1
A COLD VOICE
The Camino trail, western Spain. About one mile from the town of Melide.
There’s not much of a cell signal along the Camino de Santiago, a five-hundred-mile trail known as The Way of Saint James, that runs through Spain’s rural countryside. So when the phone vibrated, it startled Jana. It had been her habit to leave the phone off until she found a hostel to sleep for the night. As it was, she was high on a bluff near Melide, just two days’ hike from the town of Santiago de Compostela, terminus of the Camino trail.
“We have a cell signal up here? Hang on,” she said to Gilda, a fortysomething hiker from Berlin she had befriended on the trail. “I thought this thing was turned off.”
“Probably that boyfriend of yours,” Gilda teased. “And don’t forget, it’s your turn to buy the wine tonight.”
“Oh no. Last time I did that, you got hammered.”
“Me?” Gilda laughed. “You were singing karaoke in Spanish, and you don’t speak Spanish.”
Jana laughed as she fished in her backpack for the phone. “Oh yeah. What was it you said I told the waiter? That I wanted to sleep with him?”
“Took a while to convince him you didn’t exactly have a command of the language.”
Jana looked at the phone. The caller ID said “Unknown.”
“Yeah, must be Cade calling me from his work,” she said. “But why would he not just use his cell phone?”
“He probably found out you made a pass at that waiter,” Gilda said with a smile.
“Remind me to smack you later.”
“Hello,” Jana said into the phone, but the only thing she could hear was the hollow sound of someone breathing. She looked across the surrounding hillsides, unsure why her nerves were suddenly on edge.
“Enjoying your little walk, Agent Baker?” a cold Middle Eastern voice said.
Ice raced into Jana’s bloodstream and her mind locked.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, but, Miss Baker,” the man said, his throat raspy and deep. “I would have thought you people would have my voice memorized by now.”
Her eyes scanned the horizon as if they might uncover someone watching.
Gilda put her hand on Jana’s arm. “Is everything okay?”
Jana stepped away and continued to look in all directions.
“I asked who this was.”
“Oh, I think you know,” the man said through a laugh. “Say it. Say my name, Miss Baker.”
A wave of terror leaked into Jana’s veins as she grabbed Gilda and yanked her to the ground.
“Jarrah? Waseem Jarrah?”
“What are you doing?” Gilda said as her body folded underneath Jana’s pull.
“You are probably wondering something pointless, Agent Baker, like how I obtained your cell phone number. And that leads you to what must be a very terrifying thought: whether or not I am also tracking your movements with it, or perhaps if I am watching you right now.”
Jana’s breathing rate went into overdrive.
“I have come into a great deal of wealth, Miss Baker, and can obtain a great many things. But it is information that I value most. Information is a most valuable commodity, don’t you think?”
Jana leaned across Gilda, hoping to shield her from the rifle shot she feared was about to come, then began a frantic search inside her backpack for anything she could use as a weapon.
“I’m going to find you, Jarrah. And when I do—”
“You’re going to what?” he interrupted. “Kill me? Well, after I successfully vaporized your CIA headquarters a few months ago with a nuclear weapon, I would think you would want to do more than just kill me. I would think you’d have more concern for predicting my next target. Maybe you should be protecting your FBI headquarters, or the White House? Perhaps I sold the warheads? Perhaps not. I cannot recall. Hmmm, where did I put those warheads?” he said through a grin Jana could feel across the phone. “But, I digress.”
Jana began piecing together the thoughts streaming through her mind. Where the hell is he? Is he watching me right now? I’ve got to think . . .
He continued. “I spent many years in your country, Agent Baker.” His tone deepened. “And I’m still trying to wipe the stench from my skin.” Then he almost yelled, “The CIA, the beast, got what it deserved, and Allah was pleased.” Jana heard him take a deep breath. “However, I didn’t call to tell you to be careful and avoid twisting an ankle as you finish your hike. I called to tell you that it’s more personal this time. In my previous attacks, I was unconcerned about who got in my way. But now I’ve taken a liking to you. You killed someone very dear to me, and I will ensure you feel the pain of your transgressions.”
Gilda squirmed underneath Jana. “What is wrong with you? Get off of me!” But Jana leaned her weight on top to keep the woman shielded from the potential threat.
“Stay down, Gilda,” Jana whispered. “Personal, you say?” she said into the phone. “Personal? Two years ago, you were the one that sent Shakey Kunde to detonate a nuclear weapon on US soil. What did you think I was going to do? Sit there and let him murder sixteen thousand innocent Americans? You sent him to die. He may as well have been dead before he entered that festival. And you blame me for his death? Our psychological profiles were right. You are insane.”
“Watch your tone, Agent Baker,” Jarrah belted. “You might be surprised at how inaccurate your little psychological profile is. I’ll admit, I was focused on wiping the CIA from the face of the earth. But when my second nuclear device detonated, I felt a calm inside myself unlike anything I could have imagined. Destroying the CIA was the realization of a dream.” Then the vinegar returned to his voice. “My path is set, Miss Baker. I have chosen my next target. Shortly you will witness the beginning of a game you and I are to play, a game of death, and the stakes have never been higher. Someone very important to you will die. You should consider their death to be a small atonement in the debt I intend to extract from you.”
Oh my God. He’s going to kill Cade.
“I do have one more thing to say to you, and it is this.”
Jana could almost feel his smile again through the phone, but then his voice became stilted.
“I heard one say in a voice like thunder, ‘Come!’”
To Jana, it sounded scripted, as if he was quoting something from memory or reading the words off a page.
“And you needn’t bother trying to trace this call,” he said. “I only use a cellphone once, then it gets destroyed. I am not stupid, you should know that by now. Say goodbye to your loved one, Agent Baker.”
“What the hell does that mean? A voice like thunder? Come?” Jana paused. “Jarrah? Jarrah?” The call went dead. “Prick.”
“Get off of me.” Gilda squirmed. “You’re crushing my ribs!”
“Sorry, Gilda. I thought he was here. I thought he was watching us.”
“Who? Who’s watching us?”
“I’ve got to call Cade.” Jana’s fingers shook as adrenaline surged into her veins. She navigated her list of contacts on the phone to find his information. “Dammit!” she yelled as she tapped on the wrong contact.
“Jana, you’re scaring me! Here,” Gilda said, “give me the phone. Who do you need to call?”
“Cade! I need to call Cade right now!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. Here’s his contact. It’s dialing now.”
Jana yanked the phone back.
“I’m not hearing anything. It’s not ringing. Come on, Cade. Pick up, pick up.” But there was only silence. Jana looked at the phone. “The signal. It’s down to one bar and even that keeps disappearing. The call isn’t going through!”
