Chapel waited until dinner was served for Sarah to return, then asked to speak with the agent in charge, the tall, white-haired man with a ruddy drinker’s complexion he’d seen usher Sarah out of the Blue Room. Not possible, came the answer. Perhaps the gentleman would care to take his seat and enjoy his dinner. The chef had prepared a fine meaclass="underline" potato galettes, roasted squab, a medley of summer squash. And for dessert, at the King’s request, a hot fudge sundae. He even let slip that the Saudi potentate had asked for vodka in his water glass. If the gentleman would care for the same, it would be a pleasure.
Chapel waited outside the White House until the last of the guests had filed past him. They had done it. Together, he and Sarah had stopped Marc Gabriel’s plan. They had thwarted Hijira. Yet why did he feel so empty? Slowly, he made his way through the silent streets to the car. It was parked where he’d left it, but he realized that Sarah had the keys. He looked around, eyes darting up and down the street. Searching. Wondering. Hoping. He caught sight of a shadow and raised himself onto his toes. But it was only a homeless man adjusting a blanket around his shoulders. He knew then that she wasn’t coming and that he would never see her again.
Still, he would not go. Eyes locked on the White House, he stood by the car until the exterior lights had dimmed, and night cloaked the portico in its forgiving shade, and he heard a bell toll midnight.
Chapter 62
A soft, steady wind swept across the sand, driving the gnarled strands of dried acacia before it, singing the tremulous song of a coming storm. Omar al-Utaybi wrapped the tail of his khaffiyeh over his nose and mouth and hiked the last few steps to the crest of the southernmost dune. The sky was still dark, an effervescent canopy of stars. As he stared to the east, the sun’s first rays fired the horizon. A reaper’s blade sliced the world into two. Another day had begun. He shivered at the drama.
Utaybi had not slept the entire night. Televisions tuned to CNN, Al-Jazeera, and the BBC still burned in the command tent. As yet, there was no news on any of the stations, nor on any of a half-dozen radio frequencies being monitored, of an attack on the American Capitol.
It was nine P.M. in Washington, D.C. By now, Noor was to have completed her task. Her instructions had been precise. She was to wait until the Saudi impostor entered the White House and then detonate the device. If for any reason she was denied access or threatened with capture, she was to immediately sacrifice herself. If any other eventuality ensued, she was to position herself as close to the White House as possible and set off the weapon.
Noor had phoned two hours earlier in jubilant spirits. Glendenning was dead. She was proceeding to the White House. She foresaw no difficulties. In parting, she had wished him a prosperous life and many more children, and said she hoped to see him in a better world. There was no question of her will. He could not imagine what had happened.
Closing his eyes, Utaybi offered a silent prayer for his youngest sister. Yet even as he completed his blessing, his phone rang.
“Noor,” he cried, recognizing her number on his phone’s digital screen. “What has happened? I have no word of the attack.”
“Noor is dead,” said the emotionless voice of an English female.
“Who is this?”
“We have the bomb. You failed.”
“What do you want?”
“This is your wake-up call, Omar al-Utaybi. Time to go to hell.”
Desperately, Utaybi tried to turn off his phone. He could not. Somewhere high in the sky a satellite had acquired the signal and was jamming his frequency. It was too late. He knew the technology. They had triangulated his position. His fate was cast.
Dropping the phone, he turned to run down the hill. He had only covered a hundred yards when he caught the cruise missile’s silver streak, its blazing black-orange flame rushing at him.
The sun, he thought, reflecting off a limestone bluff.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many members of the United States law enforcement community contributed to the writing of this book. Due to their positions and the confidential nature of their work, I find it best not to give their names. I can only offer my thanks. I would like to thank Director James Sloan and the staff of the Financial Enforcement Network for their invaluable assistance. As well, I would like to extend my gratitude to the Department of the Treasury, the United States Customs Service, and the Internal Revenue Service. Dan Starer of Research for Writers in New York City was a huge help. He can be reached at Researchforwriters.com.
At Bantam Dell, my thanks to Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Betsy Hulsebosch, Susan Corcoran, Carolyn Schwartz, Andrea Nicolay, and, of course, to my editor extraordinaire, Bill Massey.
At Headline UK, thanks to Martin Fletcher and his band of merry men for a great night in Zurich. Let’s do it again!
At Arthur Pine and Associates, hats off to Lori Andiman. As always to my agent, Richard Pine, a very big “thank-you” for your enthusiasm, counsel, and unwavering support.
Finally, to my wife, Sue, and my two wonderful daughters, Noelle and Katja, you make it all worthwhile.
CHRISTOPHER REICH DISCUSSES HIS INSPIRATION FOR THE DEVIL’S BANKER IN THE FOLLOWING ESSAY.
Follow the money… that’s the new slogan in the war against terrorism. The idea’s simple: One way to catch the bad guys is to track how and where they spend their money. The execution is a lot harder. With terrorism (unlike organized crime and narcotics trafficking), the culprits spend their money first and then commit the crime. Still, the theory is sound. If you can just follow the money, maybe you can prevent an act of terror from being committed.
The idea for The Devil’s Banker came to me in the first terrible days following 9/11. As I learned about the shadowy underground banking system called Hawala and the intricate manner in which Al Qaeda shifted their funds around the world, I grew determined to write a book about it.
Before turning to writing, I worked as an investment banker in Switzerland. Part of that time I spent as a private banker, basically catering to the whims and worries of a very rich clientele. It was nothing to see deposits and transfers among your clients of a couple of hundred million dollars… a day! Many of these individuals held numbered accounts. Whenever they called, they simply gave us the account number and instructed us what to do with their money. Most had never been obliged to provide their names, addresses, phone numbers, and the like. And while many bankers built up-close-and-personal relationships with their clients-going so far as to vacation at their homes in St. Tropez or accept rides in private jets to New York or Hong Kong-it was not unusual for some to have little idea with whom they were speaking. If you’ve read my first book, Numbered Account, you’ll know the kinds of trouble that can lead to.
The Devil’s Banker goes it a step further, looking at the problem from another side of the prism. Namely, how does a terrorist supremo finance his operations without drawing the attention of the law enforcement community? And how does a sharp U.S. Treasury agent find him, force him into the open, and nail him?
To conduct my research, I called on some friends at the Treasury Department and at Customs. I wanted to talk about one thing: terrorist finance. I guess one or two had actually read my books, because (to my amazement and everlasting gratitude) they rolled out the red carpet for me. Last April, I found myself jetting to Washington, D.C., to spend two weeks checking out our government’s newly constructed counterterrorism apparatus from the inside. You can read about what I saw in the new book, but let me summarize it in one word: absolutelyfrigginincredible! I would not want to be in the government’s crosshairs. Our law enforcement officers are whip smart, dedicated, and when need be, meanass muthas. It made me seriously reconsider my career path. These Americans were doing something positive for our country and for the world.