Jihad

Hippodrome, or maybe it was a residential district buried by one of the earthquakes. We can’t find any documentation.”

“Has Dean found Asad?”

“He’s close, but we still don’t have the signal.”

“How can that be?”

“We have a theory,” said Telach, coming over. “The room may be shielded. It’s probably one of these on the right.”

Rubens looked at the schematic sketched from the ground-penetrating radar. While it wasn’t technically difficult to shield a room from radio waves, it did require considerable preparation and expense. It was conceivable that Asad or someone in his circles had arranged this, but it seemed out of character.

So perhaps the shielding was already there.

“They’re in a mausoleum,” said Rubens. “A large bronze tomb. Or a treasury room. Get an opinion from the technical team on whether the radio waves can penetrate them. There’s no sense having Mr. Dean prowling old sewers if there’s no hope of picking up the signal.”

CHAPTER 39

Dean squeezed forward through the square stone tunnel, trying to ignore the dust that was choking him. Every ten feet or so he came to an opening too narrow to crawl into; he shone his light down them but inevitably saw nothing. The tunnel ahead widened; he pushed toward it slowly, listening to the strange echoes. As he neared the passage, the urge to sneeze overwhelmed him. He leaned over and stifled it against his shoulder, but the muffled sound echoed in the stone passage. Something rippled in reaction — an echo, it seemed, and then the space in front of him exploded, black shards flying at him.

Not shards but bats. Thousands of them.

Dean pressed his head against the floor of the passageway, the air vibrating around him as bat after bat flew by. One hit his head and he felt another and another tripping over his back, their cries rattling his ears. Eyes closed, Dean pressed himself against the stone, waiting for the onrush to end.

When the bats were gone, he pushed forward into a large cavern whose floor was covered with mounds of guano. Dean’s stomach began to turn. As he clamped his hand against his mouth and nose, he heard the ripple of wings again. He ducked to the right, squatting over a mound of bat turds as the mass of bats came back, circling the interior of the vast chamber before returning to their roosts in the ceiling.

“Where the hell am I, Rockman?”

“We’re trying to figure that out, Charlie. Stay where you are.”

“There are bats here.”

“You’re not freaked by bats, are you, Charlie?”

Dean wished nothing less than to have Rockman’s neck within reach.

“Mr. Dean, this is Rubens. It would appear that Red Lion and his people are within a complex of Byzantine tombs about a hundred feet from you. It appears that the metal lining the sarcophagi is jamming the transmission. However, the technicians believe that if you set up the booster unit close enough, they will be able to pick up some of the signal.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“No, I am not. If you believe it’s too risky to proceed, please say so.”

Dean scanned the bat-filled cavern. How much worse could it be?

“Which way do I go?” he said.

“Straight ahead,” said Rockman.

“Figures.”

CHAPTER 40

Asad leaned back, trying to stretch his legs without getting up. Three men had joined the al-Qaeda leader in the small, underground burial chamber; they huddled knee to knee on the rug Katib had set out before going back to join the rest of the bodyguards.

More than a thousand years ago, rich Christians in the Byzantine empire had built this room and the surrounding crypts as a place to remember their dead. The thick bronze and other metals would make it impossible for radio waves to penetrate, lessening the chance that the Turks — or the Americans, who were their masters — would find a way to listen in. This was his only meeting in Istanbul where such precautions were necessary, and in truth Asad realized they were extreme even in this case. But he could not resist the symbolism of meeting here to plan the West’s funeral. Nor could he resist the opportunity to lecture his followers.

“The first stage of our war has been largely symbolic,” he told the two men who had come to see him. “The martyrs struck at the heart of Western arrogance and power on 9/11. The crusaders struck back in a way that made our battle explicit. Each day, hundreds of brothers join our ranks — in Iraq, Afghanistan, in Egypt, in Spain, in France — in America itself. Now the time has come to move our attacks beyond symbolism. We prepare the war to strike at the economic heart of the corrupt barbarians who enslave us. We will strike at that lifeblood.”

“With God’s help,” said the man on his right, a tall African brother from Somalia.

“And yours, sheik,” said the other. Shorter, he was a light-skinned Libyan.

“The ship?” he asked them.

“It will arrive at the rendezvous point within a few hours,” said the Somalian. “Everything is prepared. Even the papers, if it is stopped.”

Asad nodded. The American project was a complicated plan, involving three different stages; the preparation of the Aztec Exact represented only the first. The last would be most difficult and required him to travel to America to initiate it — a task he welcomed with relish. Asad would personally set the keystone attack in motion; the honor was his right as commander.

“We are ready to do more, sheik,” said the African. “Say the word, a thousand brothers will join you.”

“For now, you have done enough. There will be other chances in the future.” He bowed his head. “Let us pray before we go.”

CHAPTER 41

Dean was less than ten feet from the area with the burial vaults when Rockman told him they had finally picked up the signal. Dean put the booster on the side of the passage and began backing up. He got only a few yards when he heard voices in the space ahead.

“Charlie, they’re coming in your direction,” said Rockman.

No kidding, thought Dean. He stopped moving, lying silent in the square hole, his chin in the drain inset that ran along the floor. The voices and footsteps echoed wildly, the sounds a bizarre mix of growls. As he lay in the ancient sewer pipe, Dean felt his sweat rolling down from his back. He felt his breath growing short and choppy; his head began to pound.

I’ll be out soon, he told himself. Just hang on.

When he didn’t hear any more sounds, Dean started to back up again. But he hadn’t gone more than three feet when he heard more voices. He stopped, lying flat in his sweat and the dank slime.

“Asad’s coming out now,” said Rockman. “We think he’s the last to leave.”

Dean tried to control his breath. His head had begun to pound fiercely.

“He’s out,” said Rockman. “Give it a minute or two, make sure they’re all gone. Then go. Leave the booster unit.”