Escape (61 page)

What in the hell am I doing in this filthy tunnel?
William White wondered as he waited for Amir Al-Sistani below Trinity Church.

Like most of the families connected to the Sons of Man, even though his had no seat on the council, the Whites had attended Trinity Church for more than two hundred years. And they were well aware of the coal tunnel located off a little-known passage beyond the old crypts in the basement. In fact, some of the more adventurous boys in those families had played in the tunnels. Legend had it that the old man, Dean Newbury, had once taken his brother, Vincent, into the tunnels and tried to lose him there. It was only after several hours of searching that other family members had located the boy.

White tilted his head and listened, thinking he heard voices coming his way from the dark. He pulled a small gun from his pocket. His orders were to escort Al-Sistani and maybe one or two others out of the church to a waiting limousine, which would take them to a private airfield in New Jersey where a jet waited. Anyone else, he was to shoot on sight.
Who else would be stupid enough to be wandering around in this horrible place?

He heard the sound of footsteps, and two small figures emerged from the shadows. Not exactly what he was expecting.
Maybe they're hostages.
He'd been told to speak French to The Sheik. "
Qui est la?"

The answer wasn't what he expected either. "It's the Coal Tunnel Ghost!" one yelled. The other started screaming so loudly that he decided to shoot him just to stop the noise.

He was about to pull the trigger when something struck him hard in the back. So hard that it brought some warm sticky fluid into his mouth. He wiped the moisture with his hand and looked at it. Then he didn't care because he was dead.

"Hello boys," said a tall dark figure.

"Aaah, it's the Coal Tunnel Ghost!" Zak yelled for the second time.

"No it's not, you idiot," Giancarlo said. "It's David Grale."

"In the flesh," Grale said as he stepped on the back of the dead man to pull his knife out. "You want to tell me what's going on up there?"

Marlene stepped out from behind the filing cabinet as the young black man in the NYPD uniform and wearing a vest full of explosives and ball bearings charged toward her. She shot, striking him in the shoulder. Her next shot hit him in the chest and for a moment she cringed, fearing an explosion. Some part of her mind filed away the fact that the explosive was C-4 and hard to set off with a bullet, but not impossible. She aimed low and shot a leg.

It had the desired effect of stopping the charge. The black man fell against a wall, which he used to stay on his feet. Marlene aimed the gun at his head.

"Allah-u-Akbar,
" he said and yanked the cord to the detonator.

At the same moment, Marlene dropped the gun and pulled the filing cabinet over on its side, falling to the ground behind it. There was a roar and a sound like a sudden violent hailstorm as a thousand hard objects pinged off the walls, floor, and ceiling, with a couple dozen hitting the filing cabinet with a metallic "ponk." The force of the blast knocked the cabinet into Marlene and hurled them both ten yards down the hall.

It was over as suddenly as it had started. Marlene's ears rang and she felt like she'd been in a car crash. She got to her knees and surveyed the scene. Some of the ceiling had caved in, and the walls on both sides of the blast were buckled like someone had taken a giant hammer to them. Bits of ceiling tile, insulation, and, perhaps, clothing burned. But there was little left of the bomber, just a splash of blood, as well as pieces of flesh that she didn't care to look at long enough to recognize.

Smoke hung like a fog six feet down from the ceiling. A large man appeared out of the smoke. He pointed his submachine gun at her.

Behind her a gun roared three, maybe four times ... it was difficult to tell with her head still ringing ... and the large man in the suit was driven back into the smoke. Marlene turned to see who her benefactor might be and was surprised to see Fulton crouched with his smoking gun still aimed at the dead man. Behind him was her husband.

"Well, hello Butch," she shouted louder than she meant to. "Wait 'til I tell you what we learned in school today."

Fulton brought them back to reality. "Where are Lucy and the twins?"

Marlene's face looked like somebody had thrown cold water in it. Her eyes hardened. "They've got to be down this way," she said and took off running with Fulton and his team in pursuit.

"Now where's she off to?" a young officer said as he and Karp ran to catch them.

"Mama Bear is off to find her cubs," Karp replied. "I feel sorry for anybody who gets between them."

