Harvath acknowledged the Director’s update, made one more request, and then disconnected the call.
They were approaching the north side of Zelten now. With every building they passed, he saw people in windows and on rooftops—most of them with cell phones. Not good.
There was no question in his mind that the team’s location and heading was being relayed back to the Libya Liberation Front.
Harvath wasn’t one for ducking a fight, but he was a big believer that discretion was always the better part of valor. Gage was already injured. He didn’t want to risk more injuries, or worse, if he didn’t have to.
If they could make it out of town and into the sparsely populated area between Zelten and the coast, they might be able to find a place to hole up and avoid the Libya Liberation Front all together.
But without the drone monitoring the militia’s progress, there was no telling how much time they had. If they were going to pull off and hide, they’d have to do it soon.
Getting on the radio, he relayed to the team what he wanted them to be on the lookout for.
Minutes later, he could see Zelten receding. So far, there were no vehicles approaching.
As the area’s small farms grew farther and farther apart, Haney’s voice came over the radio. Up ahead, he could see a small cluster of buildings surrounded by a low wall.
Harvath told him to head for it. He had a feeling those buildings might be their best, and only, opportunity for survival.
CHAPTER 33
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PARIS
Tursunov had eaten dinner in a small Moroccan restaurant near Notre Dame along the rue Xavier. It had come recommended by Abdel and was close to the last stop he needed to make before turning in for the night.
Walking up to the Pont Royal, he crossed the Seine and entered the enormous formal garden created by Catherine de Medici known as the Jardin des Tuileries.
Rolling out like a giant green welcome mat that stretched from the Louvre Museum to the Place de la Concorde, it was one of the most popular places in all of Paris to gather, stroll, and relax.
Statues by Giacometti, Maillol, and Rodin adorned the manicured grounds and crushed gravel walkways. It boasted two giant fountains. One of which—much like the cathedral in Santiago—had drawn his attention for a very special reason.
ISIS despised the French. They despised them for being the European embodiment of everything they saw was wrong with the West. The French were arrogant, libertine hypocrites who had outlawed all face covering, including niqabs and burkas.
The French not only pretended to desire Western ideals like democracy, free speech, and human rights, but they actively sought to impose them on the Islamic world through force. If that required dropping bombs on and killing Muslim people, the French were more than happy to do it.
ISIS had set its sights on France and was determined to attack it repeatedly. Tursunov had been told that they didn’t care where he struck, as long as he was successful.
He knew they preferred that he strike Paris. It was the heart of the nation. And any successful attack there had the added benefit of not only damaging the French psyche, but also killing plenty of Western tourists, and thereby helping to damage the economy.
Very few would want to visit a city, or a nation for that matter, besieged by terrorism.
Paris presented the additional benefit of being awash with strangers. He could wander. He could linger. He could study the ebb and flow of people. He could take photographs. None of it would attract undue attention.
That had been important when selecting the Tuileries for his attack. But just as important had been an added, personal piece of symbolism.
His Sufi mother believed that symbolism was a reflection of the Divine and that numerology was one of its forms. The Holy Qur’an, when explored through the lens of numerology, contained incredible revelations—the atomic number for iron, earth’s ratio of land to sea, the genetic code of the bee.
But one of its most fascinating revelations—made more than a thousand years before it would happen—was the date of man’s lunar landing.
She had imbued in him a sense of awe and, most important, of respect for how Allah’s hand guided all things.
It was this awe and wonder that had brought him to Paris, and specifically to the Tuileries.
Of the things he was most certain of, there was nothing greater than his certitude in the truth of his Muslim faith. His belief was consistently fortified by the wickedness and ignorance of the non-Muslim infidel.
A prime example was their devotion to the idea that the number 666 was somehow evil.
In their book, the “mark of the beast” was described as “six hundred threescore and six” or 666, but “six hundred threescore and six” was also the number of gold talents delivered to King Solomon in one year. Certainly they didn’t believe Solomon to be the beast.
Yet, they never seemed to take their reasoning that far. They seemed content to accept 666 as evil and leave it at that. But the number wasn’t evil. In fact, it was actually divine, and he considered it Allah’s signature.
There was a host of reasons why. The angle between the North Pole and the plane on which the earth traveled around the sun was 66.6 degrees. The Tropic of Cancer was 66.6 degrees from the North Pole. The Tropic of Capricorn was 66.6 degrees from the South Pole. The Equator was 66.6 degrees from both the Arctic and Antarctic circles. The earth’s average orbital speed was 66,666 miles per hour.
And as if he needed even more proof of Allah’s design, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, where the Prophet Mohammed ascended into heaven, was 666 miles from the Kaaba in Mecca.
Allah’s signature was everywhere, and he always strove to let it guide him. That was why he had chosen the Tuileries. Not only was it popular and packed with people, but its round fountain was exactly 666 miles from the center of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Allah had sent him a message.
Reaching the fountain, he turned and looked to his east. Beyond the Place du Carrousel, he could see the Louvre’s great glass pyramid. It was constructed of 666 rhombi and sat exactly 666 miles from the pilgrimage sanctuary of Lourdes. Turning to his west, he could see the Luxor obelisk 666 meters away at the Place de la Concorde. This was indeed willed by God.
Walking around the fountain, he made his way toward the rue de Rivoli and the Terrasse des Feuillants. Here, running for several blocks along the edge of the park, was the Fête des Tuileries.
The Parisian carnival had bumper cars, giant slides, trampolines, climbing walls, carousels, shooting galleries, a Ferris wheel, ice cream, doughnuts, crêpes, cotton candy, and even candy apples. It was popular with tourists and locals alike.
Tursunov had visited on multiple occasions. He wanted to make sure he chose the absolute perfect moment.
As he strolled through the crowded fairground, he smiled and whispered to himself, “Allahu Akbar.” God is the greatest.
CHAPTER 34
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