The inside man, p.32
The Inside Man, page 32
But it was. The green ball was moving.
JAX didn’t have to go back far to find the memory he needed: of the Arabic text on the Serpent’s wall. What he did need to know was how to type Arabic into a QWERTY keyboard. It didn’t take him long to find an image of an Arabic keyboard on the internet. One at a time, he pulled the Arabic letters from his head and found them on the Arabic keyboard he’d also memorised. Having changed the language settings in Microsoft Word to Arabic, he then found the corresponding key on his QWERTY keyboard.
He soon had the entire passage on his screen. He copied the chunk of text from Word and pasted it into Google Translate. And, like magic, the impenetrable Arabic became English.
He will rise with the Mahdi, redeemer of all religions: Twelfth Imam and high priest, to defeat the al-masih ad-dajjal and rid the world of evil. Together they will rule the righteous dominion.
Jax copied the translation and pasted it into his search bar. He knew exactly what he was looking for: an English translation of the Quran, with chapter and verse. ‘Come on,’ he muttered under his breath as he waited for the results to load.
Then suddenly he sat bolt upright, startled by what he was sure was a distant footstep . . .
WALLACE studied the screens: live traffic cameras, helmet cams, vehicles cams and a live feed being beamed down from Overwatch. Facial recognition software was being used to scan the people in the crowd.
‘Sector Two is clear,’ came the call from Sweeper One, the forward-deployed motorbike unit, giving the green light for the motorcade to proceed.
‘We are green,’ Wallace relayed to the other units. ‘ETA to delivery is twenty-four minutes.’
RONIN One threw his hand in the air and drew a fist, the command freezing the rest of his unit statue-still. He kept his hand raised while Clarke delivered the latest order.
‘Target is on the move,’ the soldier said after acknowledging the command. ‘Proceed to checkpoint Alpha Block. I repeat, new order is to proceed to Alpha.’
JAX turned towards his door and looked hard into the dark, listened closely. The footstep became footsteps. A guard. Had to be a guard. Maybe a random cell check?
Jax ignored the search results, which had now loaded, and closed his laptop. He turned off his phone. He thought about putting it to sleep instead, but the thought of it waking up while the guard was looking through his window forced his hand.
He pulled up his covers, lay his head on his pillow. He would pretend to be asleep. He closed his eyes, but his ears remained wide open.
The footsteps grew louder.
Not a guard. Those weren’t the chunky rubber soles of the guards’ boots. Not a random cell check. The footsteps were the sound of leather striking concrete. So, not an inmate either. And the footsteps were getting louder.
Click!
WALID was furious with himself for giving Chris too many pills. His mate was no longer being a chicken shit, but the sweat was just as bad. Maybe worse. Chris was soaked in his own perspiration by the time they reached the intersection. All the lengths they had gone to to blend in, and now he was wringing wet. Standing out like dog’s balls. And as if the sweat wasn’t bad enough, Chris began twitching, his head repeatedly jerking to the left as they crossed the wide city street that led to the park in front of the church.
Officially it was called a cathedral, but Chris called it a church. Cathedrals were supposed to have spires and gargoyles. Not a crystal crucifix.
A healthy crowd had gathered. Walid hoped Chris would not be freaked out by all the news crews and their cameras.
JAX saw the blade first: four inches long and stainless steel. Razor sharp. It was no prison-made shiv, but a hunting knife. And the man holding it was a hunter.
Jax had just had time to leap from the bed and position himself on the wall adjacent to the outward-opening door after the electronic mechanism had alerted him to the intruder. He realised he was still holding his phone as the hand holding the knife followed the blade into the cell. He sure was glad he’d turned it off.
Then his stomach dropped as he sensed a familiar scent. No. Surely not. But it was. As with sights and sounds, Jax did not forget smells. The overpowering cologne was unmistakable; it even swamped the smell of the freshly bleached floor.
Jax held himself hard against the wall, completely still. It was pitch dark and he had the advantage of surprise: no doubt the intruder was expecting him to be asleep, an easy kill. It would take him a moment or two to realise that Jax was not in his cot, and a moment was all Jax needed.
