Sword of God

"There probably were. But unlike most of them, I'm also pretty good with Arabic."

Payne froze, his warning sensors going off. "Excuse me?"

"I speak Korean, Arabic, Japanese-"

"Hold up." Payne glanced around to make sure no one was listening. He lowered his voice just to be safe. "Arabic was one of your requirements?"

She nodded. "Korean and Arabic, though I'm not sure why Arabic was so important. It's not very common in this part of the world."

"Sonofabitch!" Payne mumbled. A major piece of the puzzle had just fallen into his lap, and he needed to act on it immediately. "Kia, I'm sorry, but we don't have time for dinner."

"We don't?"

"No," he said as he stood from the table. "We have to leave now."

23

Payne hustled back to his suite, where he roused Jones from his nap. Meanwhile, Kia was dispatched to find Mr. Lee, whose local knowledge might come in handy.

Jones said, "You're telling me Arabic was a requirement of her job posting?"

Payne nodded. "Which means Harrington was expecting Arab witnesses."

"Or prisoners."

"Which supports our terrorist theory. It also explains something Kim said. He mentioned hearing ancient voices, like the Devil speaking in tongues. That's how Arabic might sound to someone who's never heard it before."

Jones agreed, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He had showered before falling asleep so he was ready to leave whenever necessary. "Any word from Dial?"

"Not yet. But it's only been a few hours. Nick's good, but not that good."

"Unfortunately, Arabic doesn't do much to limit our candidates."

"Sure it does," Payne joked. "Only three hundred million people speak Arabic as their main language. We've just eliminated several billion suspects in the world."

Jones gurgled in front of the sink. "G-g-g-g-g-ooood point." He spit for emphasis.

"The thing that confuses me the most is Harrington. What's with all his games? He dragged us here under false pretenses, then gave us only half the intel we needed to succeed. That doesn't make sense to me. Why bring us in if he wants us to fail?" Payne paused, thinking back to their plane trip with Harrington. "Do you remember what he said when you asked him about Schmidt's latest missions? He told you it was none of your goddamned business. That should've told us something right there. He's been keeping stuff from us from the very beginning."

Jones emerged from the bathroom. "Unless he hasn't been."

"What does that mean?"

"Who knows? Maybe Harrington isn't messing with us. There might be other possibilities."

"Such as?"

"Maybe he's a crappy colonel."

Payne laughed. "A crappy colonel?"

"Maybe he's not keeping us in the dark. Maybe he's just clueless."

"Sorry, but I didn't get that sense in Pittsburgh. He seemed pretty perceptive."

"Fine. Then maybe it's something else."

"Like what?"

Jones paused, trying to think of an alternative. "Maybe he's in the dark, too."

"In what sense?"

"Well, we used to run black ops. How often did we report to our superiors?"

Payne smiled. "Not as often as we were supposed to."

"Exactly! So maybe the same thing happened here.

Maybe Schmidt followed our example and failed to tell his boss what was going on. Days go by and Harrington finally sends someone to check up on him. And when he got there, he found the cave covered in blood."

"You know, that's not half bad."

Jones nodded, impressed with his own theory. "Actually, it would explain a lot. Early on I asked Harrington when Schmidt was last seen, and he said he didn't know. Then I asked him where, and he didn't know that either. That sounds like a soldier who didn't report very often. Just like us back in the day."

"Which might explain Harrington's comment about the MANIACs. He said we were being brought in because we thought differently than normal soldiers. He must've figured we'd be able to piece together Schmidt's final mission, maybe shed some light on what happened here."

"If that's the case," Jones added, "he probably didn't know Schmidt was dead until he got the blood results. For all we know, he might've thought this was actually a rescue mission. Just like he told us in the very beginning."

"Crap!" Payne said. "Maybe I pegged the guy wrong."

Suddenly confused, he walked out of the bedroom and went straight to the small kitchen, where a small basket of tangerines sat in the corner, adorned with a sign that said Grown Fresh on Jeju. Payne grabbed two and tossed one to Jones, who caught it like a wide receiver. Whenever Payne got hungry, he found it difficult to think clearly. And right now, he was famished, his stomach grumbling like a bad muffler.

Payne started peeling his fruit. "So what you're telling me is that Harrington might not be messing with us?"

"Maybe not." Jones took a bite and quickly regretted it, realizing that toothpaste and tangerine didn't mix. "He still should've told us about the Arabic. If he felt it was an important skill for our translator, we should've known about it."

"Agreed."

.lust then the electric lock on the suite started to beep. Someone was entering.

Most likely Kia and Mr. Lee.

"Speak of the devil," Jones said as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you don't mind, I'll let you handle Mr. Lee. He wants to kiss your ass, not mine."

Payne walked into the kitchen and rinsed the tangerine pulp from his fingers, realizing that nothing ruined a meeting quicker than a sticky handshake. Kia walked in first, followed by Mr. Lee, who glanced around the suite, making sure everything met his high standards. He said a quick hello to Jones before he spotted Payne in the kitchen. "Good evening, Mr. Lee. Would you like a drink? I make a mean glass of water."

The smile on Mr. Lee's face grew wider than normal, honored that Payne had remembered his name and respected him enough to offer him a beverage. He politely declined, then walked over to the couches where he stood patiently until everyone was ready to be seated. Payne and Kia sat on one couch, he and Jones on the other.

Payne said, "I know you're a busy man, so I'd like to thank you for coming here on such short notice. All of us appreciate your time."

Mr. Lee bowed slightly, his way of showing respect.

"The three of us came to Jeju on a personal quest, one that's left us puzzled. We are searching for a boy who lives in a tiny village near the base of Mount Halla. We found his home with little difficulty, yet he wasn't there. One of his neighbors heard the young boy speak of the Black Stone on the day that he disappeared with his father. However, the opulence of your resort leads us to believe that he was mistaken. These are poor people with limited means."

Jones handed Mr. Lee the photograph of Yong-Su Park and his father, Chung-Ho. He studied their faces but recognized neither.

"None of us are experts on Jeju or its customs. Therefore, we're hesitant to take our search public, afraid mat our questions might be perceived as a nuisance. Kia can speak the language-she was actually born in South Korea-but we need some guidance with our journey."

Mr. Lee nodded, grasping the situation. "I would be honored to help you with your quest… If it's appropriate, may I ask a question?"

"Of course," Payne said. "Ask whatever you'd like."

"I would imagine a man of your stature is here on a fruitful mission, one that would bring no harm to the father or son."

Payne met his gaze, assuring him of his decency. "We are here to help, not harm."

"Yet you're unwilling to involve the authorities?"

"At this point, we think the Parks are hiding from the authorities."

Mr. Lee frowned at the mention of their name. "Their name is Park?"

Payne nodded. "Is that a problem?"

"Possibly. Ten percent of all South Koreans are named Park."

"Really?" Jones blurted. "That's a lot of Parks."

"Still, it could have been worse. Twenty percent of us are named Kim."

Payne laughed at the comment, glad that Mr. Lee was an optimist. "If you'd like, we'd be happy to write down everything we have. Names, addresses, and everything else we can think of. Plus you're welcome to make a photocopy of their picture if you think it would help."

Mr. Lee stood and gave him a slight bow. "I shall do it at once."

"And if there's any expense to you-"

He held up his hand to cut him off. "There will be no expense. I am honored to help."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Yes," he said firmly. "I am sure."

Then, before Payne could say another word, Mr. Lee took the photograph and hustled out of the suite-the safety of the father and son suddenly in his hands.

24

Sunday, December 31

Early in Payne's military career, these were the moments that drove him crazy. Not the training or the long hours or the constant threat of dying, but the waiting. The time during missions when all he could do was sit on his ass and stare at his watch. It contradicted everything he believed in.

Payne's grandfather was the hardest-working man he had ever met, someone who used to work double shifts in the steel mills of Pittsburgh, trying to earn enough money to open his own business and give his family the chance of a better life. Then, once his small investment paid off and Payne Industries blossomed into one of the biggest names in the world of manufacturing, he still set his alarm clock for 4:00 a.m. because there was no way in hell he was ever going to be outworked by anyone. In his mind, laziness was a mortal sin.

Growing up, that's the work ethic that was instilled in Payne. The creed he lived by. It enabled him to become a top student, a better athlete, and one of the best soldiers in the world. Yet the reality of military life was nothing like the movies or the recruiting commercials he saw on TV- especially the one that bragged, We do more before 6:00 a.m. than most people do all day. Payne liked to joke that was true but only because they spent all night drinking and beating off.

Eventually, once he was given his own command, he started to view things differently. That's when he realized how much time and preparation went into a mission. How long it took to acquire foreign intelligence. To gather supplies. To wait for the enemy to make a mistake. And once that started to sink in, his guilt began to fade and the waiting game became much more tolerable. Within a few months, he transformed himself from an overeager warrior to a patient one. Someone willing to eat, sleep, and joke while all the pieces fell into place.

But once they did, he became a man possessed.

The room phone rang before sunrise. Payne was already awake, lying in bed, analyzing their next move while he waited for additional information-whether it came from Raskin, Dial, or Mr. Lee. Surprisingly, the call didn't come from any of them. There was a new voice on the line. One he hadn't heard before. A male. Distinctly Korean. Speaking in hushed tones. "Is this Mr. Payne?"

"Yes," he said, sitting up in bed. "Who's this?" "Are you looking for the father and his boy?" "Who is this?" he repeated.

"Be downstairs in twenty minutes. You and your friends." "Hold up! We're not going anywhere unless-" Click. The caller hung up. No names. No explanation. No additional instructions. Just be downstairs in twenty minutes. Payne set the phone in its cradle as footsteps filled the hall. Jones reached his room first, followed by Kia. Both of them wide awake. Ready to roll.

"Who was it?" Jones asked.

"He didn't say."

"What did he want?"

Payne looked at them, confused. "Us."

Twenty minutes wasn't enough time for most people. But these were the type of contingencies that Payne had trained for. When he walked into a room, he searched for exits. Danger zones. Blind spots. Sometimes it wasn't even a conscious act. His mind automatically worked through the possibilities like a computer crunching data. All the details were just sitting there in his brain, ready to be used if he ever thought they were necessary. And today they were.

He walked outside at 7:00 a.m., still forty minutes before daybreak. The weather was breezy and brisk, colder than it was when he arrived on Jeju twenty-four hours before. He wore jeans, a thick sweater, and a winter coat. It concealed his gun and body armor. Anonymous phone calls were a rarity in his business. He would take every precaution.

To Payne, the front exit was too obvious. Too predictable. The perfect spot for an ambush. So he left the hotel through one of the employee lots, walking behind trees and bushes until he reached the front of the hotel. Virtually invisible in the predawn light.

But no cars were waiting for him. No one was standing around. Even the valets were inside, trying to stay warm. Some people would have been spooked by this, but not Payne. He preferred it this way. The fewer distractions, the better. Just him and whoever wanted to meet.

He'd take those odds any day of the week.

He heard the vehicle before he saw it. A rumble, a sputter, and the occasional grinding of gears. The sound echoed through the darkness like a rooster greeting the sun. It finally came into view as it entered the resort grounds, passing the chiseled entrance sign that gleamed in its spotlight. The truck was American, decades old, probably abandoned at the end of the Korean War because it was too old to salvage even back then. How it still worked was a mystery. It coughed and sputtered as it crawled past the manicured shrubs, belching smoke as it did.

The man behind the wheel looked older than the truck, his wrinkles bathed in light every time he passed under one of the fancy lampposts. White hair, gaunt face, his eyes nothing but slits. Partially from his Asian features. But mostly because he had to squint to see.

If ever a man and his truck belonged together, it was these two.

Payne watched him as he drove up the hill and through the parking overhang, stopping on the downslope of the other side, as if he needed momentum to get started again. The back of the truck was filled with a variety of fishing tools. Rods and reels. Several nets. Two ice chests that were big enough for salmon. Nothing new or expensive. Simple tools for an age-old craft.

The motor continued to run as he stepped out of the truck. He wore grimy old clothes that reeked of the sea. His spine was crooked, his posture hunched, his skin splotched from the sun. He just stood there, whistling absently, his eyes straining to see the pocket watch he held next to his face. Anxious. Waiting. This was a man who was meeting someone.

Cautiously, Payne stepped into the light. Just far enough to be seen. 'Good morning."

The old man froze until he spotted Payne in the shadows. Moving slowly, he trudged toward him until he was close enough to whisper. The same voice as on the phone. "Are you Payne?"

"Maybe. Who are you?"

The old man leaned closer. "A friend of Mr. Lee."

"In that case, I'm Jonathon Payne."

He smiled, glad he had found him so easily. "Are your friends coming with us?"

"That depends. Where are we going?"

"To find the boy."

Payne arched an eyebrow. "Which boy are you talking about?"

The old man pulled out a copy of the photograph. The one Payne had taken from the Parks' house. He pointed to it with gnarled fingers that were covered in calluses. "Yong-Su."

"You know where he is?"

"I know where he was. That's the best I can do."

Payne considered the old man's answer, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out how he fit into all this. Was he a relative of the Parks? A friend? Or was this some kind of trick meant to distract Payne from danger that waited around the bend? His gut told him he was safe, that there was no real threat, but he realized a second opinion never hurt.

So he casually unzipped his coat-his signal to Jones- and waited for a response.

Three seconds later, his cell phone rang. He grabbed it with one hand and signaled for the old man to wait with the other. Very calm, very natural. Like any other day at the office.

"Hello?" Payne answered.

Jones was positioned on the hotel roof, which offered him views of the grounds, roads, and sea. Visibility was poor due to the lack of sun and a thin layer of fog that had settled over the golf course, but from his vantage point, nothing looked suspicious. "We're clear."

"Hello?" he repeated, as if there were a bad connection. It prevented him from faking a conversation. It also allowed Jones to call right back if anything changed. "Hello?"

The old man laughed. "You need a new phone."

Payne shrugged and smiled. "And you need a new truck."

He laughed louder. "You are probably right."

"So," he said, "how do you know the boy?"

"I don't. I've never met him before. I am just a poor fisherman who lives at sea."

"Then I don't understand."

"But my son," the old man clarified, "he helped the boy. He knows the father. He helped him in his time of need."

"Well, I'd love to speak to him."

"Then let's get going. It's a long drive."

"Can't we just call him?"

"Not with your phone. It doesn't work." He cackled softly. "Besides, my son needs to meet you in person. He needs to look you in the eye. He needs to judge your character."

Payne nodded, willing to take the risk. "In that case, I'd be happy to meet him. But I'm going in my own truck. I'd feel safer that way."

"Suit yourself," said the old man. "But my truck is going to outlast us all."

25

The man who planned the attack had a healthy fear of computers. He respected their place in the world and understood their importance in certain situations, but during the past decade he had seen too many colleagues arrested or killed because of computer issues. No matter how much training his people had, they were no match for the American agencies who spent billions of dollars on the latest technology that had been designed to catch them in the act.

Somehow, someway, his men always screwed up.

Intel was intercepted. Information was deciphered. Evidence was recovered.

In his heart, he knew this mission had to be different from all the others. Its impact would be global, reaching the farthest corners of the world in a way that had never been attempted. To do that, deception was the key. Everyone had to believe one thing-when, in fact, the very opposite was true. But that wasn't possible if he left a trail of binary breadcrumbs for the authorities to follow. Never knowing what they would find. Or when they were going to find it.

So early on, he made a gutsy decision. All information pertaining to this mission would be delivered by hand, passed from person to person in the most damning places possible, for the sole purpose of documentation. Unlike most criminals, he wanted to record what was going on because it would actually help his cause in the long run.

Then, when the time was right, he'd give the authorities more than just breadcrumbs.

He'd give them the whole loaf of bread.

According to the soldier's sources, the facility would be deserted for the hajrj. A few security guards might be roaming around, but his team didn't have to worry about engineers, technicians, or custodians, even though it didn't matter to his men. Their orders were to kill everyone inside, and they'd do so without remorse. One. Ten. Twenty. What difference did it make?

They'd kill many more in the near future.

Scanning the horizon, he pulled the van forward, tires crunching on the gravel driveway that was laid in the arid ground to provide traction for the heavy trucks that would stream in and out of here like worker ants. Surrounded by a barren landscape that stretched all the way back to Mecca, the main building sat ahead, obscured by the cover of darkness. Although construction had been finished three months before, the place wasn't fully operational.

Of course, it would be once his men were done.

They were dressed in black and fully armed when they exited the van. The leader checked his list and entered the security code into the main entrance's keypad. The door buzzed open. One after another, all four soldiers streamed into the lobby, each scattering in a different direction, their footsteps barely audible. Communication would be done through a series of earpieces, each equipped with a transmitting device that allowed speech as well as audio while scrambling their signals to outside receivers.

The team leader was the most experienced soldier, so he had the most important job. He was in charge of the security office that sat at the end of a long corridor on the first floor. Monitors cast an eerie glow on his face as he studied the images that flickered in the dark room. Twenty-four screens in all, each offering a different view of the facility.

He sat in the chair and fiddled with the buttons. Before long, he was able to zoom in and out on different cameras. Able to warn his men if necessary.

As a precaution, each of them was given a code name to be used in the field. Something simple. Something easy to remember. In this case, they opted for the names of the four evangelists, the men who wrote the Gospels in the New Testament. It seemed fitting to use Christian names while inflicting damage on the Islamic world.

"Matthew?"

"Check."

"Mark?"

"Check."

"Luke?"

"Check."

John, the team leader, scanned the screens, searching for trouble, eventually spotting a guard in the rear of the plant, strolling down the back walkway. "Mark, we have a live one. Two rooms to your left. Coming your way."

"Armed?"

He zoomed in tighter. "Nothing in his hand. Maybe in his belt."

"I'll let you know."

Mark slid behind a large generator and waited patiently for his target to approach. Twenty seconds passed before he made his move. When he did, it was quick and silent. No gun was necessary. Just a hand over the guard's mouth and a brutal snap of his neck, instantly killing him. John watched l he scene with pride.

"I'm clear."

"Search the body, then stash it."

Mark frisked the dead guard, finding a gun in a hidden holster. He held it up to the camera so John could warn the others.

"Be aware, the guard was packing."

"Check," said the other two.

Not that they were worried.

Meanwhile, John returned his attention to the video screens. First checking for other guards, then looking at the building itself. Valves and pumps filled half the rooms, mostly in the rear of the structure. Some of the pipes went through the walls, leading to the empty reservoirs out back. They'd get to them eventually, but right now he had other concerns. Foremost was finding the main control room. It was somewhere on the first floor, protected by additional codes.

Matthew spoke. "I think I see it."

John punched a few buttons and zoomed in closer on the room that Matthew was pointing to. He spotted another keypad, just to the left of the metal door, but couldn't read the sign since it was written in Arabic. The walls were reinforced with extra concrete, plus there were no windows. From his perspective, it seemed like the right place.

Why add extra protection if this room wasn't important?

