Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 3

  Two of President Zuwayy’s bodyguards quickly stepped up to President Salaam and stared at his hands and those of the others around him, looking for drawn weapons. It was a little irritating, but Salaam let the feeling go. The hall here at the Al-Azhar Mosque in Cairo, Egypt, was filled with dignitaries, diplomats, and celebrities from all over the world, here to celebrate the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. There was a lot of security in the place already— two Egyptian soldiers inside and outside every doorway, along with a dozen Presidential Guard snipers watching from catwalks overhead—but Zuwayy was the only one to bring his own bodyguards into the great hall.

  Salaam clasped Zuwayy’s shoulders and embraced him in a traditional Arab greeting. “Ahlan wa sahlan. Tashar- rafna! Hello and welcome. We are pleased and grateful by your presence, Mr. President.” This was the first time meeting the new leader of neighboring Libya, and it was about what he expected, given Zuwayy’s reputation. Zuwayy’s lips turned tense and hard, and his hands disappeared per- turbedly inside the billowing cuffs of his ornate silk robes.

  Zuwayy’s Minister of Arab Unity looked positively horrified. “Pardon me, Mr. President,” Secretary Hijazi said in a low but stem voice, “but my lord prefers to be addressed as ‘His Royal Highness’ or as ‘King Idris the Second.’ I am sure my office made the proper notifications to your office in a timely manner. And touching his highness without his permission is absolutely forbidden.”

  “Of course,” Salaam replied. “Yes, I was so notified.” He bowed to Zuwayy. “My apologies, Highness.”

  It was a joke, of course—everyone knew it. Jadallah Zuwayy claimed to be a descendant of the sheikhs of the al-Sanusi dynasty, the tribe of powerful desert nomads that united the three kingdoms of Tripolitania, Cyrenaica, and Fezzan under Islam during the Turkish occupation and formed the kingdom of Libya. It was Muammar Qadhafi, after oil was discovered in Libya, who led a military coup that overthrew King Idris al-Sanusi in 1969 and formed a military dictatorship; the al-Sanusi sheikhs were driven underground by Qadhafi’s death squads and formed the Sanusi Brotherhood, a monarchist insurgency group. Now Zuwayy claimed to avenge his family’s honor by taking the country back from Qadhafi in the name of the Sanusi Brotherhood.

  His claims were utterly baseless. Born and raised in Tripoli, the son of an oil executive and housewife, Zuwayy was an ex-army officer who had been serving in relative obscurity as an infantry-training officer, specializing in demolition, breeching, and minelaying. It was widely suspected, though never confirmed, that Zuwayy joined the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, an extension of the Mujahadeen—ultranationalist rebel groups spread out across the Middle East and Asia dedicated to the overthrow of existing governments and replacing them with fundamentalist Muslim religious governments. Much of his financial backing came from Mujahadeen organizations in Iran and Sudan collectively known as the Muslim Brotherhood, with whom Zuwayy had formed a close alliance.

  He had no royal blood in him, and his family never was part of the al-Sanusi clan, a great nomadic tribe that fought Turks, Italians, and Germans to win freedom for their people. The remnants of the al-Sanusi dynasty were scattered across Africa and the Middle East, fearing the Libyan assassination squads that pursued them under orders from Colonel Qadhafi. Although Zuwayy claimed to restore the monarchy to the al-Sanusi dynasty, his reputation as a ruthless, fanatical sociopath only drove them deeper into hiding. No one in Africa or the Middle East dared challenge his reign. The Western press scoffed at his claims and repeatedly offered much evidence that he was not a Sanusi, but the evidence was largely ignored, especially within Libya itself.

  President Salaam stifled a smirk at the aide’s remarks about Zuwayy’s grandiose title and motioned beside him. “Highness, may I present my wife, Susan Bailey Salaam. Madame, it is my pleasure to introduce His Highness, King Idris the Second, President of the United Islamic Kingdom of Libya.”

  Susan Salaam stepped forward, curtsied deeply, averted her eyes, and extended her right hand upward. “Welcome to Egypt, my lord. We are honored by your presence.”

