“Because you would have died if I hadn’t.”
“And now,” said Saladin, “it is you who will die. The question is, will you die alone, or will you press your detonator and take me with you? I’m wagering you don’t have the courage or the faith to push the button. Only we, the Muslims, have such faith. We are prepared to die for our religion, but not you Jews. You believe in life, but we believe in death. And in any fight, it is those who are prepared to die who will win.” He paused briefly, then said, “Go ahead, Maimonides, make a liar of me. Prove me wrong. Push your button.”
Natalie raised the detonator to her face and stared directly into Saladin’s dark eyes. The trigger button yielded to a slight increase in pressure.
“Don’t you remember your training in Palmyra? We deliberately use a firm trigger to avoid accidents. You have to push it harder.”
She did. There was a click, then silence. Saladin smiled.
“Obviously,” he said, “a malfunction.”
72
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
AMINA EL-BANNA HAD BEEN A legal resident of the United States for more than five years, but her grasp of English was limited. As a result, Gabriel questioned her in his Arabic, which was limited, too. He did so at the tiny kitchen table with Mikhail hovering in the doorway, and in a voice that was not loud enough to wake the child sleeping upstairs. He did not fly a false flag and claim to be an American, for such a pretense was not possible. Amina el-Banna, an Egyptian from the Nile Delta, knew very well that he was an Israeli, and consequently she feared him. He did nothing to put her mind at ease. Fear was his calling card, and at a time like this, with an agent in the hands of the most violent terrorist group the world had ever known, fear was his only asset.
He explained to Amina el-Banna the facts as he knew them. Her husband was a member of the ISIS terror cell that had just laid waste to Washington. He was no bit player; he was a major operational asset, a planner who had patiently moved the pieces into place and provided cover for the attack cells. In all likelihood, Amina would be charged as an accomplice and spend the rest of her life in jail. Unless, of course, she cooperated.
“How can I help you? I know nothing.”
“Did you know Qassam owned a moving company?”
“Qassam? A moving company?” She shook her head incredulously. “Qassam works in IT.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you tried to call him?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“His phone goes straight to voice mail.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
She gave no answer. Gabriel didn’t need one. She didn’t call the police, he thought, because she thought her husband was an ISIS terrorist.
“Did he make arrangements for you and the child to go to Syria?”
She hesitated, then said, “I told him I wouldn’t go.”
“Wise decision. Are his computers still here?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
She glanced toward the ceiling.
“How many?”
“Two. But they’re locked, and I don’t have the password.”
“Of course you do. Every wife knows her husband’s password, even if her husband is an ISIS terrorist.”
She said nothing more.
“What’s the password?”
“The Shahada.”
“English or Arabic transliteration?”
“English.”
“Spaces or no spaces?”
“No spaces.”
“Let’s go.”
She led him up the narrow stairs, quietly, so as not to wake the child, and opened the door to Qassam el-Banna’s office. It was a counterterrorism officer’s nightmare. Gabriel sat down at one of the computers, awakened it with a small movement of the mouse, and placed his fingers lightly on the keyboard. He typed THEREISNOGODBUTGOD and pressed the return button.
“Shit,” he said softly.
The hard drive had been wiped clean.
He was very good, Qassam, but the ten hackers of the Minyan were much better. Within minutes of Gabriel’s upload, they had discovered the digital traces of Qassam’s documents folder. Inside the folder was another folder, locked and encrypted, filled with documents related to Dominion Movers of Alexandria—and among those documents was a one-year lease agreement for a small property near a town called Hume.
“It’s not far from that old CIA safe house in The Plains,” explained Uzi Navot by telephone. “It’s about an hour from your current location, maybe more. If you drive all that way and she’s not there . . .”
Gabriel rang off and dialed Adrian Carter at Langley.
“I need an aircraft with thermal-imaging capability to make a pass over a cottage off Hume Road in Fauquier County. And don’t try to tell me you don’t have one.”
“I don’t. But the FBI does.”
“Can they spare a plane?”
“I’ll find out.”
They could. In fact, the FBI already had one airborne over Liberty Crossing—a Cessna 182T Skylane, owned by a Bureau front company called LCT Research of Reston, Virginia. It took the single-engine aircraft ten minutes to reach Fauquier County and to locate the small A-frame house in a vale north of Hume Road. Inside were the heat signatures of seven individuals. One of the signatures, the smallest, appeared immobile. There were three vehicles parked outside the cottage. All had been recently driven.
“Are there any other heat signatures in that valley?” asked Gabriel.
“Only wildlife,” explained Carter.
“What kind of wildlife?”
“Several deer and a couple of bear.”
“Perfect,” said Gabriel.
“Where are you now?”
Gabriel told him. They were heading west on I-66. They had just passed the Beltway.
“Where’s the closest FBI SWAT or hostage rescue team?” he asked.
“All the available teams have been sent to Washington to deal with the attacks.”
“How long can we keep the Cessna up top?”
“Not long. The Bureau wants it back.”
“Ask them to make one more pass. But not too low. The men inside that house know the sound of a surveillance aircraft when they hear it.”
Gabriel killed the connection and watched the images of American suburbia flashing past his window. In his head, however, there were only numbers, and the numbers did not look good. Seven heat signatures, two AR-15 assault rifles, one veteran of the IDF’s most elite special forces unit, one former assassin who would soon be the chief of Israeli intelligence, one surveillance specialist who never cared for rough stuff, two bears. He looked down at his mobile phone. Distance to destination: fifty-one miles. Time to destination: one hour and seven minutes.
“Faster, Mikhail. You have to drive faster.”
73
HUME, VIRGINIA