Tariq smiled, his white teeth stained pink with blood.
‘It’s not over,’ he rasped, his chest surging as he fought for every last breath. ‘It’s only just begun.’
‘The Presidents of America and China are safe,’ Ethan snapped. ‘You failed, Tariq. It’s over.’
‘Is it?’ the old man asked. ‘Then where is Abrahem?’
Ethan felt a sudden premonition of doom sweep over him. ‘You tell me, Tariq.’
Tariq’s smile did not slip even as Ethan heard police sirens wailing ever closer, fighting their way through the dense traffic.
‘To fight is to be courageous,’ Tariq whispered, ‘but to deceive is to be wise.’
‘Where is Abrahem?!’ Ethan snapped.
Tariq’s grip on his blade faltered and the weapon clattered to the sidewalk as his chest stopped moving and he gasped one final sentence.
‘Getting his revenge before he joins me in paradise.’
Tariq’s smile remained in place even as the light of life faded from his eyes and his hands slumped from his wounds to slap down onto the sidewalk.
Ethan stared at the old man for a long moment and then he heard the President’s voice on the screens erected in the park nearby, saw him addressing the crowds on the South Lawn of the White House. There, on the image, were satellite links to other dignitaries not present at the ceremony but watching from afar.
And finally, Ethan understood what Tariq had meant. Deception.
‘Oh no.’
Ethan whirled and sprinted across the park as he sought a means of transport. He knew that he had only minutes to act.
XLVI
The sun was low in the sky, sheets of molten metal flaring behind the rows of trees lining the asphalt road that weaved between vast estates and ranches nestled within deep forests and rolling hills.
Travilah was one of the United States’ most exclusive residences, a place where those with the means could retire to a life of leisure far from the turbulence of Washington DC but close enough to feel the distant pulse of the country’s beating political heart. Broad green fields, lush forests and tranquil lakes dotted the countryside in the late afternoon sunshine as Abrahem Nassir walked up the long drive of a massive colonially styled mansion.
Abrahem did not know precisely what panic he had managed to cause in the capital city of America, although he did know that the city was gridlocked. The Presidential meeting on the South Lawn of the White House was captivating the world, and the traffic through the city was ensuring that nobody would be moving anywhere fast for a good few hours. The radio he had listened to on the drive out of the city had hinted at several police actions around the Capitol area, police chases and other events that suggested perhaps the capture of people who intended harm to the country. Abrahem smiled, for he knew that while the law enforcement agencies of the most powerful country on Earth were otherwise engaged, he would now play the ace in his sleeve that none of them had seen coming.
America would now have its own moment of shock and awe.
Abrahem could not help but compare his elegant surroundings with the killing fields of Iraq and the battered, sun scorched ruins of Basra where children ran in bare feet and ragged clothes, ever fearful of attack by Islamic militants and American air strikes alike; where water was a luxury, not a given; where life was short, cheap and often filled with suffering.
But here in America was the paradise that so many of the militants spoke of, not as part of some supposed afterlife but in the here and now. A warm sun, a blue sky, rolling fields, water everywhere, luxury everywhere, nothing to fear.
Nothing but Abrahem.
The security guards at the main entrance to the home had been easy to kill. Despite Abrahem’s obvious Middle Eastern origins, they had suspected no foul play when he had pulled in alongside their post to ask for directions. Both had been happy to assist him, both had scrutinized his map at his request and both had collapsed as 9mm slugs punctured their internal organs. Moments later, two more rounds had pierced their skulls.
Abrahem had opened the main gates and then hauled the bodies into his vehicle’s trunk before driving slowly toward the house, the drive of which wound back and forth between ranks of tall, elegant aspen that were aesthetically pleasing and yet tactically disastrous for the occupants of the house beyond. Abrahem knew that they lived safe in the knowledge that despite their heinous crimes they would never be brought to justice for them, would never face a trial for the wars they had started, for the lives they had taken.
Abrahem slowed his vehicle and watched the house for a moment, then he killed the engine and climbed out, closed his door quietly. He knew that most of the occupants of the house would be sitting in front of the television, watching intently and indeed be being watched by millions of Americans. Despite the confidence he had in his plan Abrahem was surprised to feel somewhat nervous as he approached the front door. Perhaps it was because he had waited so long, yearned so much for this moment? He pushed the emotion aside as he reached the front door of the house, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
Abrahem tapped in a text message and pressed send. Then, he waited. In his vehicle was a transmitter, which was signalling an implant inside the home.
Within two minutes the door to the massive house opened and a smartly dressed man confronted Abrahem. He was broad shouldered, with a thick neck and the closely cropped hair of a former military soldier. 1st Infantry Brigade Combat Team, to be precise, which had deployed to Baghdad, Iraq in 2008. Corporal James Larson, rifleman, twenty nine years of age, now a security specialist assigned to the permanent protection detail of a former President of the United States. He had been implanted after a minor bullet wound had required surgery in a field hospital near Basra.
Abrahem moved quickly, quietly, the blade flashing across Larson’s neck. The soldier did not flinch, seemed almost asleep as the razor sharp blade opened his throat with a crisp sound, blood spilling in copious floods down his white shirt.
Abrahem watched, fascinated, as the soldier’s legs slowly gave way and the light of life faded from his eyes. Like a giant statue he toppled slowly forward and Abrahem side — stepped Larson’s body as it plummeted down and smashed into the steps in front of the house.
Abrahem grabbed hold of the former soldier’s ankles and hauled him inside, then closed the door once more.
Hannah Ford hurried inside the White House feeling as though she were dreaming, the colors around her more vivid than she recalled them ever being. Her fatigue suddenly vanished as she turned a corridor, two Secret Service agents escorting her as she laid eyes on FBI Director LeMay.
The White House state dining room was filled with guests, the air humming with conversation beneath the ornate chandelier hanging over dining tables laid with Lenox gold charger plates and cutlery.
‘The threat has been successfully neutralized,’ came Secret Service Agent Hopkin’s voice over the radio. ‘Olympus is safe.’
Hannah fumbled to get her microphone into place quickly enough to reply, her access to the White House cleared only minutes before by Jarvis via the President himself.
‘Negative,’ she snapped, ‘I say again, negative, the threat has not been neutralized. All stations, stay alert!’
Her eyes sought out Director LeMay once more. The Director was talking to a pair of Chinese delegates, a flute of sparkling champagne in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Hannah began heading toward the Director, possessed of a determination that she had never felt before in all of her years. To her left she could see the President of the United States talking to the President of the People’s Republic of China, surrounded by a small army of delegates all keen to shake the hands of the most powerful man on earth.