“I agree,” said Burroughs. “But let’s not get complacent either. If we have to violate certain inalienable rights to achieve the means, then do so. Our optimum goal is to find Hakam and his team before they’re able to achieve their agenda.” He turned to Craner. “Doug, you got anything from the security end?”
“As you already know, Mr. President, every airport is on the highest alert. All chartered aircrafts have been grounded nationwide, and every terminal in the nation is under the microscopic eye of TSA. There is no way a package the size and shape of the unit we appropriated at the border is getting on any plane.”
“Which leaves ground transportation,” said Hamilton. “I have agents from California to the Florida panhandle checking into all car rental agencies for those of Middle-East persuasion, who have rented a vehicle within the past thirty days.”
“Any leads thus far?”
“None that fit anybody in Hakam’s known team. But we’re still looking into the matter of those who rented vehicles in case there are coverts working under Hakam’s commands that are not yet named or listed in Homeland Security’s data base.”
“Good.”
Although pleased that the situation was moving forward, even if it was by the inches, it made the president feel less ineffective. Nevertheless, it still was not enough.
Somewhere, whether it be some Podunk town or major cosmopolitan city, two weapons of mass destruction with half the yield that took out Hiroshima were making their way to their assigned stationary points.
If not Washington or New York City, then it would be somewhere else.
No matter what, the president saw no upside at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Al-Khatib Hakam was in the moment of prayer within his hotel suite. The room was simple and far from luxurious. In fact, it wasn’t rated much higher than the room of a franchised motel. But Hakam wanted to keep a low profile.
In the room’s center, Hakam knelt on a prayer rug with his forehead resting against the fabric, and then sat up with his eyes closed and his hands held in homage. He repeated this motion for twenty minutes — bowing and rising, his meditation so deep everything around him did not seem to exist.
When he completed his session he rolled up the rug and placed it on top of the bureau, treating it with reverence by passing his hand over the fabric the way most people would stroke the fur of a loved pet. It was the first rug he ever possessed, since joining the ranks as a Muslim. And it would be the last rug he would ever own since he had less than thirty-six hours to live. Although he would not live to see the outcome of his mission, he knew the Muslim world would revel in the success of his team once the assignment was completed.
Al-Khatib Hakam, American born citizen from Dearborn, Michigan and an honorary graduate from Columbia University, was about to cripple a nation.
In the aftermath of his session he still spoke to Allah, asking Him to see this through. And he did so with a preamble of a smile on his lips. There was no doubt in his mind his team was fully capable of performing their assigned tasks, since they were the best in their field as seasoned soldiers. They had fought wars up front, close, and personal. And they had served as well-traveled journeyman fighting from Afghan to Baghdad with venom in their hearts and devotion in their spirits before finding a place by his side.
He was certain nothing could stop them or save the enemy.
And for the moment he felt something tremendously wonderful.
He felt…
… invincible.
Looking at his watch, Hakam ordered the final commencement. Right now his team was moving into position. And if all went well, then by this time tomorrow Hakam and his team would be airborne with an incredible arsenal. All he had to do was sit back, be patient, and rely on his team to get the job done.
So with the patience of a saint, Hakam waited.
Mario Morgenessi had been a navigator-slash-co-pilot for Alitalia Airlines for more than twenty years, most prominently serving as part of the airline’s special troupe to the pope as part of the crew of Shepherd One, the papal plane.
Now with the Symposiums behind him and the crew gearing up for the return home the next day, Mario took comfort beneath the covers of his bed wanting to be well rested for the seventeen hour journey back to Rome.
He left the window of his suite open, the drapes waving in lazy drifts with the course of a soft breeze as he slept. And light the color of arctic blue filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
As much as a light sleeper that Mario was, always tuned to the slightest sounds that would be imperceptible to most, he did not hear the door to his suite open, then close. The snicker of the bolt locking back in place went unheard as a man crept across the room and stood beside the co-pilot’s bed. In the man’s hands was a garrote, the line taut as he extended the wire to its outermost points.
At first Mario thought he was dreaming, the voice hollow, as if echoing off the walls of a tunnel — whispers really, the voice calling his name. In the often vague quality of the dreamscape mind for which things made little sense or took on disturbing shapes, Mario saw something of a shadow standing over him, a blotted mass of darkness against the blue light, something calling his name. In its hands was something that glinted silver in the light, perhaps the chain of a magic talisman to be worn around his neck.
And then he realized it was not a dream at all.
He was not alone.
The moment Mario cocked his head from the pillow, the shape swung the garrote around his neck and yanked tight, the serrated edges of the metallic line biting deep into the flesh and severing the carotid. Splashes and founts of blood jettisoned across the walls creating Pollack designs, his hands grasping futilely for the fine cord nearly an inch deep in his throat as his eyes bulged and threatened to take flight from their orbital sockets. As he gagged his tongue projected slightly from pressed lips that were becoming as blue as the cold light.
And then it was over; the man dead within thirty seconds.
The assassin then used the cord to pull the co-pilot off the bed and dragged him into the bathroom, heaving the body over the edge of the tub and into the well. Along the edges of the tub were crimson smudges and drops of blood, which the assassin did not bother to clean since the walls of the hotel room already held the bloody hallmark of the man’s slaughter. All that mattered was to kill, do it silently, and leave the scene unnoticed.
Checking the hallway to see if all was clear, the man exited room 616 and placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.
Within the next two hours the Garrote Assassin successfully dispatched the entire crew of Shepherd One, with the exception of its pilot.
Hakam was most pleased.
Enzio Pastore had been a military pilot in Italy’s prestigious Aeronautica Milatare for twenty-five years before signing off with a military retirement. At fifty-three he appeared young and fit, keeping his body regimentally in shape. With a copper-hue to his skin and a handlebar mustache to bracket lips too small for his face, he also possessed that steely determination of a man with a set jaw line and incredibly intense eyes.