the Second Horseman (2006) (5 page)

Jamal Yusef lifted the cup in front of him and took a sip of the thick coffee it contained, the caffeine mingling with the adrenaline already coursing through him. He twisted around and held up three fingers to the waitress working the tables lined up along the sidewalk. She gave him a hard, suspicious glare and then an aggravated nod.

Despite the fact that the temperature had dropped ten degrees with the sun, he couldn't stop sweating. Grabbing an already damp napkin, he dabbed at his forehead, catching a thick drop before it started down his long, straight nose. It was the fifth time he'd done it and he cursed himself silently. The Jews at the adjoining tables would b
e w
atching for anything that could be construed as out of the ordinary
.

He smiled easily, as though in reaction to the carefully crafted small talk coming from the man across the table, but he was actually focused on the movie theater across the street.

The line had begun to move about five minutes ago, and he watched the animated conversations of the people slowly disappearing through a set of heavy double doors. Their expectation was that they would be treated to the latest Hollywood blockbuster -- apparently the story of a professional wrestler's family travails. And that expectation would have been fulfilled, except that the cousin of the man sitting opposite Yusef was attending the film as well. A very devout and passionate Muslim, he had entered with a significant amount of plastic explosive wrapped around his left leg. It was now inevitable that within a half hour, hundreds would be either dead or horribly wounded. And what was Yusef going to do about that? Sit there and let his coffee eat away at the ulcers he was convinced were growing in his stomach.

It wasn't exactly the life he'd imagined for himself.

His parents, both still alive and living near
Chicago, were immigrants from Lebanon--people proud of their heritage and observant of their religion, but also anxious to provide opportunity for the son growing in his mother's womb.

He wondered what they would think of the path he'd chosen? How they would feel about the fact that he'd allowed the CIA to lure him into their ranks with the irresistible promise that he'd be the first of a new generation of operatives -- a generation that understood its opponents and could move silently among them. The first step in a completely revamped intelligence machine that would promote peace, freedom, and equality around the globe.

But now here he was, trying to reconcile his dreams with what he'd become. And what exactly was that? One of the men who trained him had suggested that Yusef refer to himself as Bond. Ayatollah Bond. Rendered with an exaggerated combination of Arab and British accents, he'd taken it as a good-natured gibe. But now he wasn't so sure. On the verge of exercising his de facto license to kill, the joke came back to haunt him.

When he'd finally completed his training, Yusef s assignment -- his only assignment--had been to penetrate as deeply into the al-Qaeda network as he could. What he had to do to accomplish that mission was unimportant. In fact, his involvement in the planning of this attack on Jewish civilians had been officially, if quietly, condoned by his superiors. That didn't make it any easier to live with, though. More and more, he lay awake at night, trying to force himself to consider the bigger picture -- what these few casualties would eventually allow him to accomplish. It didn't help him sleep, though. Nothing did anymore.

Pathetically, his great achievement in all this -- the only thing he'd done in a long time that didn't stink of evil -- was convincing the men carrying out the attack to target a theater playing an R-rated film in order to reduce the toll on children. And that, in this part of the world, was what passed for a benevolent deed.

The man sitting at the table with him looked at his watch for the ninth time in the last thirty minutes and Yusef reached over to grip his wrist in what would appear to be a simple gesture of friendship. He spoke just loud enough to be heard. "Don't do that again."

Muhammad's teeth flashed dangerously before he caught himself and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He was almost six-foot
-
five, with a thick black beard and eyes so filled with God and hate that they had lost sight of everything else. While discipline and obedience were hardly his strengths, he knew he was responsible for most of the attention they were getting and didn't want to do anything to jeopardize what he had convinced himself was God's will.

The men who were physically carrying out this attack weren't part of the cell that Yusef now led. Beyond consulting on the details of the plan, he'd managed to keep his people out of it -- insisting that they had a greater purpose and that they couldn't risk the possibility of exposure. Of course, Muhammad had been violently opposed to sitting this one out, but the promise of a future opportunity to kill millions of Jews in one glorious action had calmed him. For now.

The waitress appeared with the coffees and Yusef thanked her, attempting a few pleasantries that she didn't return. Not that it mattered -- his primary concern was that she depart without looking at Muhammad, who was staring at her like a lion choosing its prey.

And why not? Muhammad was an animal -- an arrogant and ignorant man to whom God was just an excuse to vent his rage. If used carefully, though, he could be an effective tool.

The young woman moved away and Yusef slid one of the fresh cups of coffee toward him, using the motion as an opportunity to glance across the street. The line leading through the theater's doors had dwindled to a few stragglers standing at the ticket window.

In some ways, he supposed that hope was beginning to glimmer. Edwin Hamdi was having a minor success in convincing the U
. S
. government of the painfully obvious: The root of the problem was not Osama bin Laden, or Saddam Hussein, or the Iranians. The root of the problem was ever growing hatred of America. Whether that hatred was justified or not was utterly irrelevant. In the world of politics, perception was reality.

If Americans could be convinced to concentrate on changing their image as brutal Crusaders, the terrorists would be marginalized. While it would be a slow and unsatisfying process, fraught with compromise and sacrifice, it was the only clear path to peace. Well, not entirely clear. There was still one insurmountable stumbling block: Israel.

In the early 1900s, this land had been Palestine, the home to fifty thousand Jews and over half a million Arabs. Certainly, it was understandable that the Arabs would have been alarmed at the growing immigration of foreign Jews to the land that had been their home for thirteen centuries. And it was equally understandable that these Jews would want to flee the persecution they'd suffered in Europe and return to the land of their god.

