The Secret Servant Page 20
The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.
“We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.
“Shall we have another go at Mandali?”
“No, he’s dry, too.”
“What do you want us to do with him?”
“We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”
33
COPENHAGEN: 10:24 P.M., TUESDAY
Gabriel sat before the recorder, slipped on a pair of headphones, and pressed PLAY.
“I was afraid you were never going to call tonight. Do you know what time it is?”
“I’ve been busy. You’ve seen the news?”
“The bombings? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”
“What are they saying?”
“The Danes are shocked, of course. They’re wondering when it’s going to happen in Copenhagen. Here in Nørrebro, they say Europe is getting what it deserves for supporting the Americans. They want the Americans to release the sheikh.”
“Be careful what you say on the telephone, Hanifah. You never know who’s listening.”
“Who would bother to listen to me? I’m no one.”
“You’re married to a man who works for the Islamic Affairs Council of Denmark.”
“A man who thinks nothing of leaving his wife and child to roam the Middle East conducting research on the state of the Islamic world. Where are you tonight anyway?”
“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”
Gabriel pressed STOP, then REWIND, then PLAY.
“Where are you tonight anyway?”
“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”
“He misses his father.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“It’s too late, Ishaq. He’s been asleep for almost an hour.”
“Wake him.”
“No.”
“It’s important I speak to him tonight.”
“Then you should have called earlier. Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”
“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”
“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”
“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”
STOP. REWIND. PLAY.
“Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”
“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”
“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”
“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”
“This afternoon.”
“He’s well?”
“He seemed so.”
“How’s the weather in Copenhagen?”
“Cold, Ishaq. What do you think?”
“Any strangers around the apartment? Any unfamiliar faces in the streets?”
“A few more police than usual, but it’s calm here.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Why are you so nervous?”
“Because the Muslim communities across Europe are under siege at the moment. Because we are being rounded up and brought in for questioning simply because we happen to speak Arabic or pray toward Mecca.”
“No one’s being rounded up in Copenhagen.”
“Not yet.”
“When does this conference of yours end, Ishaq? When are you coming home?”
“Actually, you’re coming here. Not Istanbul. Some place better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I left an envelope for you there.”
“I don’t feel like playing games, Ishaq. I’m tired.”
“Just do as I tell you, Hanifah. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”
Hanifah gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the receiver down next to the telephone so hard that the sound caused Gabriel’s eardrums to vibrate like a snare drum. The next sounds he heard were distant: the patter of slippered feet, a drawer being yanked open, the rustle of crisp paper. Then, a few seconds later, Hanifah’s startled voice.
“Where did you get this money?”
“Never mind where I got it. Do you have the tickets?”
“Beirut? Why are we going to Beirut?”
“For a holiday.”
“The plane leaves Friday morning. How am I supposed to be ready that soon?”
“Just throw a few things in a bag. I’ll have someone from the Council take you to the airport. A colleague of mine from Beirut will meet you at the airport and take you and Ahmed to an apartment that we’ve been given use of. I’ll come from Istanbul in a couple of days.”
“This is crazy, Ishaq. Why didn’t you tell me until now?”
“Just do as I say, Hanifah. I have to go now.”
“When am I going to hear from you again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? You tell me to get on a plane to Beirut and that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. You’re my wife. You do as I say.”
“No, Ishaq. Tell me when I’m going to hear from you again or I’m not getting on that plane.”
“I’ll call tomorrow night.”
“When?”
“When it’s convenient.”
“No, not when it’s convenient. I want to know when you’re going to call.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Whose time, yours or mine?”
“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”
“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”
“I have to go now, Hanifah.”
“Ishaq, wait.”
“I love you, Hanifah.”
“Ishaq—”
Click.
“What have you done, Ishaq? My God, what have you done?”
STOP. REWIND. PLAY.
“I want to know when you’re going to call.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Who’s time, yours or mine?”
“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”
“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”
STOP.
Gabriel looked at Mordecai. “I’m going to listen to the spot where Ishaq asks Hanifah to go get the tickets and money. Can you turn down the room coverage so I can hear only Ishaq?”
Mordecai nodded and did as Gabriel asked. The interlude was twenty-three seconds. Gabriel listened to it three times, then removed his headphones and looked at Sarah.
“Tell Adrian not to wait for NSA,” he said. “Tell him that Ishaq is calling from a highway rest stop in Germany—the northwest, judging by the accents of the people I can hear in the background. Tell him he’s traveling with at least one other man. They’re moving her around in a cargo truck or a transit van. He won’t be stopping again for several hours. He just filled the tank with gas.”