"Thoughts?"

Matthew looked back at the camera and shrugged.

"Can you hear anything?"

He put his ear next to the door. Not a sound.

He dropped to the floor and looked under the door. But the room was dark, at least from his limited perspective. From his knees, he shrugged again.

"While you're down there, say a prayer to Allah. Because if we punch in the wrong code, we might sound an alarm."

Matthew looked at the camera and flipped it off.

"Was that to me or Allah?"

He ignored the question. "Listen, there's no way this system is one-and-done. There has to be a margin for error. People hit wrong buttons all the time."

"You're probably right."

"Then give me the code. I'll try it once. If it doesn't work, we can try something else."

John nodded and glanced at his list. He read the numbers aloud.

Carefully, Matthew entered them into the keypad, each sounding a tiny beep.

One. Beep.

Nine. Beep.

Eight. Beep.

Seven. Beep.

Then, as if by magic, the door popped open with a quiet click.

26

Yesterday, Kia had warned Payne and Jones about the threat of speeding tickets. Traffic cameras and detection units were spread evenly across Route 12. But on this day it wasn't a concern, not as long as they followed the old man and his truck, which smoked and wheezed more often than a fire-breathing dragon with asthma. It was simply unable to speed.

Jones drove, once again, while Payne studied a road map of the island. Kia hovered over his shoulder, answering questions and explaining the significance of certain areas, including the Jungmun Tourist Complex, which sprawled for several miles along the southwestern coast of Jeju. It featured several dozen attractions-including Cheonjaeyeon Falls, where they had stopped the day before-with Americanized names that he could barely read let alone pronounce.

Yeomiji Botanical Garden was reputed to be the largest in Asia, growing more than 2,000 varieties of tropical and subtropical plants in 150,000 square yards of indoor and outdoor fields, all of it centered around an observation deck that stood more than 125 feet high. Down the road was Jusangjeolli Cliff, a series of 60-foot stone pillars that formed when lava from Mount Halla poured into the raging sea. Jungmun Beach lined the nearby shore, filled with white sand that contrasted sharply with the surrounding black hillside, home to Haesikgul Cave, a natural sea cave featured in dozens of movies because of its scenic beauty.

Unfortunately, none of these sites could be seen from the highway; they were blocked from view by parasitic volcanoes and thick blankets of trees, a surreal mix of pines and palms sprouting up through the black core of the island. Payne followed their progress by watching road signs, tracing their route with his finger, looking for auxiliary routes in case they needed to escape.

They continued their journey along Route 12 until the old man approached the exit for Daeyu Hunting Ground. He eased his truck onto a secondary road and started driving north to the base of Mount Halla, its snowcapped peak rising six thousand feet above the rocky shore.

Jones stared at the mountain and sighed. "Bet you ten bucks he doesn't make it."

Payne laughed, even though it contradicted the anxiety he felt for the first time since they'd left the resort. To him, hunting grounds meant guns. Lots of guns. People legally armed, carrying weapons in full view. And there was nothing he could do about it. No time for advanced scouting. No way to secure the perimeter. It was three of them against an entire lodge of potential threats. Never knowing where a fatal shot might come from.

He turned toward Kia. "What do you know about this place?"

"Not much. I've never been here before." She flipped through her tour book, hoping to find something useful. "It says it's the only official hunting range in all of Asia. There's bird hunting, clay shooting, target ranges for pistols and rifles. You can rent guns. And guides. And even bird dogs. Plus there's a breeding farm with more than fifty thousand pheasants."

"Damn!" Jones said. "That's a lot of birds."

"I'm more concerned with the guns."

"Me, too. But still, that's a lot of birds. I'm talking Hitchcock?

Payne ignored him. "What kind of restrictions?"

She scanned the information. "None. It's a private resort. Beginners are welcomed."

"No licenses or permits?"

"Not according to this."

"Good."

"Why's that good?"

Payne smiled. "Because we don't have any."

The main facility was straight ahead, at least according to the road sign. But instead of continuing forward, the old man turned onto a narrow dirt path that curved to the right and disappeared into the surrounding trees. The old truck rumbled and shook as it left the pavement, its bald tires struggling for traction in the mud and fallen leaves. Yet the damn thing never stopped. Not once. It just kept chugging along.

As Jones made the turn, Payne rolled down his window and listened to the cacophony of gunshots that filled the air. Rifle blasts to the left. Handguns to the right. All of them too close for comfort. Discreetly, he tilted his side-view mirror and made sure no one had turned in behind them, a sure sign of an upcoming ambush. Thankfully, the path remained clear.

A quarter mile later, a large hunting cabin came into view, nestled among a grove of pines that towered above it. A Korean man dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt stood in the doorway. He smiled and waved at his father, who pulled into the driveway, did a three-point turn, then drove back toward Payne and Jones. They slowed to a stop, expecting the old man to pull alongside of them to deliver further instructions, but the old man just waved and kept going. Late for another day of fishing.

Payne shrugged. "Guess he was busy."

"When you're that old, you don't have time to waste," Jones joked as he backed into a parking spot. Just in case there was trouble. "How do you want to play this?"

"I'll talk, you snoop. Kia stays near me."

The three of them exited the SUV and walked onto the front porch, where they were greeted by Chi-Gon Jung, who was in his midforties and spoke perfect English. He was the owner of a hunting and fishing service that worked closely with the resorts on the island, providing tourists with boats, guides, and whatever else they needed. He handled logistics from the cabin, taking advantage of its proximity to Mount Halla and the Daeyu lodge, but mentioned that customers rarely stopped by. This was his personal office, nothing more. Most of his employees were scattered around the island, manning booths in hotel lobbies or guiding tours in the field.

Jung led Payne and Kia inside his spacious cabin, which was decorated with an assortment of mounted animal heads that would have looked at home in any hunting lodge in the States. Meanwhile, Jones opted to stay outdoors, claiming he needed some fresh air after their long drive from the Black Stone. In actuality, he wanted to snoop around and make sure they were alone. To warn them of potential danger. To protect them from interlopers.

"How did you meet Mr. Lee?" Payne asked as he took his seat in front of Jung's desk. "Was it through your business?"

"Yes," Jung said with a smile. "Mr. Lee is a wonderful man who takes care of his guests. We've been helping each other for years. Referring clients and so on."

"And he called you about me?"

Jung nodded, his grin quickly fading. "He called me late last night, asking for my help. Hoping I would fax the photo of the Parks to all of my guides. So we could keep an eye out for them in all our locations." He paused, measuring what he was going to say next. "But I told him it wasn't necessary. I already knew where they were."

"You do? How is that possible?"

"They came to me earlier in the week, looking for a guide."

"A guide? Why did they want a guide?"

"Honestly," Jung said, "they wanted to disappear."

"And you could help them with that?"

There was a long delay. "Yes."

Payne nodded, noticing the stress in Jung's face. The tension in his voice. The indecision in his eyes. In a heartbeat he had gone from a cordial host to a nervous one, a metamorphosis that concerned Payne. If Jung got spooked, there was a chance he would lie and give them bad information about the boy. In the long run, that could prove disastrous.

So Payne did what he was trained to do when dealing with an anxious witness. It was a simple trick, but one that worked quite well. He made him feel comfortable by talking about something less threatening. Something to brighten his mood. And in this case, it was the first innocuous thing that popped into Payne's mind. Something he knew would make him laugh.

"Out of curiosity," Payne asked, "what's the deal with your father's truck?"

Jung's smile returned. "He's married to that thing. It's much older than I am."

"That's what I figured. Honestly, I didn't know what to think when I saw him pull into the Black Stone this morning. Especially after his phone call. That made me so jumpy."

"My father made you nervous?" Jung laughed for several seconds before he could continue. "How could such a little man make you nervous?"

"He didn't sound little on the phone. He ordered me into the lobby in twenty minutes. Then, when I tried asking him a question, he hung up on me. I thought the guy was crazy."

Jung laughed louder. "My father isn't crazy. He hangs up on me, too! The man can barely hear. I doubt he heard a word you said!"

"Oh," Payne grunted, pretending to be embarrassed. "That would explain a lot."

"I'm sorry if I worried you. I would've met you myself, but this is my busy time of year. Not only is it hunting season, but thousands of tourists fly in for our New Year's celebrations. And tourists mean money."

Payne waved him off. "Not a problem. I'm just thankful for the lucky break. I didn't know whom to turn to until Mr. Lee offered to help. He's been a savior."

"I will tell him you said so. He will be honored."

"It is who is honored. Both of you have been so gracious and friendly."span›

Jung bowed, showing his appreciation.

"Anyway, I know you're a busy man and I feel guilty for taking up so much of your time."

"Not a problem, Mr. Payne. I am glad I could help." He paused for a moment, once again struggling for the right words. "But before I do, there is something I need to ask. Why are you looking for the boy?"

It was a question Payne had anticipated, one he'd been thinking about all night. In his mind he had two options: he could tell the truth, or make up a story. Obviously, both had risks. The fewer people who knew about the village, the better. Not only for national security but also for international relations. There was a chance the South Korean government knew what was going on in the cave, but if they didn't, he didn't want to be responsible for spilling the secret. On the other hand, if the Parks had told Jung about the violence, then Payne couldn't afford to lie. One misstep and Jung was liable to point him in the wrong direction. Or notify the Parks. Or both.

In the end, it was something the old man had said to Payne that helped him decide. He mentioned his son needed to look him in his eye. He needed to judge his character. That's the reason they couldn't talk on the phone. He needed to trust him before he would speak.

Based on that, Payne made a gut decision and opted to tell the truth.

"Recently a prisoner escaped from American custody and killed several islanders, including some members of the Park family. We believe Yong-Su witnessed much of the violence. Anything he can tell us will be useful, not only to capture the killer but also to protect the Parks and everyone on this island. The sooner he is caught, the safer Jeju will be."

Jung paused, studying Payne long after he had finished speaking. Several seconds passed-several excruciating seconds-before Jung nodded his approval. He believed what Payne had said. "Are you familiar with Seongsan? It is a massive peak on the eastern side of Jeju."

Kia spoke up. "I know where it is."

"Tonight there is an important festival honoring the New Year. The entire coast will be jammed with boats from Japan and Korea. That is how the Parks are leaving Jeju. Masked by the large crowds. Under the cover of darkness."

"And you're sure of this?" Payne asked.

Jung nodded. "I am positive. They have rented my boat."

27

Seongsan Peak is a picturesque landmass on the eastern end of Jeju that was formed more than 100,000 years ago when a volcano erupted under the sea. The resulting peak stands 600 feet above the blue water below, its crater stretching more than 325,000 square feet, adorned with 99 natural peaks along its outer edge, creating the illusion of a majestic crown-an image that is heightened in the early morning when the sun rises above the Korea Strait, bathing the volcanic cone in golden light. The view is so breathtaking it was described nearly 800 years ago in the Tripitaka Koreana, the most complete collection of Buddhist texts still in existence.

Every year thousands of revelers flood the local village, nestled near the base of the peak, to participate in the Seongsan Sunrise Festival, a massive celebration that begins on New Year's Eve with a ritual known as a gut- where a shaman offers a sacrifice to the spirits-and continues well beyond sunrise on New Year's Day. In between are massive amounts of eating, drinking, gambling, and fireworks, none of which Payne and Jones would be enjoying. Their sole purpose was to find the Parks as quickly as possible and gather as much information as they could,

Chi-Gon Jung had given them a map of Seongsan Harbor, explaining where his boat was docked and how to get there. The boy and his father were scheduled to arrive at midnight, the most chaotic moment possible, when they hoped to slip aboard unnoticed. An hour later, one of Jung's most reliable tour guides would pilot them to the open sea. By morning, they would reach one of the small ports on the southern coast of South Korea, where they hoped to disappear into the countryside. At least that's what Jung had gathered.

Unfortunately, he had no additional information about the Parks. No hotel. No phone number. Not even a backup plan. They had stumbled into the Daeyu Hunting Lodge looking for a guide and were given Jung's business card. They showed up at his cabin unannounced, told him what they needed, and gave him a small cash deposit. The entire time the boy never spoke. He just stood near his father, clutching his hand or holding his waist. More like an infant than an eight-year-old boy. Jung knew something was wrong, but every time he asked Mr. Park, he became angry. Aggressive. Protective. Eventually Jung got the hint and stopped asking.

That was two days ago, and he hadn't heard from them since.

Payne, Jones, and Kia arrived in Seongsan just before dinner. The town was abuzz with tourists, the pulse of the festival just springing to life.

The trio lucked into a parking spot adjacent to the harbor, five minutes from the marina entrance. Jung's boat was just where it was supposed to be, tied off at the end of a long wooden dock. No one on board. Nothing suspicious.

Payne glanced at his watch and noted the time. They would check back in a few hours, just in case someone showed up early.

But until then, they had plenty of time to kill.

Dozens of pojangmachas-street stalls on wheels that cooked and sold Korean food-lined the narrow roads. Clouds of steam rose off the metal carts, the smell of spices filling the air. Payne and Jones browsed the selections as Kia translated the menus. There was gimbap (rice rolls), sundae (Korean sausage in hot sauce), tteokbokki (rice cakes in red pepper sauce), and odeng (simmered fish cakes on a skewer). Plus an assortment of items they recognized on their own. Egg rolls, dumplings, fritters, and meat on a stick-although no one knew what kind of meat it was. Payne ordered okdom, a fish found only off the coast of Jeju and Japan. It was broiled in sesame seed oil and served with a side of scallion pancakes. Jones bought a combo platter, grilled pheasant and pan-fried kimchi (fermented vegetables), plus a seafood egg roll. Meanwhile, Kia fed her sweet tooth, getting a persimmon shake and a small bag of yugwa (grain cookies), treats she used to eat when she was a little child growing up near Seoul.

They took their food to a nearby table and ate in relative silence, watching people stroll by as the sunlight began to fade. Every few minutes firecrackers burst in the distance. The pop! pop! pop! echoed across the harbor like gunshots in the night. Kia flinched the first few times but eventually filtered out the sound, realizing it posed no threat. The whole time Payne and Jones never budged, years of experience honing their senses.

Suddenly, as if on cue, hundreds of paper lanterns were lit by villagers, who hung them in their windows and trees, while a giant bonfire was ignited at the top of the crater. Sparks and ash erupted into the night like a volcano. In an instant the entire village was bathed in firelight. Everyone's attention soon shifted to the outdoor theater at the base of the peak. The rumble of a Korean drum, beaten with pulsating precision, heightened the drama, as if the mother ship from Close Encounters was about to land in Seongsan, as it did at Devil's Tower. A rainbow of colors exploded from the bank of spotlights as a provincial dance team, dressed in white masks and ancient robes, started their performance, leaping and twirling to the sounds of a Korean orchestra hidden in the wings. Tourists surged forward, jostling for the best view possible, trying to soak in the pageantry of center stage.

Kia spoke above the clamor. "This is only the beginning. The festival goes until tomorrow morning, when we welcome the New Year. In fact, the sunrise is the most important part."

Jones joked, "I guess that's why they call it the Sunrise Festival."

Kia smiled. "I guess so."

Payne asked, "You mean nothing goes on at midnight? Jung said it was going to be crazy."

"Don't worry. It will be. The whole night will be crazy."

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."

They made their way through the crowd, casually searching for the Parks, even though it would have taken a small miracle to find them. Too many people. Too much frivolity. Everywhere they looked, Koreans were dancing and singing, their faces shielded from the cold with hats and hoods. Others wore elaborate masks, painted with festive colors, that obscured their identities.

Ironically, the two people who drew the most attention were Payne and Jones. Not because of their actions, but because of their genetics. Payne stood six-four, almost a head taller than most of the Asians he passed. Couple that with Jones-a black man in a nonblack world-and people assumed they were American athletes. Kia laughed the first few times someone asked to take their picture, even goading them on, whispering in Korean that they were NBA stars but didn't like to be bothered. Payne played along at first, even signing fake autographs for his "fans," until the crowds started to grow out of control and he realized it might have an adverse effect on their mission. After that, they excused themselves and found a table that overlooked the harbor.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. An hour still to go.

Thirty minutes later, Payne's phone started to vibrate. His caller ID said Nick Dial, his buddy from Interpol. He excused himself and answered the call.

"Hey, Nick, Happy New Year!"

"Same to you, Jon…. Sounds like you're out partying."

"Yeah, I wish. I'm actually on a stakeout."

"A stakeout, huh? I didn't know soldiers went on stakeouts."

"Maybe that's why I suck at it. I've been signing autographs all night long."

"You whatT

Payne explained the situation as he walked along the water's edge, looking for somewhere private to sit. Although he doubted anyone was listening, all this open space made him vulnerable to parabolic microphones. "So, any luck with your search?"

"That depends on your definition of luck. I attribute my recent success to being so damn good." He laughed to himself. "Anyway, I talked to multiple sources, who briefed me on the rumors that have been floating around. Over the past few months, several big fish have fallen off our radar screen. Not surprising, since they're terrorists. Of course, we don't know if they were killed, if they're playing bingo in a mosque basement, or if we got sloppy and lost them."

"That's the problem with terrorists. They never tell us anything."

"Actually," Dial said, "sometimes they do. Two months ago the French government nabbed a Muslim named Abdul Al-Amin trying to sneak a firearm into an art museum in Paris. Why? I have no idea. I'm guessing it had something to do with The Da Vinci Code."

"Go on."

"Anyway, Abdul's paperwork seemed clean, so the French decided to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go. But before they could, the idiot started blabbing, claiming he was part of an active terrorist group called the Soldiers of Allah and he'd be willing to give up vital information if they would cut a deal for his release."

Payne laughed. "What an idiot."

"Yeah, a real Einstein. Anyhow, this is where it gets good. Once the French did some legwork, they realized the Soldiers of Allah had committed most of their acts of terror in America. So what did they do? They called Interpol and asked us to get involved. Long story short, I got access to a whole lot of info."

"Anything useful?"

"That's for you to decide. Abdul was exactly who he said he was: a midlevel asshole for the Soldiers of Allah. He gave us names, dates, locations-the type of intel that only an insider would have. Some of it proved quite useful. We actually busted some of the smaller cells."

"Good."

"But not good enough. We told Abdul that we weren't going to let him go unless he gave us some intel on their leader, an Arab named Hakeem Salaam."

Payne frowned. "Never heard of him."

"Me neither. So I called one of my buddies at Homeland Security to get some background info, and he nearly popped a boner when I mentioned Salaam's name. I honestly thought he was going to drop the phone and play with himself right there. Turns out Salaam is at the top of one of their special lists. I'm talking ex/ra-special. You ready for this? He's what they call a Big Tit."

"Did you say titV

"Stands for Towel-headed Islamic Terrorist. And no, I'm not making that up. Half those boys at Homeland Security are racist bastards. They claim it helps them do their jobs."

"Go on."

"So I make a joke of it. I tell him we should trade information, you know, tit for tat, but for some reason he didn't think it was funny."

