Abuse of Power (30 page)

And then the sadness seemed to pass. She put her hands back on the wheel.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what they’d do. But
I
should have anticipated it.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
This
is where we are. Do we sit here or do we go and get those sons of bitches.”

“I’m trying to figure out
how,
” she said. “The team is gone, the computers. All we have is the USB key, and even if we manage to get the information off of it, it could be worthless.”

“You ever hear of the wasp strategy?” Jack asked.

“The wasp? Like the insect?”

“Yeah. How do you kill eighty people and destroy fourteen tons of hardware with something that weighs a fraction of a pound?”

She nodded. “Set a wasp loose in the cabin.”

“Exactly. We have to be wasps,” Jack said. “You said you have contacts around the world.”

“Yes, but we kept all our information on our hard drives. That’s why Alain wiped them.”

“You told him you have the key—”

“But I have no idea where he kept the backups,” she said. “I was a field operative, not a techie. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“We still have the encrypted e-mails Alain gave you,” Jack said.

“Right. But the key word is
encrypted.
Do you know anyone we can go to?”

Jack thought about the Reb, wondered if he should call him. But most of his people were in Tel Aviv, and getting there would take too long. Encrypted or not, he didn’t want to chance sending data over the Internet.

“Not in Europe,” he told her.

She paused, a sudden light in her eyes.

“What?”

“I work at the College of Islam. That was my cover. There’s a student there—a young man who’s brilliant with computers. In fact, if I remember correctly, he’s even done some work with codes. Maybe
he
can help us. He’s Muslim and he’s very religious, but he’s not like Zuabi. He’s a good man.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“I think so. What choice do we have?”

“None, at this point,” Jack said grimly. “Let’s just hope he agrees to help.”

“He will,” Sara said.

Jack didn’t know whether she was alluding to the flirtatious stick or ballistic carrot approach. Not that it mattered.

Right now, nothing mattered but stopping Zuabi.

28

London, England

It was a cardinal rule of intelligence work that Sara
had
learned: if your cover has been compromised, either go deep undercover or hide in plain sight.

Going to ground was not an option.

Fortunately, Sara and Jack looked a mess and stank of perspiration from the torture, their flight, days without a shower. Any description MI6 might have sent out barely applied to the dirty, disheveled couple who showed up for the train ride back to London. They had taken the precaution of having a drink so their breath suggested a night of heavy partying. And they acted the part as they purchased tickets with the cash Jack had been carrying.

They reached London without a hitch and cabbed to the school.

The young man’s name was Faisal al-Jubeir.

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six years old, and was an inch taller than Jack, with dark skin and a thick black beard. He seemed a bit irritated as he opened the door at nearly one in the morning. The moment he saw Sara his annoyance evaporated. He didn’t even seem to see Jack, not at first.

“Ms. Ghadah,” he said in surprise. “Sara. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry if we woke you, Faisal.”

“Actually, no. I was studying for—” He paused, frowning at her. Like everyone else, he saw and was mesmerized by Sara’s face in those first moments. “Your clothes, your
hijab
 … where are they? Why are you dressed like that?”

“It’s a long story,” she told him.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but I desperately need your help.”

He looked confused. “
My
help?”

“May we come in?”

He hesitated, glancing at Jack as though seeing him for the first time. Then he stepped back and opened the door wide. “Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

“Thank you, Faisal.”

They stepped into a clean but modest flat full of furniture that looked as if it had come with the rental. Cheap but functional. There was a small kitchenette with a dining table in front of it, the table cluttered with books and spiral binders, illuminated by a reading lamp. It was like being in a neat version of Max’s hacker friend Dave Karras’s place, with one exception: among the books was
Fundamentals of Islamic Philosophy.
Jack felt his gut tighten ever so slightly.

Amid the clutter was a laptop computer with a screensaver showing photographs of an attractive Arab woman and a small boy.

“Faisal, this is my friend Jack.”