34
ABOVE COLORADO: 3:28 P.M., TUESDAY
The Falcon 2000 executive jet began to pitch as it sank into the storm clouds above the plains of eastern Colorado. Lawrence Strauss removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. One of Washington’s most powerful lawyers, he was a nervous flier by nature and avoided planes whenever he could—especially private planes, which he regarded as little more than death traps with wings. Given the nature of his current case, Strauss’s client had mandated he fly from Washington, D.C., to Colorado on a borrowed jet under conditions of extreme secrecy. Usually Lawrence Strauss didn’t permit clients to dictate his personal schedule or method of travel, but in this case he had made an exception. The client was a personal friend who also happened to be the president of the United States—and the mission he had given Strauss was so sensitive that only the president and his attorney general knew it existed.
The Falcon
came out of the clouds and settled into a stratum of smoother air. Strauss slipped his glasses back on and looked down at the file open on the worktable in front of him: The United States v. Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq. It had been given to him late the previous evening inside the White House by the president himself. Strauss had learned much by reading the government’s case against the Egyptian cleric, mainly that it had been a house of cards. In the hands of a good defense lawyer, it could have been toppled with the flick of a well-presented motion to dismiss. But the sheikh hadn’t had a good defense lawyer; instead he had enlisted the services of a grandstanding civil rights warrior from Manhattan who had walked straight into the prosecutor’s trap. If Lawrence Strauss had been the sheikh’s lawyer, the case would never have gone to trial. Abdullah would have pleaded down to a much less serious offense or, in all likelihood, walked out of the courtroom a free man.
But Lawrence Strauss didn’t take cases like Sheikh Abdullah’s. In fact, he rarely took cases at all. In Washington he was known as the lawyer no one knew but everyone wanted. He never spoke to the press, stayed clear of Washington cocktail parties, and the only time he had been inside a courtroom in the last twenty years was to testify against a man who assaulted him during an early-morning run through northwest Washington’s Battery Kemble Park. Strauss had never won a major trial, and no groundbreaking appeal bore his name. He operated in Washington’s shadows, where political connections and personal friendships counted for more than legal brilliance, and, unlike most of his brethren in the Washington legal community, he possessed the ability to cross political lines. His politics were the politics of pragmatism, his opinion so highly valued that he usually spent several weekends a year at Camp David, no matter which party was in power. Lawrence Strauss was a cutter of deals and a smoother of ruffled feathers, a conciliator and a crafter of compromises. He made problems and prosecutors go away. He believed trials were a roll of the dice, and Lawrence Strauss didn’t play games of chance—except for his Thursday-night poker game, which included the chief justice of the United States Supreme Court, two former attorneys general, and the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Last week he’d won big. He usually did.
A burst of static came over the plane’s intercom system, followed by the voice of the pilot, informing Strauss that they would be landing in ten minutes. Strauss slipped the file into his briefcase and watched the snow-covered plains rising slowly to receive him. He feared he had been sent on a fool’s errand. He had been dealt a lousy hand, but then so had his opponent. He’d have to bluff. He didn’t like to bluff. Bluffing was for losers. And the only thing Lawrence Strauss hated worse than flying was losing.
The United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility, also known as the Supermax, and the Alcatraz of the Rockies, stands two miles south of Florence, Colorado, hidden from public view by the rolling brown hills of Colorado’s high desert. Four hundred of the country’s most hardened and dangerous prisoners are incarcerated there, including Theodore Kaczynski, Terry Nichols, Eric Rudolph, Matthew Hale, David Lane, and Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso, underboss of the Lucchese crime family. Also residing within the walls of the Supermax is a large contingent of Islamic terrorists, including Zacarias Moussaoui, Richard Reid, and Ramzi Yousef, mastermind of the first World Trade Center attack in 1993. Despite the high-profile inmate population, recent investigations had revealed that the prison was dangerously understaffed and far from secure. Prosecutors in California had learned that Mexican mafia leader Ruben Castro was running his Los Angeles criminal enterprises from his cell in the Supermax, while authorities in Spain discovered that World Trade Center conspirator Mohammed Salameh had been in written communication with terror cells linked to the Madrid subway bombings. Lawrence Strauss, as he passed through the outer gate in the back of an FBI Suburban, hoped the beleaguered guards managed to keep a lid on the place until he was airborne again.
