“Each one of us has a different story. Brendan lost his wife in the London subway bombing and Ethan lost both his children to a suicide strike in Israel.”
“And you?”
Her eyes clouded. “Not now,” she said.
Jack decided not to push. He saw real pain in those eyes and backed off. “So you’re vigilantes.”
“In a sense. But I wouldn’t put it like that. We’re all former law enforcement, counterterrorism specialists. We became unhappy with the red tape and the shifting politics and the inability of our governments to handle this crisis. These fanatics need to be stopped, so we’re doing what we can on our own.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Two years ago there were over twenty of us. Now there are twelve. Life expectancy isn’t one of our strong suits, as you well know.”
“So how the hell do you expect to accomplish anything?”
“We have hundreds of contacts all over the world. People in law enforcement who are sympathetic to our cause. People like Bob Copeland who are willing to help.” She squeezed his arm again. “People like you.”
“People who hate terrorists, sociopaths, and flat-out liars, you mean?”
She was silent.
He looked down at her hand. Soft. Delicate. A hand that should be painting a picture, or playing the piano. But her grip was firm, and he knew from experience she was capable of striking a solid blow.
He looked into her eyes again. “You should have told me all this from the start.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
She was a very good actress, he knew that from experience, too. But there was a sincerity in her expression that was tough to fake.
“The fifth floor, you said?”
She nodded. Without saying another word, they continued up the steps.
As they reached their destination, Jack heard voices and saw another man standing guard in the hall, his cold eyes assessing them as they emerged from the stairwell.
He nodded to Sara. “Welcome home.”
Sara smiled at him and patted his shoulder as she passed, then took hold of Jack’s arm again and pulled him toward a lighted doorway.
They stepped into what had once been a decent-sized Parisian apartment, but was now a fully functioning antiterrorist command center. There was a large white board to Jack’s right, with the words HAND OF ALLAH written across it in red marker.
Several photographs were taped below this. Surveillance shots of Adam Swain, Abdal al-Fida, an older Middle Eastern man standing outside a mosque-Faakhir Zuabi, no doubt-and assorted other Arab faces, including one Jack recognized: the man with the wispy goatee he’d nearly bumped into outside the pub.
Hassan Haddad.
He was angry that he hadn’t known who Haddad was at the time. If he had, there might be one less terrorist in the world.
There were multiple computer stations scattered about the room with men and women manning them. One screen showed night-vision security video of the front, back, and sides of the building, while another was open to a screen that Jack remembered from his own explorations-the British embassy personnel files.
Another screen was open to what looked like an Arabic-language chat group, and the guy sitting in front of it-a squat, swarthy man with biceps the size of grapefruits-was typing away furiously.
The other people in the room were an eclectic mix of ethnicities and nationalities, all deeply focused on their tasks. A woman with short-cropped red hair, a spray of freckles, and startling blue eyes glanced up, offering Sara a relieved smile as she got out of her chair and pulled her into a hug.
“Thank the Lord,” she said in a heavy Irish accent. “Brendan told us you called and I’ve been praying ever since.”
Now others turned, greeting Sara with a smile or a quick hello before giving Jack a slow, suspicious stare. Sara introduced him to the group, rattling off names to fit the faces, but all he got from them were a few grudging nods. He felt like the new kid at school that everyone was curious about but no one wanted to commit to.
A man with a graying beard and horn-rimmed glasses-Alain, if Jack remembered correctly-looked up from his station and called across the room.
“Sara, your intel on Abdal was excellent. I was able to get into the home secretary’s internal network and I think I may have found something of value.”
“What?” she asked.
He tossed a small object to her and she looked down at it in her palm-a USB data key. “Encrypted e-mails from one of Zuabi’s moles, sent over the last week.”
“Encrypted? That’s unusual.”
“Oui,” Alain said. “This is why they caught my attention. And even more unusual is that the e-mails were sent to an employee of an American firm called Allied Harbor Associates.”
“Which is?”
“They handle port operations in our country,” Jack told her. “They took over the contract after the Dubai controversy a few years ago.”
The redhead frowned. “Dubai controversy?”
“Yeah. I blew the lid on it when I had my TV show back in the States.” He saw the blank stares. “That’s what I used to do-hosted a talk show that held the powers that be accountable.
“The contract was originally handled by a British firm called P amp; O, but when they sold all their assets to Dubai Ports World, concern about port security in our country became a political football. Most people thought handing control to a UAE-based company was extremely risky, if not outright idiotic. Including me.”
Sara nodded. “So Allied took over.”
“Right,” Jack said. The others were listening as well. This seemed to be earning him points. “The political pressure forced DP to sell all their U.S. assets to a company called American International. They, in turn, quietly sold it to Allied.”
Anyone who was paying attention knew that port security in the U.S. was a joke, even after the SAFE Port Act was passed by Congress. There were far too many shipping containers moving in and out of the country, and no workable method of keeping track of them all.
“And who owns Allied?” Sara asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Jack said. “The majority stockholder is an old friend of mine. A naturalized citizen named Lawrence Soren. Originally from Austria. The guy’s a billionaire and a propagandist extraordinaire, and has definite Marxist leanings.”
“And he’s a friend of yours?”
“I was being facetious. The guy destroyed my career.” He gestured to the USB key. “I’ll be curious to see what’s in those e-mails. They could be confirmation that Zuabi’s moles aren’t limited to the British government. Soren may have a traitor in his midst, which wouldn’t surprise me. His extremism has made him enemies.”
“It will take some time to find out what is in them,” Alain told him. “As I said, they are encrypted, and it may be hours before I break the-”
A harsh voice cut him off. “What’s going on here? Who is this man?”
They turned to find a brutish-looking German with a crew cut standing in the doorway, frowning at Jack.
Jack held out a hand, about to introduce himself, but the guy ignored him. “Did anyone sweep them?”
“Relax, Reinhardt,” Alain said.
“Relax? That’s how errors are made.” The man came into the room now, looking like an angry bulldog. “How many times do I have to tell you, we sweep everyone. No exceptions.” He scooped a security wand from a nearby table then gestured to Jack and Sara. “Against the wall.”
Sara gave Jack a look that said, What can you do? But considering the number of people they’d lost over the last two years, Jack couldn’t blame the guy. He moved to the wall, placed his palms against it, and spread his legs.
Reinhardt flicked a switch on the wand and started with Jack’s shoes, slowly moving up the inside of each leg, the torso, the neck and shoulders, then up each arm.
