HE DREAMED OF GREAT ropes of shining steel hanging in the sky, double-deck trusses, towering monopoles, and H-shaped pylons standing tall, probing into the clouds above wide bodies of water, and supporting wide carriageways and pedestrian footwalks, all illuminated by lights hidden in the ribs. Asleep, his brain amused itself by solving the mathematical and technical riddles of the complex Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong, the majestic sweeping curve of the Øresundsbroen, between Denmark and Sweden, and the impossibly beautiful Rion-Antirion over the Gulf of Corinth in Greece. All were works of art in his opinion, classical outdoor statuary that would serve mankind for ages. In the dreams, each bridge had an engraved stone that hailed the name of the greatest Islamic builder of the twenty-first century—Mohammad al-Attas: Chief Engineer and Architect. Then he awoke in his wide, soft bed and lay still. Just dreams. Someday, Allah willing, such miracles could come to pass for him.
For now, instead of building a sky-piercing colossus, he seemed to be working in the opposite direction, creating a smooth, single-arched bridge of rock across a flood-chiseled chasm in northeastern Pakistan. His task was to make it utilitarian and strong, unremarkable in every way, so that the casual eye would pass right over it instead of lingering and applauding the ingenuity involved. Al-Attas rose and went into his private bathroom to wash his face. This was not to be one of the great bridges of the world, but it might become one of the most important: the first of many along a highway of enlightenment being created for the New Muslim Order, and a protected secret refuge for its leader.
He stared into the mirror above the porcelain sink, and his intense black eyes peered back. He ran his fingers through his long hair and was disgusted when loose strands clung to them. Even as he shaved, more mathematic calculations unscrolled in his mind, a precise march of equations.
And his skin! He was becoming pale from the lack of sunlight and the constant work underground. The physician had given him a large bottle of vitamin D to help maintain his health, and al-Attas made a mental note to install more ultraviolet lights. If it was happening to him, it would happen to anyone spending much time in this self-contained underground fortress. That could not be allowed. Make it a point, he told his reflection, to get topside more. Every day.
He pulled a fresh white towel from a cabinet and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water, soap, and shampoo fully awaken him. A hot breakfast would be waiting in the canteen; then he would put on his hard hat and take the elevator that was used to move freight up to the surface. An hour at least in the morning sun, and even a brisk walk to the little village that had sprung up at the west end of the bridge. Then back down in time for the noon teleconference and working on the computers. He checked his fingernails carefully and found them clean. His teeth got a hard brushing. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail, which he bound with a rubber band. Mohammad al-Attas was not a mole or a termite, and this bridge job was only a step toward greater things. He would endure. Why was the bathroom such a mess?
As he left his little apartment one hundred feet belowground, his silent manservant was already busy cleaning the bedroom. The man had been especially chosen because his tongue had been cut out as a child to make him a better beggar, and he could not talk. Al-Attas ignored him and left the room, dressed for the day in the Western style of blue jeans and loose shirts, with a billed cap turned backward.
The servant stopped his work and pressed his forehead to the burgundy carpet on the chill stone floor, giving thanks to Allah for letting him survive to see another morning. He was terrified of his young master. The man was very smart, the smartest the servant had ever met, smarter even than the elders in his home village, but the man’s mind was bent like a horseshoe. The servant entered the bathroom and found a stack of blood-soaked towels and clothing that had been flung into a corner. The shower would have to be scrubbed hard to remove the streaks of blood on the floor. Sandals crusted with thick mud needed to be cleaned. The weapons would be cleaned and sharpened, and put away in the cabinet. His young master was not what he seemed, and the servant could not, would not, ever tell a soul.
“THE MAN IS A lunatic,” said Major Najib Umair of the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the ISI. He had read the reports and seen the videos made by his agents at the bridge about the engineer running about in the night, killing people and cutting up bodies. They had even documented the cleanup and subsequent cover-up after the engineer slaughtered and brutally violated the entire team of doctors and nurses who had somehow stumbled into the most secret tunnels.
