toward Turkey’s capital. A CIA paramilitary undercover officer got on at EskiSehir, the second stop out of Istanbul. He got into the coach directly across from the Saudis, leaving Lia free to stretch her legs and go to the snack car without worrying too much about what her subjects were up to.
The
It took six hours for the train to get to Ankara. Lia spent the time haunted by memories of Pinchon, dozing off once only to wake with a start, convinced that he was leaning next to her in the seat.
“We’re pretty sure they’re getting off and going to the airport,” Marie Telach told Lia as the train neared the Ankara station. “It looks like they’re bound for Riyadh.”
The Art Room had identified their aliases and booked a pair of the CIA people onto the flight. In the meantime, a trail team was already covering the train station, tasked to stay with the Saudis until they got on the plane.
“Mr. Rubens would like you to go to Riyadh,” Telach told her. “We’ve alerted the CIA station chief there as well as the Saudis. You’ll have plenty of backup.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” Lia asked.
“Continue surveillance. The next move may have to be up to Saudis because of diplomatic considerations,” Telach added. “That’s still being worked out.”
“Goodness knows we wouldn’t want to upset the Saudis.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Telach, for once as cynical and sarcastic as Lia. “We don’t want you to take the same plane as your targets. Do you want to catch a nap at a hotel?”
“Not worth it.”
“Are you all right, Lia? You haven’t slept.”
“I don’t feel like sleeping. I’ll get something to eat at the airport. Book me onto the earliest flight you can.”
CHAPTER 73
Marid Dabir stared at the television screen, watching the report of the deaths in Turkey. The authorities clearly had been tipped off to the pending attack, or otherwise they would not have had so many men in the area when the bomb exploded.
Dabir avoided the obvious conclusion until a photo of the dead attacker flashed on the screen. The European al-Qaeda organizer recognized him immediately: it was one of Asad’s bodyguards, the one who stayed closest to him during Dabir’s visit to Istanbul.
That made it all too clear who the traitor must be, didn’t it?
Asad bin Taysr was the only person outside of Dabir’s trusted circle who knew the target in Germany — yet didn’t know the plan well enough to allow the police to stop it. The bodyguard who might have implicated him had been eliminated. Most likely the man had been urged to his death by Asad, who would have been sure he would kill himself as soon as the police spotted him.
A traitor to his brothers, to his religion, to God.
There would be more betrayals. Eventually, the traitor would lead the Crusaders to Osama bin Laden himself.
He must be stopped before that happened.
Dabir rose from the table and walked to the counter of the airport lounge. He scratched his chin as he ordered another coffee. He’d shaved off his beard for the first time in more than five years and dyed his hair silver gray, matching the old picture in the Belgian passport in his pocket. He had a flight to Moscow in three hours. Though he hated the city, it was a place where he knew he would be safe.
This was not a time to be safe. It was a time to act. He would have to eliminate Asad bin Taysr now, before it was too late. Only he was in a position to do so.
Asad would go to the U.S. to deliver instructions for the rest of the attacks there. Al-Qaeda protocol decreed that the final orders be delivered in person so there was no chance of interception and no mistake in interpretation. Perhaps he was already there. Perhaps it was too late to stop him.
Dabir refused to consider that possibility. If Asad had gone to the U.S., he would meet with only the most secure and committed cells in the country. Three years ago, that would have meant Detroit, Phoenix, and San Francisco.
Now, though?
Perhaps the same. Dabir had helped build the American network and still had many personal contacts there. He could find out quickly, if he went there.
“Three euros,” said the man at the counter.
Dabir reached for his wallet. He could get to Detroit easily enough, and there were brothers there he could count on, brothers whom he had trained and helped plant years ago. They would owe their allegiance to him, not Asad.
He could have them meet him in Ontario, base his operations there. Phoenix would be his next stop, more difficult to deal with than Detroit, though he liked the weather much better.
Dabir took out one of the BlackBerrys he could use to communicate with associates. A set of chips had been added to the guts of the devices, allowing them to encrypt messages. He tapped out a message in English: “Changing plans. Will advise.” Then he went to see if he could arrange a flight to Toronto.
CHAPTER 74
Relatives and limo drivers crowded the door near the exit from customs at John F. Kennedy Airport, clamoring for loved ones and clients in a patter that mixed New York verve with tender pleading. Dr. Ramil dodged to the left, avoiding a happy young wife as she rushed to greet a husband just back from overseas. Her overflowing emotions encouraged him, as if happiness were not only contagious but a cure for the unsettled panic he’d been fighting against since Istanbul.
It had been some time since he’d been in New York City, and he wasn’t quite sure how best to get to Baltimore. He’d decided on the plane that he would call for advice, but now he changed his mind; perhaps staying the night in New York would soothe him further. Besides, he didn’t feel like talking to Rubens and the others just yet.
“Doctor. I hope your trip was a good one.”
Ramil spun around. Kevin Montblanc was standing at the end of the line, his walruslike moustache twitching as he spoke.
“Come on this way. Is that your only bag?”
“I hadn’t expected you,” Ramil told Montblanc. Montblanc was Desk Three’s operations personnel director, a kind of glorified den mother who looked after the Desk Three operatives. He was a psychologist, overly fond — in Ramil’s opinion — of touchy-feely phrases and open-ended questions.
“Thought you could use a lift. And I was in the neighborhood.” This was obviously meant as a joke, for Montblanc laughed. He wore a wrinkled linen suit; on the portly side, he waddled just a bit as he led Ramil to the door and then across to the short-term parking garage, pointing him to a green GMC Jimmy.
The car was hot. Ramil lowered the window, as much to stare at the sights as suck in oxygen.
By the time they hit the highway and the local traffic, the air conditioner had lowered the temperature to a comfortable sixty-nine degrees. Montblanc turned off the radio — it had been playing Chopin — and raised the windows.
