warriors of the great cause. Long sticks marked each grave, and from each stick waved a piece of cloth made from the garments worn by the dead fighter. Al-Masri was pleased that nothing at all had changed since he had left the village a few days ago.
He bowed and touched his head to the warm burgundy carpet, then announced himself with one word. “Commander.”
Kahn was at the eastern window, looking down on the village, and out to the spectacular view of the rugged tribal lands of Pakistan, where he had built his reputation as a fearless military leader and a smart political star in the terrorist firmament. He had had seen his security chief arrive by automobile, be checked out at the guard post, and start the long climb up to the mosque. He was eager to hear the report.
Ever since the death of his rival Osama bin Laden, Commander Kahn had been interested in the bridge scheme that could become a safe and secure headquarters for his New Muslim Order, and a more permanent residence for him. It bore the promise of a better life for the next few years, with a sophisticated communications suite. Kahn did not buy the old saying by Mao Tse-tung that political power grew out of the barrel of a gun; in the twenty-first century, such power also grew out of microcircuits and the so-called social media. He led a new generation of terrorists, the invisible man behind the curtain who stirred the revolutions that were hammering the Middle East and accumulating power for himself and the NMO.
He turned from the window and made himself comfortable on his favorite resting spot of thick, soft cushions. Kahn was in his late forties, of medium height and a solid build, with only a stubble of a beard that was trimmed once a week. He smiled at al-Masri as a servant served tea and a plate of breads and cheese. “I understand that your trip was quite eventful,” he observed.
“Yes, Commander.” He gave Kahn folder containing a two-page written report and a number of photographs. “The Pakistanis failed badly with the bridge project. Security was laughable. I could never allow you to be placed in such jeopardy.”
“That is too bad. It seemed like such a good idea, and the Pakistanis were being extremely cooperative. Maybe they were too cooperative?” The terrorist mastermind flipped through the folder, then handed it back to his bodyguard. He was not interested in such minor details as why it had failed. Only the fact that a few American commandos had once again penetrated security screens gave him pause.
As if in answer, a gust of cold wind spun through the nearby mountaintops and curled a chilled blast over the village and the mosque. The servant hurried back and wrapped a blanket around the Commander’s shoulders. Despite the confident tone, winter would be hard here.
Ayman al-Masri cleared his throat, then spoke. “Among those photographs is the American who led the raiding party. He almost killed me during his escape, so I came face-to-face with him; there is no question of his identity.”
Kahn reopened the folder and found the picture. He studied it and the identification tag. “Kyle Swanson. A United States Marine. I know this name.”
“Yes, Commander. He has long been a constant thorn, from raiding our training camps to destroying entire operations. He is a very lethal enemy, and the time has come to remove him.”
Kahn closed the folder again. “Have you found a weakness to attack?”
“Yes. The man is not really a machine. His soft spot is his heart; a killer with a conscience. You recall that he was captured in Islamabad a few years ago and foiled an al Qaeda coup attempt there?”
“And then escaped.” The dark eyes were now drilling into al-Masri, showing interest.
“The reason he was captured was that he stopped to save a woman and her two children from a collapsed building. He gave himself up for total strangers who were Muslims. That humanity is his weak point.”
“So you plan to exploit that?”
Al-Masri was ready with an answer. “According to our sources, Swanson came on this mission apparently as the guard for a woman soldier whose brother, a doctor, was killed at the bridge. Once they discovered what the bridge was about, Swanson tore the place up and left a lot of bodies behind.”
“I see.”
“I want your permission to activate our highest-ranking friend in the American government, William Curtis. He must find the woman soldier and use her as leverage to draw Swanson to him, and then kill him.”
“Bill Curtis is a strong man, but he is not capable of defeating a Satan like this Kyle Swanson alone.”
Al-Masri’s stone countenance broke into a slow smile. “It would be a suicide mission, Commander. Curtis will wrap his arms around the girl soldier and Kyle Swanson and blow himself up. There will be no question.”
“A new martyr.”
“Yes. To rid us of an old enemy who has done great harm.”
Commander Kahn weighed the scales for only a moment. Curtis was extremely valuable in his position in the State Department, and the source of important advice, but striking back directly against a Special Forces operative was a great opportunity. “Will doing so harm the Mars mission attack? That is more important. We have put a lot of money into that.”
Al-Masri had thought that one through during his long drive back from the bridge. “Curtis will not be anywhere near the rocket in any case, and his man carrying out the sabotage reports nothing unusual at this time. It’s still on, and we will claim responsibility as soon as it happens. The two plans are independent.”
Kahn was quiet, thinking. The one thing that he still lacked in trying to take over the Osama bin Laden legacy was a signature strike of huge proportions against the United States. Bin Laden had brought about 9/11 and had killed thousands; Kahn was still relatively unknown, which was both a blessing and a curse.
The destruction of the Mars mission would put him on the throne of terrorism. When the space vessel died, credit would fall to him through a computer-powered campaign of publicity. Now he was being given an opportunity to make his claim even stronger. An American suicide bomber with a widely known political name would kill other Americans within the United States’ borders. The double assault would resurrect the fear of Islamic attacks, a fear that he wanted to permeate the United States and establish his supremacy as the new terrorist chieftain. And the troublesome Marine, Kyle Swanson, would die in the bargain.
“Very well, my friend,” he said. “You have my permission. Give Curtis whatever help we can.”
28
LORD JEFF, LADY PAT, and Beth Ledford were at the table in the spacious dining salon, digging into the chef’s presentation of fish that had been caught only a few hours earlier. A pinot noir had been chosen from the wine locker to complement the meal, the French bread loaf was fresh and warm, and the vegetables and fruit tasted straight from a garden. No place had been set for Kyle Swanson, who had disappeared into his stateroom almost as soon as the helicopter landed on the fantail of the long white yacht that morning. Pat had gently told Beth to just leave him be and not spend any time worrying. Kyle had some odd ways.
The Cornwells were old hands at settling down warriors after a fight. Jeff had gone through the same decompression process while he was an officer in the British SAS and had developed a habit of hauling home young men who were stressed out and struggling. His leadership never stopped at the front gate of the base. Pat had watched them come and go, all thoroughbreds who needed some quiet time and a warm cup of tea, a mug of beer, or a bottle of whisky and a nonjudgmental ear. Gradually, most would climb out of their mental foxholes,