“Well come on,” Gilda said as she grabbed Jana’s backpack and began to jog. “The town of Melide is just down the hill. We’ll get a signal there. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Jana squelched tears before they could form as the two friends ran downhill in the direction of the town.
2
TARGET ACQUIRED
Melide, Spain
By the time they reached the edge of town, a faint cell signal had emerged. Jana panted in exhaustion but wasted no time placing the call. This time, the phone rang.
“Come on, Cade. Pick up.”
On the fourth ring, he answered.
“Well, if it isn’t my—”
“Cade! Whatever you’re doing, get to a safe place. Don’t question me! Do it now!”
Gilda could see the terror in Jana’s face and held her hand over her mouth.
“Jana,” Cade said, “what are you talking about? I’m in a perfectly safe place. What’s the matter?”
“Where are you? Tell me where you are!”
“I’m at The Box, NSA headquarters. I work here, remember? What’s the matter? I’m in the operations center. Where did you think I was? Tell me what’s going on.”
“Don’t leave the building, Cade. Stay at NSA. Do you understand me?”
“Babe, sure, I understand. But what’s happening? Is this another one of those top-secret things you’re not supposed to tell me about? You know that my security clearance is higher than yours, right?”
The attempt at levity went nowhere as Jana’s emotions overwhelmed her. She slumped to the ground and her throat locked tight. Gilda knelt beside her and put her arm around Jana.
“I thought . . . I thought I’d lost you.”
“Why?”
“Jarrah! Jarrah is in the open. Somehow he got my cell number and I think he knows where I am. He called me, Cade. He said he was going to exact revenge on me for killing Skakey Kunde. He knows I’m on this hike and said he was going to kill someone close to me.”
“Okay, now calm down. I’m fine, okay? Nobody can get to me in here. It’s you I’m worried about. Where are you right now?”
“We’re in a little hamlet called Melide. It’s about—”
“It’s four hundred and eighty miles from where your hike started, and twenty miles from where it ends, I know.”
“How do you know that? Is NSA tracking me? Do you have a drone up there or something?”
“A drone, that’s not a bad idea. Why didn’t I think of that? No, of course I don’t have a drone tracking you. A guy could get in trouble for tracking his girlfriend with a government-owned surveillance drone.”
“Cade, my cell coverage sucks out here. You need to call this in. You need a security team around you. This is not a joke.”
“I hardly think Jarrah is going to go to all the trouble to kill someone like me, Jana. It’s too risky. Besides, Jarrah isn’t into that. He masterminded the only nuclear attack that’s ever happened on American soil. Killing someone like me isn’t his style.”
“You didn’t hear his voice. And besides, he’s a nutjob, remember? He’s completely insane. I’m telling you, he’s going to kill someone close to me. He sounded like he was going to do it immediately. If not you, who is he talking about? My parents died when I was a child. My grandparents are gone . . . and Jarrah wouldn’t have called and given me much advanced notice. He would have waited until the last second, right before he did it, you know? Cade, if it’s not you, then who? Jarrah is about to kill someone. We have to think!”
“It could be Kyle,” Cade said. “But hold on, I think he’s still here too.”
“Still there? What do you mean? Kyle is FBI. He doesn’t have an office inside The Box.”
“Jana, you and your gorgeous blonde hair have been out of circulation for two months, traipsing your way across the Camino trail in Spain, remember? You’ve been away from me for two months, which I’m still mad at you about, by the way. Kyle is not FBI anymore. Not that it matters much. In the wake of the nuclear attack, the lines between what is FBI, CIA, and NSA are blurring. He’s technically considered CIA now. He was appointed four weeks ago. Has his own team.”
“CIA? Kyle hated those guys.”
“No, he didn’t,” Cade said. “Once the majority of CIA’s leadership was gone, killed in the blast, the power vacuum started. The whole organization is a shell of its former self. And, it’s different. Kyle will be doing field work. He’s a very focused individual, if you recall.”
“All right, all right. Find him, right now. Make sure he’s okay. And have Uncle Bill get on the line to Director Latent. We’ve got to get the full weight of the FBI on top of this thing—” But before the rest of the words could roll off her tongue, a thought hit her, freight train-style.
“Oh my God. I know who he’s going to hit!”
3
AN OCCUPIED ROOFTOP
Across from the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center, Midtown Manhattan, New York
Rafael pulled a piece of plastic sheeting over his body and that of his weapon, a custom-tuned Middleton model 415SS crossbow. The weapon was capable of delivering a carbon-fiber crossbow bolt tipped with a razor-sharp 100-grain broadhead at over five hundred feet per second. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the last thing he wanted was to acquire his target through wet optics.
He’d never been tasked to carry out a hit using such a weapon, and had spent lots of time training with it. In the past, his typical weapon of choice was a Zastava sniper rifle. Zastavas are Serbian built, and he had used his favorite, chambered in 7.62×51 mm, to assassinate several dozen high-ranking officers in the war with Croatia.
When his new employer contracted him to carry out today’s mission, very little had been said of his assigned target. At that time, all he’d been told was to proceed to the Northeastern United States and wait for further instructions. Before details were made clear, he’d even shipped the sniper rifle, which itself had made quite a journey. He had broken the rifle into parts and placed it inside a steel drum while he was still in Oman. The drum was one of about a thousand which were about to board a freighter bound for New York. When it reached the United States, the ship docked at the Columbia Street Waterfront, within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Rafael had discarded the rifle scope that was originally attached to the Zastava, an old ZRAK ON-M76. He replaced it with something he was more comfortable with, a $2,700 Leupold model that had a much wider field of view and illuminated crosshairs. Once sighted in, the rifle had become capable of driving a tack into a target at five hundred meters.
But when his employer, Waseem Jarrah, had provided more details about the assignment, the instructions were very clear—the weapon for this particular hit was to be a crossbow. The instructions further stated that failure to use a crossbow would result in his not being paid. Thus, his archery training had begun.
Locating a suitable crossbow had not been difficult. He was able to locate it at a gun show in West Virginia and the purchase was untraceable. It would never have occurred to the man sitting behind the table that it would be used for any purpose other than hunting whitetail deer.
Rafael then took the crossbow to have it tuned. The archery specialist replaced the factory limbs on the weapon with those made of customized tungsten alloy. The man said it was the most powerful crossbow he’d ever constructed. Once the Leupold rifle scope was mounted, Rafael’s ability to place an arrow into the center of his target became an act of simplicity.
The early afternoon sky was a dreadful mix of grays dappled with the black of the storm. The rain droned on, but sitting atop a building just across from the main entrance to New York’s sprawling Jacob Javits Conference Center provided the perfect vantage point. His target would emerge, and once the one-hundred-grain broadhead bolt struck, the man would die before he hit the ground.
