AMBASSADOR SAMIR ABU-ADWAN of Jordan picked at his dark mustache as Shari Towne told her story. Her mother, his good friend Layla Mahfouz Towne, sat beside Shari, gently holding her hands. Layla had given him a synopsis, and he now listened to Shari himself with growing shock and indignation. Abu-Adwan knew the President of the United States would never order the assassination of a kidnapped Marine general. If such an order came from the White House, it certainly had not come from the President. Shari Towne’s superior was running amok and creating an international crisis.
“You do not have a copy of this letter yourself, Shari?” he asked in a smooth baritone voice that showed sincere sympathy. As a veteran diplomat, he had many voices for different situations, but he knew that if he tried any disguise now, Layla would see right through it. Better to be honest.
“No, Mr. Ambassador. I don’t.”
“And you have never even seen a copy of it, either, am I correct?”
“That’s right.”
The ambassador entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them. “Gerald Buchanan is a shifty weasel,” he said. “Such a thing is not beyond him. I sincerely doubt that the President knows anything about this. Your information adds significantly to the new situation.”
Layla blinked. “What situation?”
“One reason that I am being such a bad host and ignoring my guests is that something urgent has come up. The Department of Homeland Security has increased the terror alert status to Red, the highest level, and television networks are reporting that American intelligence agencies have picked up credible evidence of a possible terrorist strike against the United States. I think our party downstairs will be breaking up very soon as people learn that. From what you have told me, this alert also bears Buchanan’s fingerprints.”
“There was no such terrorist chatter mentioned just a few hours ago when I was at the National Security Council meeting,” Shari said, shredding the tissue clutched in her hands. “In fact, everything was focused on Syria and General Middleton. Usually these things take time to build up enough to get our attention. Since the Middle East was my desk, I certainly would have heard something, and I haven’t.”
“That brings me to the other matter,” said Abu-Adwan. “We have received notification from the State Department that U.S. military action is now being contemplated against Syria.”
“But why?” Shari was on her feet now, pacing the elaborate burgundy carpet, the tears gone and her mind again at work, picking at the puzzle. “We have no true evidence of Syrian involvement, at least officially. The general was kidnapped in Saudi Arabia, not Syria! Why would they take him back to their country and make a big announcement about it, then allow some terrorist group to threaten a public beheading, which would be a hostile act guaranteed to inflame the United States, just as it is happening right now?”
“Why indeed?” replied the ambassador. “That is why you and I and your mother are going over to State right now to ask these same questions. Before I came to see you, based on Layla’s comments, I made some telephone calls and arranged a meeting with Undersecretary James Dalton and the ambassadors from Syria, Israel, and Lebanon to try to make sense of what is going on. Amman has advised me to relay the great concern of King Abdullah and our government about this situation. I asked to include you in our meeting. Mr. Dalton told me that you are a fugitive from justice.”
That hit Shari hard, and she took a deep breath. “It’s not a good feeling to be considered a traitor to my country.”
“I know, Shari. You’ve done the right thing, and we will smooth it all over after we douse this crisis. For your information, our Syrian neighbors disclaim any active participation in the kidnapping. Didn’t even know it had happened until General Middleton showed up in their backyard. They also are distancing themselves from the Rebel Sheikh in Iraq, who is getting too strong and influential for the tastes of many of us. They think that despite what he claims, the sheikh arranged to place Middleton in Syria to embarrass Damascus and cover his own involvement.”
“Can we believe the Syrians?” Shari looked at him hard.
The ambassador nodded. “They don’t mind plucking a tail feather out of the American eagle every once in a while, but this incident is spinning far beyond anything they had bargained for. They definitely do not want to bring a hail of cruise missiles down on their heads.” He stood up and adjusted his impeccable suit.
“Now, Shari, I think I have a bit of good news for you. There are some reliable reports from Syria that General Middleton is no longer in captivity, and that he escaped with the help of an American Marine who survived the tragic helicopter crash. It seems like your friend Kyle Swanson and General Middleton are on the loose.”
Shari sat down beside her mother. “Thank God! They’re both safe?”
