Critical Mass (30 page)

“We can lead whoever you want into Pamir, and show them his hideaway. And his clerk is here in Peshawar. We can identify him.”

So ended the life of the Mahdi Aziz, the son of a carpenter. His life ended, yes. But nothing else did.

THE LOST PLANE

At ten minutes to midnight, Bilal had embraced Hani. “Soon, you will know the joy
of heaven! What happiness!”

Hani had not smiled, but Bilal had not seen the danger of this, fool that he was. Now he hurried through the streets, looking for his brother.

Bilal had thought that surely Hani was ready. He had prayed so earnestly, had worked so hard on the preparations. He would fly; it would be over in a minute; all would be well.

Didn’t Hani realize that they were both dead anyway? The bomb had been removed from its shielded container. Nothing protected them from its radiation. They would both sicken and die in days. In any case, it didn’t matter, because this house in Alexandria was only ten miles from the White House. This house would burn—and, in any case, Bilal planned to be on the roof, so that he would be killed immediately. Why wait and suffer?

The plane was stationed too near the point of detonation for it to be stopped in time. F-16s circled constantly, and an E-4B flew higher. It was officially a flying command post, but Bilal thought that this one must be modified to work like a very sophisticated AWACS, with the kind of downward-looking radar that would immediately guide the F-16s to a target.

Hani needed under four minutes in the air, but still it would be a near
thing. At the first sign of a missile launch against him, he would detonate, no matter where he was.

It had all been so well planned. Their training had been so excellent, the aliases given, everything! And now look at this Hani; in the end he values his own life more highly than Allah’s will!

Bilal thought of all the men and women who had so willingly given their lives in Palestine, in Iraq, all over the world, for love of God, and now this little fool, the most important of them all—here he was—he ran away.

The promise of heaven was true. How could he, a good Muslim, not know that? Bilal had to find him. But where? Aleph Street was empty and silent.

Bilal had kept Hani far from the Islamic Community of Northern Virginia, lest he be tainted by their apostate ways. They were worse than Shia.

Bilal wished that the Mahdi with all his knowledge of the universe, of the souls of the living and the dead, of heaven and hell, were here to offer the advice that Bilal needed, but that could not be, because the Mahdi was still hidden by Allah himself, and would remain so until the final triumph. Must be, or he would certainly be killed. The Americans had always in the past paid their great rewards to those devils who gave up holy warriors, and now the reward for the Mahdi was up to $20 million. Even with the dollar falling like a stone into a bottomless well, that was still much money. If the Mahdi was indeed proved to be dead, the Crusaders’ wealth would rise again, along with their steel armies and their deadly, godless ways.

“Hani,” Bilal called. His voice echoed. “Hani, I am weeping! Hani!” It was already twelve fifteen.
“Hani!”

Most of the shops were dark, the Flair Cleaners, of course, but also the 7-Eleven on the corner—dark and the door chained closed. But then, at the far end of the street, Bilal saw a glow. That could be that little café, the place of the badly seared hamburgers. Those men in there were Muslim. They would do their business and trust to Allah’s will. Or the Starbucks on Kingdom Street, perhaps, but the blacks in there, they were like all Americans; they would certainly run.

Bilal raced down Aleph, his legs pumping, hating to get away from the plane and the bomb. Crusader trucks bristling with antennae were ranging the streets, helicopters passing overhead. There was a reason that he and Hani had rented an apartment on a street directly behind a medical-imaging
center, full of radioactive elements to throw off just such a search. And so far, it had worked, but it would not work much longer. With the bomb no longer shielded, it was only a matter of time before the searchers would see that the imaging center was emitting too much radiation, and would investigate.

There was no hiding an unshielded plutonium bomb, not for long.
“Hani!”

“Can I help you?”

Bilal stopped, breathing hard. He tried to smile at the Crusader policeman, knew he had failed. “I am sorry. My brother, he is—” Bilal touched his head. “Beloved of God, we say, do you know?”

The cop nodded. “A little slow?”

“Yes, that’s right. And he’s afraid. He’s wandered off.”

A big hand came down on Bilal’s shoulder. “He’ll be all right.” The policeman smiled, then, and his smile was strong, firm. “Look at your watch; what do you see?”

“Twelve twenty-two,” Bilal said, trying to keep the despair out of his voice.

“So, they missed! Your brother’s probably celebrating!”

Bilal raised his hands. “Oh, thank God,” he intoned.

“Him and all the angels, buddy,” the cop said. “We got a curfew, now, so you need to get back home. Has your brother got a cell? I might be able to reach it through the police net.”

“No cell. Oh, look—the Starbucks—is that open?”

“Cops only.”

Bilal hurried past him, but a moment later there was the squawk of a siren, then the flashing of the police car’s lights. Bilal stopped, raised his hands. The cops, two of them, now both in their squad car, gave him genial looks. “Hop in. If he’s not in the Starbucks, we’ll cruise you for a while. We’ll find him.”

So Bilal got into the police car, sitting in the cage in the back. Had the devils captured him? They were clever, the Crusaders. He sat forward on the seat, trying to appear calm.

“Rough one, today,” one of the cops said.

“Yes, Sir. Very definitely.”

“You guys staying under cover?” asked the other cop. “Because there’s a lotta folks—you know—well, it’s a tough time for you now. You Arab?”

“We are Iraqi. I’m a procurement specialist. My brother—well, he keeps our house, God willing.”

“What agency you with?”

“No. Iraqi government.”

“Yeah. That must be interesting work.”

“Very interesting!”

Then he saw Hani. He was sitting in the Starbucks, but what was worse, he was there among a dozen police and other helmets, sitting working on a laptop! What was he doing there with that computer? Was he giving them all away?

“Oh,” Bilal said, “he’s there. Stop. Stop now.”