  It was obvious that her husband thought this too much of a show, even for Zuwayy. He was surprised when Zuwayy offered her a very pleased smile, the first he had ever seen or depicted of him. Could this man, could any man, be so vain .. . ? “Please rise, woman,” Zuwayy said. “We are privileged to be here on this glorious occasion.”

  Susan rose—and Zuwayy looked into the most beautiful, most breathtaking, most alluring face he had ever seen. Her head was veiled, as it should be, but the sheen and luster of her deep black hair underneath could not be concealed. She wore no makeup that Zuwayy could detect, but her lips were deep red, her eyes dark and mesmerizing, her cheekbones high, her mouth perfectly formed. Her skin was perfect, fight brown with slightly darker cheeks from exposure to sun, almost African. She took one look at the Libyan pretender, and even his rock-hard heart began to melt.

  She was not African—Zuwayy knew she was an American, bom to southern European emigrants—but this creature was the most beautiful he had ever seen on the planet. She could not be human—she had to be a goddess, or a gift from the loins of Allah himself. He also knew she was much more than just a thing of great beauty. She was once an American air force military officer, rising in the ranks from a lowly security police officer to deputy chief in charge of intelligence for the U.S. Central Command. During the War for the Liberation of Kuwait, what the rest of the world called the Persian Gulf War of 1991, she acted as an intelligence liaison to the Egyptian military, which is how she and Kamal met. Zuwayy had been told that she was a woman of many talents: She could pilot a jet airliner, drive a main battle tank, fire a rifle, and argue both common and Shari’a law in any courtroom in the world in four languages.

  Susan Salaam quickly averted her eyes again, not daring—properly—to gaze into the eyes of another man, as was proper Islamic custom. Zuwayy had to force his own eyes from her, realizing—then not caring—that he had let them linger on her too long. She must be a gift from God, Zuwayy told himself again . ..

  ... a gift for a man blessed enough to have such high favor of Allah. And Salaam was not, could not, be that man. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my child,” Zuwayy said finally, fighting to control his breathing. He did not use the more formal address for a married woman, ya sayyida, but instead the more intimate expression dahab.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Susan said, again letting those beautiful eyes flash up toward his. “May the blessings of the Prophet, praise his holy name, be upon you and all of us today.”

  “Insha’allah.” He had to tear himself away from looking at her, so instead concentrated on her husband, looking Kamal Ismail Salaam up and down disapprovingly. Salaam was wearing a simple white and blue traditional headdress, but was otherwise dressed in a conservative gray doublebreasted Western-style business suit, with a single gold chain around his neck. “You do not appear to be prepared for prayer, brother.”

  “I have been asked to give a few remarks to our guests before the prayers of celebration begin, Highness,” Salaam replied. “My duties require that I be elsewhere during the prayers of celebration.” He motioned to his left. “The chancellor of Al-Azhar University and chief justice of the Arab Republic of Egypt’s Supreme Judicial Council, Ulama Khalid al-Khan, will lead the prayer celebration in my place.”

  Khalid al-Khan bowed deeply to Zuwayy, then took the Libyan’s extended hand and touched it tenderly to both cheeks. Al-Khan was in his late forties, a fundamentalist Sunni Muslim cleric who led the fight in 1980 as a firebrand—some said fanatic—to make the Shari’a, the Islamic legal code, the basis of Egyptian law; before that, the law had been a mishmash of English common law and even Napoleonic code, with a healthy dose of Turkish law thrown in to confuse everyone. The highest-ranking cleric in Egypt, al-Khan was an advocate of an even greater role of fundamentalist Islamic rule in Egypt and was very vocal in his opposition to both the Mubarak and Salaam governments. Al-Khan was dressed similarly to
Zuwayy, with traditional Arab robes and turban.

  “Majesty, it is an honor to meet you,” al-Khan breathed. “May the blessings of the Prophet be upon you forever and always.”

  “And to you, my son,” Zuwayy replied. He looked aghast at Salaam as if to say, “That is how you pay proper respect to your superior.” “The Prophet of course allows the faithful to pray anywhere,” Zuwayy said to Salaam, “but He always looks with extreme favor on those who join together with their brothers in prayer.”

  “My apologies, Highness,” Salaam said.

