the Second Horseman (2006) (36 page)

If this conflict continued on the same path, the end of the Muslim people was certain. They had to come together as a unified front against America and the Jews. They had to strive for real strength and to recognize acts like the destruction of the World Trade Center as the meaningless tantrums they were. Cohesiveness, discipline, and a common goal. With those things and their oil reserves, they would have the power to force the rest of the world to its knees.

Muhammad continued to stare down at the promise of death and glory contained in the car's trunk as Ramez reached for a two
-
by-four leaning against the wall. "You're right," he said, using both hands to raise the board above his head. "It is your time."

Chapter
FORTY-FIVE

"Edwin Hamdi is not some kind of terrorist mole," Catherine said, pacing as manically as the tiny hotel room would allow. "He's a former college professor who's worked for several administrations and has direct access to the president. He's been checked out in every way possible -- particularly because of his Arab background. Can you imagine the scrutiny?"

Brandon fell onto the bed and propped his head on a pillow. Catherine had stopped in front of a cracked window, backlit by the desert sun. They'd bought clothes more appropriate for the climate and culture, so she created a rather formless silhouette that was still strangely beautiful.

"Who are you trying to convince here, Cath? If you think Hamdi's so trustworthy, then let's give him a call. Tell him what happened."

She wrapped her arms around herself
,
then let them fall to her sides again. "We could . . Her voice faded for a moment. "We need to find a phone. We need to try to get Richard."

Everyone had limits, and as near as he could tell, she'd reached hers. The chain of command she'd relied on, the moral certainty she'd become so accustomed to, were all gone now, and she was grasping at just about anything.

"You know that's not a good idea, Cath."

"You still think he did this? You think he betrayed us?"

"No. I don't. I think this Hamdi guy has his own thing going on and . . ."

"And what?"

"And I think Richard's dead. Anything we do to try to contact him is only going to hurt us."

The silence that ensued was long enough to suggest that she knew what he was saying was true.

"I still have friends at the NSA. What if we call them? Tell them what's happened?"

"That would be an interesting conversation," Brandon said. "Hi. I just bought a bunch of nuclear warheads and gave them to some crazy-looking Arab guys so they could load them into cars and drive away."

"Do you have a better idea?" she nearl
y s
houted. "Or do you think we should just sit here?"

"Hell no, I don't think we should just sit here. I think we should get the fuck out of here. Look, Jordan's no different than anywhere else -- money talks. When we had two grand between us, getting out of here was gonna be a trick. With the five million Richard left us, not only can I get us out of here, I can get us out of here with cocktails and air-conditioning."

"To do what?"

He propped himself up on his elbows. "I say we go to South America. If Hamdi is involved in what just happened, he's going to do everything he can to make sure we can't hurt him. And that means we have to get as far off the map as we can."

"Nothing you can say is going to make me believe that Edwin Hamdi is a terrorist."

He fell back on the bed again, a loud rush of air flowing from his lungs. "Kind of a subjective label isn't it, Cath? If the British had won, George Washington would be a terrorist. Maybe it's more complicated than you're thinking. What if he just doesn't feel like the American government is taking the terrorist threat seriously enough? Maybe he's gonna have one of those guys set off
a b
omb in a not-so-populated part of the U
. S
. and then lead the team that finds the rest of them? I don't know much about politics, but I'll bet at that point the American people would let him fight the war on terrorism any way he felt like. Or maybe he wants to use them on one of our enemies -- North Korea or Iran or something -- so America won't be blamed. There are all kinds of things that could be happening here. But none of them have anything to do with us."

She looked vaguely panicked as her eyes darted around the room. "How sure are you that you can get us out of here?"

He fought the relieved smile that was in danger of spreading across his face. "I'm a little out of my element here, so it might take some time. But I'm sure."

"And that's what you want to do."

Hell yes, it was what he wanted to do! The image of an anonymous little hut in Paraguay was so beautiful right now it nearly made him want to cry. And if he ever got there, he was going to pay someone to repeatedly hit him in the head with a brick until he forgot all about Richard Scanlon, Jordan, warheads, and just about everything else from his recent past.

That's what he wanted to say. What h
e s
hould say. What he would say if he wasn't completely nuts.

"It's your call, Cath. I'll do everything I can to help you, no matter what you decide."

She leaned back against the wall while he tried to will her to give him the go-ahead to get them the hell out of there.

"We could still send my friends at NSA an e-mail about this."

"Absolutely," Brandon said hopefully. "We could send it right away."

"But then what?" she said. "What if there are people at the NSA who are involved? What if they think it's a hoax? We're just going to hit send and walk away?"

"What else can we do, Cath? Drive around asking if anyone's seen something that looks like a nuclear warhead lying around? I understand what you're saying, but sometimes you've just got to pull back and regroup. When we're safely out of here, we'll be in a hell of a lot better position to follow up on this thing than we are now."

She fell silent again, this time for more than a minute. Finally, "Okay. We e-mail my friends and then we run."

Brandon resisted the urge to jump up off the bed and kiss her, instead jus
t n
odding gravely.

Being about six inches too tall, their truck had resisted every effort at hiding it in an underground parking garage. In the end, they'd been forced to leave it in the back of a small, razor-wire-encircled lot guarded by a single middle-aged man in grubby traditional dress. Fortunately, the general temperament of parking lot attendants seemed to cross cultural lines, and he could barely even be bothered to look at them as they passed by.

