Sword of God

'We can try. But we don't have much to go on. All we have is the picture.'

Jones pulled out a photograph of the Park family that they'd taken from their house before leaving the village. They'd rummaged around a little bit, checking closets and drawers, trying not to step in any blood in case the cops were eventually called in, but the place was so small, so cramped, it was obvious that the Parks didn't have much money. As far as they could tell, there were nine people living in a house that was built for four. No way they were staying there.

'What are the other possibilities?'

'There's no guarantee the old man heard correctly,' Jones suggested. 'Or maybe he mistranslated the term. Or the boy was just muttering about black stones he saw inside the cave. There are dozens of explanations that would make more sense than this place.'

Payne rubbed his eyes, half-regretting his seat on the couch. It was soft and plush and made him want to sleep. 'Let's go back to the cave for a sec. Let's focus on that. What do we know about the operation?'

'Schmidt's team consisted of himself and the three squad members who weren't killed at the hospital. That means five of them in total. Dr. Sheldon said Trevor was in charge of the facility, doing torture or whatever. Forensics found three samples that weren't in the system, probably from the prisoners or the men who killed Schmidt's crew.'

'In other words, professionals.'

'Definitely. No way they got to Schmidt otherwise.'

Payne sighed, still trying to grasp the situation. 'Professional soldiers mean one of two things: we captured a foreign official that was important enough to be rescued. Or-'

'We snagged a terrorist with a lot of secrets.'

'Exactly. Someone big. Someone worth saving.'

'That makes more sense to me. Terrorists are off-the-grid to begin with. No reason to bring them into the system. Smuggle them to a cave and let Schmidt work them over until he got them to talk.' Jones paused, thinking things through. 'Let's face it, Schmidt and his men would've been perfect candidates for that type of work. Still angry from the hospital attack.'

'Plus it explains the village.'

'How so?'

'A foreign national wouldn't cover up his escape. If anything, he'd blow the whistle on the cave, showcasing the evil nature of America. But a terrorist? He'd want everyone dead.'

'Good point.'

'Speaking of which, did I mention that Dr. Sheldon is dead?'

Jones arched his eyebrows. 'No.'

'Raskin searched his personnel file, and he was listed as dead. Died three years ago.'

'Wow. He was a little pale, but he didn't look dead.'

'Just because he's white doesn't mean he's pale.'

Jones smiled, no racial tension at all. 'What else did his file say?'

'Not much. Randy was supposed to see what he could find. Maybe we'll luck out.'

'Maybe we already have.'

'How so?'

'Think back to our meeting with Colonel Harrington. When he talked about Schmidt, he said he ceased to exist after the incident. That term's been bugging me ever since. At first I thought he meant Schmidt went nuts. But maybe he was talking in different terms. Maybe that's when they recruited him into black ops. One minute he was in the system, the next he wasn't.'

'And you think the same thing happened with Sheldon?

They killed him on paper so he had more freedom overseas. … That's not a bad theory.'

'I have my moments.' Jones yawned, suddenly feeling tired. 'What else did Randy mention? Anything about the prisoners?'

'Unfortunately, he was pretty tight-lipped on the topic. He hinted that Harrington could get us clearance, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to fly solo for a while. I'm still pissed about his lack of disclosure. He should've told us about Schmidt from the very beginning. It would've saved us a lot of legwork.'

'Any thoughts on where we can get the intel?'

Payne nodded. 'Don't worry. I've got someone in mind.'

Nick Dial was known for two things: one professional, one personal. He ran the homicide division at Interpol, the first American ever promoted to such an illustrious position in the French-based agency. But to his friends, he was known for his chin. His world-class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculpted granite masterpiece. Very heroic-looking. Like Dudley Do-Right.

Because of his job, Dial kept strange hours, often flying from country to country to cut through red tape or handle border disputes whenever they interfered with a case. Never knowing where he might fly to next. Or when he might get there. Interpol was a worldwide organization, which meant his duties were international. And his knowledge was extensive.

The sound of Dial's phone was followed by a low growl. One of utter frustration. He was sitting at his desk in Lyon, France, trying to catch up on his paperwork. But this was one of those days when his phone wouldn't stop ringing- six times in the past fifteen minutes-and his only recourse was to growl at it, trying to intimidate it. Hoping it would stop. Yet the damn thing kept ringing over and over again. Finally he felt obligated to pick it up.

'What?' he barked.

'Oh, crap, someone's cranky.'

Dial grinned, recognizing the sound of Payne's voice. 'Sorry, Jon. Long day.'

'Me, too. I'm getting too old for this shit.'

'You mean lounging in your corporate penthouse, counting your cash? Yeah, tough life.'

'Not today I'm not. They pulled me back in.'

No further explanation was necessary. Dial knew who they were. He'd met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars amp; Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they'd kept in touch ever since-occasionally bumping into each other in the strangest places. Last time was in Italy. At the airport.

'Anything I can help you with?'

'That depends. How secure is this line?'

'Hold on.' Dial stood from his leather chair and walked over to his office door. He locked it with a loud click. 'Okay. We're good.'

'How good?'

'The phone's encrypted. The office is soundproof. And we sweep daily for bugs.'

'Good enough for me.'

Dial leaned back in his chair, intrigued. 'What's going on?'

'Can't get into specifics. But it looks like we hooked a big fish.'

Fish was a slang term for international fugitive. 'We talking shark?'

'I'm talking whale.'

'That's great news, isn't it?'

'It was until he slipped off the hook. Took a lot of fishermen with him.'

Dial knew he wouldn't-get any further details, so he didn't bother to ask. 'Sorry to hear that, Jon. How can I help?'

'Pardon the pun, but some things are radier fishy on my end. I'd appreciate if you could talk to some of your sources and let me know what you find. Facts, rumors, anything.'

'Not a problem. Of course, things would go much smoother if I had a name.'

'Yeah,' Payne agreed. 'That makes two of us.'

21

For the first time since her arrival in Mecca, Shari Shasmeen did not want to be in the tunnel.