Kill Alex Cross

When he was done, Stroud sat down and nodded to the analyst on his right. “Let’s begin,” he said. “We have a hell of a lot of material to cover this morning.”

I raised my eyebrows at Mahoney. This was a big meeting. Ned made a little circling gesture with his finger, mouthed the words “in the loop,” and then pointed at me.

Yeah, I guess so.

“AT APPROXIMATELY THREE o’clock this morning, two DC metro police officers were shot and killed at the Brentwood rail yard in Northeast Washington,” the analyst started in. It wasn’t any easier to hear about the murders a second time. Both officers had families. I didn’t know them, but that didn’t matter. When another officer goes down, we all feel it.

“An indeterminate number of suspects were on-site, all of whom escaped. What we did find, however, was twenty pounds of Semtex explosives. And six canisters of aerosolized sarin. The sarin had already been deposited in the air-conditioning ducts of several Metro subway cars.”

My head was starting to buzz. That was a staggering amount of deadly material. A couple pounds of Semtex can take down a high-rise, and sarin gas is a nightmare at any dosage.

The professional decorum in the room began to break apart at that point. Several side conversations started up around the table, and the questions were flying all at once.

“Are we any closer to knowing who’s running this … this attack?” one of the NSA guys asked. He was bigger and louder than the rest of us.

“Actually, yes,” the analyst said. He looked across the table at his colleague from Riyadh. “You want to take that?”

The man from Riyadh’s name was Andrew Fatany. He was clearly running on fumes and needed a shave. His voice was disturbingly hoarse when he got up to speak.

“Here’s what I can tell you,” Fatany said. “We now have credible intelligence on the existence of a fledgling, independent terror organization based out of Saudi Arabia. Beyond that, we have several unconfirmed reports regarding the establishment of a multifunctional cell here in Washington, a very serious and deadly one, I’m afraid. They’re well financed and organized.”

It felt like half the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Nobody said a word now, just listened.

Fatany went on. “Our liaison with the Istikhbarat tells us they’re aware of the group but not of any criminal activity inside the Kingdom itself. That said, we’ve been moving as many operatives as possible out of the embassy in Riyadh and into the southern part of the country, where we believe Al Ayla is training its people before sending them abroad — meaning here, the United States. That includes Washington for sure, possibly New York and Los Angeles as well.”

“Al Ayla,” Stroud repeated for him.

“Right. Sorry.” He got a few grim, sympathetic smiles as he took a long swig of coffee. “Al Ayla is the purported name of this organization. It translates as ‘The Family.’”

“Which may or may not have something to do with the use of married couples at the operational level,” the first analyst said. “It could also just be a coincidence.”

“But I sincerely doubt it,” Fatany said, half to himself.

“Excuse me.” Ned raised his hand. “Not to get too far ahead of ourselves here, but do we know anything about Al Ayla’s larger objectives? Current targets, future targets, ideology, anything like that? Anything useful to us on the ground.”

Both analysts automatically looked to the head of the table.

“No,” Stroud answered for them. “Nothing at this time.” It was less than subtle code for the fact that we’d reached a wall in terms of what they were prepared to tell us. At least on the topic of Al Ayla, The Family.

“But we do have one other important piece of intel to throw into the mix. This could be useful,” Stroud added. “It’s about Ethan and Zoe Coyle.”

ONE OF THE assistant directors from the Bureau, Peter Lindley, took over now.

“We’ve received a second package from Ethan and Zoe’s presumed kidnapper,” he said. “At a minimum, this is someone who has or has had access to the children since they were taken from the school grounds.”

Everything about this was news to me. Two packages? What packages? I could tell I wasn’t the only one playing catch-up at the table. Lots of frowns and head shaking around the room.

“The first came to us several days ago,” Lindley said.

He pulled a pair of eight-by-ten photos out of his briefcase and started them around the table. “The little black case you’ll see is known to belong to Zoe. And the note in the other photo was folded up inside.”

A respectful silence followed the pictures as they were passed around. When I saw what was in that note, I understood why.

“There is no ransom. There will be no demands. The price, Mr. President, is knowing that you will never see your children again.”

You can’t read something like that and not feel compassion for the victims — the kids and their parents. I have an unfortunate tendency to take these things personally, as if my own family had been harmed. That’s my strength, and my weakness.

“And yesterday, we received these,” Lindley said, passing around two more photos. “They’ve already been