Ali Dent quietly took notes for most of the morning, asking for clarity from time to time. Tristan’s wife was like the coach who is always two touchdowns ahead of the game.
“Did any of you ever read ‘The Man Who Would Be King’?” she asked us after a while.
“I think I saw a movie based on it once,” Tristan muttered sheepishly.
“Oh, yeah—Sean Connery and Michael Caine,” I chimed in. “Awesome flick!”
Oliver shook his head and laughed. “I think you’re missing the point, guys. Ali’s not talking about the 1970s adventure film. She means the original source—the Rudyard Kipling story from like a century earlier, about British soldiers who decide to make themselves Afghan kings. Ali, please elaborate.”
“Thank you, Oliver. At leastoneof you uses his noggin for more than a hat rack! Yes, I meant the Kipling story. But for you knuckleheads, I guess the movie is close enough. The whole point is that while the enthusiasm may be admirable and the mission may be worthy, it’s still always a dangerous proposition to give anyone the keys to the kingdom—especially folks skilled with guns and explosives. We’ve got to be hot-wired tight so that we don’t talk ourselves into acting like those men who would be kings, and get ourselves in deep shit thinking we are gods. That’s all I’m saying.”
Man, that stung worse than the hotwash.Alison Dent was exactly right, of course. I tried to think of a calm and collected professional response.
Tristan cleared his throat and looked at me. “Nat, I think this is where you’re supposed to say something.”
I frowned at him. “Thanks for selling me out, pal. I know what I want to say, but I don’t know if I should say it. So that’s why I’m sitting here waiting for you, the owner of CSTC, to answer the co-owner—who is, in fact, by law, your wife.”
“Oliver? Please just shoot me, right here behind the ear.” Ali held two fingers up to her head like a pistol and pulled the air trigger.
“I’m only kidding,” I reassured Ali. “Honestly, you’ve just voiced my biggest fear. I’ve seen the Good Ol’ Boys Club go bad in a hurry. I didn’t want oversight while we were in Nantucket during the fight, and I don’t really want it now, but I do realize we’re going to need it at some point. What I don’t have is a well-thought-out answer. I could bullshit you, but that’s all it would be. Can I let it marinate and talk to my team and get back to you?”
“Of course, Nat—I didn’t expect an answer today. We need all of you and CSTC to be bulletproof, protected. We’re embarking on unknown territory, and we’re sure to encounter plenty of complexities that we haven’t even considered. So for a start, let’s begin by tackling this one:How do we guard against getting too big for our operational britches?”
Now that I had my assignment, Tristan ended the meeting:
“Class dismissed.”
CHAPTER 71
Paris, France
Haracat al Marrak was not surprised that the American whore had made contact following the protocol he designed. He was neither angry nor relieved. In fact, he was more amused than anything.
While it was true that his access to funds was almost unlimited, it was also true that he did not have access to an unlimited number of people. His benefactor was very generous, to be sure, but also seemed to be injecting himself more deeply into the operations than al Marrak would have liked.
The capture, torture, and execution of Senator Coleman Harrison had been a victory: The viral video was worth well more than he had paid for the entire operation. Donations pouring in to his worldwide networks had increased tenfold. (Believers were always more generous when they got proof that their money was advancing the cause.) This influx of cash, however,was being allocated to a single objective: the assassination of the United States President.
No other organization on the planet would dare attempt such an audacious act. Groups in Saudi Arabia and Yemen talked a big game, but chattering like old men was all they did. The groups in the Maghreb were no better. They picked easy targets—low-hanging fruit—and called themselves martyrs. But anyone could blow up a school or a bus or a church and then run away; it was hardly the will of Allah.
It didn’t bother al Marrak that he had recently changed his mind about the fate of the infidels.Inshallah,he thought.Allah’s will.What did bother him was his reliance on the Russian. The two sons were of no consequence, but he had to treat the elder Russian with respect. As long as the old man was alive, nobody could replicate what the Russian’s network could do, and the plan in progress depended on his expertise. The old man would die one day, hopefully sooner rather than later. But until then, Haracat al Marrak would stuff his frustration deep inside and humble himself enough to make the call to Moscow.
The French ambassador’s daughter had informed al Marrak that the new administration would be in a state of transition—sworn enemies taking the place of other sworn enemies—for months. During that time, the Americans would be the most vulnerable. It would be the perfect time to create the most chaos and watch the supposedfree worldimplode.
Chopping off the head of the Great Satan was the only way to show the world the spiritual degeneracy of the American pig dogs. But time was not on his side. The elections would be heldin November—hardly enough time to recruit, train, and organize a cell capable of such a spectacular operation.
Al Marrak encrypted his instructions and began the process of communicating with the Americans. Then he closed his eyes and thought about how he had planned to kill them both. The thought of watching their eyes go wide with fear as they begged for mercy was pure ecstasy. That day would come, but for now the whores were an asset.
CHAPTER 72
CSTC Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility
Meg was planning the next phase of the Palm Beach operation. I wanted to get an update on our recon plan, so I headed over to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF).
I tapped out my code on the keyboard, waved my badge in front of the sensor, gazed into the retina-scanning device, and heard the door unlock. I was certain the day would come when I’d open that and find gold coins and bars stacked to the ceiling. Not today, but I did see Meg’s smiling face—and that was A-OK.
We spent some time discussing a couple of key points to cover with the team during the daily intel brief. Meg was on top of it as usual, and I could sense that the plan was gaining steam.
As I turned to leave, she said something that didn’t quite register, so I asked her to repeat it: “What did you say?”