“Hey, we found ’im!”

Bilal pulled the handle, and found that the door had not been secretly locked, after all. These Crusader fools had helped their enemy.

He went into the Starbucks. There was music playing; was it Joni Mitchell? Sweet voice, anyway, some Crusader harlot or other, “Give Peace a Chance.” Idiots. “Hello, Hani.”

“Hello.”

“Is this betrayal?”

“No. I’m only playing King Kong.”

“King Kong?”

“That game. It was in the house when we rented it. It’s good fun!”

“Hani, it’s half past twelve.”

“I know it.”

“Are you not going?”

Hani played the game.

Bilal sat down across from him. “My brother, this is defamation for our family. Even in the eyes of God.”

“It’s fun, but hard to get the gorilla to leap. I think perhaps it’s a little defective.”

The first of the two policemen came in. A few of the others greeted him.

“Here we are in the den of the Crusaders! Hani, please come home.”

“Hey there, guys, we gotta roll. You comin’ or not?”

“We will come.”

“He can use a computer?”

“All the time, he plays a gorilla game. We will walk home later.”

“You better come with us. It just ain’t safe for you folks.”

Bilal looked up sharply.

The policeman smiled. “I’m embarrassed, but I think you understand that it’s not safe for somebody who looks like you. Not safe tonight.”

Bilal took Hani’s arm, and gently brought him to his feet. “Come, my brother. You need never do that chore I asked of you. Come home with me.”

Hani touched Bilal with his eyes. “There is no other way.”

“Brother, there is. When we are home, I will show you this.”

They were taken home by the police, back to the plane and the bomb, and as they went into the house an F-16 thundered low overhead, its fuselage glowing in the city lights.

Inside the house, Bilal said, “I have another way. I am too heavy now, but perhaps that can change.”

Hani’s eyes grew as quick as those of an uneasy sparrow. Flick, flick, they went, looking to the living room, to the kitchen, resting on the door into the garage.

“You must help me, Hani.” Bilal tugged at his brother’s shoulder. “Here, come to the garage; we have the saw.”

Hani pulled away. He looked at the floor. Shook his head. “I will go,” he said.

As midnight had approached, President Fitzgerald had ranged the White House like Banquo’s ghost, followed and guarded at every turn by Marines.

At ten minutes to twelve, he had taken a call from the Pakistani leader: “Mr. President, I know that Dream Angel is off the deck. I am calling to beg you for our lives.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fitz had said, and immediately felt weak for saying it. He sensed his power—American power—ebbing away, dying with the dollar and the terrible passage of this night. He’d hung up, not listening to the man’s further protests.

There had been two calls from the pope, who was apparently with the Saudi Grand Mufti. The Saudi king had telephoned twice. More pleas, no doubt. There had been other calls from Syria, from Iran, from Indonesia, everybody knowing that Dream Angel had moved to its fail-safe points, everybody knowing that the moment Washington was destroyed, hundreds of millions of Muslims would also be destroyed.

At five minutes to the hour, the vice president had called. “Fitz, I want you to know that the Document of Transfer arrived safely. I have it here.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Matt.” The world was distant from Fitz now, full of details—the singing of the crowd out on Pennsylvania Avenue, the distant roar of a passing F-16, the tap of heels along a corridor he could not see.

“That’s not why I called.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Come on; I’ve got the chopper on the lawn!”

“America does not run.”

“The death of the president will be looked on as proof of our weakness. It will be seen as a defeat!”

“The courage of the president will be seen as strength. Then the world will see a smooth transition of power. That’s what history has to remember, not that I turned turtle and saved my own damn ass. There’s a lot of movers and shakers out there, for God’s sake.”

“Who?”

“That crowd. Senator Martin is there, Cardinal O’Halloran, for God’s sake. They’ve been singing for hours. Standing their ground because I am standing mine. This is the best way, bro. Take it from me.”

“It’s a waste of life! The kids, Fitz, Linda. Think of them!” Matt paused. When his voice came back, it was darker, and there was a lot there, Fitz knew, that was not being said. “You could have evacuated a lot of people from that city.”

“And risk an immediate detonation? No. Listen to me: Dream Angel is approaching fail-safe. They can remain on station for four hours; then there’s a refueling cycle.”

“The moment Washington is destroyed, they’re goin’ in. Should’ve gone in hours ago.”

“You don’t think my decision was the right one, either.”

“Fitz, there are no right decisions in this thing. I would have sent Dream Angel and gotten the hell out of D.C. You look at things differently.”

One minute to twelve had come. “You wouldn’t have. No way. Not if you were in this chair.” The trouble with Dream Angel was that it was too big to use. You have an ant on a plate, you can’t use a sledgehammer without smashing the plate you’re trying to keep clean. But there was no use
explaining any of this. One thing a president learns early—don’t explain yourself, because you can’t.

“Fitz?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s twelve two.”

“Well, hell, they’re late, aren’t they? Go with God, bro.”

“You, too. My love to all.”

“I have a cussed tough family.”

They were both silent, then. Hanging up this phone, Fitz thought, was like an act at the end of the world. But he did it. He looked at the phone, on the old Roosevelt Desk. He was in the Oval again. He didn’t give a damn who heard what. At last, the president of the United States had no secrets.

“Logan, we got anything from upstairs?”

“Nothing. There is not one bogey in the sky anywhere in the area. And every high point from Atlanta to Bangor has been searched at least twice. Plus the radiation detection teams are out in force. Fitz, there just isn’t anything.”

“I wish the damn detectors were better.”

“The best technology in the world—”

“—just isn’t good enough!”

He went to the window, looked out across the shadow-filled Rose Garden. Officially, he was a praying man. They liked that, the American people. Guy like them, grateful to his God. Fine.