Payne stifled his urge to laugh. "He tell you anything else?"

"Actually, he wanted me to tell him what I knew. Turns out Salaam and his top advisers disappeared a week after the incident at the museum. Poof! Just like that. No one knows why or where, but no one's heard from them since."

Payne winced. Three days ago Colonel Harrington had used similar terminology to describe Schmidt and his squad.-They had disappeared, but no one knew why or where. Now the same thing was being said about Salaam and his advisers. The major difference? The terrorists disappeared several weeks ago, back when Schmidt was running a black op for Harrington in the Persian Gulf. Something he was reluctant to talk about when Jones questioned him.

A coincidence? Probably not.

In Payne's mind, the most likely scenario had Schmidt tracking down Salaam and his men, dragging them to the secret cave, and torturing them for information. At least until something went wrong. Now Schmidt and his crew were dead, Salaam was missing, and the only witness was an eight-year-old boy who had managed to disappear.

"Where's Abdul now?"

"Good question," Dial said. "Unfortunately, I don't have access to that information."

"Why not?"

"Because he's no longer in Interpol custody."

"He was released?"

"Hell, no. We don't release terrorists. Even dumb ones."

"So what happened?"

"About a week ago, we cut a deal with some country that took possession of Abdul. I'm not sure which one because the transfer papers were sealed. But the obvious choice is America."

2 8

Perched on a picnic table, Jones scanned the crowd for fathers and sons. The only memorable pair was across the street at one of the gambling booths. The chubby kid was no more than two years old and wore a bright orange snowsuit that made him look like a pumpkin. Gamblers, possibly confusing the child with Buddha, let him hold their bets for good luck while they wagered on cards being dealt by his father, who seemed proud that his boy was following him into the family business. Every so often the kid would get caught up in the excitement and throw all the money in the air, causing a mad scramble among the participants.

It was a comical scene on an anxious night.

Several minutes passed before Payne strolled back to the table. He briefed Jones and Kia on his phone call from Nick Dial, explaining his theory on Hakeem Salaam. From Payne's perspective, it fit all the pieces of the puzzle. Schmidt's black op in the Persian Gulf. Kia's need to speak Arabic. And everything else he could think of. He still wasn't sure what happened in the village, but he hoped Yohg-Su Park would fill in all the details.

That is, if he showed up with his father, like he was supposed to.

"May I ask a question?" Kia wondered. "You mentioned that Salaam and his advisers recently disappeared. Does that mean we knew where they were beforehand? If so, why didn't we pick them up back then?"

"Actually," Jones grunted, "I wish it was that easy. That's the most frustrating thing about the war on terror. Sometimes we know people are terrorists-because of their associations, their business dealings, their ideologies-but can't prove it in a court of law. And in those cases, our hands are tied, especially if they're living outside of American jurisdiction. All we can do is track their movement and hope they screw up."

Payne added, "It's kind of like the Mafia. A lot of times we know who the bad guys are. We even know where they live. But we can't arrest them until we find the smoking gun."

Jones agreed. "That's a great analogy, because organized crime has the same basic structure. The goal of a terrorist cell is to protect the larger organization. Team A knows nothing about Team B, and so on. The leaders know what's going on-they're the ones pulling the strings-but the pawns don't know squat about long-term objectives. They keep everything compartmentalized, just in case the group is infiltrated."

"And some terrorists are protected by so many layers that we can't prove anything. That means they can walk the streets and we can't arrest them. Or even threaten them. And if we do, we 're the ones who get crucified."

"By whom?" Kia wondered.

"The UN, the media, his home country. Everyone expects us to be global peacekeepers, but no one wants us to get our hands dirty. And let's face it: that's just not practical. Sometimes, for us to do our job, we have to cross the line."

"You mean, like the cave?"

Payne frowned. "Obviously, that's an extreme example. But yes-"

"Hold up!" Jones whispered.

He nodded his head to the left, pointing out two people who had just opened the gate to the marina. One tall, one short. Both wearing winter coats and hunting caps that were clasped around their chins. They clung to each other like family. Maybe out of warmth. Maybe out of fear. Darkness prevented a positive ID, but this looked like them.

Payne checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.

"Kia," he ordered, "you stay here. D.J., come with me."

As luck would have it, the marina was a dead end. One way in, one way out. A long wooden dock ran straight from the gate into the center of the cold water. Maybe fifty yards in length. Most of the slips were empty--owners had taken their boats into the harbor for a better view of the celebration-so there was nowhere for the Parks to go. They were trapped. Unless they decided to swim for it. Which was pretty damn unlikely in the middle of winter.

Payne and Jones decided to play it cool. They walked slowly, like tourists, talking to each other while pointing out the sights. Who knew how desperate the father would be? Was he armed? Was he irrational? After all he had been through, the odds were against a peaceful conversation. That meant they needed to get as close as possible before they made their move. And even then, it would probably get messy. Screaming. Shouting. Kicking. And that was just from Jones.

No telling what the father might do.

Payne hit the first plank as the clock stuck midnight, punctuated by a cheering crowd and a bolt of lightning that streaked across the sky. Then another. And another. But instead of thunder, the sky exploded with a burst of colors-fireworks being launched above Seongsan Peak. The burning embers fell toward the water as every boat in the harbor turned on their lights and sounded their whistles to greet the New Year. A raucous symphony of sights and sounds.

Up ahead, the two suspects stopped on the pier and admired the pageantry. They stood and turned like every other tourist in town. They smiled and clapped and enjoyed the moment. The taller one even pulled out a camera. And that's when Payne realized they had made a mistake.

They were following the wrong people.

He reached for Jones's shoulder, but it wasn't necessary. He'd spotted the same thing. They quickly turned around, hoping to retreat before the real Parks showed up. But it was too late. One glance was proof of that. The boy and his father were standing there, panicked. Watching them from the other side of the gate.

And the father had a gun.

The first shot was fired without warning. Just a muzzle flash and a splash of water, somewhere near Payne's feet. Common sense said to run in the other direction. But what good would that do? They needed to talk to the boy, and the only way to accomplish that was to subdue his father. So they did the irrational. They ran toward danger.

A second shot rang out, this one much closer. It buzzed between Payne and Jones and buried itself in the dock. Wood splintered in a puff of smoke as the two tourists dove into the harbor.

It was a sane response to an insane situation.

The father fired once again, this time hitting Jones in the upper arm. The bullet tore through his coat and ripped through his skin, casting goose down and blood splatter in every direction. The impact knocked him sideways, twisting him just enough to ruin his balance. One second he was running forward, the next he was falling backward on the slippery wood. His left hip took the brunt of the fall, followed by his injured arm and the left side of his face. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him dazed.

Payne screeched to a halt, more concerned with his friend than the suspect, who suddenly stopped shooting and ran into the crowd. Blood oozed from Jones's left biceps but didn't squirt, a good sign with any injury. Jones would have a scar but would survive. No worries there.

"Get out of here," he grunted. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He blinked a few times, dazed from the fall. "But I keep seeing flashing lights."

Payne laughed. "Those are fireworks."

"Oh … then I'm fine."

A shrieking gate stopped their conversation. Payne raised his gun before he could decipher the threat. But it was a false alarm. It was Kia.

"Oh my God! Is he okay?"

But Payne ignored her question. "Where are they?"

"To the right. They ran to the right."

"Stay with him," he ordered as he ran past. He leaped the gate, swinging his legs sideways without breaking stride, and sprinted into the surging crowd. The Parks had a head start, but they were no match for Payne's speed. He dodged people when he could, knocked them over when he couldn't, and didn't slow down until he spotted them hustling toward the outdoor theater.

Fireworks continued to burst and boat whistles continued to sound, all of it masking the drama that was developing in the tiny town. All of that changed when the father used his gun again, this time firing a shot into the nighttime sky. People turned and stared, unsure if it was a firecracker or something more dangerous. What they saw caused them to panic. A muscular white man was running down the road, knocking everyone out of his way while waving a large firearm. It didn't matter that he was innocent. That the shot had come from someone else's gun. All they knew was that he needed to be stopped.

Things got much worse when Mr. Park started shouting in Korean. He screamed, He's trying to kill my boy. He wants to kill my son.

That was like fuel on a fire. In a flash, it was Payne versus an entire village.

Moments before, a team of six men had been on center stage, displaying their martial arts skills in a performance they called Tiger-Strike. All of them were dressed in black and wore permanent scowls. Three of them carried swords. The others held nunchucks. They ran toward him en masse, hoping to overwhelm Payne with their sheer numbers. Assuming their Tiger-Strike teamwork would cause him to cower.

But they were wrong.

Payne started with an elbow, throwing it with such power and precision that he shattered the nose and cheekbone of the first ninja before he could even raise his blade. The sword bounced to the ground with a loud clank that echoed through the crowd, soon followed by a louder gasp. Payne's momentum propelled him forward, helping him throw his leg skyward in a roundhouse kick that caught his next victim under the chin. His head snapped back with the force of a car crash, tumbling into the third attacker, who knocked over several chairs, then scampered away.

The fourth man was far wiser, charging into battle behind the point of his sword. He swung it back and forth, flipping his wrists in fluid circles, a dazzling display of precision and grace. The type of showmanship that could win awards. Yet not very effective in a street fight. Payne pointed his gun and pulled the trigger, blowing the man's kneecap through the back of his leg. A second later, his screams filled the night as he fell to the ground in a puddle of his own blood.

The remaining duo wasted no time, swooping in from behind before Payne could turn around. One landed a solid strike with his nunchuck, hitting him in his rib cage. Thankfully, his jacket and body armor softened the blow. So much so that Payne was able to grab his attacker's weapon and pull him closer. An instant later, Payne thrust his knee upward, hitting him in his groin. Balls ruptured from the force. As the man bent over in agony, Payne grabbed the back of his head and slammed his knee into the guy's face, knocking him unconscious. But Payne didn't let him fall to the ground. Instead, he pushed him toward his friend who mistakenly tried to catch him. Before the guy could react, Payne launched himself forward, striking him in the mouth with the butt of his gun. Teeth cracked and nerves frayed as Payne spun and waited for a counterassault.

But none was to follow.

Payne stood tall in the middle of six men, all in various states of pain, unwilling to test him further. The same could be said of the crowd, which had scattered in every direction.

He stood there alone, staring at the father and son.

The father stared back, gun still in hand.

Willing to die for his boy.

29

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

(41 miles west of Mecca)

Hakeem Salaam had been a terrorist since he was a young child growing up in Medina. He had learned the craft from his father, a man who stood up for his beliefs even when they weren't popular in his native Saudi Arabia. Sometimes using violence, sometimes using words. Doing whatever he felt was necessary to make sure his message was heard.

At the age when most boys were taught how to play sports, Salaam learned how to assemble weapons and make explosives out of household chemicals. How to plan a sneak assault in an urban environment. And how to escape afterward. To him, there was nothing strange about it. This was the only life he knew, and his father was his role model. If anything, he felt pity for the other Arab children, who wasted their lives listening to music and playing silly games, instead of making a difference in the world.

Didn't they know that they were being corrupted?

The country he blamed the most was the United States, a seed his father had planted in him from the very beginning but one that grew more obvious with each passing year. Everything about their culture was immoral. Their drinking. Their depravity. Their lack of religious structure. The way they glamorized sex and drugs in their movies and books. Half-naked women walking around in public. And teenage girls doing the same.

And what did their government do about it? Nothing.

They were too busy fighting wars in places they didn't belong.

Ten years ago, Salaam founded the Soldiers of Allah, an organization destined to become one of the most feared terrorist groups in the world. He started small, recruiting a few trusted lieutenants who preached his word while protecting his identity, always maintaining the veil of secrecy that surrounded him.

Unlike some terrorists, he didn't crave personal attention. He craved results.

When he first started out, he had a specific agenda: to protect the religion of Islam. He figured the best way to accomplish that goal was to punish its corruptors, to make them pay for the erosion of his people and their morals. Just like Muhammad had done when he purified the Kaaba by removing all the false idols that were worshiped there.

Salaam's group focused on the United States, labeling them as their biggest threat. Targeting them and their allies every chance he got. He supplied weapons. He blew up embassies. He attacked buses and subways. He did everything he could to hurt his enemy, all in hopes of uniting his people under a common cause. Hoping his passion would be contagious.

Yet his actions were for naught. Islam remained a house divided.

Ultimately, he realized he needed to alter his approach. He had to figure out a way to bridge the gaps that separated his people, gaps that were significant. There were more than 1.2 billion Muslims scattered around the world, making it the second-largest religion behind Christianity. Yet Islam wasn't isolated in the Middle East. In fact, there were more Asian Muslims than Arab ones-more than 150 million in Indonesia alone. Not to mention a large number of Muslims in the United States, nearly twice as many as Jews there.

Still, the variety of cultures and languages was just part of the problem.

The biggest hurdle was the diversity of beliefs.

There were the Sunnis, the largest subgroup, which contained more than 80 percent of Muslims, who believed one school of Islamic thought. And the Shiites, who followed another. Then there were the Wahhabis, whose influence was spreading quickly. Plus all the minor sects that had so many subtle differences that even he couldn't tell them apart.

How was he going to unite all these people under one flag when most of them weren't even willing to be in the same room?

He knew it would take a miracle.

Ironically, it was the tragedy in New York City that gave him the idea.

He watched in amazement as the events of 9/11 unfolded on his television screen. The way the planes crashed into the Twin Towers and sent them toppling to the ground in a burst of fire and ash. How people scurried for their lives and mourned those who didn't survive. It was an amazing sight to see in such a diverse nation. The way Americans and their allies joined together and formed a united front. Men and women. Young and old. Rich and poor. Blacks and whites. Democrats and Republicans. It didn't really matter. Everyone was equal.

In their time of tragedy, they became one.

Salaam disappeared into the mountains for days, meditating like Muhammad had done, thinking about his problem from all angles, weighing the positives and the negatives, trying to determine the best way to take advantage of what he had witnessed in America.

In his mind, all he needed to do was find a common thread among all Muslims, and once he did, he would give it a yank. The natural reaction would be to pull together. To unite. Whether it was out of love, sorrow, or fear, it didn't really matter as long as they were standing as one.

Of course, the key was finding that thread.

And then it dawned on him. There was only one thing that all Muslims-Sunnis, Shiites, and all the sects- agreed upon. One thing they would fight for. One place they cared about.

The birthplace of their greatest prophet.

The site of their most holy mosque.

The centerpiece of Islam.

30

The boy buried his face in his father's hip, unable to look at the blood. He had seen enough in the past week to last him a lifetime.

Trembling, his father held him tight. One hand on Yong-Su's head, the other on his gun. He tried aiming at Payne but was doing a poor job. Adrenaline made him shaky. Emotions made him unstable. Tears flowed from his eyes as he grasped the situation. Four shots fired. One man down. Cornered and unable to run. No other options in sight.

Thankfully, Payne recognized the mind-set. The desperation. The feelings of hopelessness. Many of his former enemies had felt the exact same way. So he knew how to deal with it.

"Chung-Ho," he said. His voice was calm, steady. "My name is Jonathon Payne, and I'm here to help. I know it doesn't seem that way, but I am."

He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming.

"Can you understand me? Do you speak English?"

Several seconds passed before Chung-Ho nodded.

"Good. That's good." Payne lowered his weapon six inches, a gesture of goodwill. "Your neighbor Mr. Kim told me what happened to you. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly am."

But Park said nothing.

"He's worried about your safety. Same with Yong-Su's."

"You no talk about my son! Leave him alone!"

"Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …" He bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry."

"How you find me?"

"I talked to Chi-Gon Jung, the man who rented your boat. He told me where to find you."

"Why? What you want?"

"I want to help. I simply want to help. I'm not here to hurt you. I swear I'm not."

"It no look like that! Look what you did to men!"

"I had no choice. You shot my partner. You started a riot. I had to defend myself."

"No!" he shouted. "I defend myself!"

Payne nodded, taking a small step forward. "I know you are. That's why I'm not upset. You were scared, so you did what you could to protect yourself. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it's instinctual. You felt threatened, so you fought back."

Park stared at him, his gun still trembling.

"Unfortunately, sometimes a problem can be so big, you can't face it alone. Sometimes you need help to survive. Which is why I'm here. I'm here to help."

"How you help me?"

Payne stepped closer. "First of all, I can take you somewhere safe. That's most important. Wherever you want to go. To the mainland. To Japan. To the States. Anywhere you'd like."

He paused, letting that sink in. "Then, once I know you're okay, I'm going to hunt for the men who attacked your village. No matter what, no matter where, I will search for them. And when I find them …" His voice trailed off for just a second. "Let's just say what happened here tonight is nothing compared to what I'll do to them. I promise you that."

The wail of sirens cut through the night, somehow rising above the fireworks, gunshots, and screams from the crowd. Payne heard the sound and realized what it meant: Park had to decide immediately. No way they could risk police involvement. Not with so much on the line. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure if Park felt the same way. For all he knew, Park might view the cops as a better option. Safer than talking to Payne. It was a risk Payne couldn't afford.

"Mr. Kim told me horror stories about your village and all the atrocities that have happened in the cave. Through it all, the thing that surprised me the most was his hatred of the local police. The way they killed innocents during the massacre, the way they betrayed their own people. Until that point, I couldn't understand why you had decided to run. Then it made perfect sense. This island isn't safe for you. And it isn't safe for your son."

The sirens grew louder, coupled with the glow of flashing lights.

"I know you don't trust me. And the truth is you probably shouldn't, considering all that's happened in the past week. But in my heart I know you trust your neighbor Mr. Kim. That's why you ran to him in your time of crisis. You trusted his wisdom and guidance above your own."

Payne lowered his gun, going for broke.

"So tell me this. If he was here right now, which would he recommend? The police or me?"

The Korean National Police Agency (KNPA) is the only police organization in South Korea. Based in Seoul, it is divided into fourteen local bureaus, including one in Jeju.

During the Sunrise Festival, most on-duty officers were assigned to crowd control, helping the flow of traffic, arresting drunks, and doing what they could to make the celebration safe. Seongsan was a small village with very little crime, so the last thing they expected was a series of shootings. Not only at the marina, but at the theater as well.

By the time they were notified, crucial time had been lost, made worse by the hordes of people who blocked the roads. Sirens sounded and lights flashed, but the streets were so narrow that people had nowhere to go. A journey that usually took a minute suddenly took ten. Way too long to make a difference.

The first officers at the scene-proudly wearing the new police insignia, a Steller's sea eagle carrying a Rose of Sharon-checked the theater for gunmen before rushing to the aid of six victims, all of whom had black ninja outfits and a number of bruises. One was missing a knee, and the others were visibly shaken.

Their Tiger-Strike teamwork had been ineffective against a more worthy opponent.

Other witnesses were rounded up. Some Koreans. Some Japanese. Even a few Europeans. When questioned, all of them said the exact same thing. A crazed American had started the brawl. A tall, muscular guy who carried a gun and wiped out half the crowd.