Amir Al-Sistani, The Sheik and future caliph of an Islamic world, felt his way along the coal tunnel like a blind man. He knew it had only been about ten minutes, but the tunnel was oppressive and longer than he had expected. He kept bumping his head and nearly falling, or stumbling into little side openings, but pulling back quickly at the sound of things scurrying there in the dark.

He looked ahead. "There!" he yelled. "I see a light! Allah be praised!" He yanked on the rope to force V. T. to pick up the pace, but all he got was the rope. "Ahmed! Where's the prisoner?"

There was no answer. Al-Sistani turned around but he couldn't see a thing in the dark. "Ahmed? Where are you?"

The only answer was the sound of a struggle and then an odd gurgling sound. "Damn it, Ahmed, answer me!"

"I'm afraid he can't talk right now," said a deep voice. Other voices laughed insanely.

Al-Sistani raised his gun and fired in the direction of the voice. Then someone or something ran past him, clubbing his arm so that the gun fell from it.

Next, someone struck a match. It took Al-Sistani a moment to realize that he was staring into the face of Ahmed, and Ahmed was staring back.

However, the man's head was no longer attached to his body; it was held aloft by a tall, robed man with dark, sunken eyes.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the robed man said. "My name is David Grale, and I will be your host for the rest of your life." He tossed the head of Ahmed to Al-Sistani just as the match went out. The Sheik shrieked and passed out.

"Geez, he screamed just like Giancarlo," Zak scoffed and turned on a flashlight that Grale had given him. "Which is pretty much like a little girl."

"Screw you, Zak. At least I'm not yelling about ghosts every time somebody jumps out of the dark!"

"Oh yeah? Well, at least..."

"Boys," Grale interrupted. "I believe your mom and sister may still be in trouble. V. T., are you all right?"

"A little woozy," V. T. said. "I got a nasty bump on the head, and they shot me up with something."

"Do you think you and the boys, can make it to the light up there—that's the entrance to the Trinity Church crypts."

"Sure," V. T. answered. "I won't be much use to you anyway."

"No way," Zak said. "We're going back to help our mom now that we got a posse."

Grale gripped Zak's shoulder. "You're going to do what I say," he growled. "I don't have time to argue. I want you to go sit still in the church until someone comes to find you. If you don't, I will introduce you to the real Coal Tunnel Ghost and you won't like it. Am I clear?"

Both boys nodded.

"What about me?"

The group looked down at Amir Al-Sistani. "I can pay you very well to let me go. I have a jet waiting for me in New Jersey. I'll leave and never come back."

Grale reached down and grabbed the man by the throat to lift him to his feet. "I wouldn't dream of letting you go just yet," he said. "No, 'Sheik,' you and I will be having many long chats this winter. I'm looking forward to learning all about you and some of your friends. Meanwhile, Booger, would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Al-Sistani to our little home beneath the streets?"

"'appy to," Booger snuffled. He grabbed Al-Sistani by the scruff of the neck and shoved him down the tunnel, "'et's go."

Al-Sistani fell to his knees, pleading and begging to be freed. Booger and some of the others laughed, forcing him down the tunnel and into the dark where he continued to scream long after he'd disappeared from sight.

Grale turned to V. T. and the boys. "Off you go. I'll go see if I can find your mother and sister and grandfather."

Nadya Malovo watched as Ivgeny and his men fought their way into the nineteenth-floor office. Her men were fighting back from behind desks and posts, but they were up against former Russian commandos with years of experience fighting real mujahideen. It was clear they were outflanking her men.

She looked at her Blackberry. The market was down five percentage points, and she was supposed to wait for four more. She glanced back at the monitor. One of Ivgeny's men was down but so were all but three of hers. Mujahid and Samar were still alive, but they weren't armed and had taken refuge from the flying bullets behind a desk.

Ivgeny could not be allowed to reach the detonator. It was an effective device, but disarming it was as easy as pressing the off button. She was going to have to move the timetable up. She was sure that the market would still slide past the 10 percent mark, and the backup would be destroyed.

"Mujahid!" she yelled. "Make the call now!"

"Screw you!" Mujahid yelled.

"And the horse you rode in on!" added Samar.