As time ticked by, Rafael became bored and his focus drifted. He raised the weapon and looked through the scope at an apartment building behind him and peered into the windows. In the darkness of the storm, Rafael could see into the brightly lit units. His eyes wandered from one apartment to the next, seeking out what pleased him. In a third floor unit, a young woman entered her front door and dropped a soft-sided leather brief case onto the couch, then made her way to the bedroom. “My, my, what do we have here?” he said to himself with a grin. His grin widened as the woman flipped off a raincoat and ran fingers through her long wet hair. “Oh, we are soaked, aren’t we? Wouldn’t we be more comfortable in dry clothes?” His laughter started low, but became almost maniacal as the woman pulled her black, skin-tight dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. “How very nice. Little black dress, black bra, black panties. Yes, well, I should think you would like me to visit. And how skinny we are. I do love a flat stomach.” The woman reached behind herself and unhooked her bra, letting it, too, fall. Rafael’s eyes flared at the sight of her bare breasts. She turned and disappeared into the bathroom. “Perhaps I should pay you a visit. Yes, I think a visit is in order. There will be time later, and we will get to know one another.”
With the temporary distraction gone, Rafael turned his attention back to his assignment. Initially, he hadn’t known who had hired him, and hadn’t cared. The first payment had been transferred into his Cayman Island bank account and that was all that mattered. That and the fact that this job was the heaviest hit he’d ever been hired to carry out. This one would bring down a lot of heat. In the past, he’d hit high-priority targets, but this was on a whole new scale. The response to this assassination would be swift, and he could not falter in his escape.
He would leave no trace of his presence, with one exception: a piece of evidence he would deliberately leave behind. Once he had fired the weapon, he would have to move, and move quickly. His mind swirled with questions. Why a crossbow? If silence is what is required, I could easily outfit my sniper rifle with a suppressor. And why deliberately leave this strange piece of evidence behind so that authorities would find it? But questions such as these became mere afterthoughts. Even if he knew the answers, he would have accepted the assignment anyway. His line of work required one thing: complete loyalty to his employers. It was as simple as that.
A gust of wind pushed a wet blanket of rain in a sheetlike motion across the bustling Eleventh Avenue traffic below. He checked his watch. It would only be another minute or two before his quarry emerged from the glass double doors. Wind and rain would provide the perfect cover—it would be impossible for anyone to hear the muffled thumping of the crossbow as it discharged, much less determine the direction the shot came from. He would be off the rooftop and onto the streets below, mingling in the throngs of humanity, within moments.
He slipped further underneath the plastic tarp and brought the cold stock of the crossbow to his cheek. The view through the high-quality optics cut the dark rain and revealed a clear field of fire. He twisted the scope ring to zoom the view closer and began a slow series of exhales, preparing his body to make the shot.
Any moment and he’ll be walking through that glass door. Any moment now . . .
His finger found the edge of the familiar trigger, and held.
The double doors of the convention center swung open and his target walked straight into the crosshairs.
4
REALIZATION
Melide, Spain
“Cade!” Jana screamed. “It’s Latent. It’s Director Latent. Don’t you see? Jarrah is going to take out the director of the FBI. He knows Latent and I are close, and he’d view it as a way to hurt me and cripple the bureau. He already took out most of the CIA, and now he’s after the organization that has thwarted him at every level!”
“Latent?” Cade said. “Oh my God.”
“What? Do you know something? Where is he?”
“He was to be the keynote speaker today at the International Law Enforcement Trainers’ Association convention. We talked last night.”
Jana yanked at her hair.
“He’s out in the open! You have to get Uncle Bill to call him right now.”
“Way ahead of you,” Cade said as his cellphone dropped from his hands.
He dashed out of his office and into the cavernous NSA operations center.
“Uncle Bill!” he yelled.
But Cade had no way of knowing that at that moment, Stephen Latent, followed by an entourage of FBI agents and media personnel, was pushing open a set of glass double doors that led from the Jacob Javits Convention Center and out onto Eleventh Avenue.
5
TO VANISH IN PLAIN SIGHT
Midtown Manhattan, New York
Rafael let out one long exhale then held it. He applied light tension to the trigger and the crossbow recoiled against his shoulder. His eyes never flinched. The full weight of the crossbow bolt, tipped with a one-hundred-grain Ramcat broadhead, rocketed across the street and entered the skull of FBI Director Stephen Latent just above the right eye. It tore a destructive path through the basal ganglia area of the brain and exited through the rear of the cerebrum. The resulting hole in Latent’s skull was large enough to fit a grapefruit. The arrow continued on its destructive path until it struck a BBC cameraman just behind Latent. The bodies of both men crumpled onto the ground. Neither flinched; they were dead.
Rafael’s motions following the shot were swift, but calm. He crouched behind the upper wall of the rooftop, disassembled the crossbow from the stock, and placed the weapon into a zip-up nylon carry case, which he slung onto his back.
From his pocket he removed a glass vial. The small ampule was filled with sulfuric acid, and contained a tiny, clear glass bead. He dumped the entire contents of the vial onto the spot where he crouched, and threw an olive-green poncho over himself. He was down the stairs and on the street in under ninety seconds. But he deviated from his well-rehearsed escape path which would have taken him down West Thirty-Seventh Street, one block left then one block right until finally descending the stairs leading to the Penn Station subway tunnel at Thirty-Fourth Street and Eighth Avenue. His plan was to be gone from the scene as though he had vaporized into thin air.
As it were, his particular tastes in women led him instead around the rear of the young woman’s apartment building where he picked the lock on a side door, climbed three flights of stairs, then walked down the hall, counting units until he arrived at the fifth apartment from the left. Once inside, he found the young woman still in the shower.
No one heard her screams.
6
A NIGHTMARE WITH NO END
Melide, Spain
Jana pressed the phone to her ear. “Cade? Cade?” She leaned toward Gilda, who was still trying to catch her breath from the downhill run. “He must have put the phone down. Cade!” she again yelled, squinting into the brilliant Spanish sunlight.
The town of Melide had roots that could be traced to the tenth century. The main road was barely wide enough to fit a Smart Car. On one side sat an albergue, a type of hostel or hotel, and the other, a post office.
“Is this thing still connected?” Jana said. “Cade, what’s happening?”
“Jana,” Gilda said as she let her backpack flop to the ground. “Calm down. I’m sure he’s working on it.” She slumped to the cobblestone sidewalk to rest. Gilda’s command of the English language was superb, yet her accent decried just a touch of Bavarian. “Stay calm. Do you have a good cell signal?”
“Yes, two bars. I can hear something in the background, but he’s not answering me.”