Then again, they said, his violent behavior should have been expected.

Why? Because he played in the NBA.

Payne knew the main roads would soon be blocked. So they left town to the east, taking Jung's fishing boat to the open sea.

The hardest part of the journey was the first thirty minutes. Sneaking the Parks into the marina. Convincing Jones, who was bleeding from his biceps, to play nice with the guy who'd just shot him. Hot-wiring the boat, since they didn't have time to wait for Jung's guide. And keeping the Parks calm as Payne steered past hundreds of boats that filled the harbor. Kia played a major role in the last one, speaking to the Parks in Korean, doing whatever she could to reassure them of their safety. Still, despite her best efforts, Chung-Ho refused to part with his gun.

He clung to it with one hand, his son with the other.

The waters of the Korea Strait were notoriously tough to handle, especially in the dead of night. The sea was deep, the currents were strong, and all the boat's gauges were in Korean. After some translation help from Kia, Payne called Jones to the wheel.

"How's the arm?"

"It's fine. I found a first-aid kit and patched myself up. I'm sending the bill to Harrington."

Payne laughed, glad to see Jones's sense of humor still intact. "Any mobility problems?"

"Jon," he stressed, "I'm fine."

"Good. Glad to hear it. Because we have a decision to make." He pulled out a map of the East Sea. "We don't have many choices. Either Japan, mainland Korea, or one of the islands along the way."

"Forget the islands. We could never blend in."

"What about Korea? We could make it in a few hours."

"That depends. How many people did you hurt back there? I hear Korean prisons are kind of brutal on pretty boys like yourself."

"Good point. In that case, what about Japan?"

Jones studied the major ports along the Korea Strait. There were several options. "Fukuoka is the closest big city. Roughly two million people. Plenty of places to sneak ashore. That might be our best bet…. Then again, what are we going to do when we get there?"

Unfortunately, Payne never got the chance to answer.

He was too distracted by the helicopter that hovered up ahead.

31

Monday, January 1

The roar of Jung's boat masked the chopper's engines until it was too late. Throw in the wind and the choppy seas, and Payne didn't spot it until it was a hundred yards away. Of course, even if he had, what could he have done? The damn thing just hovered there, directly in his path. No movement. No lights. Like an iceberg in the night, just waiting for the Titanic to strike.

Payne swore to himself and eased the boat to a stop. He told everyone on board not to panic, that everything would be all right. But deep down inside, he wasn't so sure. Technically, they were in a stolen boat and had just fled a country where he'd shot someone and assaulted five others. Park was carrying a gun and had recently fired it several times in the crowded streets of Seongsan. Jones was bleeding. The boy was traumatized. And Kia was privy to everything.

Yeah, they were screwed.

Things got worse when the chopper turned on its gigantic spotlight and shined it directly on the boat. Payne shielded his eyes, trying to figure out who he was dealing with. The police? The coast guard? The Korean Navy? Any of those would have ruined his New Year.

Suddenly a booming voice-like the voice of God- filled the night. It was broadcast in English over the chopper's speaker system, echoing louder than the roar of the turbines. "Do not be alarmed…. Do not make a move…. Prepare to be boarded."

Jones grimaced at the announcement. "That sounds painful."

"Let's hope not," said Payne as he inched his way toward Mr. Park, who sat in the back of the boat. When he got there, he spoke firmly into his ear. "If you want to help your son, drop your gun overboard. If they see it in your hand, you will be arrested. Or worse."

Park nodded in understanding.

Five seconds later it was sinking to the bottom of the sea.

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of surprises. The chopper rose several feet above the water, then crept forward until it hovered directly above the cramped deck of the boat. Payne heard the rumble of a large winch as two men were lowered on board.

Both of them were dressed in black, their faces covered with visors.

No patches. No badges. No insignias.

Neither man carried a weapon.

Confused, Payne stood there, assessing the situation. He knew they were in Korean waters, yet no one on the chopper had identified whom he worked for. The orders to halt had been given in English, not Korean. And the men standing across from him were tall and muscular, closer to Payne's size than Park's.

Something about this didn't seem right.

Things got stranger when one of them whipped out a cell phone and waited for it to ring. A few seconds later, it did. But instead of answering the call, which would have required him to take off his helmet and show his face, he walked forward and handed it to Payne.

The man said, "It's for you."

"It is?" Payne took the phone and answered the call. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was American. Masculine. All business. He said, "We've been sent to evacuate you and your friends."

"Who is this?"

But his question was dismissed. Simply ignored. "We'll hoist you up one at a time. Jones first, then the others, then you. Later tonight you'll be briefed in private. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. My men will remain on board. Tell them where to dump the boat and it will be done."

The United States and the Republic of Korea signed a Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) in 1966, guaranteeing the presence of U.S. military personnel to protect against external threats. Currently, there are more than thirty thousand American soldiers stationed in Korea, scattered around the country on several official bases. And several more that are unofficial.

Payne and his crew were taken to one of those, tucked in the rolling hills of Jeollanam-do Province, near the southwestern tip of the peninsula. On paper, the base was decommissioned a decade ago, yet it still housed enough soldiers to start a small war. From the outside, the facility looked abandoned-a series of dilapidated hangars and warehouses that should have been razed-but the inside was a different story.

It was buzzing with activity.

From the moment they got into the chopper until they were escorted to a small room on the northern end of the compound, the Parks were blindfolded. Kia sat next to them the entire time, whispering in Korean, assuring them that everything was being done for their safety. Her dedication continued once they reached the base. She refused to leave their side, even after their blindfolds were removed and they were locked in their holding cell, which had the feel of a cheap hotel room-equipped with a bed, desk, TV, and bathroom. A video camera was mounted in the far corner of the ceiling, allowing a team of guards to monitor them at all times.

Meanwhile, Payne and Jones were taken to a different building, this one in the center of the camp, where they met the senior enlisted adviser in a tiny office with cement walls and an American flag as its lone decoration. His name was Crawford, and his rank was command sergeant major. He wore a beige T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants that were recendy ironed. His hair looked brown but was shaved so close its color hardly mattered. The type of guy who smiled so infrequently it looked like he had gas when he actually tried.

Payne recognized Crawford's voice the moment he spoke-he was the man who'd called him on Jung's boat. "I hope you realize the position you put us in, having to save your ass in the middle of the night. We didn't appreciate the exposure."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. This is supposed to be a low-key operation."

"Yeah," Payne snapped. "I gathered that from your office decor. I meant the saving my ass part. I never asked to be saved."

"That's not what we heard from the Pentagon." He opened the lone folder that sat on his desk. "At oh-oh-oh-two hours, we were notified of a possible medical evac on Jeju Island. Details to follow. At oh-oh-eleven hours, medical evac was changed to personnel evac. Three soldiers, two civilians. Aerial resources were diverted from a training mission in the Korea Strait, course south-southwest toward Seongsan. At oh-oh-seventeen hours, our rendezvous point was updated when your boat was tagged by satellite." He glanced up from the folder and stared at them. "Shall I go on?"

Jones spoke first. "Can you repeat the part about medical evac? That was so exciting!"

"You think this is a joke?"

"No," Payne said, "we don't. But unless you have transcripts of an unauthorized broadcast on our part, I think it would be best if you dropped your attitude. Last time 1 checked, sergeant majors were several notches below captain in the chain of command."

Crawford stood from his chair. "Maybe so. But last time checked, you were retired."span›

He walked toward his office door, then stopped. "Stay put. I'm calling Washington."

Payne and Jones waited for Crawford to close his door before they spoke. And even then, they did it in hushed tones, trying not to be overheard.

Jones asked, "Did you call for evac when I was shot?"

"Are you crazy? I was running down the street, chasing a gunman. When could I call?"

"What about Kia?"

"What about her? She was taking care of you. Did she use your phone?"

Jones shook his head. She was busy, too. "Well, someone called."

Payne nodded, confused. "Yeah, but the question is who."

32

Twenty minutes passed before Crawford returned. When he did, he said nothing until he punched a series of buttons on his desk phone. Its speaker crackled to life.

He muttered, "Washington is on the line. Hang up when you're done."

Then he turned and left the room. No explanation. No name or hint of what was to follow. Payne couldn't tell if Crawford was angry, embarrassed, or pleased with himself, because the bastard had no facial expressions. Like the ultimate poker player. Or someone with Botox.

Payne pulled the speaker closer. "This is Jonathon Payne. Who am I speaking to?"

There was a lengthy delay before a gruff voice filled the line. "Randy Raskin. Pentagon."

Jones started laughing, happy to hear from his friend. "Damn, Randy, you scared the hell out of us. We thought you were someone important."

"Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I love you, too."

Payne said, "You know what he means."

"I know, I know." The ever-present clicking of Raskin's keyboard could be heard in the background. He was the quintessential multitasker. "I'm guessing your host is out of the room."

"Yeah. We're clear."

"Thank God! That guy is an idiot. I've been forced to sound official for the past three hours. No matter what I did or said, he kept quoting rules and regulations. Blah, blah, blah. Even when D.J. was shot, he gave me flack about evac."

Jones leaned forward. "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

"Oh, now I get it," Raskin teased. "You don't consider me important, yet you want me to care about your health? Sorry, fellas. You can't have it both ways. .. . Besides, I already knew you were fine. I've been monitoring your progress all night."

Payne frowned. "How so?"

"The amazing thing about Korea is their technology. They're way ahead of us when it comes to implementation. It's actually kind of creepy. Sorta like Big Brother."

"Meaning?"

"Did you know Jeju has more than six thousand traffic cameras? With a touch of a button, I tapped into their mainframe and followed your movement all over the island. I'm telling you, it was great. Just like a movie! When you got attacked by ninjas? Man, that was awesome! You were like, kick, punch, shoot! And that guy was like aaaaaaaagh! Only I couldn't hear him scream because there's no sound on their cameras."

"Are you done?"

"Not yet. If you want, I can burn you a copy on DVD. You know, like a home movie."

"I'd like one," Jones said. "Please send it to-"

But Payne cut him off. "Actually, I'd prefer if you deleted all traces of us from their system. If Korea sees that footage-"

"1 know, I know. Don't worry. I already took care of it. I wiped out the entire feed from Seongsan. Their computers will interpret it as a power surge, but we know the truth."

"Thanks," Payne said. "You're the best."

"I know that, too."

"So," Jones said, "was there a reason you called? Or were you just calling to brag?"

"Damn! The guy gets shot one time, and now he's all business." Raskin pounded away on his keyboard until the correct file filled his screen. "You asked me to do more research on Dr. Ernie Sheldon, and I found some interesting nuggets. Is there somewhere I can send them, or will I have to go through Crawford?"

"Fill us in now," Payne said. "You can send it through him later."

Raskin scanned the data. "Don't crucify me on this one, but I gave you some misleading intel the last time we talked. Turns out, Dr. Sheldon might not be dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure of it. His main file lists him as deceased. Yet I tracked him through some back doors and found a fairly recent posting. For the past three years he's been working as a special projects coordinator at Fort Huachuca."

Fort Huachuca is a major military installation in Arizona that became home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center and School in 1971. Since then, its post has changed several times, yet in the past three decades one thing has remained constant. If a soldier wanted to be certified as an interrogator, he went to Fort Huachuca-where they taught all the necessary skills to become a 97E (pronounced 97 echo), everything from the art of interrogation to the rules of deception.

Payne and Jones were quite familiar with the installation, a place both of them endured while prepping for the MANIACs. At times their training was horrific, bordering on inhumane.

But it prepared them for what they'd face in the Special Forces. And how to handle it.

Payne said, "Define special projects."

"Everything from the latest torture techniques to mind-control experiments. Plus I hear there's been progress with gamma-aminobutyric acid. Combining GABA drugs and physical exhaustion to extract confessions." Raskin cleared his throat, as if catching himself before he revealed too much. "Of course, that's probably just hearsay. I have no specific knowledge as to what Sheldon was working on."

"And these projects," Payne wondered. "Are they being used in the field?"

"Honestly, Jon, I really don't know. I sit behind a desk all day, fiddling with my keyboard. You're the one in the real world. You tell me. Are these techniques being used?"

Payne knew the answer was yes. Torture has been around for as long as there's been pain and wouldn't stop anytime soon. The problem is that torture has proven to be unreliable because all prisoners eventually talk, although what they say is often fabricated, a way for the brain to protect the body from further abuse.

That's why men like Dr. Sheldon conducted their research.

They're looking for better ways to obtain information.

Recent studies have shown that some of the simplest techniques-exhaustion, sleep deprivation, prolonged exposure to heat or cold-are the most effective. Yet in recent years, the one technique that's been in the news the most is waterboarding. It was even mentioned by Vice President Dick Cheney in a White House interview, who called it a "very important tool."

Prisoners were immobilized with ropes or cords. Feet slightly inclined. Head below legs. Cellophane was wrapped around the subject's face and water was poured over him. Almost instantly the gag reflex kicked in and the subject panicked, terrified of drowning and certain death. Rumor has it that several CIA officials volunteered to go through the ordeal to understand its physiological devastation. Their average endurance time was fourteen seconds.

Payne was familiar with all this information. What he didn't know was Dr. Sheldon's role in what was going on. Had he been called in as an expert to assess the crime scene? Or was the cave one of his experiments gone wrong? And if so, who was the intended victim?

"Bear with me," Payne said as he changed the direction of their conversation. "Last time we spoke, I asked for the names of prisoners in black-op facilities. Unfortunately, you were unable to help. So let me approach this from a different angle. One of my sources recently gave me the name of a known terrorist who we think might be part of this. If I mentioned his name, would you be able to confirm or deny his capture?"

Raskin chose his words carefully. 'Technically, I couldn't confirm anyone's capture without proper clearance. But I'd be happy to deny any rumors that I felt could hurt your mission."

"Fine. The name we heard is Hakeem Salaam."

Raskin said nothing for the next fifteen seconds.

'Thank you," Payne said, reading between the lines. "That's a big help."

"My pleasure. Now unless you have something else, please put the sergeant major back on the phone. I want to mess with him some before I get back to work."

Whatever Raskin said to Crawford was effective, because from that moment on he was on his best behavior. He led Payne and Jones to a private computer terminal, where they were able to download Dr. Sheldon's file and print several photographs they had requested.

Armed with this new information, they were escorted across the facility grounds to where the Parks were being detained. Kia was called out of the room for a quick briefing, filling them in on the past few hours, describing what was said on the boat, in the helicopter, and in the holding cell. Amazingly, just like Mr. Kim in the village, the Parks had warmed to her in a short time-incredible, considering the circumstances.

"Is the boy talking?" Payne wondered.

"Not about the cave, but he is talking about other things. He's a great kid who's been through a whole lot. I'm stunned he's even coherent."

"What about the dad?"

"Scared. Angry. Anxious. Emotional. Everything you'd expect from a guy who lost his family and doesn't know why."

"What do you recommend?"

"About what?"

"About talking to them. We need to know what they know. ASAP."

"But Jon-"

"I know," he said, not letting her get started with an emotional plea. This was one of those situations where he wouldn't be dissuaded. 'Trust me, I realize they aren't ready to talk and won't be ready for some time. Unfortunately, this interview can't wait. We got some new intel that we need to act on immediately, and the only way to do that is by talking to them. So whether it's you, me, or all three of us combined, this conversation needs to take place right now."

33

Kia led the Parks into an interview room and prepared them for what was about to happen. She assured them that Payne was a decent man who would do them no harm, that he'd lost a good friend during the violence at the cave, and needed their statements to find the people responsible. When put in those terms, Chung-Ho was more than willing to help-even though he knew it would be painful for him and his son-because it was the honorable thing to do.

Payne came in next. Polite. Respectful. Empathetic. None of it an act of any kind. He'd lost his parents at an early age, killed by a drunk driver when he was in junior high, so he was all too familiar with sudden loss. His years as a soldier, surrounded by death and destruction, hadn't dulled any of those feelings, and they never would.

They'd be a part of him forever.

"I know some of these questions are going to be difficult, probably the last thing in the world that you want to talk about, but I wouldn't be asking them if they weren't so important." Payne paused, trying to ease into the interview.

"Obviously, if you'd feel more comfortable speaking in Korean, we can use Kia as an interpreter."

Chung-Ho shook his head. "My English is good. So is my son's. We speak good."

"Yes, you do. Much better than I speak Korean." He smiled, hoping to keep the conversation friendly. "To make things easier, I'd like to start with you. I figure the more you can tell me, the less I'll have to ask your son. In the long run, I think that would be best. Don't you?"

He nodded in appreciation, thankful for Payne's kindness.

Meanwhile, Yong-Su sat in a chair in the back corner, staring at the floor in a semidaze. Kia sat next to him, telling him about her childhood in Korea, occasionally brushing the black hair from his eyes, like a mother might do. More worried about his well-being than the interview that was taking place ten feet away.

"If we can," Payne said, "I'd like to talk about last Saturday."

Chung-Ho described what he could remember. Yong-Su had stumbled home from the cave, covered in blood. After checking him for injuries, Chung-Ho went from neighbor to neighbor, asking if they had seen anything, but no one had. Soon they discovered a trail of blood leading toward the cave. Panicked, he rushed to Kim and asked him what he should do. Kim's advice was to take his son and leave town immediately. So he did, just like that. His wife and family were supposed to follow and meet them an hour later. But the people from the cave prevented it.

"Have you been to the village since?"

"No. It is not safe." He looked back at his son, choosing his next words carefully. "When my wife not arrive, I call Mr. Kim from pay phone. He tell me what happen to village. He tell me never come back and not call police. He handle everything."

Kim hadn't mentioned the phone call, but it explained why Chung-Ho had never returned to check on his wife and the rest of his family. He already knew what had happened to them.

"Did you see anyone from the cave that day?"

"No."

"What about beforehand? Maybe a stranger walking in the woods?"

"I see nothing. We stay in village. They stay in cave. No strangers."

"But your son," he said delicately. "He saw some people, didn't he?"

Chung-Ho turned and looked at his boy.

"Did he tell you what he saw?"

He took a deep breath, then nodded. "He see blood. People in cave with blood."

"You mean dead people?"

He shook his head. "No. People still alive. They were talking."

Payne paused, confused. Until that moment, he had assumed that Yong-Su had stumbled into the scene after everyone was dead, possibly overhearing the killers talk about the black stone as they left the cave. But now his father was telling him the exact opposite. Yong-Su was in there while people were still alive.

In a heartbeat, the direction of the interview had to be changed.

Payne thought back to the cave, recalling the layout of the initial chamber. A desk and a chair were bolted to the middle of the floor. A single lightbulb, equipped with a tiny camera, hung from the volcanic rock. Everything was bathed in blood-the floor, the ceiling, the walls. On the bright side, if there was one, the blood was primarily contained in that one room, the place where interrogations occurred. And since Yong-Su was covered in blood, he'd obviously been in there. Maybe during a torture session. If so, who knew what he could answer?

