I Am Pilgrim

  ‘That’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ Bradley said.

  ‘Okay,’ I said coolly, and hung up.

  I stood still, blocking out the sound of the drinkers in the bars. Leyla Cumali’s brother had a little boy and she was raising him – in complete secrecy – as her own child.

  Again, I asked myself, why? Why lie about it? What was there to be ashamed of in taking care of your nephew?

  I thought of the morning when I had met her at the corner park – of the anger that had greeted my intrusion and the furtive way in which she had gathered up the little guy. I recalled thinking then that I had walked into a secret. It wasn’t normal; none of those things made any sense.

  Unless, of course, the father was an outlaw – a soldier in a secret war, for instance. A man always on the move, a man wanted for jihad or terrorism or something worse …

  Maybe such a person would have handed his son over to his sister to raise.

  In those circumstances, Leyla Cumali-al-Nassouri would have reacted with alarm when an American, an investigator, showed up and discovered the boy’s existence.

  But what about the little guy’s mother? Where was she? Dead, probably – bombed or shot in any one of the dozen countries where Muslim women are cut down on a daily basis.

  I found a bench, sat down and stared at the ground. After a long time I looked up and, from that moment forward, with an overwhelming sense that I had reached a watershed, I no longer believed that Leyla al-Nassouri had been speaking on the phone to a terrorist. I believed she had been talking to her brother.

  At last I had squared my circle – I understood the real connection between an Arab fanatic and a moderate Turkish cop. They hadn’t been discussing the mechanics of a deadly plot or the kill-rate of smallpox. We had assumed they were and had gone charging through the door marked ‘terrorism’, but the truth was far more human: they were family.

  Yes, she probably knew he was an outlaw, but I doubted she had any idea of the magnitude of the attack in which he was involved. There were countless Arab men who were Islamic fundamentalists and believed in jihad – twenty thousand on the US no-fly list alone – all of whom had some sort of price on their head and were trying to make sure that Echelon or its offspring couldn’t find them. To her mind, he was probably one of them – a garden-variety fanatic. There was no evidence to show that she knew he was plotting murder on an industrial scale or that she was even aware he was in the Hindu Kush.

  I started to walk fast, weaving through knots of vacationers, dodging traffic and heading towards the hotel. But what of the two phone calls? Why, at that critical time, had the Saracen risked everything to speak to her?

  Like I said, I was finding clarity. In the filing cabinet in Cumali’s bedroom I had found the bill from the regional hospital – the one that showed that the little guy had been admitted with meningococcal meningitis. I couldn’t remember the exact date of his admission, but I didn’t need to – I was certain it coincided with the two phone calls between Leyla Cumali and her brother.

  Once she learned how gravely ill he was, she would have posted the coded note on the internet message board, telling the Saracen to phone her urgently. In her distress, she would have reasoned that a father had a right to know and, given her brother’s religious devotion, he would have wanted to pray for his son.

  Most sites that offer dating and personal ads automatically alert other users to posts that might interest them. The Saracen would have received a text message telling him that a fellow-devotee of an obscure poet – or something similar – had posted an item. Knowing it had to be bad news, he would have phoned her at the designated phone box and listened to her prerecorded coded message.

  What a time that must have been for him. On a desolate mountaintop in Afghanistan, trying to test half a lifetime’s work, three people dying of sledgehammer smallpox in a sealed hut, he aware that, if he was discovered, it would probably mean instant death, and then to be told that his son was critically – perhaps fatally – ill.

  Desperate, he would have arranged to get an update from Cumali, and that was the second call he made. She would have told him that the drugs had worked, the crisis was past and his son was safe – that was why there were no more calls.

  But there was one other thing I realized, and I couldn’t avoid it – the Saracen must have loved the little guy with all his heart to have risked everything for a phone call. I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it at all – I knew from shooting the Rider of the Blue that if you’re going to kill a man, far better it’s a monster than a loving father.

  I flew up the steps of the hotel, burst into my room, threw a change of clothes into a bag and grabbed my passport. I knew the Saracen’s surname now, the same as his sister’s – al-Nassouri – and I knew where the family came from.

  I was going to Saudi Arabia.

  Part Four

  Chapter One

  TURKISH AIRLINES FLIGHT 473 took off from Milas airport, banked hard through the setting sun and headed across a corner of the Mediterranean towards Beirut.

  After leaving the hotel, I got in the Fiat, drove hard to the airport and took the first plane that was heading south – anything that would get me closer to Saudi Arabia.

  My idea was to save as much time as possible. While I was in the air I would call ahead and organize for a US government jet to rendezvous with me halfway there – on the runway in Lebanon.

  No sooner had the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean come into view and the FASTEN SEATBELT sign been turned off than I took my cellphone and headed for the bathroom. With the door locked and no time to worry about who might be eavesdropping, I called Battleboi in New York. First, I had to know where the hell in Saudi I was going.

