Muhammed stood lookingout over Manhattan from his privileged perch, holding the Thuraya satellite cell phone so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t crush.
He’d been standing for four hours, watching as the sun rose in the sky. Watching as the streets became busy, traffic heavy, gazing into the bustling offices, looking like beehives. Everyone making money, losing money, obsessing about money. Godless infidels, each and every one.
He and his brothers had failed.
Four hours ago the Coast Guard, carrying FBI and CIA agents and in all likelihood a contingent of NEST agents—from the Nuclear Agency Support Team—had boarded theMarie Claire.The captain had been unable to stop them. The last image Muhammed had seen was taken by the captain’s cell phone, just before he tossed it into the ocean.
The scene was very clear—two Coast Guard cutters, with two gunners apiece sitting in harness behind .50-caliber machine guns. Above, an AH–64D Apache helicopter hovered, powerful rotors whipping the ocean waves. Its cannons carried 1,200 rounds, and just one of the nineteen Hellfire or Sidewinder missiles in its pods would blow theMarie Claireout of the water.
Muhammed had studied the enemy’s resources well and for many years. You do not defeat the Great Satan head on. It has resources his brothers could never match. Asymmetrical warfare, the Americans called it. What that meant was that the mujahideen pitted their brave hearts and steadfast souls against the huge military and intelligence machine of the West.
Sometimes they lost. At times, courage and faith were not enough. The captain of theMarie Clairewas outgunned and made no attempt to resist.
They’d find what they were looking for. Not because of the radioactive material. The canisters were well shielded and gave off a level of radioactivity that matched that of the freshly cut granite that was in the official hold of the ship.
The American soldiers would go over the ship with Geiger counters, with tests for bio agents which would come up negative. Then they’d use thermal imagers.
That’s what would give them away.
The thermal imagers would show the warm, living presence of the martyrs behind the undetectable door. And theshaheedwould be betrayed by their own brave, strong, beating hearts.
Muhammed knew that there was nothing on the ship that would lead to his involvement. Had there been anything, anything at all, traceable back to him, the FBI would have knocked on his door long ago. He was free, while his brothers would spend the rest of their lives in captivity, if they survived treatment at the hands of the infidel at all.
The plan had been excellent. Brilliant, in fact. The weak spot had not been gathering the radioactive material. That had proved relatively easy. They didn’t need the type of rare element or the technical expertise to build a nuclear bomb. The material in the bomb only had to be radioactive. Radioactive material was everywhere—in hospital waste, as a by-product of nuclear power. All you needed was money and time.
Their weak spot had been bringing the men into the country.
But…what if this brilliant plan could be carried out in a country that wasalreadyfull of potentialshaheeds, martyrs to the faith? A country like…Britain. With its large and alienated Muslim population, recruitment could come from within the country.
The martyrs would understand the culture, speak the language.
Britain was an island, nothingbutcoastline. Getting material into the country by boat would be ridiculously easy. And if there were a group of martyrs already in-country—say twenty or thirty—Muhammed could take down the City—London’s financial district.
It would work. Muhammed felt the power of the idea course through him. It would definitely work.
They’d have to wait a year, maybe two. Fine. His culture was the opposite of the frantic hurry-up culture of the West. Jihad could take a lifetime, two. More, even. The memory of the Crusades still burned in their hearts. It didn’t matter. Allah was eternal.
Muhammed knew lots of people in finance in London. Inside a year, he’d have a map of the buildings to take down and letters of introduction to the CEOs of the businesses. If the City were destroyed, it would have almost the same effect as wiping out Wall Street.
It would work,imshallah.
Muhammed picked up the phone and called the travel agency his company used, open 24-7. He wouldn’t have any difficulty in persuading his company to send him to London. In fact, his boss had said there was an opening in their London office.
“Hello,” he said to the voice that picked up. “This is Paul Preston. I’d like a ticket on the last plane leaving for London today. If possible, I’d prefer to travel British Airways.”
He listened to the voice at the other end, blond brows snapping together in annoyance.
“Of course first class,” he snapped. “What am I? A peasant?”
San Diego
Early morning
July 3
Nicole opened her eyes,turned her head and smiled at him sleepily.
Sam considered it a major victory that he’d gotten her home, in his bed, after she’d spent forty-eight hours sitting on a hard chair by her father’s hospital bed.