The possibilities were endless.

Payne sorted through all the questions in his head- who was being tortured, what was being said, who killed Schmidt and his crew-trying to figure out which was most important. In the end, he realized the most pressing question was one that Chung-Ho couldn't answer.

They needed to speak to the boy himself.

Payne asked Kia to join him in the hall, where they were met by Jones, who'd been watching the interview in an adjacent room. He wanted to take a more active role but realized the bullet hole in his arm might be disconcerting to Chung-Ho, since he had pulled the trigger. Jones spoke first. "We need to talk to the kid." "I know," Payne replied. "But it shouldn't be me." They both looked at Kia, who appeared less than thrilled with the concept.

"Fine." She groaned. "What do you want me to ask?" Jones handed her a manila envelope filled with pictures that had been e-mailed by Randy Raskin. "We need to know who the kid saw. Who was alive, who was dead, who was being tortured, and so on. After that, we'll have a much better grasp of things."

"Right now the timeline is pretty fuzzy," Payne admitted. "The kid walks into the cave and sees people covered in blood but claims they were alive. If so, how did he get so much blood on him? Maybe he saw the killers after the fact. Or maybe he walked in during an interrogation. Either way, we need to know who he saw so we can figure out what happened."

Kia grimaced. "You know, this isn't going to be easy. I can barely get the kid to talk, and when I do, it's about silly things. What he likes to eat. What he does for fun. Now you want me to ask him about the cave?" She took a deep breath. "Any recommendations?"

Payne nodded. "Yeah. Make a game of it."

"A game?"

"The kid's eight and scared out of his mind. The lighter you make it, the better."

"Easier said than done."

"I realize that, but you've been doing great with him. I have the utmost confidence in you."

"I do, too," echoed Jones. "I've been watching you in there, and the kid really likes you. You're a natural at this."

"Thanks. But I'm still nervous."

"Don't worry about it. You'll do fine…. Of course, if you think it would help, I'd be happy to give you a kiss for good luck."

Kia laughed, thankful for the levity.

"Yeah. Didn't think so." Jones started to back down the hall. "But if you change your mind, let me know. Just wink at the camera and I'll come running."

Payne and Kia sat on one side of the table, the Parks on the other. Kia spread twenty pictures in front of Yong-Su and told him they were going to play a game. The rules were simple. Some of the men in the photos had been to Jeju, while many others hadn't. For every one he got right, he would be given a piece of candy-his favorite food in the whole world. However, for every one he got wrong, a piece would be taken away.

"Do you understand?" Kia asked. "If you aren't sure about someone, you shouldn't guess. Only choose the ones that you're absolutely positive about. Okay?"

Yong-Su glanced at the pictures and nodded.

He could taste the candy already.

34

Before the incident, Yong-Su was a typical eight-year-old boy. He was adventurous, active, and loved getting dirty. His hair was black and grew way too fast, falling into his eyes if he didn't get it trimmed every other week. Three of his front teeth were missing-two on top, one on the bottom-giving him a jack-o'-lantern smile that was common among his age Rroup.

Of course, during the past nine days there was little lo smile about. From the moment he stumbled out of the bloody cave, he was a changed person. Partly in shock. Partly in grief. Dealing with things that would devastate most adults.

And yet there he was. Staring at all the pictures, playing Kia's game.

Looking forward to all the candy he was going to win.

In a complex world, sometimes it is the simple pleasures that get us through.

He studied the images for several seconds, choosing all I he people he saw in the cave. Selecting them in his head before he made his choices. Finally, without saying a word, he picked up a photo. Then another. And another. Two over here, three over there. Gathering them in his hands like a deck of cards. Tapping them against the table to make sure they were nice and straight. Sixteen photos in all. Some Americans. Some Arabs. A wide variety of ages.

When he was done, he handed the stack to Kia. It was much larger than she was expecting.

She said, "You saw all of these people?"

Yong-Su shook his head and pointed to the desk. "No, those people."

Four photos were spread across the surface. Payne recognized them at once.

It was Trevor Schmidt and his crew.

"Can you tell us where you saw them?" she asked.

He nodded, then explained what happened that day.

Yong-Su had been playing in the woods when he smelled the blood. A strong, pungent odor that piqued his curiosity and gave him the courage to investigate the one spot he was forbidden to go. He knew he should have turned around and run in the opposite direction, but he couldn't help himself. He was drawn to the place. He had to see it for himself.

So he crept up the hill, carefully. Listening for the screams he sometimes heard at night. But on this morning, everything was silent. It gave him the nerve to continue.

The tunnel opening was dark. Almost black. The only hint of light was somewhere up ahead, cast by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He listened for voices but heard none. The cave was quiet, peaceful. The only sound was the occasional crunch of stone under his feet-and even that was just a whisper. The lone thing that stood out to him was the smell. The air was thick with it, filled with the putrid odor that reminded him of a hunting trip he once took with his dad.

The first chamber was unlike anything he had ever seen. Much of the floor and some of the walls were dripping with blood. Not smeared with it, but actually leaking it. Like the earth had been gashed and was starting to bleed. He walked over to the closest wall and touched it. Ran his lingers through it. The light was faint, yet bright enough to prove he wasn't imagining it.

His hand was now crimson. His face was now pale.

That was the moment he heard the voice. Initially, he thought he was just spooked by the liquid that covered his hand. Then he heard a second one. And a third. Voices emerging from the depths of the cave. Panicked, he turned to run outside but slipped on the slick floor. Soon his skin and clothes were covered in red-a color that saved his life.

He scampered to the far corner of the cave and curled into a tiny ball, partially hidden by a crevice in the rock, partially camouflaged by the blood. In the faint light, he was nearly invisible to the naked eye, especially since no one was looking for him. If they had been, they would have found him immediately. No doubt about it. The chamber was small and they were trained soldiers, but at that moment they assumed they were alone. It wasn't until much later when they saw his footsteps that they realized their facility had been breached and their secret had been spilled. That's when they were forced to invade the nearby village and kill everyone they found.

To them, their mission was too important to be derailed by sympathy.

From the back corner, Yong-Su saw four men as they approached the table and chair that were anchored to the middle of the floor. Each of them carried a small box. Each box was filled with three plastic bags. Each bag was filled with blood. The men laughed and joked as they punctured the bags with their knives and squirted the blood everywhere for the second time that day. On the floor. On the ceiling. On the walls. Bag after bag, squeeze after squeeze, until the cave glistened like a ruby in the faint light of the bulb.

There was no violence or torture on that final morning. Just a bunch of clever men who faked their own murders with bags of their own blood, liquid that had been collected over several days and stored in the cave.

DNA evidence that would prove their deaths while actually giving them life.

Payne excused himself from the interview and met Jones in private, both of them stunned by what they'd just heard. For the past two days, they were under the impression that Trevor Schmidt and his crew had been murdered inside the cave. Butchered and brutalized by some unknown group that was trying to rescue a terrorist. But now, thanks to the testimony of an eight-year-old boy, they knew the truth about the cave. Not only was Schmidt alive, but his team was probably responsible for the massacre in the village.

One minute Payne wanted to avenge his friend's death. Now he wanted to kill him.

Payne said, "Schmidt was already running a black op. No one knew where he was or what he was doing. So why in the hell would he fake his own death?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say to hide from the man he was working for."

"Colonel Harrington?"

Jones nodded. "Think back to our time with the MANIACs. We were given a lot of latitude when it came to our missions. If we didn't report on time, no big deal. They came to expect that from us to a certain extent. But deep down inside, we knew there was a line we couldn't cross. And if we did, they'd send someone after us-whether we wanted them to or not."

"And Schmidt's death erased that line."

"No more Harrington. No more checking in. He's a free man to do whatever he wants."

"Which ain't a good thing."

"No, it's not. One of my instructors at the Academy told me soldiers should fight for freedom but they shouldn't have it. I never knew what he meant until I went overseas mid saw what happened when no one was watching." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Structure is in place for a reason. Commanding officers are there for a reason. Without them, a soldier like Schmidt is capable of doing a lot of damage."

"I'm assuming he already has."

"You mean the village?"

Payne nodded. "Less than an hour after he faked his death, he killed how many innocents? And for what reason? To make sure no one knew he was alive?" He paused. "Unless-"

"Unless what?"

"Maybe he didn't kill them to protect his death. Maybe he killed them to protect his mission. Obviously he saw Yong-Su's bloody footsteps outside the cave. That's probably what led him to the village. And if Schmidt was discussing the mission while the boy was in there? You know damn well he would've been forced to plug the leak before anyone could talk about it."

"The black stone," Jones suggested. "The boy kept muttering something about the black stone. Maybe that has more significance than we think."

Ten minutes later, they'd realize how much more.

35

Payne walked into the interview room with a bagful of candy, the first time in his career that he'd ever resorted to a confectionery bribe. Yong-Su's eyes lit up when he saw the wide assortment of sweets that Payne had borrowed from Crawford's desk.

"Now, don't get too excited. You earned only four pieces."

Yong-Su nodded and smiled, practically knocking over the table as he reached for the bag.

"Wow! You really like candy, don't you?"

He nodded again, grinning.

"In that case, how would like to make a deal?" Payne glanced at Chung-Ho, seeking his permission. "If it's okay with your dad, I'd like to ask you a few more questions. If you get them right, we can double your reward."

"Do you know how many pieces that is?" Kia asked.

Yong-Su held up both hands, spreading his fingers wide.

"That's right! Eight whole pieces!"

"Sir," Payne asked, "is that all right with you?"

Chung-Ho nodded, thrilled that Yong-Su was happy about anything.

"Great!" said Payne as he shook the bag for emphasis. The boy stared at it like a pit bull eyeing a pork chop. "Then let's get started."

The photographs of Schmidt and his crew were still on the table. Payne pushed them closer to the boy so he could get a better look. "When I was talking to your neighbor Mr. Kim, he told me that you heard the men talking in the cave. Do you remember what they said?"

Yong-Su nodded.

"Do you remember who was talking the most?"

Yong-Su nodded again, this time pointing to one of the photos. It was Trevor Schmidt.

"That's good, real good. That's what I figured."

Payne collected the other three photos and moved them out of the way so Yong-Su could focus on the only person that mattered. "Okay, now here's the fun part, the part that's going to double all your candy. I'd like you to tell me what this man was talking about."

Yong-Su glanced at his dad, who whispered something to him in Korean. Whether it was fatherly advice or a reminder of what Yong-Su had told him earlier in the week, Payne wasn't sure. But whatever he said, it was effective, because Yong-Su started to talk.

"Man say black stone."

"Black stone?"

"He say black stone come from heaven."

"It came from heaven?"

"But he send it to hell."

Payne grimaced. "He wanted to send the black stone to hell?"

Yong-Su nodded. "Me get candy now."

"In a minute," Kia said, giving Payne a chance to think. "As soon as he's done asking you questions, you'll get your candy."

"Okay. Me wait."

The problem was Payne didn't know what to ask next. He didn't know what the black stone was or why Schmidt wanted to send it to hell. Obviously he wasn't talking about the hotel on Jeju, but it could have been anything else- maybe even a code that only Schmidt and his crew understood. For all he knew, Black Stone could have been the name of Schmidt's mission.

But if that was the case, what did heaven and hell have to do with anything?

Payne paused for a minute, glancing through his small notebook. He had jotted different phrases in his personal shorthand, his way of guaranteeing secrecy, although with this mission, it wouldn't have mattered who read it. There were too many holes to make sense of anything. Thankfully, just as his frustration was starting to build, he was saved by a knock on the door.

Handing the bag to Kia, he told her to give Yong-Su one piece for good behavior. Otherwise he knew the kid might start gnawing on the table. Never in his life had he seen a kid who liked candy that much. He figured it was probably the reason he was missing three teeth.

Anyway, Payne opened the door and was surprised to see Jones standing there, smiling wider than Yong-Su with a Tootsie Roll. A grin that told him something good had happened.

"You gotta see this."

"See what?"

Jones led him next door, where he'd been watching the interview on one of the monitors. "While you were glancing at your notes, I cross-referenced the black stone and the word heaven. And guess what? I got a hit. Something that makes a lot of sense."

He pointed to the image on his computer screen, an ancient stone building surrounded by a sea of people, all of them dressed in white robes. "What do you know about Islam?"

Payne shrugged and took a seat in front of the computer.

Jones said, "That's the interior of the Great Mosque in Mecca. To put it simply, it's the center of the Islamic world. When Muslims pray, that's what they face. Not the mosque itself, but the ancient stone building in the middle. It's called the Kaaba. It's their most sacred shrine."

Payne stared at the picture, focusing on the massive granite cube that towered above the thousands of people who filled the courtyard. It stood close to fifty feet high and was covered by a black silk cloth, decorated by gold calligraphy embroidered in Arabic.

"Go on."

Jones tapped a few keys, zooming in on one of the cornerstones. "According to Islamic tradition, the Kaaba was built by Abraham and his son Ishmael, the same prophets from the Old Testament. While searching for rocks in the hills of Mecca, they came across a pure white stone and immediately recognized its worth. To them, its greatness was so obvious they used it to anchor their building."

He zoomed in closer, focusing on a black stone that was embedded five feet above the ground in the east corner of the Kaaba. The stone was roughly twelve inches in diameter and framed by a silver band that was fastened to it with silver nails.

"Remarkably, the stone has turned color through the centuries. What used to be pure white is now pure black. Some true believers attribute it to all the sins it has absorbed over the years. Of course, most scientists have a more pragmatic view."

"Which is?"

Jones leaned back in his chair. "It's a meteorite."

"They worship a meteorite?"

"They don't actually worship it. But it is sacred to them."

"An actual meteorite?"

"That's the theory. Then again, there's no way to know without testing it-something the guardians of the mosque won't allow. Still, it fits all the facts. Over time, a lot of meteorites change from white to black because of oxidation. Plus there's a major impact crater at Wabar, which is close to Mecca. When it hit the desert, it blasted molten sand high into the air, where it cooled, then fell back to the earth as chunks of glass. It was literally raining glass."

"Glass?"

"Some scientists think the Black Stone is mat substance, known as impact glass. Meanwhile, others feel it's part of the meteorite itself. Either way, the Black Stone fell from heaven."

"Just like Schmidt said."

Jones nodded. "Unfortunately, that's not everything he said. He also mentioned that he wanted to send it to hell. And that's the part I'm worried about."

"How so?"

"This stone is in the middle of a massive mosque in the center of a protected city. It's constantly surrounded by armed guards and thousands of devout Muslims who would fight to the death to defend it. No way he's going to get into a gunfight."

"True."

"Therefore, in my mind, that leaves Schmidt with only one viable option."

"Which is?"

"He's gonna blow it up."

36

In Saudi Arabia, where oil is the lifeblood of the economy, tanker trucks are a common sight, rolling throughout the region both day and night, a constant reminder of the nation's wealth and its place in the global market. The trucks are so commonplace that they blend into the scenery like desert wildlife, barely registering when they stream past in large convoys.

Even when they are driving somewhere they don't belong.

Trevor Schmidt and his crew had counted on this when they took over the Abraj Al Bait water facility the night before. Their assault had been remarkably easy. One armed guard during the takeover. Another guard during the shift change. No other workers were present due to the hajj celebration and because the facility was not scheduled to open for another six months. Everything about the place was functional-the generators, the reservoirs, the compressors. The only thing missing was the liquid to pump.

But that would soon be rectified.

A member of Schmidt's team, the one they called Matthew, had earned an engineering degree from Stanford before he'd entered the military. His background was all the training they needed to complete this task, especially since everything had been planned out weeks in advance. All they had to do was follow simple step-by-step instructions, then get to the tunnel in Mecca, where the final phase would be completed.

But that would be the fun part. First they needed to finish their work here.

Matthew went into the control room and checked the gauges. As he did, the tanker trucks pulled through the front gate and drove to the rear of the facility, where they began pumping their flammable cargo into a system that was designed for water. The chemical itself, contained in cylindrical tanks that held eighty-five hundred gallons each, was a petroleum-based product comparable to jet fuel, although it had been modified in several crucial ways. To curtail the effects of static electricity, they added dinonylnaphthyl-sulfonic acid, hoping to eliminate sparking and premature combustion. Corrosion inhibitors, a common ingredient in military fuel, were introduced in small concentrations to prevent damage to the piping system and possible seepage underground. And antioxidants were added to minimize gumming.

Using the video monitors in the security office, Schmidt watched truck after truck empty their tanks into the system, double-checking all the numbers on a small sheet of paper. From his aviation experience, he knew that larger commercial jets, such as Boeing 767s, carried approximately twenty-one thousand gallons of fuel on takeoff. That meant five trucks equaled two planes, the amount that brought down the Twin Towers in a giant ball of flames.

And thanks to one of their contacts, they had more trucks than that.

Looking through a telephoto lens, the Arab smiled.

He was paid top dollar to document everything, and so far no one suspected a thing.

He had followed Fred Nasir to Taif Air Base, snapping dozens of pictures along the way. Candid shots that his boss would love. Nasir talking to the American soldiers. Nasir visiting Al-Gaim. Nasir driving into Mecca. And, finally, entering the tunnel near the mosque.

His job was so easy it felt like stealing.

That sentiment continued at the water facility. At first, he wasn't quite sure what to expect, worried that the isolation in the middle of the Meccan desert would pose a problem. But as it turned out, it was easier than expected. He covered himself with a tan blanket, matching the color of the surrounding terrain, and used a special lens that compensated for the darkness.

He snapped pictures of Schmidt and his crew.

All the fuel trucks as they rolled through the front gate.

Everything he needed.

More importantly, everything his boss required.

Shari Shasmeen was obedient for one entire day. For her, it was a personal record.

She knew she had promised Omar Abdul-Khaliq that she would stay away from the tunnel for the rest of the hajj, but the longer she sat in her hotel room, the more antsy she got. In her mind, her seclusion didn't make any sense. Why did it matter that two million people were going to be filling the streets of the old city? Her work was underground, far from prying eyes. If anything, she felt safer being in the tunnel than walking around Mecca, always worried that she was going to do or say something that would reveal her identity as a nonpracticing Muslim.

On the other hand, she wasn't looking forward to being back in the tunnel with the lead guard. He had creeped her out from the very beginning. Something about the way he looked at her. The way he touched her hand when he tried to take her keys.

It made her uneasy.

Of course, she had handled guys like him before. Mostly in bars, right after last call, when dozens of stray men roamed around looking for something to hump. She figured if she could handle them, she could handle him. Just to be safe, she carried a small vial of pepper spray that one of her colleagues had purchased at a Meccan bazaar and given to her in case more violence occurred. The irony was that she was more afraid of the guard than anyone he was supposed to be protecting the site from.

