The Nostradamus Secret (Danforth Saga Book 3), page 4
But years of indoctrination swamped the guilt. The mullahs back home had driven into him the belief that Islam should dominate the world. They had convinced him that the Great Satan, the United States of America, was the primary obstacle to the supremacy of Islam.
He opened his email Inbox with indifference; his mind still on the receipts piled in front of him, and then felt a dagger of pain wrench his stomach. It wasn’t possible, he thought. Not after all this time in the U.S. He’d been here for twelve years. Sure, couriers had come to Lima once every two or three years with messages for him. And they always asked about his family in Syria. He recognized those inquiries for what they were—veiled threats to remind him that if he failed to perform his eventual task—whatever that task might be—the lives of his parents and brothers would be in jeopardy. Coded emails had arrived once or twice a year as well. A man invoking the name of Al Da’i had even telephoned him several months ago. But so far it had all been nothing but talk.
This email message changed everything: Execute Icon. He considered his options, but knew he had none. Not so long as he had family in Syria. Not so long as they were, for all intents and purposes, hostages. They would all die if he did not do as he was now instructed. Besides, wasn’t this what he had been waiting to do his entire life?
“Sal, call on line two.” The voice coming from his intercom startled him. Farouki looked at his secretary on the other side of a glass partition. He nodded at her and reached for the telephone.
“Hello, my husband,” Salim’s wife Soroya said in Arabic. “How is your day?”
Farouki couldn’t begin to tell his wife what a turn his day had just taken. “Everything’s going fine,” he answered curtly.
“You sound upset, Salim.”
“I am very busy,” he responded, more sharply than he had intended. “What do you need?”
Soroya paused a second, then said, “Boutros is coughing. I need you to bring home some medicine.”
Farouki considered his six-year-old son to be a gift from Allah. Just the thought of the boy being ill made his already aching stomach feel worse. “I will bring the medicine,” he said. “Shouldn’t you take him to the doctor?”
“It is just a little cough,” Soroya answered sweetly. “Don’t worry.”
Farouki sighed, ran a hand over his bald head. His hand came away wet. He pulled his handkerchief from a pants pocket and wiped his hand and his head. “I will see you tonight,” he said, and hung up.
He grunted as he pushed away from his desk and hefted his bulk out of the chair. He removed his sport coat from the clothes tree, took a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and placed it in his jacket pocket. After telling his secretary he was leaving early and would be back in the morning, he took the staircase down to the store’s public area, walked along an aisle of dental-care products, and went through a door at the back of the store into a storage room. He bent down at a metal rack filled with boxes in the farthest corner. Reaching underneath the rack’s bottom shelf, he groped blindly for the magnetized Hide-a-Key box he’d placed there three years earlier. When his fingers touched it, he tugged it away from the shelf and slipped it into a pants pocket. The box was tiny, but it felt like a ten-pound lead weight. After leaving the storage area, on his way through the store, he picked up a bottle of cough medicine for Boutros. Then he walked out to the parking lot, got into his car, and drove west, across the state line into Indiana.
Farouki parked around the corner from the All-American Business Center, a copy shop in Fort Wayne owned by an Irish-American formerly known as Kevin Roach. Roach had converted to Islam while in college and changed his name to Ahmed Zahedi. As with many converts, Zahedi saw the promise of Islam and little of its sinister manifestations. For years, Farouki knew, Islamic radicals had been using the shop’s computer rental services, without Zahedi’s knowledge of these customers’ connections, to communicate by email with others all over the world. Farouki had heard about the shop but had never been here before.
Farouki gave the Irishman a false name and received a warm greeting. Zahedi seemed to want to chat. But Farouki cut him short, looking at his watch. “I’m in a hurry,” he said. “My son is ill, so I have only a little time to use a computer.”
Zahedi looked disappointed as he escorted Farouki to one of the cubicles in the back of the store and tapped a password into a computer there. He didn’t ask Farouki for a credit card. Zahedi’s Middle Eastern clients rarely used credit cards. They paid cash. This served Zahedi well, since he didn’t disclose these cash transactions on his tax returns. He left Farouki alone.