The warden was waiting for Strauss in the reception area. He extended his hand solemnly as Strauss came inside and offered a murmured greeting, then turned and led him wordlessly into the bowels of the complex. They passed through a series of barred doors, each of which closed behind them with an irrefutable finality. Strauss had taken a ride with the president once on a nuclear submarine, an experience he had vowed never to repeat. He felt the same way now—confined, claustrophobic, and sweating despite the sharp chill.
The warden led him into a secure interview room. It was divided into two chambers separated by a Plexiglas wall—visitors on one side, prisoner on the other, a telephone line between them. A sign warned that all conversations were subject to electronic monitoring. Strauss looked at the warden and said, “I’m afraid this won’t do.”
“The recording devices and surveillance cameras will be turned off.”
“Under no circumstances is this conversation going to be conducted electronically.”
“It’s good enough for the CIA and the FBI when they come here.”
“I don’t work for the CIA or the FBI.”
“I’m afraid it’s regulations, Mr. Strauss.”
Strauss reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “One phone call—that’s all it will take. One phone call and I get what I want. But let’s not waste valuable time. Let’s find some reasonable compromise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Strauss told him.
“He hasn’t been out of his cell in weeks.”
“Then the fresh air will do him good.”
“Do you know how cold it is outside?”
“Get him a coat,” Strauss said.
It was beginning to get dark by the time Strauss was shown through a secure doorway leading to the west exercise yard. A folding table and two folding chairs had been placed in the precise center and arc lamps were burning along the top of the electrified fence. Four guards stood like statuary along the perimeter; two more were perched along the parapet of the watchtower with weapons trained downward. Strauss nodded in approval to the warden, then headed into the yard alone and took his seat.
Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq emerged from the cellblock five minutes later in shackles, sandwiched between a pair of hulking guards. He was shorter than Strauss anticipated, five-six perhaps, and thin as a pauper. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit and a tan parka was draped over his boney shoulders. His beard was unkempt, and what little Strauss could see of his face was gray and slack with illness. It was the face of a dying man, he thought, a face that had not seen sunlight in many years. His eyes, however, still shone with a condescending intelligence. Lawrence Strauss was a man who earned his living making instantaneous judgments about people. His first opinion of Sheikh Abdullah was that he was a courageous and committed man—hardly the raving zealot that had been portrayed by the media and the prosecution at the time of his trial. He would be more than a worthy opponent.
As the sheikh lowered himself into the chair, Strauss looked at one of the guards. “Remove his shackles, please.”
The guard shook his head. “It’s against the rules.”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Sorry,” the guard said, “but it’s a rule we never bend at the Max. Prisoners are never unshackled when they’re outside the cell. Right, Sheikh Abdullah?”
The guards gave the sheikh a pat on the back and started back to the cellblock. The Egyptian made no response other than to fix his dark eyes directly on those of Lawrence Strauss.
“Who are you?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“My name is Arthur Hamilton,” said Strauss.
“You work for the American government, Mr. Hamilton?”
Strauss shook his head. “I want to make clear from the outset that I am a private citizen. I have no connection to the government of the United States whatsoever.”
“But surely you didn’t come to this place on your own volition. Surely you have been sent here by others.”
“That is correct.”
&nbs
p; “Who sent you here?”
Strauss looked up at the guards in the tower, then gazed directly at Sheikh Abdullah. “I am an emissary of the president of the United States.”
The sheikh accepted this piece of information with an air of detachment. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said calmly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I assume you are aware of the fact that your group has kidnapped the daughter of the American ambassador in London and is threatening to murder her if the United States does not release you and return you to Egypt.”
“Choose your words carefully, Mr. Hamilton. Elizabeth Halton is a legitimate target in our eyes. Her death, should it come to pass, would not be murder, but a justifiable killing.”
“So then you are aware of what has transpired on your behalf?”
“I am fully aware, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Are you in any way connected to the attack?”
“Are you asking me if I ordered it or helped plan it?”
“That is precisely what I’m asking.”
He shook his head slowly. “I have had no contact with the Sword of Allah since my incarceration in this facility. What has been done on my behalf was set in motion without my approval or knowledge.”
“By your brother?”
“I wouldn’t know.” The sheikh gave a fleeting smile. “You are very good at asking questions, Mr. Hamilton. Am I to assume that you are a lawyer?”
“Guilty as charged, Sheikh Abdullah.”
“I appreciate your candor. May I now ask you a question?”
Strauss nodded.
“Will you convert to Islam, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As a devout Muslim, I am obligated to do many things, including bringing the gift of Islam to the unbelievers.”
“I’m afraid my allegiances are already spoken for, Sheikh Abdullah.”