Sword of God

'They worship a meteorite?'

'They don't actually worship it. But it is sacred to them.'

'An actual meteorite?'

'That's the theory. Then again, there's no way to know without testing it-something the guardians of the mosque won't allow. Still, it fits all the facts. Over time, a lot of meteorites change from white to black because of oxidation. Plus there's a major impact crater at Wabar, which is close to Mecca. When it hit the desert, it blasted molten sand high into the air, where it cooled, then fell back to the earth as chunks of glass. It was literally raining glass.'

'Glass?'

'Some scientists think the Black Stone is mat substance, known as impact glass. Meanwhile, others feel it's part of the meteorite itself. Either way, the Black Stone fell from heaven.'

'Just like Schmidt said.'

Jones nodded. 'Unfortunately, that's not everything he said. He also mentioned that he wanted to send it to hell. And that's the part I'm worried about.'

'How so?'

'This stone is in the middle of a massive mosque in the center of a protected city. It's constantly surrounded by armed guards and thousands of devout Muslims who would fight to the death to defend it. No way he's going to get into a gunfight.'

'True.'

'Therefore, in my mind, that leaves Schmidt with only one viable option.'

'Which is?'

'He's gonna blow it up.'

36

In Saudi Arabia, where oil is the lifeblood of the economy, tanker trucks are a common sight, rolling throughout the region both day and night, a constant reminder of the nation's wealth and its place in the global market. The trucks are so commonplace that they blend into the scenery like desert wildlife, barely registering when they stream past in large convoys.

Even when they are driving somewhere they don't belong.

Trevor Schmidt and his crew had counted on this when they took over the Abraj Al Bait water facility the night before. Their assault had been remarkably easy. One armed guard during the takeover. Another guard during the shift change. No other workers were present due to the hajj celebration and because the facility was not scheduled to open for another six months. Everything about the place was functional-the generators, the reservoirs, the compressors. The only thing missing was the liquid to pump.

But that would soon be rectified.

A member of Schmidt's team, the one they called Matthew, had earned an engineering degree from Stanford before he'd entered the military. His background was all the training they needed to complete this task, especially since everything had been planned out weeks in advance. All they had to do was follow simple step-by-step instructions, then get to the tunnel in Mecca, where the final phase would be completed.

But that would be the fun part. First they needed to finish their work here.

Matthew went into the control room and checked the gauges. As he did, the tanker trucks pulled through the front gate and drove to the rear of the facility, where they began pumping their flammable cargo into a system that was designed for water. The chemical itself, contained in cylindrical tanks that held eighty-five hundred gallons each, was a petroleum-based product comparable to jet fuel, although it had been modified in several crucial ways. To curtail the effects of static electricity, they added dinonylnaphthyl-sulfonic acid, hoping to eliminate sparking and premature combustion. Corrosion inhibitors, a common ingredient in military fuel, were introduced in small concentrations to prevent damage to the piping system and possible seepage underground. And antioxidants were added to minimize gumming.

Using the video monitors in the security office, Schmidt watched truck after truck empty their tanks into the system, double-checking all the numbers on a small sheet of paper. From his aviation experience, he knew that larger commercial jets, such as Boeing 767s, carried approximately twenty-one thousand gallons of fuel on takeoff. That meant five trucks equaled two planes, the amount that brought down the Twin Towers in a giant ball of flames.

And thanks to one of their contacts, they had more trucks than that.

Looking through a telephoto lens, the Arab smiled.

He was paid top dollar to document everything, and so far no one suspected a thing.

He had followed Fred Nasir to Taif Air Base, snapping dozens of pictures along the way. Candid shots that his boss would love. Nasir talking to the American soldiers. Nasir visiting Al-Gaim. Nasir driving into Mecca. And, finally, entering the tunnel near the mosque.

His job was so easy it felt like stealing.

That sentiment continued at the water facility. At first, he wasn't quite sure what to expect, worried that the isolation in the middle of the Meccan desert would pose a problem. But as it turned out, it was easier than expected. He covered himself with a tan blanket, matching the color of the surrounding terrain, and used a special lens that compensated for the darkness.

He snapped pictures of Schmidt and his crew.

All the fuel trucks as they rolled through the front gate.

Everything he needed.

More importantly, everything his boss required.

Shari Shasmeen was obedient for one entire day. For her, it was a personal record.

She knew she had promised Omar Abdul-Khaliq that she would stay away from the tunnel for the rest of the hajj, but the longer she sat in her hotel room, the more antsy she got. In her mind, her seclusion didn't make any sense. Why did it matter that two million people were going to be filling the streets of the old city? Her work was underground, far from prying eyes. If anything, she felt safer being in the tunnel than walking around Mecca, always worried that she was going to do or say something that would reveal her identity as a nonpracticing Muslim.

On the other hand, she wasn't looking forward to being back in the tunnel with the lead guard. He had creeped her out from the very beginning. Something about the way he looked at her. The way he touched her hand when he tried to take her keys.

It made her uneasy.

Of course, she had handled guys like him before. Mostly in bars, right after last call, when dozens of stray men roamed around looking for something to hump. She figured if she could handle them, she could handle him. Just to be safe, she carried a small vial of pepper spray that one of her colleagues had purchased at a Meccan bazaar and given to her in case more violence occurred. The irony was that she was more afraid of the guard than anyone he was supposed to be protecting the site from.

Her hotel was a few miles from the tunnel, way too far for her to walk by herself, since the mutaween were out in full force, looking for Muslims who were celebrating the hajj in an inappropriate fashion. Thankfully, the same colleague who bought her the pepper spray was willing to drive her to the site and stay with her while she worked. Shari took him up on the former but refused the latter, realizing that his car would be trapped there all day once the pilgrims descended on the mosque. Her decision was made easier when she realized that the new guards, the men she wanted to avoid, were nowhere to be found.

Normally, Shari would have been pissed. These guards were supposed to be there twenty-four hours a day, making sure everything was safe. Protecting her invaluable site.

But on this night, she took their absence as a blessing.

It meant she got to work alone.

She said good-bye to her friend, then descended to the bottom of the tunnel, boards creaking as she walked. Her shadow danced on the floor every time she passed one of the bulbs that hung from above. They stayed lit around the clock, so she didn't have to flip any switches or turn on any generators. In fact, the site looked the same both night and day. Same lights. Same temperature. Same everything. That was one of the advantages of working