The fighting had begun quickly and continued to the present day. Only now mankind had entered a technological age where a single zealot could gain the power to kill millions in pursuit of political justice, or God's favor, or revenge.

The roughly three thousand people who died on 9/11 had prompted Afghanistan, Iraq, the Patriot Act. What if New York and its millions of inhabitants disintegrated in a tidal wave of nuclear fire? Or Washington? Or Los Angeles? In the face of that kind of destruction, would the Americans willingly give up their freedom and equality for the promise of safety? Would they let out a uniform, bloodthirsty cheer as millions of innocent Arabs died in their retaliation?

He wasn't even sure what terrorism was anymore. Was it defined by the type of weapon used? The target? The involvement of governments? Intent? In some ways he envied Muhammad's unwavering faith.

More and more, he wished he could close his eyes and wrap himself in that same moral certainty.

But he couldn't. The truth was that the argument over Israel wasn't a question of right and wrong, but of right and right. And, as such, it was a dispute that could never be resolved by conventional means.

Yusef used a subtly shaking hand to bring his coffee cup to his lips. It was completely cold. He glanced at the waitress who returned his gaze with a barely perceptible smile on her lips. Even she was a terrorist -- using the only weapon she had available to express her racist displeasure at the Arabs fouling her cafe.

A familiar sense of hopelessness washed over him -- the same one he had conveyed to the CIA's deputy director for operations a little more than a year ago. Ayatollah Bond or not, his infiltration of al-Qaeda wasn't going to change the situation in Israel.

Instead of accepting his resignation, the DDO had quietly introduced him to Edwin Hamdi, whose plans for neutralizing the Muslim terrorist threat went well beyond the peaceful measures he publicly endorsed. Hamdi didn't have ideas as much as he had solutions. And solutions were what Yusef had been looking for. Or at least that's wha
t h
e'd thought at the time.

Though he'd known it was coming, the explosion across the street actually surprised him. He threw himself to the ground as the horrible sound of it attacked his ears and the heat blasted his skin. Before he could even cover his head, he felt a powerful hand grab him by the collar and drag him beneath the table that was already clanging loudly with the impacts of falling debris.

Yusef blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes of the dust billowing over him. The reverberation of the explosion faded to an eerie silence that was quickly broken by the shouts of bystanders and the screams of the wounded.

Muhammad released his collar and once again bared his teeth through the narrow slit in his beard. This time, though, it wasn't an expression of anger or indignation, but one of joy. He motioned with his head and Yusef looked in the direction he indicated.

Propped precariously against a concrete planter, only a few feet away, was a human leg still enveloped in a dark blue pant leg. Yusef stared at the leather loafer dangling from the lifeless foot, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. He wanted to look away, but to what? The charred bodies of both the dead and the living? The panicked peopl
e w
ho a moment ago had been drinking coffee and peacefully talking about the trivialities of life? How had he ended up so far from home?

Chapter
SEVEN

"There's beer in the fridge," the woman said, opening the stove and examining something inside. "I understand you're not a wine drinker."

Brandon couldn't bring himself to fully commit and paused in the doorway, taking in every detail of the small kitchen. It, too, had that generic grandma's-house feel, though the dusty smell was covered up with something else. Cooking onions maybe. He crouched, confirming that there were no thugs hiding beneath the dining table and then went for the fridge. It was empty, except for a six-pack of beer on the top shelf. His favorite brand. Why wasn't he surprised?

The woman turned toward him and smiled with what he assumed was practiced unease. Impressive. Very disarming.

"I'm not the greatest cook, so we're grilling. Steak, potato casserole, and salad. M
y m
om says it never fails."

"The bar isn't that high. I've been in prison. Name?"

"My mom's?" she said, seemingly startled by the question.

"Yours."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Catherine. Rare, right? The steak?"

He nodded. She was even prettier from the front than the back -- and that was saying something. Straight, elegant features with just enough softness to keep her from looking icy, flowing dark hair, and a slim, athletic figure packaged in a pair of low-rise jeans and a shirt that she was constantly tugging down in an unsuccessful effort to obscure the brown skin of her belly. She seemed to be about his age, though the complete lack of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made the estimate difficult. Either Botox or very good genes.

"How long?" he asked.

"What?"

"Till dinner?"

She shrugged. "The grill's heating up. I haven't put the steaks on yet."

He turned and started back down the hall.

"Where are you going?"

"To meet your friends."

"There's no one else here."

"Yeah. Right."

There was no basement, so he started in the far corner of the ground floor, following a careful pattern that included the backs of closets, beneath furniture, and behind curtains. Then up the stairs for a similarly regimented search of the bedrooms, ending with the master. Nothing. No well-armed assassins, no obvious bugs or cameras. Just a whole lot of faux antiques, doilies, and carefully framed needlepoint pieces with uplifting sentiments. In order for this to get any weirder, space aliens would have to be involved.

There was an open suitcase on the bed and he pawed through it, finding clothes suitable for every occasion, from manual labor to formal Wedding. The matching shoes were lined up neatly along the wall. In the bathroom he found a shaving kit, a set of electric clippers, and a pair of stylish wire-rimmed glasses. He took off his own glasses but hesitated before putting on the new ones, not sure he wanted to know what they might tell him. Finally he slid them on his face and, as he'd feared, they weren't the screwed-up prescription the prison optometrist had given him. They were dead on.

He looked into the mirror with his newl
y c
leared vision and let out a long breath. "What have you gotten yourself into now, Dumb-ass?"