Yet he had to hold fire, resist the urge to strike, make sure the intruder was in front of him so he could attack his back. He didn’t know if the man could use the knife and he didn’t want to find out.
Jax held his breath as the intruder took another step and he momentarily closed his eyes, somehow thinking it would make him invisible should the intruder decide to look anywhere other than straight at the bed. Don’t look left. Don’t look left. Then he heaved a deep, silent breath, opened his eyes and prepared to spring forward. What the—?
The intruder was gone. Vanished.
An instant later, the mystery was solved as a 4000-lumen blast of light smashed Jax in the face. Army. Infantry. Blinded, he didn’t see the soldier who grabbed him and spun him round before putting him in an excruciating, vice-like arm lock. Nor did he see the soldier who zip-tied his hands or the one who gagged him before hooding his head.
Jax did not resist, because he figured they weren’t here for him.
Then one of them knocked him out with a thundering blow to the back of the head.
‘SHUFFLE,’ Wallace barked into his radio as the Presidential motorcade hurtled down the highway. The veteran Secret Service agent watched his screen as the convoy performed a shell-game shuffle at ninety kilometres an hour. Like a street performer moving cups to hide a pea, the President’s limousine and its two replicas dodged, darted and swapped positions. And then they did it all again.
‘Package is in place,’ the call came over the radio when the Beast settled on the predetermined place in the queue.
‘Copy,’ Wallace said. ‘ETA to delivery is sixteen minutes.’ THE HOOD came off first, then the gag.
‘Ahhh,’ Jax cried as the gaffer tape that was stuck to his face removed both hair and skin. His instinct was to berate the solider standing in front of him but he resisted the urge. He’d had time to calm down a little after coming to as he was being carried out of the wing like a hog-tied prize pig. He’d also had time to access the situation.
Then a soldier ripped off the other man’s hood.
‘You!’ Clarke screamed as Father Martin’s face was revealed. ‘You are fucking kidding me, right?’
Jax had known it was Martin the moment he smelled the cologne. The Brut 33. And he would have known earlier if Clarke had given him access to all the intelligence, instead of keeping him in the dark.
Clarke turned to Jax and stared daggers. As if it was his fault.
Oh fuck you. Are you serious? Jax stared back at Clarke. His mind was playing back the memory of Martin visiting the Serpent in the clinic, spitting out snippets of conversations: ‘Actually, he is the only person I have ever seen speak to the Serpent. Interesting story behind it all . . .’ and ‘I’ve heard he even helps guys out once they leave.’ Then the Dodge’s comment: ‘Another convert, hey, Father . . . Thought you were more of a fan of the Leb boys, though, Father.’ And he recalled the headline ‘Prison chaplain’s plan to perform exorcism on Serpent’. He hadn’t bothered to read the story because he’d known nothing of the plot then. In fact, he hadn’t known anything until they’d shoved a bunch of files in front of his face in the wake of the Salisbury attack. And with what Jax now suspected was only selected intelligence, they’d given him only thirty days to work it out, twenty of which he’d ended up spending in a coma.
He suddenly hated the Australian agent almost as much as the unlikely mass murderer in front of him. Killer of 1234 people.
Abruptly, a clean-cut man wearing a black suit pushed Clarke aside and ripped off the priest’s gag. ‘Where is the next attack?’ he demanded in a thick American accent – East Coast, Jax thought. ‘When?’
Jax was surprised that Martin didn’t so much as grunt as a layer of skin was removed with the tape. But not surprised when he shook his head and laughed.
‘Too late,’ Martin said. ‘Boom! It’s done. “And from the ashes He will rise.”’
The American shattered the chaplain’s nose with a textbook right cross.
‘Mav!’ yelled Sami as he emerged from a shadowy corner of the truck.
Martin’s guttural laugh filled the room.
Sami pulled Mav away from the priest as his nose began to gush blood.
