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Barstow noticed the look on her face. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No…it’s just that…there’s a good chance I will have to take at least one call.”
“That’s all right, your job is a little more important than mine.”
Kennedy heard no malice or jealousy in his voice. It was a gesture of honest humility. “Thank you. I’ll try to keep it short.”
Barstow ordered a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux and they made small talk over salads. He got the wedge and she got the baby arugula. Kennedy enjoyed asking him about the financial markets. He had a master’s degree in economics from the University of Chicago and he usually had a fresh take on the world. Like most economists he also used hard facts to back up his theories. He would have been really good in her line of work.
Three waiters filed into the room with the main course and sides. A petite filet was set down in front of Kennedy as well as steaming side orders of asparagus and mushrooms. A giant slab of meat was placed in front of Barstow as if it were a bar of gold. Kennedy knew it was the porterhouse, and if Barstow acted the way he did last time, he would eat only half of it and take the other half home for his dog. At least, that was the story.
Kennedy savored the aroma of what would be her first steak in four weeks. It was all she allowed herself. The wineglasses were refreshed and then the waiters filed out. Kennedy and Barstow looked at each other in anticipation. Barstow looked to be torn between making another toast and digging into his slab of red meat, which would feed a small family for a week. Kennedy grabbed her steak knife and fork and was poised to go to work, when she sensed something amiss. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass doors. It was men in dark suits, not waiters in white jackets. Kennedy badly wanted to ignore them but knew she wouldn’t. Carefully she turned her head and instantly knew the meal was over.
Looking back at her through the glass was Rob Ridley. The deputy Clandestine chief was a perennial smart-ass. He loved to tease and joke, but there was none of that on his face tonight. He was as grim as Kennedy had ever seen him. Kennedy slowly set her fork and knife down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
After a heavy sigh she said, “Bill, you’ll have to excuse me. It appears that interruption I was anticipating has arrived.”
Barstow tried to look sympathetic, but in truth was already inhaling his first cut and looked like he might pass out. Kennedy went to the door and drew it back. Ridley stepped forward, his eyes as concerned as Kennedy had seen them in some time.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got big problems.”
“How big?” she asked.
“Really big.”
“Mitch?”
“Yep.”
Kennedy sighed. It sounded like he was finally going to get the fight he was looking for. She had resigned herself to the fact that it would happen sooner or later. The conflict was unavoidable, and Rapp’s attitude that they fight it on their terms was probably right, but it still didn’t feel right.
“I’ll brief you on the rest of it in the car,” Ridley said.
Kennedy turned to say good-bye to her date, saw his expression of understanding, and felt very guilty that he would have to eat alone. She considered the time difference, looked at her own meal, and made her decision. Turning back to Ridley she said, “I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”
CHAPTER 17
TRIPLE FRONTIER, SOUTH AMERICA
MORALE was not good. It was something he had failed to account for and Karim rarely failed to account for the important things. That was his strength. He was a scholar first and a warrior second. To be fair to himself, though, he had considered it briefly. In the final few seconds before he killed Zachariah he thought of how the execution would affect the other men. As he drew his sidearm, pulled the trigger, and watched the hollow-tipped round spray the back of Zachariah’s head against the screen, he felt certain that his action would galvanize the men, unify them, force them to put their differences aside and focus their talents on this important mission. He saw now that he had misjudged them.
It was their faith, he decided, a lack of true devotion. Tribal rivalries had also played a role, to be sure, and Karim chastised himself for not seeing that beforehand. Islam was notorious for its infighting; the petty rivalries that had kept them apart for so many years. The four Saudis under his command were fine. They would fight with efficiency and courage to the last man. Even the lone Afghani seemed to be taking it well, but then again the Afghani had served under him for more than a year and had fought bravely in countless incursions with the enemy. Because they had been to battle together they had that trust. The Afghani would be fine. They were the toughest, most selfless fighters Karim had ever known.
The Moroccans, however, were a problem. He now saw that, if anything, the team was more deeply divided than before. He briefly considered executing one of them, but found it impractical. He was not above using fear to motivate, but in this instance he was dealing with a finite supply of men. Karim had studied the brutal tactics of men such as Lenin and Stalin. There was something to be learned from them. Their sheer audacity and thirst for power was unmatched. Most impressive, though, was their ability to seize power and then hold on to it by the most heinous means necessary.
Karim thought of Lenin and Stalin often. Asked himself if he had it in him; the greatness of those two men, the ability to lead a revolution, to take power from others, to kill every enemy, real and imagined, until your power was unquestioned, secure, and you were ready to implement real change. He knew he could be cruel. Knew he had the conviction to see things through, to indiscriminately kill as many as it took. It was Allah’s work he was doing, after all, and Allah would sort out the believers from the nonbelievers when they were dead.
Karim’s job was to turn back the tide. Stop the heathens and the infidels and their steady march, their assault on Islam. Their liberation of women, their thirst for pornography, their acceptance of an abomination like homosexuality—all were the work of the devil. Their music, their movies, their entire culture was an assault on the family. Their entire culture was a cancer on the world, a slow and steady attack on Islam. Whatever the cost, no matter how many innocents were caught in the cross fire, they had to be stopped.
This particular operation was not the end for Karim. It was a grand stepping-stone for something far greater. Allah had come to him during his unending hours of prayer, had told him of his plans. How he wanted him to take back the cradle of Islam from the traitors, from the corrupt lovers of money and wealth. But before he could accept that responsibility, he had to prove himself. Not to Allah, but to those whom he would need for the next fight.
Karim would not martyr himself like the others. For obvious reasons, he had failed to share this with his men. Allah had grand designs for him. He was to one day lead a revolution that would change the world. Karim was destined to unseat the Saudi Royal family and purge his country of their corrupting influence. The entire family, ten thousand plus relatives, would have to be killed. Karim knew a few would escape, knew the world would be shocked, but the numbers were insignificant compared to Lenin and Stalin. Millions had died at their hands, and for what, a godless system that rewarded only the uppermost echelon of bureaucrats. Muslims would unders
tand, and in the end that is all that would matter. But first he had to deal with America, and to do that successfully, he needed to raise the morale of the two Moroccans and get his team acting as one.
Karim pushed open the rickety screen door and stepped onto the soft grass. Six months in this suffocating place. Much had been accomplished, but not enough. The mid-morning sun was finally high enough in the sky to drive the disease-carrying insects into the shadows. He knew the men would be thankful for that, but now they had to contend with the suffocating wet heat. Even his fellow countrymen found the wicked combination of heat and humidity a formidable opponent. Water was the key, just like in the desert. The men must drink plenty of water, Karim thought to himself. He’d made sure they took their malaria medicine as well. He hadn’t poured his talent and energy into this operation only to see it fail because of some tiny little bug.