Her hotel was a few miles from the tunnel, way too far for her to walk by herself, since the mutaween were out in full force, looking for Muslims who were celebrating the hajj in an inappropriate fashion. Thankfully, the same colleague who bought her the pepper spray was willing to drive her to the site and stay with her while she worked. Shari took him up on the former but refused the latter, realizing that his car would be trapped there all day once the pilgrims descended on the mosque. Her decision was made easier when she realized that the new guards, the men she wanted to avoid, were nowhere to be found.

Normally, Shari would have been pissed. These guards were supposed to be there twenty-four hours a day, making sure everything was safe. Protecting her invaluable site.

But on this night, she took their absence as a blessing.

It meant she got to work alone.

She said good-bye to her friend, then descended to the bottom of the tunnel, boards creaking as she walked. Her shadow danced on the floor every time she passed one of the bulbs that hung from above. They stayed lit around the clock, so she didn't have to flip any switches or turn on any generators. In fact, the site looked the same both night and day. Same lights. Same temperature. Same everything. That was one of the advantages of working underground. A constant she took comfort in. Outside, she always worried about the wind and the weather, which threatened her discoveries and wreaked havoc on her schedule.

But inside, the environment was controlled. Perfect for (he precision of her work.

Unfortunately, all of that was about to disappear.

In a few hours, she would be surrounded by chaos.

37

Taif Air Base

Taif, Saudi Arabia

The flight was a long one, crossing China, India, and several other countries before touching down at Taif Air Base, only forty-one miles east of Mecca. Time zones worked in their favor, so they arrived in Saudi Arabia only a few hours on the clock after they left South Korea.

It was still January 1. It was still before noon.

In their minds, they still had time to make a difference.

While in the air, Payne and Jones called Colonel Harrington and briefed him on Trevor Schmidt, the bloody cave, and a possible terrorist attack at the Great Mosque. They had kept him out of the loop long enough and realized Harrington's involvement was necessary if they had any chance of stopping Schmidt.

At first, Harrington was skeptical. His top people had assured him that Schmidt was dead, proven by DNA results and the large amount of blood, but as he listened to the details of Yong-Su's testimony, he realized he was wrong. That Schmidt had deceived them all.

Everyone except Payne and Jones.

The revelation changed Harrington's perspective on their involvement. Until then, he had given them minimal information, forcing them to figure things out on their own, his way of testing them under fire while protecting the integrity of his original black op. He had given them access to the cave but refused to reveal its true purpose or whom Schmidt had taken there to torture. He allowed Payne and Jones to talk to Dr. Sheldon but had instructed him to keep his mouth shut about his real agenda. In Harrington's mind, he wanted to force Payne and Jones to use their own contacts, their own unique style, to uncover a nugget or two about Schmidt. Maybe color in some of the gray areas of Schmidt's operation that had bothered Harrington from the very beginning. But he never expected them to contribute like this.

A jeep met the plane on the runway, picking up Payne, Jones, and Kia. They were taken to the same meeting room that Trevor Schmidt was sitting in when a bomb ripped through Al-Hada Hospital and killed most of his men. It was the incident that set things in motion, the event that had fueled his rage. Now they were there to stop him.

Wearing desert camouflage and a stern expression, Colonel Harrington greeted them at the door and showed them to a conference table that was filled with other personnel from Taif. He offered no words of apology-colonels don't apologize to subordinates-but his gratitude told Payne everything he needed to know. They had earned the colonel's respect.

"Gentlemen," said Harrington as he started the meeting, "we're currently waiting on word from Washington, but time is of the essence, so we need to begin."

As he spoke, he glanced around the room, making eye contact with each person, letting them know the gravity of the situation and how vital their role was in stopping it. "In the past, we've received hundreds of reports of possible terrorist attacks, but to my recollection we've never received one like this. According to our sources, a team of American soldiers is planning an assault on Meccan soil. These men are highly trained and highly motivated to carry out such a mission. As of now, we don't have a definitive time frame. However, if their goal is maximum devastation, our best guess is it's going to be carried out today."

That was news to Payne. "Based on what?"

Harrington pointed to an older man, who wore a civilian shirt and tie, not a military uniform, like the other Taif personnel in the room. The man had white hair and dark skin, possibly indicative of Middle Eastern descent, although he spoke with no accent except when he used Arabic terms that rolled off his tongue with the fluidity of a native speaker.

"Right now, we are in the middle of Dhul al-Hijjah, the most sacred month of the Islamic calendar. Translated into English it means Lord of the Pilgrimage. It is the time when Muslims converge on Mecca to complete the hajj, one of the five pillars of Islamic faith. It is a journey that all Muslims are expected to make during their lifetime."

He tapped a few keys on the laptop in front of him, and a graphic listing the Islamic months was transmitted to a large video screen on the far wall. Everyone turned to get a better view.

"Unlike the Gregorian calendar, the one we use in America, the Islamic calendar is lunar. It is roughly eleven days shorter than our calendar, meaning Islamic holidays are celebrated eleven days earlier than the previous year-at least according to our calendar. This year Dhul al-Hijjah started on December 23."

Payne instantly recognized the date. It was the day that Schmidt faked his own death.

It corresponded with the beginning of the hajj season.

"You might be wondering, why is this date important?

The answer is quite simple. The hajj is very structured. Pilgrims must perform specific tasks on specific days, or else they do not meet their sacred obligation. That means on any given day, at any given time, we know exactly where the majority of pilgrims would be."

"How many are we talking about?" Jones asked.

"According to the Ministry of Hajj, which just released official data, there are nearly two point four million pilgrims in Mecca this year, nearly one point seven million from countries other than Saudi Arabia."

Click. A new graphic explained the pilgrimage, day by day.

"The hajj itself doesn't begin until the eighth day of the month, when all pilgrims walk from Mecca to the village of Mina, a journey of five kilometers, where they spend the night in forty-four thousand fire-resistant tents that the Saudi government assembled. All of the tents are white, but signs are color-coded by nationality so pilgrims can stay with their own. For prayer and safety."

"Define safety," Payne said.

"The Saudis would love you to believe that the hajj is a safe journey, but that's misinformation. The truth is, several people die in Tent City every hajj. In the past, the biggest concern was always fire. Blazes swept through every year until they put up fire-resistant tents. Now the biggest issue is disease. All those people coming from all those countries and assembling in one spot? The numbers are mind-boggling. On average, there are more than fifty people sleeping in each tent."

Click. A picture of Tent City filled the screen. White tents in straight rows stretched as far as the eye could see. Like snow-covered peaks in the desert sand.

"From here, the hajj continues forward. But pilgrims will return to Tent City on their return trip to Mecca."

Click. The next photo showed a massive plain that surrounded a granite hill.

"Day two begins before dawn. They journey to the Plain of Arafat, where they ask Allah for forgiveness for all their sins. In the background you can see Mount Arafat. It is where Muhammad delivered his farewell sermon in 632 ad. Muslims also believe that Adam and Eve were reunited on this hill two hundred years after their separation, punishment for their disobedience."

"You mean the Adam and Eve?" Payne asked.

"One and the same. Most people find this surprising, but Muslims and Christians have many of the same core beliefs-including the same god. The confusing part is each group calls their figures a different name. Christians say God. Muslims say Allah. But it's the same deity. In fact, if you go through the Old Testament, you'll see several of the same names, albeit with different spellings, in the Qur'an. Adam, Eve, Abraham, Ishmael, Hagar, and so on."

Harrington cleared his throat. "Professor, please get back on point."

"Yes, sir." He clicked on the next photo. It showed a long stone wall that was surrounded by pilgrims, all of them dressed in white. "Today is the third day of the hajj. Pilgrims will perform ramy al-jamarat, or the stoning of the devil, after the noontime prayer. They are required to throw pebbles, which they collected last night at Muzdalifah, at three stone walls that represent the temptations of Satan. Until recently, they threw pebbles at large pillars called jamarat, but the crowds have grown so large in recent years that they decided to build long walls to spread the people out instead of having them crowd around pillars. In the past, hundreds have been trampled and killed."

Next photo. It showed a slaughterhouse in Mina, filled with lambs, cows, camels, and goats.

"After the stoning, pilgrims are expected to slaughter their best animal, called udhiya. This represents the sacrifice that Abraham was willing to make when God commanded him to sacrifice his son Ishmael. In the past, pilgrims did the slaying themselves or directly oversaw the process. But now they are able to buy a sacrifice voucher that ensures an animal will be killed in their name. Today more than four hundred thousand animals will be slain."

Click. A map of the hajj path filled the screen. It pointed out all the locations he had described. An arrow showed the traffic flow as it left Mecca and went to Mina, the Plain of Arafat, and returned to Mina. The final arrow pointed back toward Mecca.

"The ritualistic slaughter marks the beginning of Eid ul-Adha, the Festival of the Sacrifice. It is celebrated throughout the Islamic world, even by Muslims not in Mecca. Male pilgrims mark this occasion by shaving their heads, which represents the cleansing of their sins through the hajj."

Click. A photo of the Kaaba and the Black Stone.

"Later today, pilgrims will start their journey back to the Masjid al-Haram, or the sacred mosque, to complete a ritual called the Tawaf az-Ziyarah. Using the Black Stone as a marker, they must walk around the Kaaba seven times in a counterclockwise motion, which signifies the unity of all Muslims to worship one god. With each rotation they will try to get closer and closer to the stone itself. The truly blessed will get to touch it or even kiss it."

Click. An overheard view of the Great Mosque.

"From there, Pilgrims will honor Hagar's search for water by walking back and forth between the two hills of Safa and Marwah. These hills are actually contained inside the mosque, a building so large it can hold nearly one million people."

"Did you say million?" an officer asked.

The speaker nodded. "Not to mention the other million or so who will be standing outside the mosque, waiting to get inside."

"And this is happening today?"

He nodded again. "More than two million Muslims in one city block, all of them with the same goal. To get as close to the Black Stone as possible."

38

The Pentagon

Arlington, Virginia

The White House was notified of the situation, but they passed the buck to the Pentagon, claiming they were more equipped to handle this type of crisis. Whether or not that was the case, they were given an hour to sort through the political hotbed and reach a decision.

On the surface, it seemed like an easy choice. Rogue U.S. soldiers were planning an assault in Saudi Arabia, where fifteen thousand Americans were participating in the hajj. What was there to even think about? They knew that a small explosion, if positioned in the right place in the Great Mosque, would kill far more people than 9/11, and the resulting panic would create a human stampede, the likes of which mankind had never seen. Injuries and fatalities would be so substantial that military experts couldn't even agree on a projection.

And that was with a small explosive.

If Schmidt had access to a larger device, the devastation would easily exceed Hiroshima, where an estimated forty-five thousand people died from the initial blast.

This should have been a no-brainer. Something needed to be done.

However, the longer their discussion continued, the cloudier the issues became.

Mecca was a restricted city, one where the United States wouldn't be granted access no matter how compelling their argument was. That meant the only way to get troops inside the city was by force-something they wouldn't risk, since Saudi Arabia, the world's biggest oil exporter, was one country they couldn't afford to piss off-or through stealth, which might have been possible if they were given enough time. But in their opinion, it wasn't the type of operation that could be arranged in a few hours.

From a political standpoint, a failed mission would have been far worse than no mission at all.

Religion complicated things even further. If word ever leaked that they had violated Islam's most sacred city on one of its holiest holidays, the United States would feel the wrath of every Islamic nation for years to come. Homeland Security would have to come up with a threat level that was more severe than red, because every terrorist in the world would be gunning for revenge.

Sure, the Pentagon realized they might-and the key word was might-save thousands of lives in Saudi Arabia, but how many Americans would be killed in the future because the United States had invaded Mecca? How many cities would be bombed? How many schools?

It was a compelling argument.

However, in the end, their decision hinged on one main factor. If the Pentagon knew with absolute certainty that Trevor Schmidt was planning an attack that day, they would have given their stamp of approval for a preemptive assault. But based on their current intel and all the negative ramifications if they were wrong, they simply weren't willing to risk involvement.

The verdict did not surprise Colonel Harrington. From the moment Trevor Schmidt disappeared, Harrington sensed (he potential for a world-class shitstorm. Of course, he never imagined it would elevate so quickly. If so, he would have been more forthright with Payne and Jones from the beginning. Who knows? Maybe that would have made a difference. Maybe they would have figured things out sooner. Maybe this whole situation would have been averted.

Unfortunately, men in his position were often placed in no-win situations, asked to keep secrets for the good of the country, secrets that sometimes conflicted with other promises that were just as important. At some point they are forced to choose between the two, and when they do, it's rarely a simple choice. They must ponder all the consequences before they make their decision, always weighing the good and the bad, the long term and the short term.

But today, with millions of lives on the line, none of that was necessary.

Harrington knew he had to come clean ASAP if they wanted to stop Schmidt.

The conference room was cleared of everyone except Harrington, Payne, and Jones. They sat at the far end of the long table. They talked softly so no one in the hall could hear.

"I just got word from Washington," Harrington said. "We've been told to do nothing."

Payne didn't flinch. "No shock there. That's what we expected."

"Do you agree with it?"

"We wouldn't have flown in from Korea if we did."

"So, you were willing to go to Mecca?"

Payne nodded. "I'm still willing to go to Mecca."

Jones agreed. "I hear it's lovely this time of year."

"In that case," Harrington said, "there are some things you need to know about Schmidt. Things I should've told you long ago but wasn't allowed. Hell, I'm still not allowed. But if we're going to prevent this tragedy, you need to know everything."

He paused, trying to figure out where to begin.

"In early November, French authorities nailed a terrorist named Abdul Al-Amin, a member of the Soldiers of Allah. They busted him on a weapons charge, nothing too major, but for some reason he started talking. He gave up names, places, exact dates of future attacks. The type of in-tel that can make a difference. Obviously, we were skeptical at first-I mean, this seemed a little too easy-but every time we heard something through the grapevine, we were able to verify it. Small things, big things, everything checked out."

Payne nodded. He had heard the same story from Nick Dial.

"We knew every country in the world wanted to get their hands on Abdul's bosses, men who were responsible for hundreds of deaths around the globe, not to mention millions of dollars in damages and manpower. But how could we let that happen? We were the nation they had targeted the most. No way in hell we were going to let some third-rate country snatch these guys before we could."

He paused, taking a moment to calm down. "We got word that Hakeem Salaam and all of his top advisers were meeting in Kuwait. If true, it was a once-in-a-decade opportunity, because none of us really knew what Salaam looked like, and he was the key to that organization. Thankfully, we had recent pictures of his lieutenants, so we figured if we tracked them, they would lead us right to Salaam."

"Did Schmidt lead the mission?" Jones asked.

Harrington nodded. "Went off like clockwork. We nabbed Salaam and two of his top men. Picked them clean. Took them out through the Persian Gulf and straight to Jeju."

"Why there?" Payne wondered.

"Why not? We figured no one would ever look for three Arabs in Korea, and as far as we were concerned, that was Ihe key. No one could know we grabbed these guys. Not Homeland. Not the CIA. No one. That edict came straight from my bosses. We were the ones who caught these assholes, so we were going to milk them before anyone else got the chance."

"Is that where Sheldon comes in?"

Harrington shook his head. "I know you have a problem with Dr. Sheldon. He told me about your outburst in the cave. But believe me, the guy knows his field. That's why I chose him to re-create the crime scene. I figured he could shed some light on certain things."

"Such as?"

"What really happened in there," Harrington said bluntly. "At first, the interrogations were going well. Schmidt gave me regular updates, most of which paid off. We busted smaller cells, stopped some arms deals, that kind of thing. But nothing major. No grandiose schemes, like we thought we were going to get."

"Why not?" Jones wondered.

"Because Salaam wasn't talking. According to Schmidt, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get Salaam to talk about anything important. And as you know, that doesn't happen in the real world. This ain't the fuckin' movies. If we want you to talk, we'll get you to talk. You guys should know that."

He paused for a moment, trying to decide how much he should tell them.

"Ultimately, Schmidt got desperate and went way too far. He handcuffed Salaam to one of his advisers-someone who'd been spilling his guts from die very beginning-and shot the bastard in the head. Just killed die guy in cold blood. After that, Schmidt threw them in a cell and left them there for several days. One alive, one dead, but still chained together."

"Jesus," Payne whispered, stunned that it had gone that far. "Did he tell you this himself?"

Harrington shook his head. "We found out about it later. Schmidt was required to keep a video log, describing all the techniques he used and the results he achieved. When we arrived in Jeju, we found some of his files, a whole lot of blood, and three dead Arabs in a back cell."

"Including Salaam?"

"At first, mat's what we diought," he said cryptically. "Remember, we had no idea what Salaam looked like. We had a rough description-age, nationality, and so on-but we couldn't identify him on site. All we knew is that he was meeting with his top advisers in Kuwait, and we snagged everyone in the room. So we assumed we had him."

"And?"

"After we hauled the bodies out of the cave, we ran preliminary tests-ballistics, DNA, et cetera-and came to a disheartening conclusion: the dead guy wasn't Hakeem Salaam."

"How do you know?"

"Because we got a positive ID. And let me tell you, we fucked up bad on this one. Not only wasn't the guy a terrorist, he was a Saudi official who worked for the Ministry of the Interior."

Payne winced, realizing that Schmidt would have known whom tiiey grabbed very early in the interrogation process-if he didn't know from the very beginning. That meant he spent several days torturing a government official, learning inside information about a multitude of topics. In Saudi Arabia, the Ministry of the Interior was responsible for public safety on many different levels, including the police, fire services, passports, and civil defense. In addition, it handled security for all major sites, such as Muhammad's tomb in Medina and, more importantly, the Great Mosque in Mecca.

"Obviously," Harrington admitted, "there's no way of knowing what Schmidt learned. But according to Dr. Sheldon, we have a pretty good idea of how he's going to use it."

39

Dr. Ernie Sheldon appeared on the video screen in the Taif conference room, the same screen that had illustrated the days of the hajj. He was somewhere in a secure facility, no longer hiding behind the mask he wore in the cave. Both literally and figuratively. Harrington had finally given him permission to talk about his work.

"During the past several years," Sheldon said, "we've been conducting human-based experiments in compounds around the world. Ways to extract information and methods to prevent the same. Some people think our biggest concern is how to get secrets from the enemy. Sometimes it's more important to protect your own."

He smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes.

"For the sake of clarity, I'll keep the science to a bare minimum. No need to confuse you with a bunch of complex formulas when all you need are the basics. Thirty years ago the Chinese developed a procedure where they isolated a specific emotion in a test subject and elevated it through chemicals and verbal reinforcement."

Payne spoke into the camera. "You mean brainwashing."

"Not actual brainwashing. They weren't able to take a peasant girl and turn her into a crazed assassin. However, l hey were able to take most subjects with a predisposed opinion-let's say a hatred of peas-and raise that hatred lo an unhealthy level. If, for instance, the subject ever saw a pea again, she'd be willing to kill someone to get it away from her."

Jones whispered, "I feel the same way about broccoli."