  “I see you prefer to wear the clothing of a mushrikun as well,” Zuwayy added. “You have also shaved your beard, of which Allah almighty also disapproves. At least you still observe the adab al-imamahe added, motioning to Salaam’s turban, “although it does not appear to be the proper length, as prescribed by His Holiness the Prophet. You shall be instructed as to—”

  “Mr. President... er, Highness,” Salaam interjected, purposely getting his title wrong just to irk the Libyan, “Allah, praise his name, knows the hearts and minds of all men. I am his servant, and I serve him in my own way.”

  “The Prophet has told us how we must serve God,” Zuwayy responded sternly. “If it is in our power, we must obey. Please do not mock the Prophet or the faithful by telling us that not joining in prayer is a proper way to praise Allah. You must—”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, Highness,” Salaam interrupted again. He bowed to Zuwayy, as did his wife; neither the Libyan nor al-Khan acknowledged his gesture. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for my welcoming address. Until this evening.” He turned and stepped away before Zuwayy could say anything else.

  The two greeted other guests and visitors, but were soon escorted by staff members to the front of the great hall and were quickly instructed on the day’s events. “It is not a good idea to anger Zuwayy, Kamal,” Susan said to her husband in a low voice. “He commands much respect in North Africa and elsewhere. The fundamentalists love him, and most of his enemies fear him.”

  “He is a popinjay and a pretender,” Salaam said disgustedly. “We all thought Colonel Qadhafi was a ruthless dictator, but Zuwayy is a hundred times worse. I had hoped a real al-Sanusi had taken over the Libyan government— then perhaps we’d see peace in our lifetime. Unfortunately, Egypt and most of Europe has to prepare to defend itself against whatever power-mad move he and his Mujahadeen crackpots will come up with.” He glanced over his shoulder and noticed al-Khan still speaking with Zuwayy. “Or maybe we should be defending ourselves against the enemy right in our own house.”

  “Khalid al-Khan may not be one of your staunchest supporters, Kamal,” Susan said, “but he represents the loyal opposition.”

  Salaam smiled, then squeezed his wife’s hand tenderly. “My wife, you are one of the most intelligent and thoughtful women I have ever known, on a par with the greatest minds, in our great country, but you know so little of power politics,” Salaam said. ‘Ten years in the U.S. Air Force as an intelligence officer is indeed impressive but insignificant experience compared to one year sitting across a People’s Assembly chamber arguing with men like Zuwayy and al-Khan. They and other members of the ‘loyal opposition’ would just as soon throw a punch or an insult as they would squish a fig.”

  “You think I am really that innocent, Kamal?” Susan asked playfully.

  Salaam basked in the unearthly glow of her sly smile. “I would never accuse you of being ‘innocent,’ my love,” he said. “But even scholars and ulamas like Khan have no compunction about going outside the law to get what they want. There is too much at stake for them, both in this world and in the next. They are fanatical—they believe they are on a mission, their actions fully justified and sanctioned by God. The nation, the land, even their homes, means nothing to them compared to what they perceive as the will of Allah. That vision obscures everything.” His eyes narrowed, and his grip on his wife’s hand tightened. “Always be watchful for the enemy. Trust no one. Question everything.”

  “All I have to do to learn about the real world is watch you, Kamal,” Susan said. “The one thing I trust is your love for your country and your people.”

  “And my love for you, Sekhmet,” Salaam said, using the ancient Egyptian nickname he had given her, which meant “huntress.” “My love comes before the people, the country, even before God. Never forget that.”

  “And my love for you is greater than all of our enemies and evil anywhere in the world,” Susan said. “When you think all are against you, I will always be by your side.” “Unfortunately, your place now needs to be behind me,” Salaam said, giving his wife a smile when he noticed her exasperated expression. “You may be loved by everyone in Egypt, but you are still expected to walk behind your husband, not beside him, at least on this holy day.”

  “Of course, my husband,” she replied. Susan gave her husband another soft kiss on the side of his lips, then stepped back the required two paces behind and to her husband’s left, her hands folded before her, her eyes averted. She knew her place well: Dwelling in a nation tom between the past, the present, and the future, it was best to not give traditionalists like Zuwayy, al-Khan, and their followers any reason to question the loyalty or morals of then- country’s leaders. A few moments later, the Republican Guard security forces opened the doors of the great hall, indicating that the procession was about to begin.