Farouki extracted the Hide-A-Key box from his trouser pocket and slid open the top, revealing a slip of paper that could have fit into a fortune cookie. The numbers and letters on the paper were in a simple code—the numbers represented letters of the alphabet and the letters represented numbers. Because the typed letters and numbers were too tiny to read with the naked eye, Farouki took the magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and read the note. He translated the code. The slip of paper contained a message specifying how to create two series of fifty email addresses each. The first address in the first series, when decoded, converted to red1@icon.com. He was to send the same message to fifty addresses that ran from red1@icon.com through red50@icon.com. The paper included a second series that ran from white1@icon.com through white50@icon.com. He had been instructed to ignore this second set of addresses until he received a second message.
It took Farouki twenty-five minutes to input and check all of the addresses. Then he moved the computer arrow to the subject line and typed in “Execute Icon.” Finally, looking again at his watch to memorialize the moment, he hit SEND. He had no idea what the message meant, but he sensed that he had just pulled the pin on a very large grenade. He wondered if 5:15 p.m. on this date would go down in history. He shrugged and logged off the computer, settled the bill with Zahedi, and drove back to Ohio.
CHAPTER 7
Youssef Hyder was the product of the Shatila Palestinian refugee camp in southern Lebanon. His heroes were the defenders of Islam, among them suicide bomb martyrs and great leaders such as Abu Nidal and Osama bin Laden. The 9-11 attacks on the U.S. had inspired him beyond anything he had ever thought possible. When he was picked to go to the United States as a “sleeper agent,” he could barely contain his excitement. He knew he would some day be given an assignment that would be his ticket to heaven. The sooner the better, he thought.
Supplied with enough money to subsist for at least four years, he traveled to Los Angeles on a student visa, attended business school classes at UCLA, and waited. He’d been contacted only twice in the four years he’d been in the U.S. The first time, a year ago, an envelope had arrived. It contained a slip of paper with the word ICON typed at the top and the names of four men and one woman. The envelope had also held an antique Persian gold coin. The second contact, less than a month ago, was a telephone call from a man who had asked him about his family in the old country. That call had told him that something was about to happen. The caller was reminding him about the consequences to his family if he did not do his duty. The man chatted with him for less than a minute and then abruptly hung up.
Youssef had wondered how much longer he would have to wait for the call to action. His money was almost exhausted. Graduation was just around the corner—he just needed to complete two summer classes.
He had learned all he could about each of the five people whose names the courier had given him. All five were high-visibility, well known Americans. He had pinpointed their homes and offices in various Southern California locations; was present at many of their public appearances, and—whenever possible, given his school obligations—followed them to observe their habits and routines. Youssef couldn’t understand the Americans. Here were some of their most famous citizens, yet only one was ever accompanied by a bodyguard.
When and if the order came down, he would be prepared. He wanted Al Da’i to know what sort of disciple he was. If he succeeded in spectacular fashion, there might be other assignments.
On this Friday, he was in the business school library researching a paper for his statistics class. It was early evening before he was finished. He stowed his papers and books in his backpack and walked to his nearby one-story rental house. As always, he went first to his bedroom, locked the door behind him, and checked his email. There were a dozen messages waiting, mostly from Arab friends around the world; two messages he recognized as spam. But his eyes locked on one message in the middle of the email list. It had “Icon” in the subject line. Youssef felt a jolt in the center of his chest. His hand trembled as he clicked on this message. The text simply read: “Execute Icon.” He gripped the sides of his laptop’s screen as though he could anchor himself to the computer. “At last!” he whispered. “Allah be praised.”
