Kimball sat and leaned his backside against a wine cooler with his elbows resting on his knees, thinking. For every minute Shepherd One was flying, fuel was being depleted.
And so was time.
The man stood, his eyes deep-set and determined, and commenced his search.
Beneath the lavatories were closet-like outcroppings from the fire-resistant walls; four on each side, eight in total throughout the entirety of the Shepherd One’s interior. Each closet-like extension possessed a hatch reminiscent of the one leading into the Avionics Room, but without the locking mechanism. Instead, the indented seam around the hatchway had red arrows marking where to place the flat end of the screwdriver to pop the panel free.
Using the tip of his knife, Kimball worked its point into the slot and popped the panel open, exposing a vertical shaft. Against the far wall was the circuitry of water hoses and pressure lines that led from the restroom above to the waste tank below. This was the maintenance closet for the topside lavatory that allowed repair crews to routinely inspect lines for possible pressure leakages, line tears and fluid freezes. Lining the inside walls were ladder rungs securely riveted to the sheet metal, giving a crew member access to the entire conduit system that ran from top to bottom. But for a man of Kimball’s size, it would be a tight squeeze.
Fitting into the hole and positioning himself along the rungs, Kimball made his way to the topside lavatory. Every jar, rise or pitch of the plane’s flight seemed more pronounced, the lifts knocking him against the closed-in walls and pipes of the thin space. When he reached the top rung he arrived at the water tank that supplied the wash basin and toilet.
Placing his palm against the wall supporting the tank, he could feel a slight give. To the right of the tank was a framed schematic of the complex plumbing lines. Kimball quickly tore it off the wall and let it go, listening to the frame carom off the walls until it settled somewhere in the darkness below. With the point of his knife he was able to punch a small hole in the wall which provided him with a glimpse of something wonderful.
It was the interior of a spacious lavatory. But more importantly, it was a way topside.
Returning the KA-BAR to its sheath, Kimball began to descend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hakam prayed long and hard and deep with incredible passion since redemption was not freely given. And in the wake of his sudden loss of faith he wished for divine forgiveness, as well as a single intangible possession. He asked for the courage to see this through.
For nearly two hours he knelt on his prayer rug with his eyes closed, his body rising and lowering with his hands held out in homage, his lips moving silently as if miming the words of prayer. In the end, however, he felt no different than when he first removed his shoes and took position upon the mat. Did he truly expect Allah to speak to him? To give him an answer on whether or not he will be allowed into His Glory?
And what was that about blind faith? he challenged himself. And then he remembered: Blind faith does not require proof because no proof exists. Yet its entire concept to completely devote oneself without question continued to elude him. And though he was highly spiritual, Hakam realized he needed something more. And that, he believed, was his damning point.
The Arab stood wearing his mask of non emotion, which made the Garrote Assassin feel more at ease from across the aisle. Over the past several hours Hakam had been growing anxious and less in control, which worried him. But it appeared that prayer had done him well.
In the prayer’s aftermath Hakam put on his shoes and said nothing to Garrote, would not even face him, his heart feeling a heavy blackness that Allah had seen the truth within him.
What he must do, he does so with the hope that Allah is truly merciful.
Returning to the cockpit he noted a single email message from a source indicating the emissary from the Lohamah Psichlogit still lives, and that President Burroughs thus far has failed to move on the given target with an hour left to go.
Tapping in the required address, Hakam was automatically dispatched to the president of the United States.
Behind him, Shepherd One’s pilot sat with his eyes forward and refused to acknowledge Hakam in any way.
And Hakam addressed him. “Make sure you stay that way,” he said.
Enzio did not reply.
Within moments Hakam was online and staring into the unaffected face of President Burroughs. It appeared to Hakam that the president was playing the same card of showing little emotion, since the power behind it was to never allow your opponent the advantage of knowing what you were truly thinking. It was the classic wear of a poker face.
“Yes, Hakam, what do you want?”
Hakam wanted to smile. But that would be giving too much away.
“My sources tell me that you haven’t even begun to move on the target, Mr. President. And time is running out.”
