It was the advantage of a multipronged attack.
Even if someone was killed or captured, the survivors could still make a difference.
Schmidt led the way, creeping down the ramp at a steady pace. They followed him in single file, always keeping space between themselves in case there was an alarm or a mine or anything they hadn't prepared for. The odds were against it-their source had been quite versed on the infrastructure of Mecca-yet they expected the unexpected. Ready for anything.
Well, almost anything.
When they hit the bottom of the ramp, Schmidt sent one of his men to inspect the back tunnel while the other two worked on the maintenance shaft that branched in the opposite direction. The soldier clicked on a flashlight and disappeared into the darkness, only to return a minute later, confusion etched on his face.
"What?" Schmidt whispered.
"You have to see this."
"What is it?"
"I have no fuckin' idea. That's why you have to see it."
Intrigued, Schmidt signaled for the others to keep working while he investigated the rear tunnel. The passageway had been carved with precision, lit with the same bulbs that lined the initial entry ramp but protected by a giant iron gate that had been anchored in the ceiling and floor. It prevented them from going any farther. Why it was there, he wasn't sure. But as far as he was concerned, it didn't really matter. They would be heading in the opposite direction.
"You wanted me to see this?" he asked.
The soldier shook his head. "I wanted you to see this."
He stuck his flashlight between the bars and shined it into the back room. Shards of broken bulbs littered the floor, intermixed with large chunks of stone and rubble. He tilted the beam upward, revealing a man-made stalagmite that had recently been chiseled to its core. All that remained was a large hole, several cubic feet of empty space where something had been stored.
Hoping to get a better view, Schmidt turned on his light, too. "What is it?"
"I'm guessing a tomb."
"A tomb? Why do you say that?"
Instead of answering, he swung his beam to the rear corner of the room, where Shari Shasmeen lay motionless on the ground. Her eyes were closed. Her arms and legs were tied. Blood covered her face and clothes. She looked like a corpse.
Schmidt tilted his head to get a better view. "Is she dead?"
"Can't tell from here. If you want, I can shoot her to make sure."
He glanced at his watch. They had more important things to worry about.
"Why bother? If she's not dead now, she will be soon."
42
They parked their trucks in an alley, several blocks south of the Great Mosque.
It was as close as traffic would allow.
Mecca was a multiethnic city, filled with people of all colors and nationalities. Still, to blend in, Payne and Jones had to dress the part. They wore white Saudi thobes (full-length cotton gowns that nearly touched the ground when they walked) and white skullcaps. The Arab-American soldiers added some variety. One donned a red-and-white ghutra (headdress), held firm by a black igal (ropelike cord); the other covered his thobe with a light brown bisht (cloak). The remaining two wore beige taqiyah caps (brim-less and accented with white-thread embroidery) and thobes of the same color.
Ankle holsters, held in place by compression straps, were worn on both legs.
Extra ammo was stored in utility belts, concealed by their robes.
Wireless transmitting devices were discreetly tucked in their ears.
All other equipment was varied, depending on preference. Payne was partial to blades. He wore one on each forearm, tucked in black leather sheaths. Meanwhile, Jones carried a small set of tools, just in case he had to deactivate a bomb or pick a lock.
Walking briskly but never running, the men moved in pairs, weaving through the crowds of tourists that filled the sidewalks and ancient streets. The pilgrims would be entering the city from the east on the aptly named Pedestrian Road, trickling in at first before finally arriving en masse, a sea of white surging through the desert like a flood, monitored by thousands of guards and dozens of helicopters. Payne knew Schmidt would be somewhere else, probably concealed close to the mosque, patiently waiting for his prey to come to him.
Unless, of course, he had already planted an explosive device, one with a timer or a remote detonator, and was currently far from Mecca. If that was the case, then they were screwed because they didn't have the time, manpower, or authority to conduct a search. Their only hope was spotting Schmidt and taking him out before he started his assault.
Jones said, "Omar's place should be up ahead."
Payne nodded as he scanned his surroundings, searching for trouble. People. Windows. Rooftops. Hoping to spot something that seemed out of place. The city itself was not as he expected. He had traveled extensively in the Middle East and usually felt as if he had stepped through a time portal, leaping back to another era. Ancient buildings. Ancient streets. Ancient everything. But here, there seemed to be an equal mix of new and old.
Ancient traditions, yet contemporary comfort.
Ironically, the closer they got to the mosque, located in the center of the old city, the more modern the infrastructure appeared. Building projects were popping up all over, areas fenced off for demolition and new construction. Dump trucks and bulldozers, cranes and scaffolding, rocks and sand. This closed city was definitely open for business- especially to American corporations. In one block, there were signs for Hilton Towers, Sheraton Hotel, and McDonald's.
"Where would you like us?" asked the Arab soldier in l he middle pair, which was labeled team two. Payne and Jones were team one. The final duo was team three. The two Arab Americans, who could speak Arabic, were split up in case their language skills were needed.
Payne heard the question in his earpiece. "Team two, stay on the street. Team three, continue forward to the mosque plaza. But stay close."
Jones nodded toward Omar Abdul-Khaliq's property. It looked virtually unchanged from the satellite photo they had studied in the truck, a picture taken two weeks ago. Piles of stone and dirt filled one corner of the lot. Construction materials, protected by a chain-link fence, were stacked in the back near a small shed made of plywood. Payne stepped off the sidewalk and studied the terrain. Tread marks could be seen in the arid ground. They were recent.
"What do you think?" Payne asked.
"I think you were right. They're not building anything."
"Then what's with the rocks?" They were fractured and covered in dirt, like they had just been pulled from the ground. "They had to come from somewhere."
Jones agreed. Property this close to the mosque wouldn't be used as a dumping ground. It was too valuable as commercial space. However, as far as he could see, there was no excavation on the lot. Curious, he walked toward the chain link and spotted dozens of footsteps heading into and out of the shack. "I might have something."
Payne scanned the street for witnesses. No one was paying attention. "You're clear."
Jones pulled a gun from his ankle holster and slipped through the unlocked gate, cautiously approaching the shed, which lookedrnore like a long outhouse than a construction office. Yet for some reason, thick power cables ran through the right wall, the type of cords that were used for large industrial projects, not small shacks. The door was made of plywood and rested on iron hinges. Nudging it open with his free hand, Jones peeked inside.