and we must accept the former without demanding the latter, lest he decide to use the power of his office in ways that could be even more harmful to our cause.”
“Unacceptable,” the Londoner said. “If you are implying that he might become a threat, then we remove him and replace him with someone more amenable.”
“You can’t do that,” Morgan said, leaning forward, his anger flashing. “I don’t have to tell you the geopolitical realities. You now have your European Union, but have no doubt that you are not yet a global superpower. The United States could crush you several times over, with little or no damage to itself. While the U.S. can no longer lead Europe around on a leash like a captive hound, the roles have not been reversed. And there are political sensitivities that Harrison Rice cannot ignore.”
“What sensitivities exceed our having bought and paid for his office in blood?” the German asked.
“Anti-Arab violence is on the rise,” Morgan said. “We knew it would happen. It was part of our plan. But do not forget the pressure that places on Rice. The American people are demanding a response. He cannot afford to look impotent in the face of what is nothing less than a global declaration of war. And we have told him that only one response is possible. We cannot now ask him to sit on his hands and wait for permission to act.”
Morgan rose to his feet, his anger demanding physical movement, lest it manifest in words he might not live to regret. “Your friends must accelerate their search for the Codex. They have been searching for nearly two years. The Codex was to have been revealed months ago, and now you tell me that the president must commit political suicide by waiting indefinitely before responding to Black Christmas? No, my friends, that simply is not possible. At the very least, we must give him a politically acceptable interim response. We must provide a way for him to appear prudent without appearing cowardly.”
“Yes, I understand,” the Austrian said, his tone softening. “The European people are also demanding a response. Obviously we cannot expect Herr Rice to, as you put it, sit on his hands.”
“Yes, of course,” the Londoner agreed. “Perhaps we have been too…forceful…in our approach today. I assure you, Jonathan, we are all aware of the political realities. We have spent decades creating those very realities.”
“I believe I can offer the necessary alternative,” the Austrian said. “We know one of the Black Christmas cells is in Vienna. If we could arrange for their…disposal…in a manner that could be attributed to a joint U.S.-European action, would that assuage the political pressure on Herr Rice?”
“The American people will want results they can see,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “After the 9/11 attacks, if you recall, there was a demand for visible action. The fact that covert teams were all over the world, taking down Al Qaeda cells, was not enough. The American people wanted, needed, to see tanks rolling across the desert.”
“I am sure it can be arranged for this to be very visible,” the Austrian said. “And there will be no U.S. casualties.”
“What do you have in mind?” Morgan asked, curious.
“Unless I am very mistaken,” the Austrian replied, “our friends will want revenge for their plans having been twisted to our ends. So we will let them have it. Except that we will arrange for Herr Rice take the credit for it.”
The plan had merit, Morgan thought. It was elegant, a quality he had always admired, all the more so in recent months. Edward’s plan had been too complex, and that had very nearly been its downfall. It was, Morgan thought with satisfaction, good to be working with professionals again.
“That should work,” Morgan said, returning to his seat. “Yes, that should work well.”
“Very good,” the German said. “Which brings us to the final item. How do we find and kill Bookworm?”
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Ahmed Ahsami studied the report that his lieutenant had brought that morning. It fit in well with other reports he had gleaned over the past days. Knowing that Saif Alsharaawi would find them in the Arab world, the traitors of Black Christmas had instead chosen to hide out in Europe. He should have expected such cowardice.
“Yes, Yawi,” he said. “This is quite good. And we’re sure of the source?”
“Our colleagues in the Arab Bank are loyal,” Yawi said. “I asked them to flag that account number and notify me immediately of any transactions. They have no idea why I asked for the information. But they complied.”
“Eight thousand euros,” Ahmed said, folding his hands on his belly and looking up at the ceiling. “That is an odd amount. Not enough to buy new identities. Not enough to relocate into anonymity.”
“Perhaps they believe they already have,” Yawi said.
“I believe they do,” Ahmed said. “I think this is for living expenses.”
“What a shame,” Yawi said, a faint smile on his face.
“What is that, my friend?”
“Their living expenses will be their deaths.”
Ahmed couldn’t resist the chuckle, though he made a note to pray for forgiveness in tonight’s evening prayers. He ought not to take joy in what he was doing, however necessary it might be.
“How soon can we get a team to Vienna?” Ahmed asked.
“We can be ready to leave in two days,” Yawi said.
“Fine. See that you are. And leave none alive.”
Once Yawi had left, Ahmed considered what he had just done. He had ordered the death of fellow Arabs, fellow followers of Islam. The Koran forbade killing, but most especially the killing of other Muslims. But may Allah forgive him, it had to be done.
Al Jazeera hadn’t been alone in reporting on the rising tide of anger against Arabs. It had been too much for even the Western media to ignore. Mosques had been desecrated. Two Arab businesses burned in Los Angeles. Unless the world could see that Arabs would police themselves, there would be no alternative save for more Western intrusion into the Arab world.
And so these traitors must be found and killed. And it must be made clear that they were found and killed by Saif Alsharaawi. Then, perhaps, Ahmed could finally release the video he had made before Christmas and begin to paint for the world a picture of a more civilized, if equally determined, Arab leadership.
Ahmed trusted that Allah would understand.
7
Frankfurt, Germany
“Well, there’s hope,” Niko said, shrugging off his down jacket, careful not to let the melting snow drip onto the sensitive electronic equipment that crowded the office. He looked at Renate. “Your old friends in the Brotherhood are good, but they aren’t perfect.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re smug.”
“I assume we finally have some good news?” Renate said, the tension evident in her voice. During the past week she had grown thinner, and everyone in the group had taken to pressing food on her. She had begun