“Assalamu alaikum,”
Faisal said, and they shook hands, each man assessing the other, Jack wanting to trust him and fighting the sense that he shouldn’t. He supposed it all boiled down to whether or not this young man’s idea of Islamic philosophy was similar to al-Fida’s and included killing in the name of Allah.

Sara had assured Jack that Faisal wasn’t a radical, but then Sara herself had spent nearly a year pretending to be something she wasn’t, as had Abdal and God knew how many others. Jack was still trying to adjust to the fact that there was a president of the United States with a middle name Hussein. Who was to say this guy wasn’t pretending as well?

Faisal gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Please.”

They sat and Faisal took a chair opposite them.

Sara leaned forward. “I know it’s late. And I know you’re not used to seeing me like this. I could probably give you some excuse as to why we’re here and look the way we do, but you’ve always struck me as a man of principle so I think it’s best to be truthful.”

“Yes, of course. Islam teaches us to strive always to excel in virtue and truth. But you’re starting to frighten me.”

“It’s a frightening world,” Jack said unhelpfully. But it had to be said. Everyone was a soldier for one side or the other, whether they liked it or not.

Sara reached into her pocket and pulled out the USB key. “This,” she told him. “There are some encrypted e-mails on it that I’m hoping you can crack.”

“Me?”

“I know how talented you are, Faisal. I know you’ve helped some of the teachers with their computers. Other students. And I know codes are one of your hobbies. I remember it from the essay in your application packet.”

He shrugged. “I know a few things.” He looked at the key suspiciously. “Who do these e-mails belong to?”

Sara fixed those beautiful but firm eyes on the young man. “Have you ever heard of a group called the Hand of Allah?”

His expression became restless, anxious. It was obvious he had. “Now you truly
are
frightening me. What are you involved in?”

“Trying to stop them,” she said frankly.

Jack was watching the young man’s face carefully. Nothing changed. That was a good sign. There was no,
“Aha! I’ve got you! You’ve fallen into a Hand of Allah trap!”

“We believe the e-mails come from a member of that group,” Sara went on. “Someone high within the home secretary’s office.”

“What?”
Faisal exclaimed. “That’s absurd! And why would
you
have them?”

That was sincere, Jack decided. He was beginning to feel better about this guy. Now all they had to do was get him to cooperate, to risk his life.

Sara was quiet a moment, as if looking for a way to explain it all. “Faisal, I’m not exactly who I seem to be,” she said. “You think of me as the quiet Muslim girl who works in the office, the girl you sometimes talk to during your lunch hour, but I only took that job as a cover.”

“Cover?” He looked nonplussed. “Cover for what?”

“I’m part of a counterterrorism unit. Or at least I was until tonight. The Hand of Allah hit us hard, in Paris. Jack and I made it out with just this key.”

“This is incredible,” Faisal said. He smirked. “Surely this is a joke. A prank. And I’ve fallen for—”

“Believe me, I wish it were,” she said.

“So you’re not Muslim?”

“I
am
Muslim, but this isn’t about religion. Religion is just an excuse these radicals use. You are part of our community. You should know that.”

“Of course,” he said. It was almost an apology.

Jack thought of all the heartache the U.S. Congress got for its radicalization hearings of American Muslims. Dammit—a lot of ordinary folks
did
know more than they let on.

“Look,” Sara told him, “I’m sorry to spring this on you but we really do need your help.” She waved the key in front of his face. “Will you try to decrypt this, or not?”

He looked at the floor, at a photograph on his desk, at the floor again, then at Sara. He took a long, slow breath. “If I do as you ask, who’s to say that the next knock on my door won’t be the Hand of Allah? I have a wife and young boy back home.”

“No one knows we’ve come here, and there’s no reason they should. You have my promise that this will remain between us. You, Jack, and me.”

Still, he hesitated.

“We really do need your help, Faisal,” she went on. “The Hand of Allah is planning an attack. A massive one, and that can only be bad for all of us.”

“Not just Muslims,” Jack added. “We’re talking about the future of Western Civilization here. Your own son’s future.”