“Apparently for the moment, but Syrian army units are in pursuit. Let’s hope we can settle this mess diplomatically before there is a confrontation,” the ambassador responded. “Shall we go?”
Shari balked. “They will arrest me.”
“Shari, you must turn yourself in. I will deliver you personally to the undersecretary at the Department of State, and you will tell him your story. There is a high probability that you will never be taken into custody. In addition, the presence of your mother, myself, and the other ambassadors will guarantee an unpleasant diplomatic incident if Mr. Buchanan tries to take any hasty action.”
“You don’t know Buchanan, Mr. Ambassador. He can do anything he wants to do. If I give myself up, I may be spending the next few years in some dark prison in the middle of nowhere.”
The ambassador lowered his voice. “I do not intend to let you out of my sight until this matter is resolved. I promise that you won’t get lost in the system. Undersecretary Dalton is an old friend and an honorable man, and the information you possess is of such value that you were right to seek our protection. Turning yourself in will demonstrate that you were simply trying to stay alive long enough to get the truth out. In fact, I think your government will probably want you to be a witness against Mr. Buchanan in a courtroom. They also will be very appreciative that you did not go to the media with this.”
Ten minutes later, Shari was in the front seat of a black Mercedes, beside a handsome Jordanian soldier who served as a combination driver and bodyguard. Her mother sat in back with the ambassador, who was talking on his cell phone.
The ambassador had been correct, and the embassy party had emptied quickly as word spread of the unexpected increase in the terror alert, everyone forsaking the food and drink tables to rush back to their offices to cope with whatever was happening. Taxis sailed about and traffic was heavier than normal for the hour.
The Mercedes with diplomatic license plates drove easily through the streets of Embassy Row and Shari drew comfort from the familiar monuments and squares of Washington, which was aglow in the early night. People had gotten off work and were packed into the bars and restaurants, and the nightlife was beginning to throb. The driver edged around a bicycle messenger with a flashing taillight. Even at night, those bikers were an effective way to get important documents from one federal department to another, or to bureaucrats from the K Street lobbyists, and the government never really slept.
The car stopped at a red traffic signal, third in line, and Shari knew the State Department was only about five blocks away. Maybe they could stop this madness. And she could not help but be happy that Kyle was alive. If he had Middleton and they were escaping, Kyle was in his element and would use every trick in the book to elude pursuit. Soon they would be together again.
She was startled by a tap on her window, and the bike messenger smiled and made a hand motion to roll the glass down. Beneath the visor of his black helmet, she saw that he had a lean face, with a neat beard and bright teeth. He probably wanted directions. As the driver looked over at the noise, another bike rolled up on his side, and its rider slammed a small sledgehammer into the window, stuck a SIG-Sauer pistol into the jagged hole, and fired four bullets into the distracted young driver. Shari screamed and covered her face with her hands as the man’s blood and brain matter splattered her. Restrained by her seatbelt, she could barely move.
The biker on her side then used a hammer of his own to smash through her window, and Shari felt glass shards cut into her, sharp pins and knifelike slashes chewing at her skin. In the back seat, Layla screamed, and leaned forward to try to reach Shari while Ambassador Abu-Adwan scrambled to grab a pistol secreted in the armrest. Both bikers now had their pistols inside the car and sprayed full clips at all of the passengers while shouting “Allahu Akbar,” the familiar “God is great” war cry often used by terrorists.
They remounted the bikes and sped away through a park, lights off, cutting sharp corners and disappearing into the darkness in moments. Two hand grenades they left behind detonated inside the Mercedes, setting the big car afire as stunned pedestrians and other drivers who had moved forward quickly backed away.
The bikers rode up a platform into the rear of a waiting panel truck bearing the logo of a plumbing company that was parked in a loading zone outside a restaurant. The doors were shut behind them and the blue truck moved out into traffic, heading for a garage in a run-down area of suburban Maryland.
In Alexandria, Virginia, Gordon Gates watched the entire attack unfold on a television screen through streaming video transmitted live by small cameras mounted on the bike helmets of the Shark Team. Buchanan had fed him the information intercepted from the Jordanian Embassy after the NSA computers picked up the name of Shari Towne. Gates assigned the job to his closest sharks, and they did well, he thought. One down.