“It’s not going to do you any good to lose your cool right now. You’re doing everything you can.” Gilda leaned against the post-office building, which shaded her face from the piercing sunlight. “God, I’m exhausted. You know we trekked twenty kilometers today?” Jana wasn’t listening, but Gilda, never one to allow silence to fester for too long, continued. She let her eyes close and said, “He’ll be back on the phone in a second, and you’ll see. Your other friend, Latent? Is that his name? He’ll be just fine.”
“Gilda, you have no idea who we’re dealing with. Waseem Jarrah is number one on Interpol’s most wanted list. He is responsible for the nuclear bombing in America, and for a string of other terrorist attacks on the United States.”
“Yeah?” Gilda said, exhaling. “You people sure do have a lot of enemies.”
“Oh, and the Germans don’t? Cade,” she said again into the phone, “come on, pick up the phone.”
A light breeze blew dust through the center of the tiny hamlet. A storekeeper across the way swept dirt onto the sidewalk.
“I’m telling you,” Gilda said as she leaned her head back, “relax. He’ll be right there.”
“This is maddening!”
But Gilda shook her head and rested her eyes, her face again draped in afternoon sun.
Cade finally returned to the phone.
“Jana?”
“Cade! What’s happening? Did you get Latent on the phone? Is he all right?”
For several seconds, all she could hear was Cade’s breathing.
“Cade? Are you there? What’s wrong?” Jana’s eyes darted from one side of the street to the other. “Director Latent’s all right, isn’t he? Cade?”
Another gust of light wind funneled between the storefront buildings.
“He’s gone, Jana. He’s been assassinated. In broad daylight. It’s all over CNN. It just happened.”
Jana slumped beside Gilda. “No. No, it can’t be.”
“They don’t even know where the shot came from. He was definitely the target though.”
Jana covered her mouth and she began to shake.
“We’ve got to get you out of there,” Cade said. “Uncle Bill is on the horn right now with the Spanish intelligence service, the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. Just stay put, they’ll get to you.”
“Cade, are you sure about Latent? I mean, are you sure it’s him? What if it’s someone who just looks like him, you know? He can’t be dead.”
“Jana, it’s him. There’s no mistake. He was coming out of the convention center, surrounded by news crews when it happened. The footage is all over the airwaves. Listen to me. You need to get inside somewhere. I don’t like the idea of Jarrah calling your cellphone. You are in danger and I want you out of sight.”
“He must know I’m on a hike, but I can’t imagine he actually knows where I am,” Jana said, wiping a newly formed tear. He doesn’t know where I am, right? she thought. “I mean, think about it. It would be just his style. Call me and make me paranoid that he’s watching me. His call to me was just a diversion. I think he likes to know his victims are squirming.”
“Just get indoors. Do it for me, okay?”
“Cade,” she sounded like a mom scolding a child, “I’m not in danger.” She leaned against Gilda. “Besides, I’m not alone. I’ve got a friend. She’ll look out for me.”
Just then something slammed into Jana’s right temple and everything in her vision went black. Her body flopped onto the street. The last thing she heard was the sound of Gilda screaming.
Across the phone line, Cade heard the muffled sounds, followed by a woman screaming, then the Middle Eastern voice of a man that spoke just one word. To Cade, the word sounded like “owe-woo,” which, although he did not know, was an Urdu word meaning, ‘come.’
Cade yelled into the phone, “Jana? Jana?” His cries were answered only by a muffled gurgling sound reminiscent of a person choking on their own blood.
“Jana!”
With the calmness of a dog waking from an afternoon of slumber, the man standing over Jana smiled, put away his weapon, and walked back into the hillsides.
Several minutes later, Jana began to regain consciousness. Her head throbbed. As she pushed herself upright, she startled as her hand landed in something wet.
“Oh, my head. Gilda? What happened? Why is everything wet? Did you spill your water bottle again?” she said.
But as she glanced at her palm, she found it covered in thick, dark blood.
“Gilda!”
Gilda’s motionless, half-opened eyes glared back. She was dead; a single wound to the torso.
“Gilda, no!”
An hour had passed by the time the Guardia Civil arrived in the tiny hamlet of Melide. The murderer was nowhere to be seen. Two hikers who came into town off the Camino Trail later reported they had seen a man hike past them, headed in the opposite direction. They thought this odd, considering the majority of the Camino Trail’s hikers walk toward the town of Santiago de Compostela, terminus of the trail, and not away from it.
As Jana listened to the hikers, she made eye contact with nothing. They described him as being of Middle Eastern descent, having narrow shoulders, and carrying a long, flat pack on his back. But when they described his hair as wavy and black, with a thick shock of white up one side, Jana looked up, and a cold shiver flashed across her body.
It was him. It was Waseem Jarrah.
Jana turned and stared down the narrow street, but her mind wandered into a spinning swirl and the edges of her eyesight became glassy. She saw flashes of Waseem Jarrah’s face. But when another face appeared, a face she had seen in a thousand nightmares, her vision washed into whiteness and her hand began to tremble. A horrifying flashback from the events that had occurred two years prior played out in front of her as if she were living them again. It was all crystal clear. Waseem Jarrah’s disciple, terrorist Shakey Kunde, pointed the Glock at her and Jana stared in abject terror as white flashes erupted from the muzzle. Kunde laughed a monstrous laugh and she felt the puncturing impacts of bullets slamming into her chest.
The next thing Jana saw was the shocking blue sky above the Spanish countryside as she fell back and her head slammed into the cobblestone street.
When she awakened a few hours later in a rural hospital, Jana knew she had suffered another post traumatic stress episode. The PTSD had resurfaced, and she had no control over it.
Her nightmare with Waseem Jarrah had begun again.
7
OF SWORDS AND DRAGONS
John F. Kennedy International Airport, Queens, New York
The flight from Madrid’s Barajas International Airport to New York’s Kennedy took just over eight hours. Jana followed the flow of passengers as they departed the plane and looked up only because everything in the terminal was so quiet. The airport was almost vacant. She could see just two ticket agents and a dozen men in business suits.
One approached her and held out a badge and credentials.
“Agent Baker, I’m Special Agent John Zucker, United States Secret Service. This way, please.”
The other hulking men surrounded her on all sides.
“Secret Service? What’s going on?”
“Homeland Security directive, ma’am. As of this moment you are under federal protection.”
“Federal protection? I’m a federal agent. I don’t need protection. You’ve got to be kidding me. Wait a minute, did you clear this entire terminal because of me? You can’t do that. What about all the people that are going to miss their flights? I’m not in any danger. Don’t you people get that? If Waseem Jarrah wanted me dead, believe me, I’d be dead right now. I’m perfectly safe. It’s anyone around me who’s in danger.”
“Orders, ma’am.”
“Yeah, yeah, orders. I know all about orders. All right, but don’t get too comfortable in your new assignment. I’m not going to have a dozen sunglass-wearing linebackers flanking me everywhere I go.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the steely-eyed agent said before he spoke into a mic nestled underneath the cuff of his starched white dress shirt. “All units, all units. Sword is on the move.”
