already opened the rear-side storage compartment. He took two bags from the compartment and placed them in the back of the pickup before going back for a third.
Ahmed then climbed back behind the wheel of the Ford F-150 while Karim jumped in the passenger seat. Karim pulled the map from his pocket and checked their location one more time before telling Ahmed where to go. He led him back toward the mall and had him take a left on Ox Road. They wound through some plush residential neighborhoods until they found themselves on Stuart Mill Road. The rolling tree-lined street held some of the county’s most expensive homes. Karim, however, was not impressed.
The house was ahead on the right. Karim instantly recognized the gate even though it had been nearly a year since he’d looked at the photos. Before leaving Pakistan they had spent weeks going over every detail of the plan. Originally this place was to serve as the staging area for the attacks. The hilltop estate was shrouded in trees and was big enough to house a battalion of men. Over thirty-thousand square feet of opulence owned by Saudi Aramco. It was used to entertain and house the man who ran the Saudi-owned national oil company’s Washington office. Karim had been assured the executive would be out of the country for the week before the attack and the week after. The staff would also be given time off.
They pulled up to the gate and stopped. Both men looked up the long, paved driveway. From their vantage they could glimpse just a portion of the house. Karim glanced over at the keypad and remembered the code. It was simple enough. “The four corners,” he said to Ahmed. “One, three, nine, seven.”
Ahmed pressed the numbers and the gate slid open. They drove slowly up the driveway, continued past the circle that led to the front door, and went around the right side of the house where the garage doors were located. Karim drew his gun and spun the silencer into place before jumping out of the vehicle. He found the keypad on the first of four doors, punched in the same code they used for the gate, and then hit enter. The door began sliding smoothly up. Karim moved off to his right and looked around the corner of the house to the backyard. It was landscaped in such a way that his view was blocked. He moved back to the edge of the garage and bent to look under the rising door. The space straight ahead was open, but the other three were occupied. Karim was pleased. He ducked under the door and moved across the gray floor. Ahmed put the truck in drive and followed him.
When the vehicle was clear of the door Karim pressed the button and lowered it. Ahmed turned the truck off and jumped out. Before Karim had to tell him, the Moroccan drew his pistol and quickly spun a silencer onto the end of it. Karim placed his hand on the doorknob.
He’d been told it would likely be unlocked, but if it wasn’t there was a key hidden behind the garbage can. He tried the handle and it moved. Both men stepped into a back hallway and turned their attention to the buzzing keypad on the wall. Karim punched in the code, but in reverse this time. The buzzing stopped a split second later and they both breathed a sigh of relief that did not last long.
Footsteps could be heard down the hallway and then the voice of a man called out. Karim leveled his gun and glided down the hall in near silence. Ahmed trailed two steps behind. The wide hallway had doorways on the left and the right. Karim bypassed both of them, leaving them to Ahmed. A modern oil painting hung on the wall straight ahead and there were open archways to the left and the right. Karim moved to the right side and took a quick look into the room on the left before springing back to his left so he could get a better angle on the room where he thought he had heard the voice. There was movement. At least one person. Karim charged ahead, his gun ready to dispatch any threat. A man was seated at the kitchen table in a white robe and a woman was standing in the middle of the kitchen, also in a white robe, frozen like a statue with a coffee cup in one hand and a saucer in the other.
Karim would never know if it was the dropping of the cup and saucer and the way they shattered on the stone floor or the woman’s earsplitting scream that caused him to squeeze the trigger, but he did know that it happened without any forethought. The bullet sailed clear through her open mouth and blew out a good portion of the back of her head. An instant later she was on the floor twitching among the broken white ceramic shards of her coffee cup and saucer. Karim glanced at her and then his eyes traveled back to the white cupboards that had been behind her. They were covered with brain matter and blood and looked amazingly similar to the modern painting he had just passed in the hall. His eyes traveled next to the silent man at the table. He was in his fifties and was undoubtedly Arab. The woman could have been his daughter.
The man swallowed hard and then with a quivering lip said, “Please don’t kill me.”
Karim nodded and asked, “What is your name?”
“Khalid,” he said. “Khalid al Saeed.”
“You run the Aramco office in Washington.”
“Yes.”
“You are supposed to be out of the country.”
He nodded. “You are the Lion of al Qaeda.”
Karim was caught off guard. “How would you know such a thing?”
“Your photo is on TV. Both of you.” He pointed over Karim’s shoulder to Ahmed.
Karim felt his gut twist. He tried to stay focused and asked, “Why are you here? You were supposed to be gone.”
“I decided to return early.”
“Your family?” Karim asked.
“They are still in the Kingdom.”
Karim looked to the woman on the floor. Her robe had spilled partially open and he could see that she was not wearing any underwear. “Who is she?”
“A friend.”
Karim nodded, ran a few scenarios through his head, and made a quick decision. He looked at the man’s nervous eyes and said, “Allahu Akbar.”
“No,” the man pleaded. “I am a Saudi. I am a believer. I have contacts… very well-placed contacts. I…”
Karim raised his pistol and shot the man twice in the heart.
CHAPTER 65
GEORGE Butler looked across the table and said, “You could have just paid him the million dollars.”
Rapp smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I suppose.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Dumond said as he pecked away at his laptop. “The guy was a world-class prick.”
Rapp laughed. It wasn’t like Dumond to offer such a harsh opinion. They were sitting in the Chairman’s Club at Graycliff, the eighteenth-century plantation house turned hotel and restaurant. The place was very private and very British. Rapp had suggested it knowing that Butler had a discreet agreement with the manager. A waiter came into the room with a large tray. He set down three plates and refilled the water and iced tea glasses.
When he was gone, Butler said to Rapp, “You almost lost him. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just pay him?”
Rapp shook his head. “Maybe, but I think a guy like that is just as likely to take your money and lie to you. He’s a thug. He gets his way by threatening people with violence.”
Butler set down his iced tea. “So you hit him with the only thing he really understands.”
“I suppose. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but you do know I would never have let you lay a finger on him. At least not while he was here.”
“I know,” Rapp said with a slight grin. “I would never put you in that position.”
“Yes you would,” Butler said with dry sincerity.
“Well… at least not intentionally.”
“That has always been your Achilles’ heel.”
“What?”
“Some people have the Midas touch… you, on the other hand… have all the grace of one of those American footballers who bashes the quarterback into submission.”
“Thank you,” Rapp said with a smile.
