Sword of God(49)
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 what!”
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 extra-special. You ready for this? He’s what they call a Big Tit.”
“Did you say tit?”
“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.”