"From humble beginnings comes cutting-edge science," Sheldon pronounced. "During the past three decades, the scientific community has built upon these experiments, step by step, finally reaching a point where we can corral I hat undisciplined rage and focus it on a precise task. Different countries have different names for it, but we like to call it induction."

"Induction?" Payne asked. "Can you give us an example? One that doesn't involve peas."

Sheldon smiled again. "Of course I can. In fact, why don't we talk specifics? Let's discuss the reason we're all here."

Payne glanced at Jones, neither of them liking where this was going.

"If ever there was a candidate for induction, it was Trevor Schmidt. He was filled with so much anger and guilt from ihe terrorist attack that killed his squad, not to mention his missed opportunity to stop it."

Payne turned toward Harrington. "What opportunity?"

Harrington answered, "The day of the bombing, Schmidt had gathered his squad's families and driven them to the hospital himself. On their way inside they passed a number of Muslims who were praying. This is Saudi Arabia, after all, so that was pretty damn common. What wasn't common was the time of day. This wasn't one of their normal prayer sessions. These men were praying on their own, asking for courage to complete their mission."

Jones understood. "He walked right past the bombers."

"Exactly," Harrington said. "Ninety-nine point nine percent of the population would've missed the significance of the prayer, but Schmidt blamed himself for not being in the point one percent. He felt it was his job to spot things like that. His duty."

"From that point on," Sheldon said, "he was an emotional wreck. He hit the bottle. He turned to drugs. He got in several fights. He was on the verge of being kicked out of the military."

Harrington agreed. "Schmidt had just been arrested for another assault, and the MPs were sick of dealing with his shit. So I contacted Dr. Sheldon. I knew he specialized in behavior modification, and in my mind, that was a much better alternative than prison."

"Better for whom?" Payne asked.

"Better for Schmidt. You know damn well that he loved the military, and it was pretty obvious to everyone involved that we needed to do something drastic or he was going to piss that all away. I figured this program would give him a fighting chance."

Payne wasn't sure if Harrington believed that, but this wasn't the time or the place to argue with the man. There were more important things to worry about.

Sheldon continued. "As I mentioned, Trevor was filled with anger and guilt, yet was missing a productive outlet for either. The same could be said about the rest of his crew. These men were elite soldiers, trained to do amazing tilings, but their emotions were getting in the way of their performance. My program, a combination of pharmaceuticals and subliminal suggestions, helped redirect their rage. It gave them a specific focus."

Payne asked, "Which was?"

"Islamic terrorists." Sheldon smiled, proud of his work. "Keep in mind, I didn't plant their hatred. It was already in there, imprinted in their brains from the moment the bomb went off at the hospital. I simply focused it. I gave it direction."

Harrington chimed in. "And the results were amazing, liom the moment they left the program, they were perfect soldiers. I'd give them a mission and they'd get it done. No questions asked. And all that other nonsense-the drinking, fighting, and drugs-stopped immediately."

Jones cracked, "Maybe that's because they were brainwashed."

"Not brainwashed," Sheldon argued. "They were-"

"Doc," Payne interrupted, "it's just semantics. It doesn't matter what you call it. The point is we have to stop it. As far as I can tell, you've created the perfect storm. Men who have elite skills, capable of doing some truly horrific things, ycl no conscience to counteract it. I realize that wasn't your plan in the beginning, but that's the reality of the situation. Therefore, if you don't mind, I need to ask you a simple question: is there an off-button?"

"Excuse me?"

"Let me rephrase. If I find Schmidt and talk to him, one on one, is there some way for me to get through to him? Some tactic that you'd recommend?"

"That's a difficult question."

"But I need an easy answer. Can I convince him to stop?"

Sheldon frowned, a look of defeat on his face. "Honestly? The odds are pretty slim. If Trevor truly believes that altacking Mecca is the best way to kill terrorists, then that's what he's going to do."

"Even though Americans might be killed?"

"But that's the thing. He won't view them as Americans. He'll view them as Muslims. And in his mind, that's more important."

When the videoconference ended, Payne and Jones focused on the task at hand. They didn't have days or weeks to plan the mission. They had hours. And some of that time had to be spent on the road. Taif was an hour away from Mecca. Throw in the checkpoints and the foot traffic from the hajj, and they had no time to waste. They needed to start their journey immediately.

Thankfully, Harrington was one step ahead of them. His staff had arranged transportation, weapons, intel, and everything else they required, including four soldiers who were willing to risk their lives to stop this tragedy.

The biggest problem, as they saw it, was figuring out how Schmidt and his crew would attack Mecca, since thousands of Saudi security guards were positioned along the hajj route. Not only on the ground, but also in the air. Dozens of armed helicopters monitored the pilgrims' progress, literally herding them through bottlenecks that occurred in certain stretches along the way. In addition, a unit of elite soldiers was assigned to protect the Great Mosque at all times, a duty that took on added importance after November 20, 1979, when armed Islamic fundamentalists seized control of the site, an incident ending in nearly three hundred deaths and seven hundred injuries.

Eventually, Payne and Jones approached things from a different angle. Instead of planning a counterassault, one where they had to guess where Schmidt was and what he was going to do, they opted to plan an assault of their own, asking themselves how they would attack the mosque if that was their given task. With enough time, they would have set up shop close to the site, giving them somewhere to horde weapons and a chance to survey the immediate area. Jones studied a map of the old city, the district that surrounded the Mosque, and realized most of the homes had recently been demolished, making way for commercial projects that weren't listed on his map.

However, as it turned out, the old map provided them with a lucky break-the type that was needed on hastily planned missions like this one. When Harrington's staff searched property records for recent developments, one name jumped out at them: Omar Abdul-Khaliq. Not only did he own a large chunk of land down the street from the Mosque, but he also was rumored to have close financial ties with the Soldiers of Allah.

In fact, according to U.S. intelligence, he was their biggest supporter.

40

The planning had been easier than expected. With enough time and money, he knew anyone could be bought and anything could be accomplished. Yet as Hakeem Salaam watched the hajj proceedings on Saudi television, he still fretted over the details.

Like a coach who was watching the big game from afar.

In some ways, this was like every other terrorist attack he had orchestrated in the past ten years. He handled the preparations, Omar Abdul-Khaliq provided the money, and his dedicated soldiers carried out the missions, often sacrificing their lives to better his cause. Normally their target was the United States, the country he blamed for most of the world's problems. The morning of an attack he would get on his knees and pray to Allah, asking for His blessing as they carried out their duty. Hoping for the negligence of all Americans, whether it was the police, the citizens, or the military-anyone who could disrupt his precise plans.

But today was different. Today was unlike any other mission he had ever planned.

Today he was praying for the Americans. Counting on l heir skills as murderers.

Realizing the more damage they did, the easier it would lie to unite Islam.

The concept had come to Salaam shortly after watching I he events of 9/11. He went to the desert to meditate and realized the best way to connect all Muslims was with a common enemy. The obvious choice was the one he hated l he most. If he could somehow lure them into committing an unspeakable act in Islam's most sacred city, he knew he could sway his people to stand as one. The infighting that occurred among Sunnis, Shiites, and all other Islamic groups would suddenly disappear, replaced by a unified hatred of the United States.

But how to get them to cooperate?

And how to prove they were responsible?

Those were the issues he had to solve if he was going to make this work.

In his mind, the best way to accomplish the first task was through inside involvement, a technique with a proven track record. Ali Mohamed, the Al Qaeda operative who was charged with bombing U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, was an Egyptian soldier who became a U.S. citizen in the mid-1980s after marrying an American woman from California. From there, he joined the U.S. Army, where he eventually became a drill instructor at Fort Bragg. Later he was hired to teach courses on Arabic culture at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center, a school that trains personnel for Army Special Operations forces. Meanwhile, he was also training terrorists on the side, including some of the men who were responsible for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.

How foolish could the Americans be!

Salaam knew many men like Mohamed-Islamic operatives who were still inside the system they were trying to defeat. Any of them would be honored to help. At the same time, he realized that none of these men could be directly involved in the attack on Mecca. Otherwise the news media would spotlight their involvement, claiming Muslims were just as responsible as the United States. In his mind, that was something he couldn't afford.

His message had to be pure. Unambiguous.

Sure, he could use Islamic operatives to feed him information; they had been doing that for years. But the attack itself needed to be committed by an American.

Someone who couldn't be confused as a foreigner. Someone the United States couldn't deny. That was the only way this was going to work.

But the question was, who?

The answer was fed to him by one of his sources in the Middle East, an Arab who worked with the U.S. Military Training Mission (USMTM) in Riyadh. He had heard rumors about a new program where Americans were being hypnotized to fight terrorists, a concept that sounded like science fiction until he received clarification from one of his contacts at Fort Huachuca, who verified that induced soldiers were already in the field and producing amazing results. Behind the scenes, they'd even been given a nickname. These soldiers, who fought like Rambo and were pinpointing Islamic terrorists, were jokingly called "Is-lambos."

Immediately, Salaam realized that these were the type of men he could exploit. If, in fact, these soldiers were subliminally trained to attack a specific group, it wouldn't be difficult to convince them that their biggest threat was in Mecca-especially since that was accurate. For years, Islamic groups have used the sanctity of the holy city as a backdrop for their recruiting process. The most dedicated pilgrims flocked to the Great Mosque year after year, their way of purifying their spirit and staying close to Muhammad's righteous path. Events such as the hajj were used to locate potential members, men who were willing to give up their lives in the name of Allah. Salaam figured if the right people whispered this information in the right ears, word would eventually spread to these special soldiers and they would take care of the rest.

An Arab who worked as a snitch for the U.S. military aided Salaam along the way, feeding the Americans false information whenever he was asked. At the same time, he gathered intel from his real sources and sold it to Salaam for top dollar.

In the world of terrorism, the best information could always be bought.

Six months after Salaam launched his plan, an American soldier named Bender, a Special Forces operative who used to run missions out of Taif before most of his squad was killed in a terrorist attack, was spotted surveying the Cireat Mosque. A background check revealed the names of his entire unit, a group led by Trevor Schmidt. Deeper research showed that Schmidt was born in Ohio, trained as a MANIAC, and was a certified war hero. Not a hint of Middle Eastern blood in his family tree. Or in any other members of his crew.

To Salaam, these men would be the perfect scapegoats.

Now all he had to do was make sure they succeeded.

The guards had been gone all night. When they returned, they carried an assortment of tools.

Shari Shasmeen heard them as they clanked down the tunnel, metal banging on metal, their voices echoing in the darkness. They were speaking in Arabic, chattering on and on about timetables, delivery points, and all the money they were going to make for this job. None of it made much sense to her until she saw them coming her way.

As she focused on their pickaxes and crowbars, dread filled her heart.

They were coming to rob the site.

The click of their key as it turned in the lock felt like a death sentence. They guards were highly trained and accustomed to violence. Her only weapon was the small canister of pepper spray she clutched in her hand. They blocked the only way out.

At that point, she realized she had no choice; she had to hide. So she crouched in the back shadows, hoping they didn't spot her, praying they just dropped their tools and went outside for additional supplies. If so, she could slip into the maintenance shaft that branched from the main tunnel near the bottom of the front incline. Then she could wait in silence until they returned through the metal gate and locked the door. If she was lucky, it would give her enough time to sprint up the ramp and call for help.

Then again, whom could she call?

The mutaween were just as likely to arrest her for being in public without a chaperone. Her colleagues were several blocks away, back at the hotel, and less accustomed to violence than she was. She knew she could always call Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but he had hired these guards to begin with. The one who told to her to get away for a couple of days while these men protected the site. Either that was a tremendous error on his part, or this was all his doing.

Shari wasn't sure which.

Of course, that was something she could debate later. If she escaped.

The odds of that diminished when they entered the chamber and locked the gate. There were four of them, and they weren't going anywhere. The lead guard ordered his men to get started while he set up some piece of equipment she couldn't see, since her view was obstructed by her position on the floor. The biggest of the guards walked over first, putting his hand on the rocks, trying to decide where he should strike for the maximum amount of damage. He found a spot along the front edge and raised the pickax above his head.

In her mind, it was now or never.

She leaped from her crouch and sprayed the pepper spray directly into his eyes. He let out a loud yelp as he dropped the pickax to the floor. Before anyone could react, she grabbed its wooden handle and swung it at the next guard, a vicious blow that sunk into his left side and stuck there like a lawn dart. He twisted to the ground in a writhing heap of agony, generating so much force that it pulled the weapon from her grasp.

Suddenly she was unarmed and trapped.

Now it was just a matter of time.

Enraged, the lead guard charged forward, a combination of power and brutality. She raised her hands and tried to defend herself, but he was too strong-like a bull busting through the tiny red cape and finding the matador behind. But instead of gouging her with horns, he swung his right elbow, smashing it into the bridge of her nose with so much fury that she was knocked unconscious on impact.

41

On this day alone, more than four hundred thousand animals were slain in Mecca to celebrate Eid ul-Adha, the Festival of the Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham's readiness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. After the ritualistic slaughter, Muslims distributed some of the meat to family and friends, but most of it was donated to the poor, symbolizing their willingness to give up something of value.

Charity was one of the five pillars of Islam, so generosity was expected.

Thousands of refrigerated trucks were driven into the city to pick up the animals, a variety of lambs, cows, camels, and goats. But not all of these trucks were alike. Two were designed with a different purpose in mind: dropping off was more important than picking up.

Payne and Jones sat in the back of one of these trucks, hidden behind a fake panel and several cardboard boxes that were filled with perishable food items and large bags of ice. It wasn't the best camouflage in the world, but it was the best that Colonel Harrington could come up with on short notice.

Two bulbs lit their secret compartment, giving them time to study maps, memorize the dossiers of Schmidt's crew, and formulate a plan of attack. Four other soldiers were joining them-two in the back of another truck and the two drivers, both Arab Americans with perfectly forged paperwork. Without it, none of them would be getting into Mecca.

Wrapped in a blanket, Jones tried to stay warm in the frigid climate. Thankfully, the ihram stage of the hajj was over, meaning they didn't have to wear the traditional garments, consisting of two white unhemmed sheets and sandals, to blend in. Not only would it have been tough to conceal a weapon, but he blanched at the thought of going into a battle without underwear.

"You know," he said, "we might be the first people in history to get frostbite in the desert."

As a Pittsburgh native, Payne shrugged off the cold. "Pussy."

"Wait! I'm sneaking into a forbidden city to save two million people and I'm a pussy!"

He nodded. "Bet it feels good to finally admit it, huh?"

Jones laughed. "Asshole."

"Okay. Now that we have both sides covered, let's get down to business."

Payne held up an aerial view of the Great Mosque that was taken from a spy satellite less than two weeks before. He pointed to a stretch of land west of one of the main gates. "This is Omar Abdul-Khaliq's property. From the air, it looks like a large construction site. However, upon closer inspection, it appears to be missing something important."

"What's that?"

"Construction."

Jones grabbed the picture and took a closer look. He spotted giant piles of dirt and rock and several pieces of heavy equipment, but there was no foundation being laid.

No building going up. "Could be something, could be nothing. We won't know until we get there."

"Obviously, the connection between Schmidt and Omar is pretty thin. We can link Omar to Salaam through a money trail, and Salaam to Schmidt through his advisers at the cave. To be honest, I'm not sure if one has anything to do with the other. Actually, I'm more interested in the official from the Ministry of the Interior. What was he doing in Kuwait with Salaam's men? And why would Schmidt torture him?"

Jones took a guess. "Could be any number of things. Everything from security at the mosque to police response times. Not to mention parts of the city's infrastructure that could be useful: roads, water, power, telecommunications. If Schmidt grabbed the right guy, he'd have access to everything we don't, including security codes and building schematics."

Payne swore under his breath. They were already facing long odds-a battle against the clock and a highly trained unit that had worked together for years. Now it was even worse. Not only did his opponents have months to organize their mission, but they also had access to inside information. Somehow it didn't seem fair.

Of course, despite all that, despite all the things that were stacked against them, Payne and Jones had one crucial thing that Schmidt and his crew didn't.

The element of surprise.

Her nose had been shattered, filling her mouth with the taste of blood. The room was spinning.

Shari tried to stand but couldn't get her legs to work. Everything was wobbly. Her body. Her brain. Her memory. Like waking up in an early-morning fog without actually falling asleep. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. Trying to focus on something that would allow her to remember what had happened. The ground. The ceiling. The throbbing in her head. But nothing worked. There was a giant void.

Squinting in the darkness, she could barely make out shapes except for a series of vertical lines in the murky distance. They were thick and sturdy, a mixture of shadow and light, black and white, alternating one after another. She stared at them, trying to understand their purpose. Trying to figure out what they were. None of it made any sense.

How long had she been unconscious?

How had she gotten there?

Why couldn't she breathe through her nose?

Confusion reigned for ten minutes before details started to emerge.

The first thing Shari noticed was the cord. She felt it wrapped around her ankles, bound so tightly that she couldn't separate her legs. Her hands were tied as well, pulled behind her back and attached to a metal loop that had been driven into the hard ground. No matter how hard she pulled or twisted, she couldn't get it to budge.

Next, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, her vision started to return. She focused on the vertical lines and realized what they were: a giant iron gate backlit by a series of dim bulbs that provided the only light in her cell.

Wait. That gate looked familiar. She had seen it before.

Suddenly, memories came flooding back to her. She was in the tunnel, tied up in the back room, where she had been attacked by the guards.

The site!

Oh my God, they were there to rob the site!

Panicked, she tried to swing her legs around, tried to contort her body so she could see if the relic was still inside. Unfortunately, as she struggled to get a better view, she kicked up a swirl of dust that filled her lungs. Coughing was instantaneous. Blood and mucus sprayed from her nose as she gasped for breath. Pain erupted in her head, throbbing in unison with her racing heart.

Tears streamed down her face, clouding her vision once again.

Alone. In agony. In the darkness. Barely able to breathe.

She didn't think it could get any worse.

But she was wrong.

Trevor Schmidt and his crew slipped into the tunnel, barely making a sound. All of them had packs slung over their shoulders and weapons in their hands. For big men, they ran silently. Years of training taught them how to move with stealth. The skill would serve them well as they strived to complete their mission.

From this point forward, noise would be kept to a minimum. Hand signals would be used when possible. Their watches were synchronized to the millisecond, freeing them of the need to speak. Some of their actions would be based on time, not verbal authorization. They would do what they were supposed to do whether the others were ready or not.

It was the advantage of a multipronged attack.

Even if someone was killed or captured, the survivors could still make a difference.

Schmidt led the way, creeping down the ramp at a steady pace. They followed him in single file, always keeping space between themselves in case there was an alarm or a mine or anything they hadn't prepared for. The odds were against it-their source had been quite versed on the infrastructure of Mecca-yet they expected the unexpected. Ready for anything.

Well, almost anything.

When they hit the bottom of the ramp, Schmidt sent one of his men to inspect the back tunnel while the other two worked on the maintenance shaft that branched in the opposite direction. The soldier clicked on a flashlight and disappeared into the darkness, only to return a minute later, confusion etched on his face.

