samir exited the Los Angeles International Airport terminal Sunday morning, carrying only a single, medium-sized bag. He’d been in the United States once before, on a five-day visit to New York for Sheik Al-Asamm. It was two years after he began working as a driver for Miriam, while she was still twelve and he only twenty. The sheer volume of new sights and ideas had sent him virtually running back to Saudi Arabia, begging the sheik never to be sent again.
Since that time, he’d been to Paris and Madrid on a number of occasions, but they hadn’t affected him like New York, whether because he was older or because those two cities were more reserved he did not know. He’d also been to Cairo. Many Saudi men went to the more liberal capital of Egypt for their pleasures, though that was not Samir’s reason for going. Samir never understood the blatant disregard for Islam’s moral code, which was almost always associated with such trips. He despised it. He always confined his pleasure to what was permissible according to the Koran, and always restricted his pleasure to the company of one person whom he loved more than any other man, woman, or child in the universe.
Miriam.
I have come for you, my love.
He hailed a taxi and was soon riding down Century Boulevard, headed for the car-rental agency. His plan was simple. He would allow Miriam to find him, and then he would take her away from this nightmare. He needed nothing but his own love and the will of Allah. And a little help from the others, of course. But they were already helping, far more than they could possibly realize.
In the last hour alone they had told him where to find her.
Whatever information the Americans turned up on the ground, they passed on to Hilal, who in turn told General Mustafa, who informed not only the king, but Khalid and the sheik. Hilal knew a third party was after Miriam, but he didn’t know it was Omar. In fact, because Samir knew about Omar, he knew more than the American Clive Masters. Omar knew everything that Hilal knew, but he was not aware of Samir’s involvement.
Only Samir and the sheik knew the full picture. And it was appropriate, Samir thought, because he was here for love.
The taxi driver swerved and cursed at a passing bus. By his accent the man was from Pakistan. Likely a Muslim.
“You have lived long in America?” Samir asked.
“Three years. I’ll be lucky to survive another three with these crazy drivers.”
“That’s a comforting thought for your passenger.”
The man laughed. “You get used to it. This is your first time to the States?”
“Second. I’ve been to New York.”
The man nodded.
“You are a Muslim?” Samir asked.
“Yes. There are many Muslims here.”
“And you are a good Muslim?”
The man glanced in the rearview mirror. “A good Muslim, yes. I try my best. It’s not easy to be a good Muslim in America.”
“Then you should go home to Pakistan.”
The man nodded, but the wind was out of his sails. “Perhaps.”
They drove on in silence.
Samir looked to the east. Somewhere out there in this vast landscape of lost souls, Miriam was running for her life. Afraid, abandoned, and desperate. He took a deep breath and begged God for her safety. One more day. Give me one more day.
They had missed Seth and Miriam by five minutes, and Clive knew it might just as well have been a week. Ten units had searched the streets of Ridgecrest for the next hour and turned up exactly what he expected them to: nothing.
Clive drove out of the church parking lot. With any luck, none of this would matter soon. He was putting the final touches on a plan to upstage Seth. The only way to deal with Seth was to put him in the dark; Clive knew that like he knew the walnut in his pocket was round. And if he was right, he was closing in on a way to do just that.
The first step was to track Seth’s movements and establish, with as much confidence as possible, his destination. For that he needed more manpower. If he could determine the destination, Clive thought he had a pretty good chance of getting there without being seen in Seth’s futures.
Peter Smaley had called an hour earlier and initiated a conference call with Secretary Paul Gray and NSA Director Susan Wheatly. Clive had talked to Susan before. The straight shooter took a personal interest in his unique position with the agency. It was his first time, however, to speak with the secretary of state, who was upset about having to tolerate Saudi diplomats running amuck in “this crazy manhunt down there.” The secretary understood the sensitive nature of the country’s relationship with Saudi Arabia better than anybody, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Clive patiently retraced the events of the last three days and then gave his estimation of the situation.
“You’re saying that Seth rather than Miriam presents the bigger problem to us,” Susan had observed. “Not because he’s assisting the princess, but because of this . . . this ability of his.”
“Yes. And I’m suggesting we make bringing him in the top priority.”
“You have over a hundred members of various law enforcement agencies directly involved now. And the rest of the country on full alert for this guy,” the secretary said. “Sounds like top priority to me.”
“I want more. He may try to take her from the country. I want all ports closed to private flights unless they’ve been thoroughly searched. I want to bring in Homeland Security and I want to set up interstate roadblocks. I’m suggesting we view Seth as a terrorist on the loose with an atomic weapon. And then I want you to give me authority over all resources. Nobody moves or talks without my saying so. That’s top priority.”
The phone went silent for a few seconds.
“You really think a college student from Berkeley is that dangerous?” Susan said.
“I think he’s the most dangerous man on the planet at this moment.”
Now, an hour later, Clive waited for their response. His patience was a formality. He already knew what the answer would be.
He slid into the car, fired it up. Hilal hadn’t shown himself since their talk last night. He was probably headed for Nevada already. Clive now thought of him as an enemy of sorts. He had the will and the means to take both Seth and Miriam out. Clive wanted them alive. At the very least, he wanted Seth alive. No man could do what Seth was capable of doing. Killing him would be a mistake of the worst kind.
His phone rang.
“Yes.”
“You have it, Clive,” Smaley said. Amazing how his attitude had changed since Clive interrupted his meeting the previous day.
“Okay. I call the shots?”
“You run the show in-country. The border is being handled.”
“Good enough.”
Smaley breathed into the phone. “I have to say, I’m pretty skeptical about this . . . theory of yours.”
“Okay.”
“So. If you had to call it now, where would you say he’s headed?”
“Las Vegas,” Clive said.
“Las Vegas,” Omar said, dropping the phone on the seat. “Drive.”
“How do they know?” Assir asked.
“They don’t. But neither do we. The agency man believes they’re headed for Las Vegas, and Hilal believes him. So we go to Las Vegas.
We stay with our plan. Sooner or later the student will make a mistake.”
After two days of cat-and-mouse games, it felt good to have a destination. He’d watched the meeting between Hilal and Clive Masters through binoculars at nearly a thousand yards and received the pertinent points of their conversation an hour later, when Hilal reported his suspicions to Saudi Arabia.
Now Seth and Miriam’s entourage was headed for Las Vegas, and he would beat them there as well.
Omar laid his head back on the leather seat and closed his eyes. If the hunters were right about Seth’s gift, then there was only one way to trap the student, and the agency man would be the one to do it.
But no matter how the scene played itself out, Omar would witness the end. He would be the vulture. And Miriam would be his prey.
His wife would be his prey.