“Your partner, too! Tell him to drop his weapon.”
Payne nodded at Jones, who followed Payne’s instructions. “We are not here to hurt anyone. We are here to help. Your government should have told you.”
“Told us what?”
“We are here to save the Great Mosque.”
The officer shook his head. “We know nothing of your tale.”
“Then you need to call it in. For your sake and ours. We have permission to be here.”
“What does it hurt?” Jones added. “Call it in.”
The mutaween whispered to each other in Arabic, discussing what they should do. Currently, they were in a position of power. Both of them were armed and far enough away from the suspects, who willingly surrendered their weapons, that they couldn’t be attacked without getting off several deadly shots. Besides, if what the Americans were allying was accurate—that they did have authorization to be- in Mecca—then harming them would result in the mutaween’s dismissal. Or even worse. Their bosses did not take kindly to incompetence.
Finally, the officer spoke.
“You,” he said, pointing at Jones, “move closer to your friend.”
Jones raised his hands in surrender and took several steps toward Payne.
“Stop right there.”
He nodded and stopped about five feet away.
The officer returned his attention to Payne. “Who is your contact?”
“His name and number are programmed into my phone.” Payne pointed toward the bag that sat near his right foot. “May I reach inside and get it?”
More whispering in Arabic. Then an answer in English. “Slowly.”
“Understood.”
Payne bent at his waist and inched his hand inside the bag. He fumbled around for a bit, his hand hidden from sight. An action that spooked the mutaween.
“What are you doing? Let me see your hand.”
“Relax,” he said. “I already gave you my gun. My partner gave you his gun. I am simply accessing my phone. It is password-protected. I cannot read the screen without the code.”
“Let me see the phone. Let me see your hand!”
“Don’t worry. I’m almost done. Just a couple more buttons.”
“He’s almost done,” echoed Jones, who appeared borderline serene despite everything that was going on. “He’s just getting the name of our contact.”
“Let me see your—”
“There!” Payne blurted. “The phone has been accessed. Now you can make the call yourself. He will tell you everything you need to know.”
“What is his name?”
“His name is Jabaal. He works for your government. Just talk to him and he will tell you everything. You will see.”
The officers whispered again, discussing who should make the call.
“Should I toss you the phone?” Payne asked, reaching toward his bag.
“Stop!” the officer shouted. “Leave it alone. Back up ten steps and leave the bag there.”
“Fine,” Payne grunted. “We’ll both back up. Ten giant steps.”
Jones looked at him in understanding. “We’re backing up.”
“Giant steps,” Payne mumbled. “Ten giant steps.”
One.
They kept their hands in the air. The perfect prisoners.
Two.
The mutaween moved closer, never taking their eyes off Payne or Jones.
Three.
Each step was huge. Getting as far away as possible.
Four.
More words in Arabic. Discussing their situation.
Five.
Payne scanned the plaza, searching for additional guards.
Six.
The officer reached the bag and tapped it with his foot.
Seven.
Jones glanced at Payne, ready to move.
Eight.
Still aiming his gun, the officer dropped to his knees.
Nine.
Confused, he opened the bag and glanced inside.
Ten.
Payne and Jones grinned, covering their ears.
The timer, which Payne had set a moment before, sent a burst of electricity to the primer, which triggered the main explosive. The C-4 erupted with a vengeance, shredding the mutaween like they’d been struck by the sword of God, spraying chunks of bone and blood across the open courtyard and knocking Payne and Jones backward onto the hard ground.
If they had been any closer, they would have been in the kill zone.
But their giant steps backward had saved their lives.
It took several seconds before Payne was able to shake off the blast. When he did, he crawled over to Jones, who was rubbing his eyes, trying to refocus. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, even though he wasn’t sure. “What about you?”
“I’m better than them.”
51
Tuesday, January 2
Taif, Saudi Arabia
Payne and Jones were battered and bruised, but they reported to Colonel Harrington’s office as soon as the Taif medical staff cleared them for duty. Each had sustained minor injuries, compliments of the bomb blast, but nothing a few days of rest couldn’t cure.