“What did you just say? Sword? What is that, your code name for me? What does that mean?”
“Sorry, Agent Baker. We give code names for anyone under our protection.”
“So what do I have to do with a sword?”
Zucker and the other agents surrounded Jana as they speed-walked from the gate. Their eyes darted back and forth so quickly they reminded Jana of coffee-shop baristas who had oversampled their product.
“The sword and the dragon,” he replied.
“What?” Jana said as she struggled to keep pace.
“It goes back to meeting the dragon. If we face death in the line of duty, we consider that to be meeting the dragon. When you meet your dragon, you’ll either cower to save your own skin or ram a sword down its throat.”
“So how does that make me a sword?”
For the first time, he allowed himself to make direct eye contact.
“Two years ago in Kentucky, when you came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun and with a terrorist about to detonate, you didn’t back down. That’s what we call meeting the dragon and shoving a sword down its throat. You are the sword.”
Jana quickened her pace. “Men,” is all she said.
8
NEW TRAVEL PLANS
Blueberry Café, Avenue M at East Sixteenth Street, Brooklyn, New York
Rafael logged into the Gmail account. Here, he would find further instructions from his employer, if there were any. Instead of sending encrypted emails to one another and risking them being intercepted by the NSA, Rafael’s employer had suggested a more simplistic approach.
Both Rafael and the employer had the login information to the account. When the employer wanted to communicate, he would compose an email, and then leave it in the draft folder. Since the email was never sent, there was nothing for the NSA to intercept. As long as no one found out this email account was being used by terrorists, the two could communicate at will. It was a low-tech solution, and it worked like a charm.
After successfully carrying out the assassination of the director of the FBI, Rafael found a single email in the draft folder.
This employer paid very well and, in all likelihood, the email contained instructions for another assignment. With his Cayman Islands bank account flush with cash, Rafael didn’t really need the money. He needed the thrill.
He opened the email and read:
“A most successful venture. I congratulate you. Your timing was perfect. No doubt you were more than satisfied with the transfer made into your bank account. Based on the success of your first assignment, I have decided to continue your services. Your first mission was a target of the highest value, and thus, the highest pay. The next target, however, is of lower value and comes with lower pay. I am certain you will understand. However, the same bonus structure remains in place. If you carry out the assignment at the exact time of 2:16 p.m. EST, your pay doubles. And if you continue to be successful, you will receive new assignments. Attached is a photograph and details of your next objective. It is critical that you carry out this task at the exact time of day specified. Failure to carry out the task at the time specified will result in the termination of our relationship. For this assignment, you will use the vial labeled “number two.” Remember, after you are sure your objective has been completed, empty the contents of the vial at the scene so they will be found.”
The email contained a name, home and business address, cell phone number, and photograph of a soon-to-be-deceased target. He tore open a padded manila envelope that had previously been delivered, and withdrew vial number two. He held the vial to the light and stared at the contents. At the bottom sat a clear glass bead similar to the one he had left at the scene of the Stephen Latent assassination. It, too, was oblong in shape, yet no larger than a pea. Inside the bead was a tiny object embedded into the center of the glass.
Upon examination, Rafael found the object to be different from the one contained in vial number one. He shook his head, then pulled out his phone to begin searching for the next available flight to Louisiana.
9
TALES OF J. EDGAR
John F. Kennedy International Airport
“Agent Zucker,” Jana said. “Can we slow down? I’ve got a headache from this lump on my head. My God, you Secret Service people walk fast enough to be running.”
Zucker’s eyes continued darting from one side of the airport terminal to the other as he and the other agents scanned for any irregularities.
“Zucker?” There was no response. “All right, all right, I’ll let you do your job, as stupid as it may be.”
The agent glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
“I didn’t mean your job was stupid. I meant what I said earlier. There’s no need to protect me. It’s crazy. Waseem Jarrah does not want me dead. He wants me alive so he can watch me squirm as he attempts to carry out whatever he has planned. Believe me. I think I’m starting to get inside his head.”
When she again received no response, Jana continued the one-sided conversation.
“Where are we going, anyway? Baggage claim is in the other direction.” As the group continued speed-walking through the terminal, Jana looked through the massive wall of glass and out onto the tarmac. Bright, midday sun rolled through the windows like a sheet of glowing water. At the end of a gangway sat a Gulfstream 6 jet. Compared to the size of the neighboring Delta 737 and a Lufthansa Airbus A320, the corporate jet looked like a child’s toy.
“We’re not headed to baggage claim, Agent Baker,” Zucker replied.
“Another flight? But I’m supposed to report to the New York field office. It’s over that way,” she said as she pointed toward the Manhattan skyline.
“Orders, ma’am.” He extended an arm, leading Jana into the gangway to board the Gulfstream.
“Orders. When do I get to give some orders? And, hey, what about my luggage? I’ve got a backpack with all my stuff in it.”
“Already on board the plane, ma’am. This way, please.”
“Already on board? How did you get my luggage on the plane already?”
As Jana, Zucker, and the other Secret Service agents boarded the jet, the engines revved in preparation for departure. Jana took a seat and noticed all the window shades were closed.
“I’ve been on this plane before. This is Bureau. I was on it with Director Latent.” She paused and thought about how Stephen Latent’s body was probably on a cold slab at the coroner’s office, and it gave her pause. Before her throat could tighten, she lifted the window shade to look at anything that might distract her.
Zucker lunged forward and yanked it down.
“Please don’t do that. Security. I’ll ask you to switch seats now, ma’am.”
“Well, you boys are thorough, I must say.” As Jana switched to another seat, the plane began to push back. “No, seriously. How is it that my luggage is already on board?”
Agent Zucker let out a long exhale, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to abate.
“I would think that you, being Bureau, would know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The stories about J. Edgar Hoover? When he was director of the FBI, and would visit a field office, two FBI agents from that office would be expected to drive him from the plane to his hotel. The roads in that town would be blocked off, like we do today for the president. And when Hoover arrived at his hotel, he expected his luggage to be in his room.”
“Okay,” she said, “so one of the agents driving him would grab the luggage out of the trunk and run them upstairs. It’s an arrogant thing for him to require, but how hard is that?”
“You’ve never heard these stories, have you? He never allowed his luggage to be in the car with them as they sped through town. Two separate agents had to grab the luggage out of the plane and rush it to the hotel before he arrived. The problem being, Hoover would depart the airport first, and the second car of agents didn’t have the benefit of driving through blocked-off roads.”
“That’s not just arrogant,” Jana said as the plane accelerated down the runway, “that’s pompous. Where are we going, anyway?”
“Fort Meade, Maryland, ma’am.”