Youssef kicked aside a throw rug in the middle of his bedroom floor and dropped to his knees. He used the large blade on his pocketknife to lift a floorboard, revealing a hidden space that contained an M-14 rifle, a sniper scope, and two 20-round magazines of 7.62 caliber ammunition. He had purchased all of it from a dealer at a firearms show in Laflin, Nevada shortly after arriving in the U.S. and had handled the rifle only once a month or so since then, to clean it. After mounting the scope, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. He was amazed at how relaxed he now felt. He had prepared for this most of his life. He would take care of this business, then graduate, marry his American girlfriend so he wouldn’t have to leave the country, and disappear into the fabric of American society—until he was called upon again.
Youssef called a pizza delivery place. He’d eat, watch some TV, and then try to grab some sleep before setting out. While waiting for the pizza to arrive, he cleaned the rifle, then packed it, along with the scope, ammunition, two bottles of water and a couple candy bars, into a duffel bag. He’d leave at 4 a.m. to set up in the dark, to prepare to kill an American icon.
SATURDAY
WEEK ONE
CHAPTER 8
William Scherzer initially delayed relating to Archibald Marshall what Houssein Shahrani had told him. Marshall had become an emotional wreck the longer their dealings had gone on with Shahrani. Marshall loved the money that Shahrani funneled to them; he did not like the risk. But Scherzer had learned many years earlier that great rewards usually came with great risk. After several hours, he decided that he’d better not postpone briefing Marshall any longer. Shahrani had told him that he’d already put the plan in motion. He had no idea what the plan entailed, but he was confident that it would be earth shaking. Scherzer wanted to make sure Marshall was prepared.
He parked two blocks away and walked down the steep, uneven brick sidewalk to his friend’s Georgetown townhouse. Marshall jerked the door open before Scherzer completed his knocks on the heavy, paneled door.
“What’s so important that we had to meet on Saturday?” Marshall demanded after closing the door and leading Scherzer into the sitting room.
“Jesus, Archie,” Scherzer groaned as he sat in a large leather armchair. “We’re in bed with Houssein Shahrani, an Iranian who works for one of the richest men in the world who we’ve never met—don’t even know his name. We are being paid millions of dollars to use our influence in Washington to sponsor Shahrani’s choice of who he wants to be the next Iranian President. And we’re trying to undermine the present Administration. You’re right. What was I thinking? What I have to tell you can wait until Monday.”
“Oh, fuck you, Bill,” Marshall said. “Take your sarcasm and shove it.”
Scherzer stared at Marshall’s face, which was paler than usual, reflecting the anxiety that seemed to be coursing through him. The red welts were even more pronounced on his neck and cheeks. The man’s eyes bounced in their sockets. “What the hell has happened to you, Archie?” Scherzer asked. “You were the biggest trouble maker and risk taker in school.” Before Marshall could respond, Scherzer continued. “You’ve been in this godforsaken city too long. Who was it that said, ‘The only thing that happens in Washington, D.C. is nothing or procrastination?’ You’re becoming just like most of the bureaucrats in the District.”
“You have no right talking to me like that. I—”
“Bullshit, Archie. You know I’m right. Besides, there’s nothing you can do about the course of events at this point. That’s what I came here to tell you. Shahrani told me he’s already set his plan in motion.”
“Oh my God. What’s he doing? What’s going to happen?”
Scherzer shook his head. He felt his anger rising. But more than anger, he suddenly felt fear. Fear that his long-time friend was becoming a liability. If Marshall went off the deep end, he might do or say something that could expose him. He came out of his chair and slowly moved to the other side of the room where Marshall stood in front of the fireplace. He snatched Marshall’s shirt front in his left hand and cuffed him on the side of the head with his other hand.
Marshall ducked and threw up his hands as though he were expecting another blow. “What the fuck did you do that for?” Marshall cried.
“You idiot,” Scherzer shouted. “We’re in this thing so deep, we couldn’t get out even if we wanted to. We’ve taken money from ruthless people. What do you think would happen to us if we backed out now?”
“What do you mean?” Marshall said.
“They’ll kill us, Archie. Don’t you understand that? We don’t do what we’ve agreed to do and we’re dead meat. Do you think this is some sort of game we’re playing?”