  Past the Gates of Sultan Qayt Bay, a large courtyard with several ornate minarets and qibla prayer walls separated the Madrasa from the main sanctuary, where the speeches and prayer services for President Salaam’s guests would take place. The path through the courtyard from the tomb to the sanctuary was lined with soldiers, with clergy and other invited guests pressing against the soldiers to watch the procession.

  It was Susan, not Kamal, who noticed two unusual things as they proceeded across the courtyard: First, the soldiers lining the procession route were not Presidential Guards, assigned to the protection of the president, but paramilitary soldiers from a unit she did not recognize; and second, they were facing the procession, their backs to the crowd instead of facing them. She turned to look for the Presidential Guard captain who had been stationed at the door to the Madrasa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  As she looked, her eyes caught those of Jadallah Zuwayy, walking several steps behind her. He nodded reassuringly to her, then glanced at Khalid al-Khan and nodded. Susan turned and looked at al-Khan, noticing the silent signal between the two. What was going on here? Why were they—?

  Bedlam suddenly erupted. A soldier shouted something from the Madrasa—someone had been killed? Is that what he shouted? It was hard to tell—his voice was strained with pain or fear. There was purposeful movement in the crowd of onlookers, not a random milling about but a determined surge forward. The soldiers guarding the procession line, their backs to the crowd, noticed nothing—even when two men in traditional thawb, sirwal, rida, and turbans burst past them.

  “Kamal!” Susan shouted. “Look out!” But suddenly she was grabbed from behind. It was al-Khan. He held her tightly by the arms, pressed her toward him, leered hungrily at her, then shoved her forcefully back toward Zuwayy. The Libyan pretender-king grasped her, then said something in a low, soft voice. “What are you doing, Majesty? What is going on?”

  “I said, do not worry, my child,” Zuwayy said. “Allah the almighty shall protect all true believers and servants of God.”

  Susan spun around until she was facing Kamal, still in Zuwayy’s grasp but being pulled backward, away from her husband. Up ahead of her, one of the strangers who had crashed unchecked through the security line grabbed President Salaam from behind, while another grasped him from in front. Once the man in front had a firm grip on Salaam, the man behind turned, raised his hands, and shouted, “Death to all kuffarl Death to all enemies of God! The Muslim Brotherhood is Allah’s sword of justice this day!”

  The man in front of Kamal opened his cloak—and revealed several sticks of explosives
and a detonator strapped to his abdomen.

  “La!” Susan screamed in Arabic. “Imshi! Get away! Kamal!” She twisted easily away from Zuwayy. One of the paramilitary soldiers beside Zuwayy tried to grab her. She clawed her way free and took a running step toward her shocked husband . .. just as a brilliant flash of light, an impossibly loud explosion of sound, and an incredible blast of heat erupted right in front of her. She had a momentary image of Kamal Ismail Salaam’s body and that of his attacker being blown apart like firecrackers, before a giant invisible force threw her backward and darkness closed over her. . ..

  CHAPTER 1

  BLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS

  The dark-clad figure turned, slowly, smoothly, menacingly. The blank, staring eyes were expressionless, robotic. The figure lifted a weapon from the floor, an immense Ml68 six-barreled Vulcan cannon, and pointed it right at Patrick McLanahan. From less than thirty meters away, he could not miss. The cannon, normally mounted on a large vehicle like an armored personnel carrier, could fire hot-dog-sized shells at up to three thousand rounds a minute—there would be nothing left of his body, even after only a one- second burst, to clean up with a sponge.

  Patrick heard a clink of metal—the Gatling gun ammunition feed mechanism as the figure adjusted his grip. He couldn’t see a trigger—the Vulcan cannon was normally electrically operated—so he could not even guess when the gun would start firing. It wouldn’t matter anyway—at this range, he’d probably be dead before he heard the sound.

  “Feels good,” the figure said, his voice electronically distorted. In rapid succession, he elevated the cannon straight up into the air, side to side, and around in all directions. The movements were smooth, mechanical, effortless, as if the one-thousand-pound cannon were little more than a wooden stick. He set the big gun down on the floor, then unfastened some latches, removed his helmet, and handed it to a technician standing nearby to help him. “I feel like a damned clown miming on the street, but it works pretty well.”