  Rachel-san picked up. ‘It’s me,’ I said, without further identification. ‘I need to talk to the big guy.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, as soon as he had come to the phone. I didn’t have time for small talk. ‘You said you found the woman’s application for a driver’s licence—’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She was born in Saudi – where? What town?’

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, and I could hear him padding his way towards his office.

  ‘The application’s in front of me,’ he said after a short break. ‘ “Jeddah”, it says. A place called Jeddah.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘Great work.’ I was about to hang up, but he got in first.

  ‘Did you hear what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘About Leavenworth?’

  ‘Yeah. I told you they’d bleed me out then double-cross me. I hate this but … I have to ask … I need help.’

  There was a catch in his voice, and he had to pause to master his emotions. ‘I can do it – do the time, I mean – but I’ll lose Rachel. She wants kids – I can’t ask her to wait and give it up. Five years’ reduction is all I’m asking. I don’t know who you really are but—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said, more harshly than I meant, but I couldn’t allow him to go anywhere near the topic of my identity in case somebody was listening. ‘I know people,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I promise – I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said sarcastically and, while I understood that he had been used and screwed, I didn’t appreciate it.

  ‘I’m not like the people who nailed you,’ I said, voice rising. ‘If I give you my word, I mean it. I’ll do everything possible. Okay?! Now, I’ve got a few problems of my own—’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he said. I think he found my anger more reassuring than any words I could have said, and I hung up.

  My next call was to Whisperer. Again, there was no need for introductions. ‘I know his name,’ I said quietly.

  I don’t think in the history of covert intelligence such a bombshell had ever been met by so much silence. After what seemed like an eternity, Whisperer responded: ‘You mean the guy in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Yeah. Name of al-Nassouri. He’s the cop’s brother.’

/>   There it was – done. The organism had fulfilled its fate; it had relayed the information. If I had died then, it wouldn’t have mattered – the mission would survive.

  ‘What else?’ Whisperer asked.

  ‘Not much yet – born in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia,’ I said.

  ‘Saudi? Ask me why I’m not surprised,’ Whisperer replied.

  ‘Another few hours and I should have his full name and date of birth. I’m hoping to get a photo.’

  ‘Where the hell are you?!’ he asked suddenly. For only the second time in recorded history he had raised his voice. I figured that the automatic trace on my phone had just appeared on his computer screen and it was showing that I was in the middle of the Mediterranean. But it wasn’t really about him being alarmed by my location – the emotion, the stress, the relief, had broken through for Dave McKinley. We had a name, we had an identity, we had a man to hunt. Now it was just a matter of time.

  ‘I’m on board TA473 en route to Beirut,’ I said. ‘I need assistance getting to Jeddah and a lot of help on the ground when I get there.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that in a minute. First, how long before you can give me an update with the rest of the details?’

  I looked at my watch and did a fast calculation of flying time and document searches. ‘Twelve hours – I should have what we need by then.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m at the office now,’ he said, ‘but I won’t be then. I’ll be down the road – you know the place. We’ll be waiting for your call.’

  He meant the White House, and he’d be in the Oval Office with the president.

  Chapter Two

  I UNLOCKED THE bathroom door and came face to face with half a dozen pissed-off passengers who had summoned a flight attendant. It was clear from the tilt of her jaw that she had justice on her mind.

  ‘People have been knocking on the door,’ she said icily.

  ‘Yes, I heard ’em,’ I replied. It was true, but what was I gonna do – hang up on the director of intelligence?

  ‘You know it’s an offence to use a cellphone in flight.’

  I nodded. God, I was tired. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know.’

  ‘And you saw our video making that clear?’

  ‘Sure, lady. But you know something – I don’t care.’

  The passengers glared at me, speaking in Turkish or Lebanese, as I went to my seat. Another ugly American, I guessed was what they were saying.

  It was with some satisfaction then – after we had touched down in Beirut a short time later – that I realized we weren’t heading to a gate. Instead we stopped out on the apron as a motorized cherry-picker, three police vehicles and half a dozen black SUVs headed out fast to meet us.

  As the passengers and cabin crew looked out the windows, wondering what the hell was happening, getting scared, the icy flight attendant approached me.

  ‘Mr Wilson?’ she asked. ‘Could you come with me, please.’

  A British guy sitting in the next row stared at the squads of armed cops approaching. ‘Jesus – all that for using your cellphone? The Lebanese don’t screw around, do they?’

  He was joking, and it made me smile as I grabbed my carry-on and followed the ice maiden down the aisle. Two of her colleagues were already turning a handle and releasing one of the cabin doors. As it slid open, the platform of the cherry-picker rose into place.

  Standing on it was a middle-aged guy in a dark suit. He looked into the cabin and saw me. ‘Brodie Wilson?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Got your passport?’

  I pulled it out and handed it to him. He checked the photograph, the physical description on the data page and entered the serial number into his cellphone. A moment later he got a Code Green and handed the book back.

  ‘I’m Wesley Carter, Commercial Attaché at the Embassy,’ he said. I had never seen him before, but I knew it wasn’t true – without doubt, he was CIA station chief, Beirut. ‘You wanna come this way?’

