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.Was the president really serious? Would he retaliate? Looking in his face, there was no doubt in their minds.The president finished speaking, the passion cracking his voice.Then, turning to his CIA director, he held his eyes.“You have twenty-four hours, Rich, not one second more.You have twenty-four hours to bring me a plan to go after those warheads.I’m telling you, Rich, to tear the world apart! You have my authority.You are free to bust heads.There is no law or regulation that would preclude any action you take.You will locate those warheads.Now, do you understand?”The director nodded.It was perfectly clear.The NSA cleared her throat.“Mr.President, there are a few other things that you need to decide,” she said.He looked at her anxiously and she went on.“We have the primary target list where we want to begin the search.But we need your approval before we can execute the—”“Give me the top three.”“Es Suweida, south of Damascus, Aqaba, and Tehran.”“Are our forces in place?”“Sufficient.Not optimal, but we can start on the job.”The president waved his hand.“Get at it,” he said.The NSA nodded expectantly.“But sir, the Saudis.The French.The others on the list?”“Put the screws to them! Hammer them to the wall!”“Mr.President, are you then authorizing—”“Yes! Yes! I’m authorizing any action.Have I not made myself clear?”The NSA scribbled quickly on a legal pad, then glanced over to the CIA director.The operation they were going to order would require both of their signatures and she needed to confirm that he understood the president’s instruction.The director hunched uncertainly and the NSA pressed.“Mr.President, forgive me, but I need you to be very specific.Are you authorizing our in-country agents to move against the Saudi King?”“Do it!” the president answered.The NSA nodded and the room fell silent again.“What else?” the president demanded, but no one replied.“Okay,” he said, “let’s get to work then.”The group stood as one, each of them breathless, and silently filed out of the room.28South of Camp CowboyNorthern AfghanistanPeter followed General Lashkar Gah’s runner down the muddy trail.The rain had broken for the moment, but the heavy clouds behind him promised more would soon come.Lashkar Gah had moved his camp down by the river, which was swollen and roaring from the morning rains, the water running cold and clear over the boulders and rocks.At the edge of the clearing, on the side of the camp, the runner came to a stop and stepped out of the way to let Peter pass by.He pointed to a single canvas tent and grunted.Peter understood.The warlord’s clan normally lived down in the valley, twenty kilometers east, nearer to the Pakistan border, but this prewinter romp through the mountains was something they did every fall.By summer’s end, the valley grasses had been grazed away, and so the herdsmen that supported the chieftain drove their herds to higher ground, where the animals could forage among the grasses that grew along the steeper terrain.But the heavy rains were precursors to the snows that would come, and the clan would soon be driven to the valley again.Two dozen tents had been pitched in a circle around a community fire on a sandy bank along the river.Peter could hear the tribal goats and sheep bleating on the grassy foothills behind him, and he smelled the tangy smoke of the smoldering fire.The camp seemed to be empty.He knew the children had been tucked away inside their canvas tents while the warriors and herdsman were in the rough shelters in the trees, from where they could keep their eyes on the camp while grazing their animals.Peter approached the tent carefully and stopped until he heard the warlord say.“Come! I am here.” Peter pulled the flap back.Three men were waiting, the warlord and two strangers.He waited at the tent flap, dripping wet, until the warlord stood up and gestured him in.Shaking off the rain, Peter stepped inside.Gah grunted and pointed to his poncho and Peter took it off, folded it carefully before placing it on the floor.A black leather holster was strapped over his shoulder and around his waist.Seeing three other handguns in their holsters placed by the tent door, Peter unstrapped his weapon and placed it beside his poncho.Standing, the warlord twirled his finger and Peter lifted his arms and turned, showing there was no weapon at his side or tucked behind his shirt.Satisfied, Gah nodded and sat down heavily on the floor.The tent was warm and comfortable from a small propane heater that vented through a slit in the tent wall.The canvas floor was well swept and clean, and it was surprisingly large.Wool blankets had been piled along one wall, with foodstuffs and a low folding table along the other.The men sat facing each other, their legs crossed, eyeing each across the floor.Peter bowed to Gah, then turned to the other men.The nearest one was large and middle-aged, with downturned lips and a cold stare.The rough hands, worn boots, and dirty combat jacket with cluttered pockets betrayed him as a man who lived on the move.And there were only two reasons men moved around in this place.Running or chasing.Peter wondered which one it was.Then he glanced to the other.Hardly more than a kid, he stared quiet and wide-eyed.Peter saw the resemblance and realized he was the older man’s son.The two strangers watched him carefully, then shot a subtle glance to each other.Their eyes darted nervously.This was, after all, the Apostle of the Night, the American horseman, the prince of the darkness who seemed to know everything.He was well known in the mountains.Everyone—thieves, terrorists, drug smugglers, tribal chieftains, jihadist, and thugs—everyone had heard stories of the Apostle and the men he had killed.Still, the older man almost smiled.It was three against one.They were armed and he wasn’t.And they were ready.He was unprepared.It shouldn’t be difficult to kill him, the legend of his prowess aside.Camp DohaQatarIt was dark, the wind blew, and sunrise was an hour away.The sky was black and rolling, a thick ugly blanket hiding a dull yellow moon.As the rain crashed in thick sheets, the thunder rolled in from the seas.The wind howled violently across the open water, creating whitecaps tall as buildings, walls of frothing white that crashed in on themselves.Two U.S.Army MH-60 combat helicopters sat at the far end of the runway.Their cabin doors were open, exposing two.50-caliber guns mounted on the floors, lethal out to two miles, and multiple bundles of equipment and ammunition stashed under the main cabin seats.The choppers were unmanned and their rotor blades were tied down, but they had been preflighted and cocked for combat alert.Inside a small building, the crews huddled around the operations officer, the second in command, a brand-new lieutenant colonel who had been deployed to Qatar for more than three hundred days.The boss pulled on his nonregulation-length moustache as he studied the satellite charts [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]