“A very useful lunatic,” reminded Lieutenant General Yahya Gul, the director of the ISI, who also had examined the latest reports. “Your agents say that because of his activities, the area is believed to be haunted. People in the villages speak of the Djinn and are afraid. That is not a bad thing for us.”
“A minor benefit, sir. He went crazy with bloodlust for a few hours. By killing that medical team, al-Attas put the entire operation at risk. He is not an evil spirit, just a very deranged man.”
General Gul lightly tapped his fingers together, then pushed up the rimless eyeglasses that had slipped down his sharp nose. He had seen many things in his time with the ISI, but the Djinn was unique. An ISI psychologist had concluded that the man was mentally unstable, perhaps having collapsed beneath the weight of being a scientific savant. He was embedded with an unknown number of different personalities; there was the gentle, brilliant engineer of the daytime, and the bloodlusting Djinn at night. The agents that watched him had heard him howl and bark. The psychologist had predicted other personalities could be lurking just below the surface, waiting to break out. Truly psychotic.
“Do you have him under control?” the general asked.
“Control? No, sir. That would be impossible. We do have him under constant observation, when he changes and becomes the fanatic. He leaves through what he believes is his own secret door in a bridge abutment. Three agents with night-vision goggles triangulate him but stay back unless he drifts too far afield. Then they capture and sedate him and haul him back to his apartment at the bridge. When he awakens, he does not remember that anything unusual has happened, because it happened to the Djinn, not to his dominant personality, the chief engineer.”
The general nodded approval. “Very well, Major. We will let him continue with his hobby for the time being. His value to this project far outweighs the lives of a few unlucky people. Al-Attas is building a fortification that stands in the open but is almost invisible. When he completes this first one, we will have all of his plans and inventions to build more, and can do so without his help. After what happened with Osama bin Laden, creating this safe haven for Commander Kahn is a very high priority with us. For now, we must keep al-Attas working to complete this bridge.”
“I have taken one more step, sir. I am assigning one of our best men to be his personal bodyguard, his keeper. The chief engineer has a huge, but fragile, ego and will willingly believe a cover story that a bodyguard is needed now that the infidels have issued a reward for his death because of his brilliance.”
“Good. Keep him safe. Should his insanity increase beyond our ability to handle him, we will adjust to the situation. It would be good to have the bodyguard close by to do the job quietly, but I want to be the one to make the final decision.”
“Yes, sir. I will make that clear to Hafiz.”
“You are giving this to Hafiz? Excellent choice.”
MOHAMMAD AL-ATTAS PUT ON a pair of wraparound sunglasses when he emerged from the mouth of a shaft and stepped to the side of the busy roadway. The sunlight was brash and hard and made him squint. He flipped his blue Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap around so the long bill would provide some shade. A mix of bossa nova music pumped a Latin beat into the earbuds of his iPod. People on the road looked at him strangely but said nothing.
Giant yellow Caterpillar bulldozers, Komatsu graders, and Firmengruppe Liebherr crawler cranes with long lattice booms roared and snarled as if in competition as they rearranged the earth. Heavy conveyor belts brought up dirt and stone that would be carted away by a convoy of waiting trucks, and a dome of dust covered the work area. Al-Attas made his way to the operations platform to confer with the shift foreman and gave him a few instructions after doing the numbers. Everything topside was going well. Every ton of dirt hauled away was one less ton of dirt below, steadily opening areas available for new tunnels, living quarters, work spaces, and the defensive positions. He told the foreman to check the steel bracing in tunnel four, which seemed to be out of plumb.
Now he had some time, and he put his hands in his pockets and strolled away to visit the collection of huts and vendors who had set up merchandise beneath sagging canvas at the western end of the bridge, which was much closer to completion than the east end. Al-Attas waved to some workers gathered in a group, then strolled the narrow aisles of makeshift shops. Where would he find some vitamin D? The best source was fish, and there were none. All of that floodwater, but no fish. He couldn’t believe it. He eventually found a woman who had several boxes of medicines, and she said she could get some vitamin D tablets from the staff at the refugee camp. They bargained a little bit and struck a deal. He would return tomorrow to get the pills.