"What?" Schmidt whispered.

"You have to see this."

"What is it?"

"I have no fuckin' idea. That's why you have to see it."

Intrigued, Schmidt signaled for the others to keep working while he investigated the rear tunnel. The passageway had been carved with precision, lit with the same bulbs that lined the initial entry ramp but protected by a giant iron gate that had been anchored in the ceiling and floor. It prevented them from going any farther. Why it was there, he wasn't sure. But as far as he was concerned, it didn't really matter. They would be heading in the opposite direction.

"You wanted me to see this?" he asked.

The soldier shook his head. "I wanted you to see this."

He stuck his flashlight between the bars and shined it into the back room. Shards of broken bulbs littered the floor, intermixed with large chunks of stone and rubble. He tilted the beam upward, revealing a man-made stalagmite that had recently been chiseled to its core. All that remained was a large hole, several cubic feet of empty space where something had been stored.

Hoping to get a better view, Schmidt turned on his light, too. "What is it?"

"I'm guessing a tomb."

"A tomb? Why do you say that?"

Instead of answering, he swung his beam to the rear corner of the room, where Shari Shasmeen lay motionless on the ground. Her eyes were closed. Her arms and legs were tied. Blood covered her face and clothes. She looked like a corpse.

Schmidt tilted his head to get a better view. "Is she dead?"

"Can't tell from here. If you want, I can shoot her to make sure."

He glanced at his watch. They had more important things to worry about.

"Why bother? If she's not dead now, she will be soon."

42

They parked their trucks in an alley, several blocks south of the Great Mosque.

It was as close as traffic would allow.

Mecca was a multiethnic city, filled with people of all colors and nationalities. Still, to blend in, Payne and Jones had to dress the part. They wore white Saudi thobes (full-length cotton gowns that nearly touched the ground when they walked) and white skullcaps. The Arab-American soldiers added some variety. One donned a red-and-white ghutra (headdress), held firm by a black igal (ropelike cord); the other covered his thobe with a light brown bisht (cloak). The remaining two wore beige taqiyah caps (brim-less and accented with white-thread embroidery) and thobes of the same color.

Ankle holsters, held in place by compression straps, were worn on both legs.

Extra ammo was stored in utility belts, concealed by their robes.

Wireless transmitting devices were discreetly tucked in their ears.

All other equipment was varied, depending on preference. Payne was partial to blades. He wore one on each forearm, tucked in black leather sheaths. Meanwhile, Jones carried a small set of tools, just in case he had to deactivate a bomb or pick a lock.

Walking briskly but never running, the men moved in pairs, weaving through the crowds of tourists that filled the sidewalks and ancient streets. The pilgrims would be entering the city from the east on the aptly named Pedestrian Road, trickling in at first before finally arriving en masse, a sea of white surging through the desert like a flood, monitored by thousands of guards and dozens of helicopters. Payne knew Schmidt would be somewhere else, probably concealed close to the mosque, patiently waiting for his prey to come to him.

Unless, of course, he had already planted an explosive device, one with a timer or a remote detonator, and was currently far from Mecca. If that was the case, then they were screwed because they didn't have the time, manpower, or authority to conduct a search. Their only hope was spotting Schmidt and taking him out before he started his assault.

Jones said, "Omar's place should be up ahead."

Payne nodded as he scanned his surroundings, searching for trouble. People. Windows. Rooftops. Hoping to spot something that seemed out of place. The city itself was not as he expected. He had traveled extensively in the Middle East and usually felt as if he had stepped through a time portal, leaping back to another era. Ancient buildings. Ancient streets. Ancient everything. But here, there seemed to be an equal mix of new and old.

Ancient traditions, yet contemporary comfort.

Ironically, the closer they got to the mosque, located in the center of the old city, the more modern the infrastructure appeared. Building projects were popping up all over, areas fenced off for demolition and new construction. Dump trucks and bulldozers, cranes and scaffolding, rocks and sand. This closed city was definitely open for business- especially to American corporations. In one block, there were signs for Hilton Towers, Sheraton Hotel, and McDonald's.

"Where would you like us?" asked the Arab soldier in l he middle pair, which was labeled team two. Payne and Jones were team one. The final duo was team three. The two Arab Americans, who could speak Arabic, were split up in case their language skills were needed.

Payne heard the question in his earpiece. "Team two, stay on the street. Team three, continue forward to the mosque plaza. But stay close."

Jones nodded toward Omar Abdul-Khaliq's property. It looked virtually unchanged from the satellite photo they had studied in the truck, a picture taken two weeks ago. Piles of stone and dirt filled one corner of the lot. Construction materials, protected by a chain-link fence, were stacked in the back near a small shed made of plywood. Payne stepped off the sidewalk and studied the terrain. Tread marks could be seen in the arid ground. They were recent.

"What do you think?" Payne asked.

"I think you were right. They're not building anything."

"Then what's with the rocks?" They were fractured and covered in dirt, like they had just been pulled from the ground. "They had to come from somewhere."

Jones agreed. Property this close to the mosque wouldn't be used as a dumping ground. It was too valuable as commercial space. However, as far as he could see, there was no excavation on the lot. Curious, he walked toward the chain link and spotted dozens of footsteps heading into and out of the shack. "I might have something."

Payne scanned the street for witnesses. No one was paying attention. "You're clear."

Jones pulled a gun from his ankle holster and slipped through the unlocked gate, cautiously approaching the shed, which lookedrnore like a long outhouse than a construction office. Yet for some reason, thick power cables ran through the right wall, the type of cords that were used for large industrial projects, not small shacks. The door was made of plywood and rested on iron hinges. Nudging it open with his free hand, Jones peeked inside.

As he stared at the interior, his eyes widened, stunned by what he saw.

"What is it?" Payne demanded.

"It's a tunnel. A big-ass tunnel. We're going to need more men."

Payne hustled across the lot, not pulling his gun until he reached the door. He glanced inside before he spoke. "We have a possible location. All eyes required. Team two, follow us in. Team three, guard the yard. Prepare to join us on my command."

Jones waited, anxious. "Ready?"

He nodded. "I'll take the lead."

The duo stepped inside, weapons raised, steadily moving forward as their eyes adjusted to the gloom. More than fifty feet in, they hit a branch in the tunnel. Lights were strung in both directions. Boards lined the floors. They waited there until team two arrived. Payne signaled for them to go to the right while he and Jones went to the left.

No words were spoken as they parted ways.

Payne led the way down the corridor. It looked similar to the main shaft, yet somehow newer. Like the ground had been burrowed in recent weeks. Possibly the source of all the dirt and stones in the vacant lot. If so, someone had gone through a lot of trouble to dig with such precision.

But why? What the hell was this place?

The mystery deepened when they reached the iron gate. Not only was it locked, but the bulbs that had lit their path suddenly stopped. Darkness filled the chamber in front of them. Intrigued, Jones reached under his thobe and pulled out a small flashlight. With a flick of the switch, he was staring at broken glass. And chunks of rubble. And something that looked like …

"Is that a body?" he asked, trying to get a better view. "Jon, I think that's a body."

Payne nodded as he stared through the bars. The beam barely reached the rear wall, but he could make out the shape of a woman, lying in the fetal position, her hands tied to her legs. He took the light from Jones and shined it along the gate's frame. No alarms or sensors. No booby traps. Nothing prevented them from getting inside. "Pick it."

Jones grinned. "With pleasure."

He removed a small toolkit and went to work. This was one of his biggest talents-in the past, he'd picked locks underwater and blindfolded-and he loved showing off his skills. Thirty seconds later, he pushed open the gate with a soft screech.

Payne went first, flashlight in one hand, weapon in the other. Glass crunched under every step. Moving closer, he shined the light on the woman's face and noticed two things.

One, she was covered in blood.

Two, she was still alive.

43

When Payne first approached, Shari started thrashing and flailing, worried that he was one of the guards who had assaulted her or the men who wanted to kill her. But once they explained they were American soldiers who were there to help, she started to relax.

No tears. No messy, emotional scene. This woman was a fighter.

Payne cut the cords off her hands and legs and eased her to her feet. She was unsteady for several seconds, leaning against him as she filled them in on everything. The tunnel. The robbery of her site. And her boss: Omar Abdul-Khaliq.

"Is he in Mecca?" Jones wondered.

"I don't know where he is. I've never met the man. We do everything by phone. The last time we talked was two days ago, when he hired new guards to protect this place. There was a murder and-"

Payne interrupted her. "A murder?"

She nodded. "A delivery guy dropped off a package and was killed on his way out."

"What kind of package?"

"An envelope for Omar. He asked me to keep it on me at all times. He seemed pretty worried about it."

"Do you still have it?"

"I should." She reached through the flap of her abaya and pulled out a hajj belt (an oversized pouch for pilgrims) filled with money, keys, and her travel papers. She handed the envelope to Payne. "It's still sealed. He told me not to open it."

"And when did-" Payne stopped in midsentence as a voice chirped in his ear. Team two was sending him a message. He raised his index finger and told her to wait.

"Team one, we found another tunnel. Repeat, another tunnel. Permission to access?"

He glanced at Jones, who heard the same transmission. "Go check it out."

Jones nodded and ran off.

Payne responded. "Team two, permission denied. Repeat, denied. Team one will be joining you for entry. Talk us to a rendezvous."

Voices chattered in his earpiece as he returned his attention to Shari. She was bloodied and battered but quite resilient. "How long have you been working down here?"

"Probably a few days too long."

Payne smiled, impressed by her toughness. "Considering what's happened, I'm sure you'd like to get out of here. However, before you leave, I'd like to ask you a small favor. Would you mind giving me a tour?"

"A tour?"

He nodded as they walked toward the gate. "I'm searching for an old friend who might've passed through here. The more I know about this place, the better."

"One friend or several?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I heard people working in the tunnel. One of them spotted me and wanted to make sure I was dead, but the other said I'd be dead soon enough."

Payne nodded. It sure sounded like them. "How long ago?"

Shari thought for a moment. "Less than an hour. They were doing something on the other end of the tunnel. Near the maintenance shaft."

"Maintenance for what?"

"That complex up the road. They had to build their own water facility in the middle of the desert just to handle the water demand. Their pipes ran past here, and our tunnel connects with theirs."

"You mean the mosque?"

She shook her head. "Abraj Al Bait Towers. They're being built next to the mosque. When they're done, it's going to be the biggest building in the world."

"And it's across from the mosque?"

She nodded. "Which seems sacrilegious to some people. Especially considering the owner."

"Who's the owner?"

"The Bin Laden Group."

Payne winced. It wasn't a name he was expecting. "As in Osama bin Laden?"

"It's his family's business. His father, Mohammed, started the company himself."

Despite their infamous surname, the bin Ladens share a close relationship with the Saudi royal family, thanks to the construction work they did at the royal palace in Jeddah. King Abdul Aziz was so impressed with their craftsmanship that he gave them exclusive rights to all religious construction in Mecca and Medina, Saudi Arabia's two holiest cities, and even asked them to renovate the Great Mosque itself. Since that time, the bin Ladens have expanded their empire, building tunnels, dams, and thousands of miles of Saudi roads while branching into several diverse areas.

They include power, chemicals, manufacturing, telecom, and real estate.

However, their latest development will be their most significant yet.

Once completed, the Abraj Al Bait Towers will be the largest building in the world. Not the tallest-its main tower will reach 1,591 feet, which will be 80 feet shorter than the Taipei Financial Center in Taiwan-yet the biggest in overall mass, a combined floor space of 16 million square feet. The complex will consist of 7 interconnected buildings, including a 5-star hotel, a business conference center, a prayer hall for 3,800 people, a 4-story mall built to resemble an outdoor Arab market, 2 heliports, a 1,000-car parking garage, a self-contained transportation system, and several residential towers. More than 65,000 people will be able to stay there at one time.

The estimated cost is $1.5 billion.

Nevertheless, economic analysts expect the project to be a financial bonanza, capitalizing on the millions of Muslims who visit the Great Mosque throughout the year. Visitors from around the world will be able to look out their hotel windows and stare down at the Kaaba, the holiest shrine in Islam. They will be able to hear the muezzin's call to prayer while in the air-conditioned comfort of their rooms. They will be able to walk across the street, day or night, and kiss the Black Stone. It will be a pilgrim's dream come true.

Unless, of course, Trevor Schmidt got to it first.

Payne met Jones near the entrance to the maintenance shaft. A large sealed door, which looked like it belonged in a submarine, had been wedged open before their arrival. Shari guessed it was the noise she'd heard in the tunnel, because the hatch was normally locked.

"Where's it go?" Jones asked.

"To the perfect target," Payne answered. He explained what was being built, and more importantly, who was building it. "Osama was shunned by his family a long time ago, but that won't make a difference to Schmidt. He'll remember all the family members who were killed in the hospital bombing and focus on the bin Laden name. In one attack, he can avenge his unit's death and nine-eleven, kill thousands of Muslims, and destroy their most sacred site."

"Makes sense to me."

"The only question is how."

Jones glanced at Shari. "Have you been inside the complex?"

"No one has. It's nowhere near done. They won't be finished for two more years."

"So it'll be empty except for the builders?"

"Actually, it should be empty, period. Today's a religious holiday. No one will be working."

"Any security? Cameras? Alarms?"

"I have no idea," she admitted. "I've spent all my time down here, not outside. Other than the maintenance tunnel, my knowledge about the towers is strictly based on rumors. The bin Ladens are notorious for keeping their designs under wraps. Other than the architects and a few government officials, no one has access to their plans."

Back in 1979, the bin Ladens were working on a number of religious projects throughout Mecca, exercising the exclusive rights that had been granted to them by the royal family. Because of this special relationship, bin Laden trucks were able to come and go without being inspected, a fact that was taken advantage of by Islamic rebels, who used the trucks-without the bin Ladens' knowledge-to smuggle hundreds of weapons into the city, including those that were used during ,the insurrection that ended with the seizure of the Great Mosque.

Ironically, since the bin Ladens were in charge of citywide renovations, including those at the mosque, they were the only ones who possessed maps of Mecca's underground tunnel system. That meant even though bin Laden trucks were used in the insurrection, the Saudi police had to turn to the bin Ladens for their assistance.

Jones asked, "Which government officials would be notified about their plans?"

"The Ministry of the Interior."

"Sonofabitch," he muttered. "It figures."

"What?" she asked, confused.

Payne explained. "The guy we're after tortured one of their officials. We weren't sure why, but now it makes sense. He wanted to know about the towers."

44

The entry route was exactly as they had been told. Follow the pipes directly into the subbasement. Take the stairs to access ground level. From there, all seven towers were accessible via ramps and exterior construction elevators. Security would be virtually nonexistent, since most of the guards would be outside, patrolling the plaza, stopping people from entering the work zone. They wouldn't be inside, worried about terrorists.

During the past six months, Schmidt had studied the building plans and surveyed Mecca on three different trips. However, until he was standing inside, staring at the tons of concrete and steel that surrounded him, he never fully grasped how big the complex was.

To build the Abraj Al Bait Towers, a large hole was dug until they hit bedrock, which was less than 100 feet deep in Mecca because its layer was close to the surface. In some projects, such as the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, workers had to dig 394 feet underground to lay the foundation, a massive undertaking that cost millions of dollars.

Next, footings were anchored in the hole to distribute the weight, much like a pyramid, before concrete was poured over the top, creating the bottom floor. Large cranes inserted vertical support beams and horizontal steel girders, which held the building together, forming a giant frame. Finally, a curtain wall, made of concrete and glass, was attached to the outside, providing water and wind resistance while improving the overall aesthetics of the project.

From there, work was done on the interior. Three thousand miles of electrical wires. Twenty-eight thousand miles of plumbing. Heating and cooling systems. Wood, marble, stone, glass. All of it laid in stages over several years, pieces slowly coming together until the complex was finally done.

Construction began in 2004 and wouldn't be finished until 2009.

But as far as Schmidt was concerned, everything he needed was already in place.

The tunnel was narrow, lined in concrete and filled with massive pipes that seemed to go on forever. With nowhere to hide and no way to spread out, they jogged single file, their footsteps multiplying with every echo. Fluorescent lights, covered in metal screens and bolted to the ceiling, lit their path, but the truth was they were heading into darkness.

No advance recon. No knowledge of the building. Like a black hole of information.

Payne led the way, followed by Jones, then the other two teams. Their pace never slowed from the moment they entered the hatch until they approached the tunnel's end. It opened into a wide expanse, cluttered with equipment, raw materials, and the skeletal foundation of the buildings. The men scattered quickly, searching for architectural plans, schematics, or maps-anything to help them navigate the maze that surrounded them.

Three minutes passed before something was found. It was a simple pamphlet, written in Arabic and English, detailing the future amenities of the towers, including a full-color illustration of the complex upon completion. There were seven buildings in total, all of them facing the Great Mosque. Five were laid out in a giant horseshoe, while the space between was filled with a multistoried mall. The remaining two towers jutted away from the curve in the U- one tower on each side, yet still connected through a series of walkways and bridges.

The showcased building was the one in the center. Simply called the Hotel Tower, it was nearly sixteen hundred feet tall, trimmed in gold, and topped with a crescent moon, an important symbol in the Islamic faith. It was nearly twice the height of the others, whose names and sizes were listed.

1. Hotel Tower 485 m, 1,591 ft.

2. Hajar 260 m, 853 ft.

3. Zamzam 260 m, 853 ft.

4. Qiblah240m,787ft.

5. Sarah 240 m, 787 ft.

6. Marwah 240 m, 787 ft.

7. Safa240m,787ft.

With the exception of the hotel, each of the names had its roots in Islam. Sarah and Hajar were women in the Qur'an. Zamzam was the famous well inside the Great Mosque. Marwah and Safa were the hills that pilgrims travel between seven times. Qiblah was the direction of prayer in Mecca.

According to the pamphlet, each of the buildings was being treated as a separate project. All of them were interconnected, but they would be finished at different intervals. Two of the residential towers would be completed this year; the hotel would take until the end of the decade.

Payne considered this while he planned their next move.

Meanwhile, his men gathered around as if he were a quarterback in the huddle, waiting for him to call the play.

"There are six of us and six exterior buildings," he said. "We don't know where they'll be or what they're doing. For all we know, they're spread throughout the complex. The best way to cover that much ground is by splitting up. Radio frequently. Keep me posted. Concentrate on the structural areas, places where an explosive will do the most damage. We don't have time to go room to room. Just follow your gut and we may get lucky."

He pointed to a man then pointed to a building, each assigned the number in the pamphlet. "You, four. You, five. You, six. You, seven. D.J. and I will take the two towers closest to the hotel. If you see anything, let us know. We'll reassign manpower as needed."

The soldiers dispersed, moving in pairs. Even-numbered buildings were on the left; odd numbers were on the right. The men would travel together until they were forced to split up.