Brandon ducked his head in the driver's side and Catherine did the same on the passenger side, beginning a thorough search of the cab. It was the only piece of evidence they had, and Catherine wanted to see if they could find anything helpful before she sent her e-mails.

"Christ," Brandon mumbled.

"What? Did you find something?"

He pulled an empty soda bottle from beneath the seat, holding it up so she could read the label: Mecca Cola.

"Nothing quenches my thirst after a hard day of killing infidels like --"

"This is serious!" she said in a loud whisper. "You --"

"I know. I'm sorry," he said, leaving her t
o s
earch an empty glove box while he walked around back.

The bed of the truck was covered with green canvas in a configuration that conjured thoughts of wagons from the Old West. Instead of a wooden gate, though, there was a heavy flap held closed by rope.

He glanced behind him for what must have been the hundredth time since they'd left the hotel and saw that the sun had sunk almost to the tops of the roofs across the street. Above, the sky was still an almost malevolent blue, promising nothing but dry, punishing heat for the next century. He hadn't been in Jordan long, but he was starting to get an idea of why these people were so pissed.

The rope came free with a little effort and Brandon threw the flap back. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadow inside, and when they did, he froze.

After a few seconds he heard Catherine's muffled voice from the cab. "Brandon? Is there anything there?"

When he didn't answer, she came around the back of the truck and stood next to him.

"Oh, my God."

"Okay," Catherine said, trying to steady her voice. "We can't panic. We just need to sta
y c
alm and think this through."

They'd retreated across the street and were standing in front of a crumbling stone house with laundry hanging from the windows.

"Didn't you see them putting it in there?"

"Like I had time to look over all the cars before I decided which one to steal?"

"Don't get mad," she said. "I'm not saying it's your fault. It just happened, okay?"

The truck was clearly visible from where they were standing, parked innocently along the back wall of the lot. It seemed strangely natural there, as though it had been stalled in that space for years. Nothing at all would suggest that it contained a weapon capable of flattening Amman and everything around it.

"That's it," she said. "We have to go to the embassy."

"No. No way."

"Brandon --"

"Hamdi's going to be watching for that. I know you don't think he's a terrorist, but are you sure? Because if you're not --"

"I don't know if you've been paying attention," she said, in something between a shout and a whisper. "But there's a --"

He clamped a hand over her mouth. "We stick to our plan. With one slight modification. Tomorrow morning we're going to buy a couple of shovels and we're going out to the desert and bury that thing. Then, when we're confident your NSA buddies are on the up-and-up, we'll tell them where it is. This works for us, Cath. Think about it. When they lay their eyes on that thing, our story's gospel."

Chapter
FORTY-SIX

A dull glow had started on the other side of the shutters, but it wasn't strong enough to overcome the darkness in the room. In fact, the more Catherine stared into it, the darker everything seemed to become.

She was lying on her side in the lumpy bed with Brandon right behind, his arm thrown across her. She moved slowly so as not to wake him, gently gripping his hand and pressing it against her bare stomach.

Their role as a married couple had left them with a single bed in an un-air
-
conditioned room so hot that she'd had to strip down to her bra and panties in order to sleep. Or at least that's what she'd convinced herself of last night. The obvious truth was that it had been a rather desperate and poorly conceived come-on -- a ploy to help her forget. If only for a little while.

Of course, Brandon saw her advances for what they were and gracefully deflected every not-so-subtle hint, feigning complete ignorance with an ever-deepening glint of worry in his eyes.

The problem, though, wasn't so much that he seemed to think that she was slowly going crazy, it was that she wasn't sure if he was wrong. She hadn't slept at all, despite the temperature dropping at least forty degrees overnight. Instead, she'd just lay there, her mind repeatedly failing to process all that had happened. Every time she tried to calmly think through their situation, she found herself drowning in the enormity of what she'd done.

Because of her, there were eleven nuclear warheads out there. What if they were smuggled into the United States? Even if her friends at the NSA took her warning seriously, how many could they hope to intercept? Five? Six? That left most of America's largest cities gone and tens of millions of people dead or dying horribly. It left the world order in shambles and perhaps millions more starving. It left the Middle East open to a retaliation that was impossible to even imagine.

She felt the waves coming over her head again and she squeezed Brandon's hand tighter, closing her eyes and just trying to keep breathing. He was the only person sh
e h
ad left, but he didn't belong there with her. She had no right to let this destroy him, too.

He wanted her to run with him, but what then? He'd been so smooth in trying to convince her how critical her survival was, but it was a lie. Once she told the NSA what she knew, she would have no purpose other than to inhabit a richly deserved prison cell and to watch the deaths of the millions of people she had doomed.

A few angry shouts filtered through the shutters along with the strengthening light, and Catherine finally closed her eyes. She saw the warheads, and Richard, and Brandon. She saw fire and endless deserts.

The shouting outside grew in volume and she tried to shut it out. Only when it was replaced with something that sounded like a speech did she open her eyes again. The voice was unamplified, but had a rhythm and pitch that identified the message as political.

Brandon stirred, pulling her tighter against him and mumbling, "Shut up, man," into the back of her neck.

The voice became a shout and then fell silent after coming to an important sounding conclusion. A moment later cheers forceful enough to rattle the windows erupted.