He bought a pear and munched it as he headed back to the work zone, with plenty of time before the teleconference. His mind was on the reports he needed for supplies and equipment, and what progress had been made in the past twenty-four hours, those thoughts wrapped around the beat of the strange South American music. A strong shoulder rammed into him and Mohammad al-Attas was sent sprawling onto the hard ground and the pear he had been eating bounced away.
A swarthy man with a long spade of tangled beard and wearing loose tribal garments stood over him, shouting insults about the way al-Attas was dressed, about how he was offending the Prophet. An AK-47 dangled from his shoulder. The engineer was startled and afraid. Taliban. The man raised his arm as if to strike the engineer, but suddenly another figure was there, kicking the Taliban fighter in the back of the knee and pulling his head backward, throwing him to the ground. The second man made a swift move and straddled the Taliban’s chest, with the gleaming point of a knife resting just below the right eye. Al-Attas could not hear what was being said in a harsh whisper, but the struggle was over in an instant; then the bigger man rose, helped the Talib to his feet, and sent him on his way.
Then the man extended his hand to al-Attas and easily pulled him up from the dirt. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes.” The chief engineer brushed at his shirt and jeans. “Thank you.”
The big man laughed. “He did not know who you were, sir, and apologized for his action. That will not happen again.”
The chief engineer adjusted his cap. His new friend was over six feet tall, rippled with muscles, and wore a trim military uniform of some sort. Al-Attas did not see a rank insignia, but he did not care much about military things. A holstered pistol rode on the man’s hip, almost like a toy. “Who are you?”
“Sergeant Hafiz of the ISI at your service, Chief Engineer. Come, let us walk and find some privacy. I will explain.”
“What is going on?” The engineer felt strangely safe in the presence of the large sergeant as they walked along the road.
“I have been sent here by Islamabad, sir, and bring the compliments of General Gul. Our intelligence service has picked up reports, information the general believes is valid, that the Americans and Jews want to assassinate you. We are worried about your safety, and I have been sent to protect you.”
The engineer shook his head. “I cannot do my work with a bodyguard underfoot.”
The big laugh came again, accompanied by a smile. “I have done this sort of thing before, sir. I know how to stay out of the way. I will be nearby when you come aboveground to prevent unexpected incidents such as the one that just happened, but down below, I will be able to organize effective security so that you will soon forget that I am even around.”
They reached the main shaft heading down, and the conveyor belt on one side continued to rumble. The chief engineer took off the sunglasses and again flipped the baseball cap backward. “They want to kill me? Do they know about the Commander?”
“We don’t think so. What they do know, sir, is that you are one of the brightest thinkers in the world today. It would definitely be in the interests of the infidels to snuff out such a great mind of our religion and culture.”
They were deeper in the shaft, nearing a solid door that branched off into another brightly lit tunnel. The explanation was startlingly clear; the enemy was afraid of his ideas and abilities. “You can stop them?”
“Yes, sir. I can. Be at peace about that.”
“Well, Sergeant Hafiz, I would like for you to join me tonight for dinner. I wish to know more about you.”
“With pleasure.” Hafiz stopped, and the chief engineer walked on, immediately lost in other thoughts. Soon he was gone. This was the Djinn? Incredible. Hafiz had been an operative for more than twenty years, spoke four languages, was expert with numerous firearms and demolitions, and had killed men with his bare hands. Surely there were missions that would be more of a match for his skills. However, General Gul and Major Umair had made it clear that guarding the preoccupied young man was only part of his overall assignment; he also had to assess the overall project, which not only would anchor a high-tech defensive line but would house and protect the most important treasure in modern Islam, Commander Kahn, a person of utmost and growing importance.
So Hafiz would be content to be a sergeant for a while and keep an eye on things. It would be interesting to see if the little engineer really did transform into a monster after dark, and he was eager to explore the fascinating maze below the earth. Hafiz went back up top to call Islamabad and report that he had made contact, and to pay the rest of the fee to the Talib soldier hired to stage the bumping incident.