Scherzer pulled his right arm back, his anger and frustration bringing him to the breaking point. He held his arm in a cocked position, all the while trying to refrain from hitting his friend again. Finally, he twisted Marshall away from the fireplace and shoved him across the room, propelling him into a wing-backed chair that skidded across the wood floor under Marshall’s weight.
“Jesus, Bill.”
Scherzer pointed his arm at Marshall, his hand simulating a pistol. “You pull yourself together.”
“Or what?” Marshall said in a barely audible voice.
His arm still extended, Scherzer said, “I suspect you can figure that out all by yourself.”
CHAPTER 9
The alarm clock startled Youssef awake. He’d slept so soundly it took him a moment to figure out why he had set the clock to go off so early—3:45 a.m. Then the fog of sleep dissipated and the memory of what he was about to do hit him. He cracked open his bedroom door to make sure neither of his two housemates were up. After ensuring that the way was clear, he pulled the duffel bag out from under his bed and skulked outside. After placing the duffel in the trunk of his twelve-year-old car, he started the engine and drove away.
Youssef drove from Westwood, taking Wilshire Boulevard. Driving just under the speed limit, he stopped at the first 24-hour drug store he found and bought some over-the-counter cough medicine and throat lozenges. If a cop stopped him, he wanted to have an excuse for being out so late. He drove to Sixth Street and took it toward Hancock Park. Five minutes later, he parked behind a grocery store across from a movie lot. In the pre-dawn darkness, he pulled the duffel bag from the trunk, slung it over his shoulder, and strode to a semi-trailer used for storage at the back of the building. He climbed onto the trailer’s bumper and swung the duffel onto the top of the trailer. Then he grabbed the vertical locking bar on the back of the trailer and pulled himself up. From the top of the trailer he jumped easily to the store roof and walked across it to the front of the building. He hid behind a parapet there. The roof was screened from the rear by tall trees. He felt sure no one could see him, even from the second stories of houses beyond the trees. Youssef figured this first killing would be the riskiest. Saul Franken, a giant in the movie business, a household name across America, was the only one of Youssef’s targets who had a bodyguard.
Nothing had changed about the movie lot since the last time Youssef had reconnoitered the site. The perimeter fence was eight feet high, topped with concertina wire. From his position on the roof, he could see Franken’s office door in a one-story, free-standing building twenty yards inside the movie lot. From his vantagepoint on the roof of the store, Youssef had an unobstructed shot to the office entrance. There was always a guard in the shack outside the movie lot gate, fifty yards from where Youssef squatted. But the elderly guard who pulled duty on Saturdays served public relations purposes more than security. He didn’t even carry a pistol.
As the sun rose, Youssef ate the candy bar, and drank a bottle of water. At 6:55 he took several deep calming breaths, slowly releasing the air from his lungs each time. Then he lifted the rifle from the duffel bag, knelt and rested the rifle in a notch in the parapet. He placed the crosshairs of the scope on the spot where Franken would stand while unlocking his office door. He knew Franken’s bodyguard driver would exit the limousine’s front driverside door, circle the car, open the right rear door for Franken, and then follow Franken to his office. Franken would walk up two steps to the office door. The bodyguard would stand just a couple feet away, screening Franken’s back.
Youssef felt his pulse quicken as the black limo pulled into the movie lot at 7 a.m. Right on time. Youssef allowed himself a quick smile. Franken was obsessive compulsive. He took another deep breath and pinned the scope’s crosshairs on the office door, waiting for Franken to step in front of it. When Franken’s head filled the lens, Youssef released the air in his lungs and shifted the rifle just enough to center the scope. He squeezed the trigger and saw blood spray as Franken slammed against the door and crumpled at the bodyguard’s feet. Youssef pulled the rifle back from the parapet and searched for the shell casing, which he found a few feet to his right. Then he looked back at the scene across the street. Franken’s bodyguard had dropped to the ground, pistol in hand, covering his boss’s body with his own. He was shouting for help.