“NSA? Why are we going to The Box?”
“Homeland Security set up a joint task force there. It looks like Congress is going to merge all of us even further under one umbrella. Since CIA headquarters was destroyed, Fort Meade is shaping up to be the location of the new combined agency.”
“Man, I have been out of circulation for a while. I go away for a couple of months and everything goes to hell.”
10
A SCOUTING MISSION
Saint Tammany Parish, just north of New Orleans, Louisiana
The administration building of the Saint Tammany Parish Sheriff was larger than Rafael had pictured. The modern, two-story complex sported a tall, glass-lined lobby entrance with an adjoining jail. The outer walls of the jail itself were smooth cement which melded into the glass structure with ease. The property sat nestled among residential neighborhoods and was bordered by Louisiana Interstate 12, a six-laner that ran the northern border of Lake Pontchartrain, just north of New Orleans.
In the morning darkness, Rafael strapped a sharpened pair of tree-climbing spikes onto each foot. He then ascended the seventy-foot-tall pine tree by jamming the spike on one foot into the tree, then the other, the effect similar to climbing a ladder. The tree sat on the property of a local golf course, on the opposite side of I-12 from the sheriff’s office.
Once he was at the highest point, Rafael could see only two obstacles that sat between his chosen firing position and the intended target. The first was the highway itself. The interstate was not very wide, but even at this time of morning was traveled by a large number of eighteen-wheel tractor trailers. Since he would be firing from ground level, a passing truck could obscure visibility of the target.
The other groundlevel obstruction was a twenty-foot-tall noise barrier wall that lined this stretch of highway.
From his perch near the top of the pine tree, Rafael considered the possibilities. The shot was only about one hundred meters, mere child’s play in the world of a veteran sniper. But since his employer specifically demanded the assassination take place at precisely 2:16 p.m. EST, the stakes were higher. A kill shot delivered at exactly that time would result in a 100 percent pay bonus, a bonus Rafael intended to earn.
He had worked for several employers over the years, and in the two dozen hits he had successfully performed, never had such a request been made. The time requirement added a new level of complexity to the already dangerous task.
In the earlier assignment to assassinate FBI Director Stephen Latent, the distance to target was also minuscule compared to his skill level. And he had to admit that he had been lucky with the timing. Latent had been scheduled to finish his speech at 2:00 p.m. and was to head to another speaking engagement across town. That gave him just enough time to finish his speech and traverse the sprawling convention center. As it happened, he pushed the double doors open and walked into his death at exactly 2:16 p.m.
Here in Louisiana, and anywhere an assignment of this nature was to be carried out, the one thing of paramount importance to Rafael was his ability to evade the area after the hit. Since the Zastava M07 rifle would be fitted with a silencer, he had little fear of his location’s being detected. And in the broad daylight, no one would notice the flash from the muzzle.
His previous surveillances of this area afforded him one particularly interesting piece of information. The target, Sheriff Will Chalmette, worked the afternoon shift. That afforded the sheriff the ability to speak with deputies finishing the morning shift, and, later, those on the graveyard shift as they came in to the office. The afternoon shift officially started at 1:00 p.m. central time, 2:00 p.m. eastern.
The sheriff began his day by arriving about thirty minutes early. Then, around 1:00 p.m., he would assemble his officers and give them an update. And just as officers prepared to go on patrol, Chalmette would do one thing of particular interest to Rafael. He would go outside and talk with officers as they pumped fuel into their squad cars.
The local parish could only afford to have a single gas pump at the station, so Sheriff Chalmette had ample opportunity to speak with several officers each day as they fueled up. It was during this time that Rafael had the best opportunity. His intention was to drop Will Chalmette into a pool of his own blood and brain matter at exactly 1:16 p.m. Central Time. Then he’d make his escape through the golf course onto adjoining neighborhood streets. Being separated from the sheriff’s office by an interstate and a twenty-foot-tall sound barrier wall would make his escape all too easy.
Then the only hard part of this whole job began—the job of cutting a circular hole into the sound-barrier wall from which he would fire his weapon. Rafael descended the tree and began his preparations.
11
HOMECOMING
Headquarters of the National Security Agency, aka, ‘The Box.’ Fort Meade, Maryland.
As Jana walked into the vast operations center, she spotted Cade on the far side leaning over the desk of an analyst nicknamed “Knuckles,” a kid so young his face barely produced peach fuzz. They had not seen each other since she began her trek across Spain two months prior, and she double-stepped toward him.
But as they went to embrace, she was pounced upon by her sixty-pound service dog, a caramel-colored Lab, Australian Shepherd mix. The force knocked her to the ground and she was greeted with a full face pasting.
“Coconut! My God, dog. Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you too,” she laughed. “Man, that hurt. I know, I know, boy.”
As Jana lay on her back, the dog stood atop her and continued licking her face.
“It’s okay, boy. Oh, listen to him groan at me. He can’t decide if he’s glad to see me or mad that I went away for so long.”
“Come on, boy,” Cade said as he pulled the dog off. “Yes, it’s okay, she’s back. Let her up, you knucklehead.”
Jana stood and hugged Cade.
“Man, you go away for a while and everything falls apart.”
“Yeah, good to see you too,” he said.
“I guess Coconut is mad because I didn’t take him on the trail with me.”
“I’m mad because you didn’t take me on the trail with you.”
“I’m sorry. I did miss you though.”
“Yeah? Well Coconut was worried. He wanted to be there for you in case the PTSD flared up again.”
Jana paused, knowing the Spanish secret service must have told US authorities about her being hospitalized, but chose to blow past it. “Oh, Coconut wanted to be there? Don’t you mean you wanted to be there?”
A warm hand touched Jana’s shoulder.
“Miss Baker.” It was Uncle Bill. “It sure is good to see you.”
“Bill! Oh, Bill. I’m so sorry about Director Latent. I know you and he go all the way back to Georgetown together.”
Uncle Bill had aged in the time Jana had been gone. The toll of organizing a new, combined CIA-FBI-NSA, and the loss of his closest friend, Stephen Latent, had caused a deepening in the gray of his hair and cavernous beard.
His eyes found the floor.
Jana wanted to lighten the moment. “You still eat those bright orange peanut butter crackers, I see,” she said as she picked a tiny orange crumb from Bill’s beard.
“Losing Stevie was more than I thought I could bear. But when he died, you lost something very special, too. He was like a father to you.”
“He was, but I still have you, Bill.”
“Ha! I’m more like a grandfather.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“You look . . . different,” Bill said as he stared into her eyes. “You look like something settled inside you. I’ll tell you again what I told you before you took your leave of absence. Find who you are and what makes you sing, then chase it. And when you catch it, don’t let it go.”
He looked at Cade and drew a mental line between the young couple.