  Watched by everybody on board, the ice maiden looking embarrassed, I stepped on to the platform and the cherry-picker lowered us to the ground. There were four more Americans in suits standing at strategic points around the SUVs, and I knew they were armed security. They watched as Carter shepherded me into the back of one of the vehicles and signalled to the Lebanese cops in the squad cars.

  They hit their flashing lights and, travelling at high speed, we charged across the asphalt towards an adjoining runway.

  ‘We’ve arranged a private jet for you,’ he explained. ‘It belongs to an Arab arms dealer, a sort of friend of ours. It was the only thing we could get at short notice. The pilots are ours, though – ex air force, so they’re good.’

  I looked through the armoured glass and saw a black G-4 corporate jet with an extended fuselage sitting in the distance with its engines running. I wondered how many rocket launchers you had to provide to the CIA’s friends in the Middle East to afford one of those.

  Carter spoke quietly. ‘Whisperer told me you were way off the books, said you were looking for the nuclear trigger.’

  I nodded. ‘Isn’t everybody?’

  He laughed. ‘You can double-down on that. Three thousand out of Beirut station alone – everybody in the region’s helping. Nothing anywhere, though. What about you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘I think he’s flying solo.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nuclear-boy.’

  I turned to him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Human nature, I guess – if he wasn’t, we would have heard something. People always talk; everybody gets sold out. Not far from here, there was a revolutionary guy – not a bomb-thrower but a fanatic, a lot of people said. He had a dozen followers who worshipped him, and they went through hell together. Even so, one of them sold him out. You know the story – Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.’

  Now it was my turn to laugh.

  ‘It was two thousand years ago,’ Carter continued, ‘and nothing’s changed – not in this part of the world anyway.’

  The SUV pulled to a halt at the steps of the G-4, and I grabbed my bag. ‘Good story,’ I said, and shook his hand.

  I opened the door and ran for the steps. I heard Carter calling after me. ‘Don’t forget – those guys where you’re going, they’re garbage wrapped in skin. Good luck.’

  I smiled – I didn’t need luck. Even if the Saracen was flying solo, it didn’t matter. In another few hours I would have his full name, date of birth, a history of his early life and probably a photo. That would be enough for Carter and a hundred other station chiefs like him to mobilize their men and those of other nations – the whole secret world, in fact – to find him.

  Forty-eight hours was my estimate. In forty-eight hours we would have him: we were going to do it in time.

  Chapter Three

  ALL THE LABELS on the tiny glass bottles were in place. And the Saracen had done it right on schedule.

  He had worked tirelessly, but luck had also played a part – one of his colleagues had been in a car wreck and that had allowed him to pull a series of double shifts.

  Right from the outset, he had organized the work like a production line, setting himself up in a section of the storage area hidden behind towers of flattened packaging. Undisturbed, he had a garden hose, a waste drain, a trash compactor, a commercial glue gun and various large plastic tubs at hand.

  He filled the tubs with the chemical solvent, slit open the shrink-wrapped slabs of legitimate drugs and immersed the tiny glass vials in the solution for two point five minutes – the optimum length of time, he had found, for floating off the labels. He then laid the labels out in front of a space heater for two minutes to dry – the same time it took him to feed the unwanted bottles into the compactor, crush them to oblivion and hose the liquid drug they had contained down the waste drain.

  The slowest part of the process was coating the back of the labels with the glue gun then
reattaching them to his own glass vials. At first he had thought it was so slow that he would never make his deadline, but he soon found that not overthinking it, getting into a rhythm, treating himself like a robot with a glue gun, increased the throughput dramatically.

  Fortunately for him, the warehouse had its own shrink-wrap machine to repair any packaging which had become damaged during the manufacturing and dispatch process. As a consequence, the Saracen had no difficulty in re-sealing his deadly bottles into the correct packaging.

  By the end of his first evening’s work he had one thousand tiny glass vials which were, for all practical purposes, identical to those used by Chyron. They were filled with a similar-looking clear fluid, fitted with the correct labels for a widely used drug, sealed in genuine plastic packs and plastered with legitimate bar codes, serial numbers and dispatch dockets. The only difference, impossible to detect by any other means than sophisticated chemical analysis, was that a potentially lifesaving agent had been replaced by the Saracen’s home-made apocalypse.

  Being a doctor, he knew the exact process that would occur once the vials hit America. A medical practitioner or a suitably qualified nurse would insert a syringe with a needle length of one inch or longer into the top of the bottle. The needle length was important, because the material they thought they were injecting had to be administered by what was called the intramuscular route. It would be injected into the deltoid muscle of the upper arm, and a needle of at least one inch was necessary to penetrate the muscle tissue of adults and older kids properly. In the case of infants and young children, a needle length of seven eighths of an inch was sufficient, but the injection would be given in the rear of the thigh.

  No matter the age of the patient or the site of the injection, once the virus was in someone’s body – and, with an intramuscular injection, there would be no misses – that person could not be saved. They could be described, totally accurately, as a zombie – one of the walking dead.