team of our boys went in with SAS commandos. Roped down from choppers to the terrace of his penthouse on Park Lane. One small problem: the guy was just gone. Appeared to have been forcibly abducted. He and his wife, Yasmin. There were signs of a struggle in the apartment. But, a lot of incriminating evidence left scattered about. Photographs of the victims. Tapes. Relics. Murder souvenirs.”
“Did anyone at the time think your serial killer might have been politically motivated, Chief Patterson?” Congreve asked.
“No. Why?”
“Just thinking. Alice Kearns was the last to die before bin Wazir disappeared. She was also the only American to die. She worked for the State Department. African Affairs, I believe you said. It occurs to me that Miss Kearns may well have been the beginning of your current troubles. Was she tortured? Mutilated?”
“Yes. How would you know that?”
“The others the same?”
“Uh, no. She was the only one.”
“Hmm.”
Congreve got up from the table and began pacing around it, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. “Please continue, Mr. Patterson. This is most interesting.”
“Included in bin Wazir’s grisly personal murder video collection was another tape. This one was of the bombings of our embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. You remember that—” He stopped suddenly and looked at Congreve. “Inspector, I believe I just figured out where the hell you’re going with this. I’ve got it now. Africa.”
“Yes,” Congreve said. “The Dar es Salaam and Nairobi embassy attacks in Africa. I believe they took place sometime in late summer 1998?”
“August 7. We lost eleven in our Dar es Salaam embassy that day. Two-hundred thirteen died in Nairobi the very same day. These were the first two terrorist acts against U.S. interests in Africa. No one knew the attacks were just the beginning of a worldwide war, of course.”
“Attacks which occurred just two months after the Kearns girl was murdered in May,” Congreve said, studying Patterson’s face. “The Kearns girl would have had access to embassy files and information, no? Architectural plans, personnel, schedules, et cetera.”
Tex nodded his head, favoring Congreve with a grim smile of appreciation. “Yes, she would have, Inspector. That’s how he did it. He extracted what he needed from that poor girl in order to plan the two bombings.”
“Tell us, please, about the videotape of the bombings?”
“The African videos were apparently shot from vehicles parked across the street from our embassies at the time of the explosions. Just far enough away to avoid damage and shot with a long lens. The man operating the camera can be heard laughing. Especially when the rescue workers begin removing corpses from the rubble.”
Congreve rose from the table, puffing on his briar. He looked at Hawke and Patterson for a moment, thinking. “If I may,” he asked mildly.
“Please,” Patterson said.
“Snay bin Wazir is not a maniac at all,” Congreve said. “A murderous psychopath, yes. Fiendishly clever. But he’s no lunatic nor religious zealot, either. One has only to look at his lifestyle in London. He seems to have embraced western fashion with a passion. Clothing, habits, mannerisms. So the man was, by all appearances, completely apolitical. If anything, a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist. Few al-Qaeda apply for membership at Nell’s. Suddenly, he kills a young woman for her secrets and attacks American interests in Africa. Why? And then he just disappears.”
“It doesn’t make any sense at all,” Hawke put in. “An unlikely political terrorist if ever I saw one.”
“Unless he became a pawn of someone else. Someone who actually is fundamentalist, who is a zealot, who does have a burning hatred for the West.”
“Yes. The Dog is a henchman for a terrorist network. But why would he do that?” Patterson asked. “Become a pawn?”
“Motive? Ah. Money, I suppose,” Congreve said. “He lost his shirt in London real estate, don’t forget.”
“If you’re looking for a zealot, I’ve got a candidate,” Hawke said. “This Emir the boy Kerim mentioned before he died. The man who controls all the sleepers. Someone with apparently limitless resources. Power and influence.”
“Yes,” Tex said, excitement creeping into his voice. They were finally getting somewhere. “That’s how this bin Wazir does it. He has some massive organization behind him, founded by the Emir. Why, the bastard just pulled off the assassination of one of our most prominent ambassadors in front of the whole world!”
“Meanwhile this Emir hides out in a cave or a bunker somewhere, keeping his own hands clean,” Hawke said.
“But, think about why this Dog is doing what he is doing, Chief Patterson,” Congreve said. “He is calmly and systematically destroying your entire diplomatic corps. Paralyzing you. Why? Why would he do that?”
“Ambassadors and their families make an ideal target. Potent symbols of the country’s ideals. And a projection of America’s power abroad.”
“All true. But, still, why target your ambassadors? Yankee go home?” Congreve asked. “Perhaps. But I think not.”
“Ambrose?” Alex said, seeing the man’s thoughtful expression.
“Where does it all lead?” Congreve mused. “These attacks are not random; they are systematic, beginning with the first two embassy attacks in Africa. And they will lead, eventually, to total paralysis. So why does one, this Emir for argument’s sake, wish to paralyze one’s enemy? Obvious, isn’t it? A paralyzed enemy cannot fight back. Can’t react. Incapable of retaliation when the killer or killers finally move in for the ultimate and perhaps cataclysmic objective.”
“Yeah,” Patterson agreed. “Looking at our recent digital cell intercepts, I’d say cataclysmic is a pretty good description. It is no secret our embassies are our primary intelligence platforms around the world. You paralyze our diplomatic corps and you cripple a lot of our intelligence-gathering capability. Hell, I see traffic almost every day alluding to some great ‘day of reckoning.’ ”
“Every dog has his day,” Congreve said.
“We just have to make damn sure this dog’s days are numbered,” said Hawke.
“Chief Patterson?” a young technician said.
“Yes?”
“A flash traffic e-mail for you, sir, just coming in from your Paris chief of station. Marked Top Secret.”
“Acquire and verify. Then just decode it and print it, son,” Patterson said. Because of Blackhawke’s almost constant communication with the U.S. State Department and British MI6, all but the most sensitive U.S. and U.K. codes were permanently loaded in her computer servers.
A minute later, the crewman handed him a single sheet of paper inside a black folder bearing the words “TOP SECRET” in red.
“Aw, damn it to hell,” Patterson said, quickly scanning the thing.
“Tell me,” Alex said.
“Regret to inform you,” Patterson read aloud, “that Special Agent Rip McIntosh died in the line of duty at 1220 hours this afternoon, in a valiant attempt to save the life of Ambassador Duke Merriman.”
Patterson’s chin sunk to his chest.
“He was the best of the best,” the DSS man said softly, “Ripper was the best guy I had.”
“I’m sorry, Tex.”
“This son of a bitch is ripping the heart out of my organization, Alex.”
“No, he’s not. You’re the heart, Tex.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Emirate
BLESSED AND ACCURSED. THAT IS MY LIFE, THE FATE I HAVE made for myself, Snay bin Wazir thought, gazing upon the lovely face of his Rose. The Pasha and the Rose, lounging atop silken pillows scattered across the
