Sword of God(50)

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.”





28


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.