Sword of God

wings. Tourists surged forward, jostling for the best view possible, trying to soak in the pageantry of center stage.

Kia spoke above the clamor. 'This is only the beginning. The festival goes until tomorrow morning, when we welcome the New Year. In fact, the sunrise is the most important part.'

Jones joked, 'I guess that's why they call it the Sunrise Festival.'

Kia smiled. 'I guess so.'

Payne asked, 'You mean nothing goes on at midnight? Jung said it was going to be crazy.'

'Don't worry. It will be. The whole night will be crazy.'

'Yeah, that's what I'm worried about.'

They made their way through the crowd, casually searching for the Parks, even though it would have taken a small miracle to find them. Too many people. Too much frivolity. Everywhere they looked, Koreans were dancing and singing, their faces shielded from the cold with hats and hoods. Others wore elaborate masks, painted with festive colors, that obscured their identities.

Ironically, the two people who drew the most attention were Payne and Jones. Not because of their actions, but because of their genetics. Payne stood six-four, almost a head taller than most of the Asians he passed. Couple that with Jones-a black man in a nonblack world-and people assumed they were American athletes. Kia laughed the first few times someone asked to take their picture, even goading them on, whispering in Korean that they were NBA stars but didn't like to be bothered. Payne played along at first, even signing fake autographs for his 'fans,' until the crowds started to grow out of control and he realized it might have an adverse effect on their mission. After that, they excused themselves and found a table that overlooked the harbor.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. An hour still to go.

Thirty minutes later, Payne's phone started to vibrate. His caller ID said Nick Dial, his buddy from Interpol. He excused himself and answered the call.

'Hey, Nick, Happy New Year!'

'Same to you, Jon…. Sounds like you're out partying.'

'Yeah, I wish. I'm actually on a stakeout.'

'A stakeout, huh? I didn't know soldiers went on stakeouts.'

'Maybe that's why I suck at it. I've been signing autographs all night long.'

'You whatT

Payne explained the situation as he walked along the water's edge, looking for somewhere private to sit. Although he doubted anyone was listening, all this open space made him vulnerable to parabolic microphones. 'So, any luck with your search?'

'That depends on your definition of luck. I attribute my recent success to being so damn good.' He laughed to himself. 'Anyway, I talked to multiple sources, who briefed me on the rumors that have been floating around. Over the past few months, several big fish have fallen off our radar screen. Not surprising, since they're terrorists. Of course, we don't know if they were killed, if they're playing bingo in a mosque basement, or if we got sloppy and lost them.'

'That's the problem with terrorists. They never tell us anything.'

'Actually,' Dial said, 'sometimes they do. Two months ago the French government nabbed a Muslim named Abdul Al-Amin trying to sneak a firearm into an art museum in Paris. Why? I have no idea. I'm guessing it had something to do with The Da Vinci Code.'

'Go on.'

'Anyway, Abdul's paperwork seemed clean, so the French decided to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go. But before they could, the idiot started blabbing, claiming he was part of an active terrorist group called the Soldiers of Allah and he'd be willing to give up vital information if they would cut a deal for his release.'

Payne laughed. 'What an idiot.'

'Yeah, a real Einstein. Anyhow, this is where it gets good. Once the French did some legwork, they realized the Soldiers of Allah had committed most of their acts of terror in America. So what did they do? They called Interpol and asked us to get involved. Long story short, I got access to a whole lot of info.'

'Anything useful?'

'That's for you to decide. Abdul was exactly who he said he was: a midlevel asshole for the Soldiers of Allah. He gave us names, dates, locations-the type of intel that only an insider would have. Some of it proved quite useful. We actually busted some of the smaller cells.'

'Good.'

'But not good enough. We told Abdul that we weren't going to let him go unless he gave us some intel on their leader, an Arab named Hakeem Salaam.'

Payne frowned. 'Never heard of him.'

'Me neither. So I called one of my buddies at Homeland Security to get some background info, and he nearly popped a boner when I mentioned Salaam's name. I honestly thought he was going to drop the phone and play with himself right there. Turns out Salaam is at the top of one of their special lists. I'm talking ex/ra-special. You ready for this? He's what they call a Big Tit.'

'Did you say titV

'Stands for Towel-headed Islamic Terrorist. And no, I'm not making that up. Half those boys at Homeland Security are racist bastards. They claim it helps them do their jobs.'

'Go on.'

'So I make a joke of it. I tell him we should trade information, you know, tit for tat, but for some reason he didn't think it was funny.'

Payne stifled his urge to laugh. 'He tell you anything else?'

'Actually, he wanted me to tell him what I knew. Turns out Salaam and his top advisers disappeared a week after the incident at the museum. Poof! Just like that. No one knows why or where, but no one's heard from them since.'

Payne winced. Three days ago Colonel Harrington had used similar terminology to describe Schmidt and his squad.-They had disappeared, but no one knew why or where. Now the same thing was being said about Salaam and his advisers. The major difference? The terrorists disappeared several weeks ago, back when Schmidt was running a black op for Harrington in the Persian Gulf. Something he was reluctant to talk about when Jones questioned him.

A coincidence? Probably not.

In Payne's mind, the most likely scenario had Schmidt tracking down Salaam and his men, dragging them to the secret cave, and torturing them for information. At least until something went wrong. Now Schmidt and his crew were dead, Salaam was missing, and the only witness was an eight-year-old boy who had managed to disappear.

'Where's Abdul now?'

'Good question,' Dial said. 'Unfortunately, I don't have access to that information.'

'Why not?'

'Because he's no longer in Interpol custody.'

'He was released?'

'Hell, no. We don't release terrorists. Even dumb ones.'

'So what happened?'

'About a week ago, we cut a deal with some country that took possession of Abdul. I'm not sure which one because the transfer papers were sealed. But the obvious choice is America.'

2 8

Perched on a picnic table, Jones scanned the crowd for fathers and sons. The only memorable pair was across the street at one of the gambling booths. The chubby kid was no more than two years old and wore a bright orange snowsuit that made him look like a pumpkin. Gamblers, possibly confusing the child with Buddha, let him hold their bets for good luck while they wagered on cards being dealt by his father, who seemed proud that his boy was following him into the family business. Every so often the kid would get caught up in the excitement and throw all the money in the air, causing a mad scramble among the participants.