Faisal still looked torn. Jack wasn’t sure whether he’d help or kick them out. Apparently, Faisal wasn’t sure, either. But then he took the USB key from Sara and got to his feet, moved to his laptop on the table.

He pushed the key into a slot and waited for the file system to recognize it. Then he called up the e-mails and studied them.

Time crawled. Jack was tired and he felt sleep encroaching, his eyes shutting. He may even have drowsed off. He didn’t know how much later it was when Faisal finally spoke.

“This is very sophisticated,” the young man said. “I have some code decryption software that might help, but even with that it could take hours to break this.”

“But it’s possible?” Sara asked.

“If the software can ferret out the proper keys, yes. But I offer no guarantees.” He paused. “You swear to me no one knows you’re here?”

“In the name of Allah,” she said.

He studied her carefully, as if weighing her sincerity. Then he slowly nodded. “You may as well make yourselves comfortable. We are in for a long night.”

*   *   *

Sara was asleep on the sofa, Jack slumped in the armchair across from her, only half awake, when Faisal said, “I know who you are, you know.”

That got Jack’s attention. He pulled himself upright unsure what to expect.

Faisal sat at the dining table, reading one of his textbooks. A clock on the wall said it was approaching two
A.M.
The decryption software had been running on the laptop for close to an hour, numbers and symbols skittering across its screen.

Faisal looked up from his book. “It took me a while to remember you. I saw your photograph in the newspapers some time ago. There was an article about the home secretary banning you from travel to this country. You’re an American television host.”

Jack shrugged. “Close enough.”

“I remember because we talked about you at the college. About the things you’ve said, your hatred of Muslims. Your desire to kill a hundred million of us.”

Jack didn’t like the direction this was heading. “That was taken completely out of context. I don’t hate all Muslims.”

“Just a few, then?” It was an accusation, not a question. “I saw the mistrust in your eyes when you first looked at me.”

“You have to understand my perspective,” Jack said. “There are a lot of radicals out there. Like the Hand of Allah. People who want to destroy America.”

“Yes, and that’s why I agreed to help you and Sara. But don’t you see that when you say such hateful things, it makes men like me feel as if you’re talking about
us
as well.”

“I understand, but it’s a very delicate balance. And I’m sure you have even more to fear from radicals than I do.”

“You’re a hundred percent right about that.”

He was quiet a moment as he closed his book and stared at the laptop, watching the software do its magic. Then he said, “But it isn’t just the radicals. My mother is Indian, and my father is Pakistani, and our extended family is a mix of many different beliefs. Some are
liberal
Muslims, and they may well be the worst curse there is.”

“Worse than those who want to kill people? Bomb them?”

“I don’t condone such actions, and I never will. But the liberals are nearly as dangerous in their own way. People who think that pornography and degeneracy and gay marriage are normal, acceptable. To my mind, that’s a bigger threat to the stability of Pakistan and the world than anyone can imagine.”

Jack relaxed a bit and had to stifle a smile. He almost felt as if he were in a bar back home, talking American politics with Tony or the Reb.

“When I’m not at school,” Faisal said, “I work in a mobile phone store. There’s another man who works there, a fundamentalist Christian, and we’ve had many conversations about our beliefs. And when it comes to social values, family values, we’re in total accord. We agree on almost everything with regard to how life should be led.”

The laptop beeped and he checked the screen, then typed in a quick entry and started it running again.

“The point I’m trying to make to you,” he said, “is that there are many varieties of Muslim, just as there are Catholics or Jews. There are Muslims who are not religious, yet use Islam as a political weapon. They have no interest in following the teachings, yet they’re willing to kill for their own self-advancement. Do you realize that in some of our Muslim schools—right here in England—they’re teaching young students how to properly chop off the hands of thieves?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were. It’s right there in their textbooks.” He paused, clearly disturbed by the thought. “But there are other Muslims, like me, who are
very
religious yet have no taste for violence, no desire to harm anyone. While I may detest what the liberals believe, and think that their view of society is dangerous, I don’t want to hurt or convert them, I simply want to be left alone. There are many of us who feel that way.”