She looked at Cade and knew what Uncle Bill meant.
“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to catch up. Go down to the commissary and get something to eat. But after that, let’s talk about this phone call you got from the world’s most wanted terrorist, shall we?”
12
RECOIL
2106 Margon Court, Slidell Golf and Country Club, Saint Tammany Parish
Rafael stood nude in the huge walk-in closet in front of a full length mirror, looked at the blood covering his hands, then began to laugh. At first his laughter was low and uncommitted. But as he found blood splattered across his face and torso, his laughter deepened until it was out of his control, almost maniacal. He fell to the floor and rolled onto his back as blood smeared onto the light-colored carpeting. After a few minutes, he stood and took a cursory glance at the expanse of the closet’s contents. “You Americans have no dress sense,” he said, shaking his head. He walked to the double vanity of the adjoining bathroom and rinsed his hands in the sink, then stepped into the shower. Once he had sufficiently washed the thick dark blood from his skin, he toweled dry and walked back into the closet and dressed in a pair of checkered slacks, a white golf shirt and Stetson hat, then looked back in the mirror. Rafael looked more like pro golfer Greg Norman than a sexual deviant hired to carry out another assassination.
He walked into the bedroom and smiled at the body of a once beautiful young woman tied to the kingsize bed. “How nice it was to make your acquaintance. Perhaps we can do it again some time?” Blood covered the sheets and walls but Rafael took little notice of the mess.
He walked into the kitchen and removed a set of keys from a hook. “A change of vehicles is in order,” he said. On the side of the key fob was a logo that read “Porsche.” He walked into the garage, put a golf bag in the rear hatch of the car, then started the engine. He closed his eyes and listened as the engine roared. “So much more to my liking than that piece of shit I’ve been driving.” Rafael left the vehicle he had arrived in and was on his way to his next assignment.
There weren’t many golfers on the course in the sweltering 1:00 p.m. weekday heat as he made his way to the fairway of hole number eight with a golf bag over his shoulder. The hole was a 362-yard dogleg that ran along the sound-barrier wall bordering Interstate 12. With no one on the tee box behind him, he ambled off the fairway and into the trees through a thick area of briers until reaching the wall and the four-inch circular hole he had cut the previous day.
From the golf bag, he withdrew two separate rifle components and set them down. He then pulled out a short folding stool that flipped into place, affording him a stable base on which to sit when firing.
The weapon assembled, he positioned the golf bag just in front of the chair, about four feet from the hole in the wall. He leaned the rifle across the top of the golf bag and peered through the scope. Being positioned a few feet away from the wall would prevent the rifle barrel from being spotted by a passing motorist.
The view of the fueling station in front of the sheriff’s office on the opposite side of the freeway was excellent. But the opening in the wall was narrow. It was like trying to peer through a length of pipe, then shoot through it.
Cars barreled down the highway, flanked by the occasional tractor trailer. Eighteen-wheel trucks provided a challenge Rafael knew he could not completely prevent. On his side of the wall there was no way to see one approaching.
In his current position, the line-of-fire was just high enough for the bullet to sail over the tops of passing cars. But if a tractor-trailer happened by at just the right moment, the bullet would slam into it. It was an unavoidable contingency, and the increased risk excited him.
He watched through the scope as deputies congregated around the fuel depot in front of the sheriff’s office, preparing for their afternoon shifts. Then, from out of the glass doors of the administration building walked the sheriff.
Right on time. Rafael thought it odd that in Saint Tammany Parish the sheriff did not wear a uniform typical of a law enforcement professional. Instead, he looked more like an attorney headed to litigate a case. But it was him, all right.
Rafael steadied his breathing, then glanced at his watch. 1:15 p.m. One minute to go.
In the heat and high humidity, beads of sweat eased onto his forehead as mosquitoes congregated around his face and neck, and buzzed in his ears. The sound reminded him of a band saw chewing through wood. It was a distraction, but one he had dealt with before. He lined up the scope’s reticle on the forehead of the sheriff, a man who had no idea he was about to die. His breathing slowed further, which calmed the pounding of his heart.
At 1:16 p.m., the precise moment he was to carry out his assignment, his digital watch chimed once.
Rafael exhaled in one long breath and held it. During this forced pause, when his diaphragm and breathing muscles relaxed, he applied half a pound of pressure onto the rifle’s trigger. When the silenced rifle discharged, it bolted into his shoulder. For a moment, his vision was obscured with the flash of the muzzle.
He looked in the direction of the sheriff, expecting to see him lying on the ground. Instead he and his deputies looked toward the highway as an eighteen-wheeler swerved into the guardrail, jack-knifed, then flipped on its side. Car tires screeched but the drivers could not avoid slamming into the overturned truck.
“Mierda!” Rafael said. He chambered another round, aimed and fired. This time the unsuspecting sheriff crumpled to the ground. Two deputies standing behind him stood in motionless horror as brain matter splattered their faces.
Rafael did not wait to find out if anyone had noticed where the shots had come from. Instead, he emptied the contents of vial number two onto the ground, packed the rifle into the golf bag, then walked through the trees onto the fairway.
To anyone on the course, he might have looked like a golfer who had perhaps lost his Titleist and gone into the woods to retrieve it. He waved to the foursome who now occupied the tee box on the eighth hole, and made his way to the adjacent parking lot.
It wasn’t until he had driven through neighborhood streets, turned on Rue Rochelle Boulevard, then onto Interstate 12 before he realized his mistake. In the excitement of taking the second shot, he had inadvertently failed to collect the shell casing after he ejected it from the rifle. It was a costly error, but one he could not correct now.
13
CAUSE OF DEATH
NSA Command Center
Knuckles ran toward Uncle Bill.
“I’ve got some information about the . . .” But he stopped and looked across the room at Jana, then continued in a lower voice. “About the murder scene in Spain.”
It was too late, Jana had overheard.
“You people need to quit trying to hide things from me.” She was upset and Knuckles could tell.
“Sorry, Agent Baker.”
“I told you a long time ago to call me Jana, Knuckles. It’s okay. Just don’t hide things from me. I’m a big girl.”
“All right, son, so what’s the big news?” Uncle Bill said.
“The Spanish secret service has determined the cause of death.”
Cade, Jana, and Agent Kyle MacKerron looked at him, then at one another.
“What do you mean they determined the cause of death?” Jana asked. “It was plainly obvious she had been stabbed.”
“Yes, ma’am. But stabbed with what is the question.”
A scowl formed on Kyle’s forehead. “What do you mean? She wasn’t stabbed with a knife?”
Knuckles continued. “Not exactly, no. She was stabbed with a sword.”
The statement hung in space for a moment. It was Cade who first spoke.
“A sword? You aren’t serious.”