"What? Did you hear what I..." suddenly she realized that Mujahid had cursed her in English, as had Samar.

Betrayed,
she thought.
I knew I didn't like those two.
"Al-Aqsa Brigade! Mujahid and Samar are traitors. Kill them!"

One of her men shot at the traitors while the other two tried to hold off the Russians. Malovo, who knew the number for the pager as well as Mujahid, dialed the number and waited for the detonator phone to ring.

Tran peeked out from behind the desk at the detonator, which was twenty feet away. One of the two men who'd been guarding it was dead. The other was ten feet away, shooting at them and the intruders.

The pager rang.

"Maybe you shouldn't have said that," Jojola grinned.

"Yeah, but now I've got to get there before the fourth ring or we won't be saying much of anything anymore." Tran stood and started running for the pager. "Make yourself useful!"

But Jojola was already up and running with him. He flipped his knife around in his hand, gripping firmly on its bone handle.

"Kill them! Don't let them reach the detonator!" Malovo shouted over the intercom as the pager rang again.

The terrorist closest to the detonator stood to get a better shot at Tran. Jojola shouted to draw the man's fire, took two more steps, and hurled the knife with all his strength. The blade caught the man right below his throat, severing his spinal cord so that he collapsed to the ground.

Shit, I've moved faster in dreams,
Tran thought. The pager rang a third time. He dove over a desk, his finger extended, knowing that he would be too late. He closed his eyes and prepared to leave the body of an aging Vietnamese gangster.
I wonder what I will come back as?

Lying on the ground, Tran opened one eye. Only then did he realize that the phone never rang the fourth time.

"You look like you just shit your pants," Jojola said.

"I don't understand. We should all be dead." He looked around. The only men standing were Jojola and the men who'd come to the rescue.

"Sorry," Ivgeny said. "I cut that a little close. The truth is that I forgot to turn it on until I heard the pager ring." He held up a box about the size of a pack of cigarettes with three prongs sticking out at the top.

Ivgeny turned to the video camera. "Hello Nadya," he said. "This is an RX9000, the most powerful handheld jammer you can buy. It has output of 900 megawatts and can jam cellular phone signals up to 30 meters in the right conditions. Your phone service has been cut off. Sorry gentleman. Next time, I remember to turn it on before things get exciting, no? Now, you must excuse me. I have a date with a certain lady."

Ivgeny ran for the stairwell, but Jojola ran too. "Not if I get there first."

Tran sat and looked at one of the Russians. "Next time?" he said. "Next time, somebody else gets to be with the bomb, and I'll show up in the nick of time."

"Justin, please, don't do this," Lucy pleaded. "So many people will suffer." Suleiman Abdalla looked up, surprised. "How do you know that name?"

"Miriam told me," Lucy replied. "You told her once ... when you were at her home for
Eid ul-Adha,
the Feast of the Sacrifice ... in honor of Ibrahim's willingness to sacrifice Ishmael as proof of his loyalty to God."

"She told you that when?"

"Just now. She's here with my ... I don't know, I guess you'd call her my guardian angel."

Suleiman scowled. "That's crazy! This is a trick. She must have told you at some other time."

"Tell me about it," Lucy acknowledged. "I know it sounds crazy. I used to think I was bonkers—seeing and hearing things. Now, I just accept these spirits, or delusions, or whatever you want to call them, as part of God's plan. And what you're doing is not part of God's plan.... It is the work of evil men who lust for power and the death of others."

"You lie," Suleiman said. "Jihad is part of God's plan. If this was evil, it could not happen, because the demons that cause men to do evil are chained in hell during Ramadan."

"Which means that during Ramadan, men cannot claim that Satan or demons made them do something that contradicts the Qur'an. During Ramadan, all evil comes from within. And when you are held accountable for this, there will be nothing to blame it on but yourself. Suicide is a mortal sin in the Qur'an, and no amount of lying or calling it 'martyrdom' can change that. Murder is also a sin. Making war on innocent people, especially women and children, is a sin. No bastardization of the Qur'an by men like Al-Sistani and bin Laden and Rahman can change those truths."

"Shut up! They are great men who understand the Qur'an better than a woman!"

"Better than Miriam? Better than her father, Mahmoud Juma?"

