Tariq stepped around behind the huge wooden registration desk and pointed his flashlight down at a filthy red throw rug. Then, as Bennett and McCoy watched closely, he pulled back the rug and lifted away several loose wooden floorboards, revealing a steel doorframe. He punched a nine-digit code into an electronic keypad built into the door, and a lock clicked open. Tariq quickly slid open the thick, rectangular steel blast door, easily moving it sideways to the right as though it were a sliding glass door leading to someone's back porch or deck.
Behind this door, set several feet down in concrete, was a round steel hatch, like one found on a submarine. To the left was a small, palm-sized glass pad onto which Tariq placed his left hand. The pad lit up fluorescent green, highlighted each of his fingerprints and palm prints, digitally scanned them and fed them into a mainframe computer database somewhere down below, then emitted a series of muffled beeps as it processed the incoming data. A few seconds later, satisfied that the complete handprint really was that of Tariq Abu Ashad, a.k.a. Robin — Jake Ziegler's senior watch officer at Gaza Station — the hatch electronically unlocked. "What about Mancuso?" Bennett asked.
"I'll send some guys up for him in a few minutes," Tariq answered. "We've got a morgue down below."
Bennett just looked at him for a moment. They had a morgue? Sporadic machine-gun fire could now be heard outside. Soon the entire coastal area would be swarming with militia members, firefighters and medical personnel, and crowds eager to know the Americans' fate. Bennett offered to go down the hatch first. McCoy went down next. Then Galishnikov and Sa'id. Tariq brought up the rear, pulling the rug back in place, closing both doors above them, sealing the hatch and rearming the alarm system.
It took a moment for Bennett's eyes to adjust. Though the main room before him was dimly lit, the technology was spectacular. It reminded him of the safe house underneath Dr. Mordechai's house in Jerusalem, the house where he'd almost died, and then it hit him again — in the Middle East, nothing was ever what it seemed. "Mr. Bennett, I presume?"
Bennett stood there silent for a moment, stared Jake Ziegler in the eye, and took his measure. They were both about six feet tall, but the similarities stopped there. Where Bennett had short dark hair, Ziegler's bleached blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Bennett was an ethnic mutt, Scotch-Irish on his father's side and Greek-Italian on his mother's side. Ziegler was 100 percent German. Both of his grandparents had escaped the Kaiser's regime just before the first World War, made their way to Ellis Island, and settled just south of Pittsburgh. Bennett had his mother's olive skin, giving him a year-round look of being slightly tanned though he was hardly ever outside.
Ziegler couldn't have been paler. He, too, was rarely in the sun, but with him it showed. Bennett had perfect twenty-twenty vision. Ziegler wore thin, round, silver wire-rimmed glasses from a life spent in front of computers of all kinds and unnaturally dark rooms in Washington and all over the Middle East.
Ziegler put out his hand. Bennett didn't shake it.
"Are the blindfolds really necessary?" Bennett asked, a bit too bluntly.
"I'm afraid they are," Ziegler said.
"These are friends," Bennett continued. "They don't deserve to be treated like criminals."
Ziegler lowered his hand, but didn't flinch.
"As for saving your lives, Mr. Bennett, you're welcome. As for your friends, I will have them escorted into a secure room where they can clean up. They'll have clean beds, hot food, plenty to drink, access to satellite television. They'll have a phone they can use to call out of the room — just within this facility, not local or international. And, of course, you'll be able to see them whenever you'd like. Beyond that, I can't help you."
Ziegler was careful not to give away his name or any information that could help Galishnikov or Sa'id identify where they were or whom they were with.
"But they're basically prisoners?" Bennett pressed.
"No, they're foreign nationals without U.S. citizenship or top-secret clear ances."
"They're with me," Bennett said, his voice a bit louder. "That should be enough."
"Please, please, it's OK, Jonathan," Sa'id offered. "You've got work to do — go do it. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine."
"First of all, it's not OK," said Bennett. "Second of all—"
"Jonathan, really," Galishnikov interrupted. "We understand. Really we do. It's OK. Ibrahim is right. Don't worry about us."
"I appreciate that," Bennett said "But like I said, it's not OK."
"It's going to have to be," Ziegler said, his placid demeanor unchanged. "Gentlemen, I appreciate your understanding of the unique situation you're now in, and your willingness to make the best of it. We'll get you all out of here just as soon as we can. But right now I've got a job to do and I need to get back to it."
Bennett took a step forward and stared hard into Ziegler's eyes. McCoy tensed. She wasn't sure what he was going to do, or how she should respond.
"If you'd been doing your job," Bennett said in a whisper, "we wouldn't be here. So now you work for me. You got that?"
Ziegler wasn't sure how to respond. Bennett was right. Moreover, he knew Bennett outranked him by a factor of ten. So did McCoy. But did that mean he was really supposed to let them take over his operation? Marsha Kirkpa-trick had personally called him from the White House. She'd ordered him to give Bennett anything and everything he needed, and to set him up for a videoconference with the president that was supposed to start in just a few minutes. Ziegler was already in enough trouble. His career was already on the line. Did he really want the first thing out of Bennett's mouth when he got on the line with the president to be that Ziegler was guilty of insubordination?
"I'll need to run this past my boss," Ziegler insisted.
"I'm your boss," said Bennett. "Now get these guys taken care of."
Ziegler nodded. So did Galishnikov and Sa'id. Ziegler took Tariq aside and whispered something to him in Arabic. Tariq excused himself and led the two out of the main room, through a double set of soundproof doors, down a dark corridor and out of sight as Ziegler introduced Bennett and McCoy to the rest of his team and started directing them to "seal the cave."
Ziegler's three duty officers, it turned out, were all American-born Palestinians. Each was a fluent Arabic speaker, and all were veterans of the CIA's Directorate of Operations with at least five years' experience. Their love of the United States and willingness to die to defend her principles and values stood in marked contrast to the horror show unfolding above them, and Bennett couldn't help but be impressed with their professionalism as they moved quickly through a series of emergency procedures.
Nazir worked the computer systems, sending a new flash traffic e-mail to Langley — Code Red, Priority Alpha — backing up files and data systems, and doing a systems check on all of the myriad telecommunications systems to make sure they were all still working and hadn't been compromised in any way — shut down, rerouted or tapped, for starters. Hamid worked the physical plant, double-checking the purity of the air and water coming into the facility, firing up the auxiliary power generators, and preparing to take Gaza Station off the local power grid. Maroq unlocked the weapons vault — giving everyone instant access, if needed, to flak jackets, gas masks, and fully locked and loaded M-4 submachine guns.
Only then did Bennett offer his hand.
"Jon Bennett," he said, though there was still an edge to his voice.
Ziegler eyed Bennett, then McCoy, then shook Bennett's hand.
"Jake Ziegler," he finally said. "Welcome to the Bat Cave."