“Be assured, Hakam, even though we may not be moving at the pace that pleases you, we are moving. Taking out an esteemed agent of the Lohamah Psichlogit is a delicate matter, which is why I requested five hours.”
“Your delicate matters, Mr. President, are of no concern to me. We both know you’re pushing for additional time, which I’m not allowing. If Ms. Rokach is not dead within the hour, then as a consequence, we will kill the pope.”
The room went completely silent as President Burroughs features continued to register little as he stared directly at the monitor.
“Think about it, Mr. President. You’re on the clock with less than one hour to obligate your half of the bargain, and my associates are watching very closely. I strongly suggest that you do not fail the pontiff. But before I go, I would like to leave you with something.” Everybody at Raven Rock watched Hakam tap several buttons before hesitating, then, after letting his finger hover over the keypad, and then looking steely-eyed into the webcam, tapped the final button with emphasis.
What came on the screen was Arabic script.
الفنّ من يستعمل قوات هذا:
عندما يحيطه عشرة إلى العدوات واحدة;
عندما يهاجمه خمسة في قوته;
إن ضعف قوته, يقسمه;
إن بالتّساوي تلاءم أنت يمكن شبكته;
إن ضعيفة عدديّا, قادرة من ينسحب;
وإن كلّ يحترم غير متساو, قادرة من يتملّصه;
لقوة صغيرة غير أنّ غنيمة لواحدة أكثر قوّيّة
“Is Hakam still online?” asked the president.
“No, sir. He cancelled the transmission.”
Burroughs looked at the screen. “And what the hell is this?”
“It’s Arabic,” said Craner.
“I know its Arabic. I want to know what it says.”
Doug Craner made his way next to the president and began to translate word per word until the finish.
The president nodded. “It’s from The Art of War by Sun Tzu,” he said. “He’s letting us know that no matter what we throw at him, he will defeat us. Right now he’s at the point of the quote that states: ‘if double his strength, divide him,’ which is what he’s trying to do between us and Mossad.”
“And the death of the pope,” added Craner, “would only serve to muster Islamic militant faith. If the pope dies, militants may view that as a twisted moral victory, now that the so-called ‘False Prophet’ is dead, and organize an insurgent rise on both shores.”
The president recited from memory of the book. “When ten to the enemies one, surround him.”
Craner sighed. “Whenever we get a step closer, Hakam always seems to get two steps ahead.”
“What you neglect to see, Doug, is that The Art of War can work both ways as well.”
“I hardly see our advantage in this, Mr. President.”
“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about Father Kimball. This man alone took out three opponents. So consider this, although unequal he still eluded them. But because he was incapable of withdrawing, he engaged them and halved the team. The more he reduces Hakam’s assassins, the more it reduces the quantity of the opposition.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. President, he’s still outnumbered,” stated Thornton, moving beside them with his arms crossed.
“If Father Kimball took out three men, then that tells me he can take out another three. Maybe two; Hakam hardly looks like the warrior type to me.”
“Mr. President.” Thornton looked at his watch. “We have fifty-four minutes before Hakam follows through with his threat to kill the pontiff. So do we go forward and take out Rokach? Or do we begin with our efforts to clear out LA?”
The president closed his eyes. Whenever he got one step ahead, Hakam always countered by doubling the distance between them.
“Mr. President, we need to act decisively.”
He was right. The entire team was right. For the past few hours Burroughs was banking on a solvable solution without throwing Los Angeles into a state of panic. And by going against supreme odds and if he failed, his decisions could cost hundreds of thousands of lives.
“What do we do, Mr. President?”
Burroughs turned to his CIA Director. “Doug, contact Langley and target Rokach. But do not engage her until the last possible moment. If there is no hope of resolution, then we’ll have to take her out.” He turned back to the screen. “We’ll see if Hakam is true to his word and disables a nuclear weapon as promised.”
“Understood.”
“And what about the other matter, Mr. President?” asked Thornton. “What about the people in Los Angeles?”
When he was on the verge of conceding and about to commit to the evacuation, someone inside the chamber hollered ‘incoming.’
It was a message from Father Kimball.