Kattan had not told Masih the nature of the special defense of this house, because Masih was the defense. His own son was his blessed shield.
The terrorist turned from the fire to watch Masih through the open door, pumping water into his pail. The boy was just starting to get some definition in his arms, on the verge of becoming a man, a benefit of letting him live across the sea with his harlot mother. Spared the indignity and starvation of growing up in the desert, Masih had some meat on his bones — much more than Kattan had acquired by that age.
Suddenly, the doorframe and the wall between them evaporated in a blinding flash. Kattan felt flesh ripping from his body as he was slammed into the eastern wall of the house and then dropped onto a pile of rubble. His eyes stung, he choked on a swirling cloud of that cursed desert dust. He could not feel his arms or his legs, yet pain surged through his body.
The cloud thinned. He saw his son, broken, blood staining the mud beneath him black. Masih was still clutching the king in his little hand. He moved his elbow back to his chest and started to rise.
Kattan tried to call out to him, but only a scant whisper escaped his mud-caked lips, “Masih.”
The boy did not look up. He collapsed back into the dust and did not move again.
Weakness from blood loss overtook Kattan, and he could not hold his gaze level any longer. His eyes drifted along the ground to the scorched photo of the blond American that lay between him and his son, amid a scattering of burning papers. Then the papers, the rubble, the dirt, all but the photo turned to black. As the terrorist’s mind began to fade, one final thought lingered — a name — flickering in the darkness like a dying flame. Nick Baron.
PART ONE
OPENINGS
CHAPTER 1
The Christmas decorations are up. That was the first thought that passed through Nick Baron’s mind as he walked beneath the grand arched entrance of Washington, DC’s Union Station. He was six feet tall and plainly dressed in a brown leather jacket and faded jeans. His wife, Katy, walked next to him, pushing a stroller. She was more elegantly dressed, still resisting the inevitable soccer mom persona. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders beneath a stylish winter cap. She wore jeans as well, but they were midnight blue and fit her slender form snugly, descending into high-heeled riding boots. Katy was enjoying her afternoon. Nick was not.
His attention to the Christmas decorations did not spring from a yuletide appreciation for the thirty-foot tree in the main hall or the lighted garlands that adorned every horizontal surface, or amusement at the model-train displays stretching across the usually empty floor space. He took notice of the decorations because they cluttered the station, and clutter in public spaces made him uneasy.
They paused in front of the welcome center, a two-story island of cherrywood in the center of the marble hall. While Katy checked the marquee, Nick’s steel-blue eyes roamed the crowded station. Smaller versions of the central Christmas tree created shadows in every corner and alcove. Rows of poinsettias and ten-inch riser skirts masked the empty spaces beneath the model trains. All the extra floor displays compressed the heavy holiday traffic into nicely segmented kill zones. What a nightmare.
“You’re doing it again,” said Katy, letting out a little oomph as she thrust Luke’s stroller into motion again. “I can see it on your face, the way your eyes are moving. Relax. This is family time. You’re off duty.”
“We could have had family time waiting in the car at the passenger pickup,” he replied, still searching rather than looking at his wife. “You know I hate train stations. They’re death traps.”
Other terms used by Nick’s colleagues in the counterterrorism community were low-hanging fruit and easy pickin’s. In the post-9/11 world, airports had become ultrasecure, with the latest in screening technology and mountains of rules. In some countries, getting to the aircraft with so much as a toothpick was a challenge. Train stations, on the other hand, remained largely unchanged. Most didn’t even use metal detectors. Over the past thirteen years, train lines and their unions worldwide had lobbied hard to keep security lax, in hopes that a public frustrated with being poked and prodded at airports would switch to railways for their domestic travel. Their efforts succeeded in attracting a few extra passengers. They also attracted terrorists in droves.
Since September 11, 2001, eighty-nine people had died in terror attacks against airliners, all of them in a coordinated attack on Russian commuter planes by Chechen Muslims. In the same period, nearly one thousand people had been killed and around five thousand wounded in attacks against railways. Britain, Spain, Russia, no country was immune. Maybe train bombings didn’t get the attention they deserved because the body counts weren’t high enough, but one day that would change. One day, probably in the United States, some group of radicals would find a way to use the rail system to make a big splash.
Nick quickened his pace and steered Katy toward Platform C, where his father’s train was supposed to arrive. As they passed the midconcourse shops, he spied a rolling suitcase sitting by itself, tucked halfway behind one of the little Christmas trees. A security guard a few feet away was too busy gawking at a pair of attractive young window shoppers to notice.
As Nick started toward the bag, a man in a business suit came out of the Starbucks and reclaimed it. He strolled away, oblivious, nursing a venti nonfat sugar bomb.
“There he is,” said Katy, tugging Nick back the other way.
Dr. Kurt Baron emerged from Platform C with two small suitcases. He raised one of them in a half wave.
Thanks to strong genes, the older Baron shared Nick’s medium build and youthful features, but where Nick’s hair was thick and golden blond, his dad’s was thin and dark, turning gray. And now it seemed his father had decided to grow a goatee. It looked absurd.
“I told him not to wear that Go Air Force sweatshirt when he travels,” he muttered to Katy. “It makes him a target.”
“Be nice. You promised no fights.”
“He’s only wearing it because I told him not to.”
“Nick…” she warned.
Nick waited impatiently through the obligatory hugs and greetings. He held his tongue while his dad pulled his grandson Luke from the stroller, knowing the effort and time it would take to get the eighteen-month-old strapped back in. He watched the faces in the crowd. None of them seemed threatening or nervous. In fact, most of them looked like they were enjoying themselves. He wondered what that felt like.
Nick took one of his dad’s bags and finally got his little group of soft targets moving toward the exit. Miraculously, they made it to the parking garage unscathed.
By the time he pulled Katy’s black Jeep Cherokee onto Massachusetts Avenue, a light snow had started falling, adding to the few inches that had already accumulated on the trees and rooftops in the past few days. Streams of tiny flakes ghosted across the street in sidewinding wisps, blown by a light wind. Another front was moving in, this one stronger and colder than the last. Nick sighed. It was going to be a long month.
A delighted squeal erupted from the backseat, and Nick glanced in the rearview mirror to see his dad tickling Luke. At the same time, Katy squeezed Nick’s knee — not to say I love you, but to say Make an effort to play nice or suffer the consequences. He frowned at her and then coughed. “Ahem. So, this is very exciting.”
“Oh, yes,” replied his father, glancing up from his grandson. “I’ve been waiting for Avi to call me for years. The lecture tour is going splendidly.”