“Very serious. The Spanish secret service confirmed it. She was stabbed through the heart with a broadsword.”
“A broadsword. What? Is that a particular type of sword?” Kyle said.
Knuckles was in his element now, his head so full that at times, the knowledge had to spill out.
“Yes. It’s a double-edged sword commonly used in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In fact, the Spanish are saying that the sword even appears to have been an original. In other words, it wasn’t a replica.”
Jana stepped closer.
“You mean someone had an original sword from the fourteenth or fifteenth century? And they used it to kill Gilda? That’s completely insane. Who would do that?”
But everyone knew the answer. The killer, from all accounts, was most certainly terrorist Waseem Jarrah.
Cade said, “Okay, look. This is all coming at us a little fast. I’m going to take Jana down to get something to eat. She just got off a nine-hour plane ride for God’s sake.”
As they walked away, Kyle said, “Watch out for the sausage pizza. I’m pretty sure it’s been sitting on that buffet since yesterday.”
Cade turned back. “Pizza? Kyle, it’s nine in the morning.”
“And?” After the couple was safely out of earshot, Kyle turned to Uncle Bill. “Bill? Got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?” he said as he flicked a bright orange crumb off his short sleeved buttondown shirt.
“You know what’s up.”
“Yeah, I know. And I know what you’re going to say about it. Jana’s PTSD is back with a vengeance.”
“You know I love Jana too, right? But Bill, we’re not playing a game of Monopoly here.” Kyle looked around the cavernous NSA Operations Center to make sure no one was nearby. “Lives are on the line. Her PTSD makes her a liability. If Jarrah has resurfaced, we’re going to need all hands on deck, and we can’t have one of them freeze up.”
“You want her removed from active duty,” Bill said as he crossed his arms.
“Jana is one of my best friends in the world. She’s a better agent than I am. But I’m a field operative, Bill. If we get in a firefight, or God knows what else, she could black out, and that could cost lives. No offense, but you work at a place where no one gets shot.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Kyle,” Bill said a little too loudly. He looked around, then lowered his voice. “And under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you. But this is different. This time Jarrah has put Jana in the middle of everything. It’s my belief that he’s going to call again, and every time he calls, we may learn something else.”
“Allowing her to work this case is unsafe. You’re putting people in danger, Bill.”
“No, I’m not!” Bill again looked around himself. “Look, Kyle, of course there’s an inherent risk here. But remember who you’re talking to. I care about that girl as though she was my own blood. If anything happened to her, I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself. But I’m also an NSA section chief. I have a responsibility to the United States and have been working terrorism cases since you were still in diapers. She might be a danger to herself or others, she might not.”
“She may not make it out of this alive.”
“If Jarrah has another nuke, none of us may make it out of this alive. But if he wanted her dead, he would have killed her in Spain. No, this is different. He wants to keep her alive so he can taunt her.”
“Bill—” Kyle started.
“Your request to remove Agent Baker from the active list is denied.”
14
JARRAH CALLS AGAIN
NSA Command Center
“It surprises me, Miss Baker,” Jarrah laughed over the phone, “how far behind you are in the game, no?”
“This is not a game, Jarrah.”
“Oh, is it not? But I am having such fun. My mood has never been lighter.”
“You’re speaking in riddles. In Spain, you said something about a voice and thunder and the command to come. What did you mean by that? What do you mean I’m behind in the game?”
“The most amusing thing is, with all your technology, you are unable to trace the source of my phone calls.”
“Yes, hysterical. Now what did you mean?”
“Did you not go to church as a child, Miss Baker? Oh, come now. Surely your grandfather took you to church.”
Jana’s lips pursed. “Listen to me, you son of a bitch—”
“I certainly was not the son of a bitch. It wasn’t my mother and father who abandoned me in childhood. Such cowards, they were.”
“Shut up! They didn’t abandon me. They died.”
“Are you certain they just died? Is that what your grandfather told you?”
“My grandfather was a great man. And how the hell do you know about my grandfather?”
“He was loving, kind, always honest with you? Is that it?” Jarrah was taunting her.
“I don’t intend on discussing personal matters with you.”
“And why not? He is dead, is he not? It’s the question of your grandfather’s honesty that troubles me.”
“My grandfather never lied to me!”
“No? Are you sure? Your father was gone when you were, what? Two years old? And your mother when you were seven? You were so young. The memory plays tricks on us. How would one know? I suppose your grandfather told you your father died of cancer?”
“He did die of cancer!” Her mind scrambled as she fought to take control of the conversation and her own emotions. “I want to know what you meant when you said I was way behind in the game.”
“You want no such thing. You are simply trying to divert my attention. You want to know more about your past. Did you never question your grandfather about how your parents died? Your grandfather was, after all, just a man. And your mother, his only child, had died in a car crash, a suspicious car crash. He was left to care for you. It’s true, your grandmother was alive for a time, but that did not last, did it?”
“What makes you think you know so much about my childhood? You know nothing!” Jana choked her emotions down.
“You fail to answer my questions, Miss Baker. Have you never considered why they died?”
“What do you mean why they died. They died because they died. There’s no explaining it. Cancer happens! Accidents happen! People die.”
He let a period of silence emphasize his next statement.
“Your parents abandoned you, and they did it in a most cowardly way.”
Jana’s blood turned to ice. “You know nothing of me and my past! My grandfather never lied to me.”
“Well, perhaps the public records are wrong then.”
“Public records? What public records? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Now, let me see,” Jarrah said, “what else is it you wanted to talk about?”
“Jarrah, what public records?”
“Ah, you are interested in our little game, is that it? Well, the game has begun and you are way behind. You are not the adversary I had hoped for.”
“What public records?” Jana cleared her mind. “Jarrah, this is no game. Real people are dying. That nuclear device you set off killed eight hundred thousand innocent Americans.”
His voice lashed through the phone. “And some not so innocent! I’m sure you have considered it from my viewpoint, have you not? When I destroyed your CIA headquarters, the beast itself, I liberated my soul and the soul of countless brothers in jihad. The beast has always been our sworn enemy. It is true that many ‘innocents,’ as you would call them, got in my way, but what’s a few hundred thousand vaporized Americans between friends, right?”
“You are sick. You are insane, and I think you know it.”
“You try to raise my anger, Agent Baker. This is folly. You are too far behind and will not be able to catch up. I, again, will win.”
“What did you mean when you asked if my grandfather ever took me to church?”
“Now you are on the right track. Miss Baker. Are you not aware that the Koran and your Bible speak of similar things?”
“Of course,” Jana said. “Both religions believe in the same God.”
“It is deeper, Miss Baker. You’ll have to dig much deeper to get to the bottom of this one.”
“What are you saying?”
Jana heard a click on the phone line.
“Jarrah? Jarrah?”
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