Doubt was written darkly on Suleiman's white face. He looked at the timer. "In five minutes, we will find out who goes to Paradise and who goes to hell.
Inshallah."

"Do you really believe that?" Lucy glanced out to the hallway. The smoke was getting heavier, but what concerned her more was the big cop scowling at them from out in the hall. "That this is God's will? Was it God's will the way they killed Miriam? She says you were there for that, and you know it was wrong. They cut her throat, Justin. What did she do to deserve that?"

"This is jihad," Suleiman replied. "Innocent people die in war. She will be taken care of by Allah."

"She already has been. But as a martyr, she's allowed to intercede on behalf of others who would otherwise go to hell. She cannot save her husband, your friend Jamal, because his sins were too great. But she can still save you, if you will listen to me."

Suleiman passed a hand over his eyes. He was sweating despite the cool temperature of the computer room. He looked at the bodies of the vice president and the prince, still lying where they had fallen, and at Omar Al-Hassan, sitting in the chair, his eyes open, as if waiting for something to do.

How did this woman know he had spent Eid ul-Adha with Miriam?
Miriam could have told her.
But she also knew about how Miriam died, and only the Al-Aqsa Brigade and Ajmaani had been present then, and they had been together ever since. No
one could have said anything about Miriam's death to an outsider. I don't believe in
ghosts. No,
but the Qur'an teaches us to believe in angels. Perhaps Miriam is an angel sent to save me.

"Angel ... spirit ... our own subconscious saving us from ourselves, whatever you want to call it," Lucy said, as if she could read his mind.

"I can't stop it anyway. I don't know the pass code number."

"He told you it was the number for the center of the universe," Lucy said. "What would that..."

Her question was interrupted by the man outside banging on the door.

"Stop talking in there!"

"Or what?" Lucy shouted back. "You're going to kill me?"

"Be quiet," Mousawi demanded.

"You be quiet. By the way, where's The Sheik? I don't see him here, ready to die with you for Allah. Isn't that always the way with these guys?"

"Suleiman, remember your oath," Mousawi yelled. "Tonight we dine in
bayt al-ridwan!
Do not listen to the infidel witch."

"Tonight the only thing roasting will be you," Lucy shouted back.

Mousawi inserted the key into the lock and punched in the number. The door clicked open.

"Shoot him when he comes in Suleiman," Lucy pleaded. "Miriam says she'll be waiting for you at the gate."

Suleiman looked at Lucy to see if she was lying. But he saw only the truth. As Mousawi began to enter, he shot, but the bullet only ricocheted off the door that the other man was using as a shield. He shot again with the same result.

Mousawi stuck his gun around the edge and fired several times, striking Suleiman and knocking him to the ground. The younger man's gun clattered away as he sank against one of the computer towers.

"I'm going to kill you with my bare hands," Mousawi said to Lucy, but suddenly he stopped as a searing pain shot through the small of his back and his stomach. He looked down; the point of a metal spike protruded from his shirt.

Turning around, Mousawi was struck in the face by a blast of pepper spray. He screamed with rage and shot wildly at an assailant he could hardly see. The shot missed, but an old man fell to the ground as he tried to dodge to the side.

"Grandpa!" the girl in the room cried out.

Mousawi wiped at his burning eyes and gagged as the pepper spray swelled the mucous membranes in his nose and throat. He straddled the old man and pointed the gun down.
"Allah-u-Akbar!
" he croaked.

"Up yours," the old man replied, stabbing upward with his other knitting needle and piercing the big man's groin.

Tossing away the knitting needle, Mariano struggled to his feet with his fists balled. "Come on, you son of a bitch," he yelled. "Put down the gun and let's see what you got."

Mousawi started forward, intending to beat the old man to death with his hands. But there was a roar from down the hall and a blast of air, followed by even more smoke. He slipped in his own blood that covered the floor. When he opened his swollen eyes again, what he saw was a dark figure emerging from the smoke and the flash of a knife swinging in a wide arc. He grabbed his throat with his hands, but there was nothing he could do about a severed carotid and jugular. He tried to remember the
Shahada
but only got as far as, "There is no God but Allah ..." before he died.