Jihad

“There is no but, Lia.”

Baloney, thought Lia. There was always a “but” with Rubens. No matter how perfectly a mission went, he found something to object to.

A young woman with a double stroller passed nearby. Lia watched as she stooped to fuss over the two children, lifting one out of the carriage and then the other. Wearing jeans and a blouse, the woman could have been anywhere in Europe, or America for that matter.

“The man Red Lion met with last night is an al-Qaeda operative who was previously believed to be dead,” said Rubens. “He took a flight to Germany a few hours ago and we now believe he heads a network of terrorists there. Mr. Karr will travel to Germany to work with German intelligence.”

“Bundesnachrichtendienst,” said Karr brightly in a mock German accent.

“Thank you, Mr. Karr,” said Rubens. “I’m sure we’re all well aware of the proper name for German intelligence.”

“How’s my accent?”

Rubens, who could be very indulgent with Karr, ignored him. “In the meantime, Lia and Mr. Dean will continue tracking Red Lion. The CIA teams will take up any slack—”

“Not either of the clowns who ‘helped’ us yesterday,” said Dean.

“We have to work with the assets available,” said Rubens, his voice even more priggish than usual. “Unless, Mr. Dean, you have additional information about what happened.”

“I already told Marie what happened.”

“Lia?” said Rubens.

“They thought he was escaping,” Lia said. “It wasn’t the best decision. They did fine in the hospital.”

“I don’t trust them,” said Dean. “They’re not under control.”

Was Dean right? Or was she?

Why was she defending Pinchon?

Did she still feel something for him?

God help her.

No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. But she had to be fair. Fair.

“I believe your judgment may be a little harsh, Mr. Dean,” said Rubens. “But if you don’t believe you can work with them, I will request that they make reassignments.”

Dean didn’t answer. Lia pictured him in her mind, his jaw set, debating. But instead of his face, she saw Pinchon’s.

“Whoever we work with has to understand they work for us, not the other way around,” said Dean. “We don’t need no cowboys.”

“Yee-ha!” shouted Karr. “Not even me, pardner?”

“Not even you, Tommy,” snapped Dean. “Just make sure they understand that.”

CHAPTER 44

The game was a Pac-Man rip-off, a vintage video machine rigged to play without coins. When he first found it in the small lounge at the back of the hotel lobby, Dr. Ramil thought it would relax him. But he soon realized that it was only making him more tense, revving his anxiety. Still, he couldn’t seem to push himself away from it, hypnotized by the balls he had to sweep up and the monsters buzzing along behind him. He spent more than an hour pushing the joystick back and forth, convincing himself that he had a strategy to win.

He finally broke away when the call to evening prayers wafted into the back room. For most people in the city — Muslims as well as those of other faiths — the taped broadcasts were background noise; the vast majority went about their business without interrupting what they did. Until today, Ramil had always done the same. But now he left the hotel and walked up the street toward the Blue Mosque, compelled to go there by some force within him.

His heart was jumping in his chest, and his head felt as if he were covered with cushions, constricting his vision and hearing. As a doctor, he knew he must be close to having a panic attack, or even a nervous breakdown. The stress of the mission had unnerved him, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Praying probably made as much sense as anything.

Even well-trained young men like Tommy Karr reacted to the extreme stress of covert ops. What else was his careless accident and relentless joking but a byproduct of the mission?

How much more fragile was a middle-aged man?

More than middle-aged, to be honest.

Ramil’s legs began to slow, his heels scraping on the cobblestones. He was in good health and had completed the most dangerous part of the assignment. To get help, all he had to do was push two buttons on the satphone. Support teams were scattered around the city. He’d been in far more dangerous situations and survived. There was no reason to be nervous, much less panic.

He had heard a voice in the New Mosque earlier — a real voice, probably from someone who could tell by his clothes that he was American, and disliked Americans. He wasn’t losing his mind.

What if it had been God who called him a traitor and coward? What then?

Ramil took a deep breath. He certainly believed in God. But he also knew that God did not talk to people, or at least not to him. He was a doctor and scientist, not a seer.

Was he afraid of the mosque? If not, why was he standing here, glued to the small strip of sidewalk below its grounds?

Ramil crossed the street just ahead of a taxi, then turned the comer and walked up the hill. The outdoor cafe opposite the mosque was packed with tourists. A group of dervish performers were on the stage, spinning and dancing.

The immense mosque felt more like a museum than a house of worship. The vastness of the space, emphasized by the streaks of light flooding down from the windows at the top of the building, calmed him — everyone was insignificant here, not just Dr. Saed Ramil.

Ramil walked past the tourists admiring the blue tiled ceiling that had given the mosque its name, passing into the prayer area reserved for the faithful. The stained glass threw a glorious hue of light all around the interior. Ramil felt as if he were walking into a rose.

He was on his knees in the middle of prayer when he heard the voice in his head again.

They are cowards and traitors to the Word of God They must be brought to justice. Why have you not done more to stop them?

Hands trembling, Ramil fled back to his hotel.

CHAPTER 45

With Asad apparently bedded down for the night and electronic sensors in place to keep close track of him, Charlie Dean found himself bored. He went to a restaurant about a mile from the terror leader’s safehouse, a fancy place that catered primarily to European tourists and the occasional businessman. The pace was slow, which suited Dean perfectly; he sipped sparkling water while watching the other guests. The wait staff were making a fuss over a six-year-old Italian boy who was sitting with his parents two tables away, treating the boy as if he were the reincarnation of Turkey’s national hero and founder, Ataturk. Extra desserts appeared, waitresses and even waiters stole kisses. The father, roughly Dean’s age, looked on with a bemused smile, while the mother — closer to Lia’s — beamed.

They hadn’t talked about kids during their time in Pennsylvania. Maybe they should have.

Funny to be thinking about kids at this point in my life, Dean thought.

“No change, Charlie,” said Sandy Chafetz, the runner on duty back in the Art Room.