Jax knew the CIA would have no problem with violence, given the urgency of the situation, but Mav had hit the perp so hard he’d almost knocked him out.
Jax studied the chaplain again. A clergy collar. The perfect red herring. The intelligence services would naturally have been looking for a Muslim. No doubt they’d done a background check on Martin – they’d have gone through every person who had access to the prison – but they probably hadn’t dug very deep.
They were all staring at Martin now, looking for some sort of read. Some sort of indication of what might force him to divulge the details of the final attack.
‘Hit me if you like,’ the clergyman said, breaking the silence. ‘Make me bleed some more. I will savour the pain, for it will be short.’
‘Would you like me to attend to your nose?’ Sami asked.
Martin shook his head after looking at the large digital clock located next to the computer screens.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘He will heal me in five minutes.’
‘Five minutes?’ Sami said with urgency. ‘Five minutes?’
Martin looked back towards the clock.
‘Closer to four now,’ he said.
Jax was about to speak when Clarke hurled himself towards the priest. He threw a brutal right hook straight into the chaplain’s ribs. Martin grunted before attempting to stand, struggling against the restraints that kept him pinned to the seat.
‘I am the Mahdi,’ he boomed, his chubby cheeks wobbling with fury. ‘Uniter of all religions. Ruler of all dominion. I am the one who will bring Him back. Jesus will rise and I will be standing by HIS side!’
‘Want to bet?’ Jax said as he jumped to his feet.
He turned to Sami. ‘Give me a computer,’ he demanded. ‘Now!’
JAX didn’t even have to click on the link to get his result; the number was in the preview.
QURAN, SURAH 85, AYAH 159: He will rise with the Mahdi, redeemer of all religion: Twelfth Imam and high priest, to defeat the . . .
And there were the numbers:
85:159
And there was his number:
59
The target was the fifty-ninth church on his list. The Cathedral Church of St Andrew, Hawaii.
Behind him, Sami yanked his phone from his pocket and began mashing at the screen, ignoring Clarke’s puzzled inquiries.
‘Agent Sami,’ he snapped. ‘ID CIA444323. Put me through to the head of the Secret Service. Fucking now!’
Jax looked at Martin. The tough man who’d hardly flinched as his gag was removed was gone. The whimpering fool frightened by the intercom was back.
‘ETA to delivery: two minutes,’ Wallace declared after Sweeper One cleared the final stretch of road. Wallace returned to the screens that showed the end of the line: Honolulu’s Cathedral Church of St Andrew.
Since being elected seven years earlier, the President had spent every Christmas in Hawaii with his family, partly to avoid the chill of an East Coast winter and partly to escape, at least for a while, the madness of the mainland. But he’d still insisted on attending a public Christmas Day church service despite Agent Wallace’s recommendation that he opt for the ceremony held at the Marine Corps base.
‘Y’all want me to spend Christmas morning in a soldiers’ shack,’ the devout Christian had roared. ‘Find me a proper church.’
And that’s why Wallace was once again sitting in the back of a truck scanning the faces of the hundreds of people crowded in front of the cathedral, hoping to get a glimpse of the President.
The red light on the emergency phone suddenly flashed. Wallace snatched the black phone from its cradle and slammed it against his ear. Two mug shots flashed up on his priority screen as the caller introduced himself. The facial recognition software automatically went to work.
WALID could not see the procession from where he stood, but the buzz among the crowd told him the first car had been spotted.
‘Now,’ he said to Chris. ‘It’s time.’ The pair had waited at the back of the throng as instructed, but now began to push their way to the front. As they advanced, Walid looked at Chris and knew why the Mahdi had instructed them to make a bomb with dual triggers.
‘Focus!’ Walid ordered. ‘This is our moment. This is what it has all been for.’
The instruction seemed to snap Chris out of his stupor.
Walid led the way as the pair moved towards the cathedral. He imagined he was playing soccer as he sidestepped his way past the spectators at the back of the throng. ‘Excuse me,’ he said repeatedly. Soon the throng was so dense he had to imagine he was playing rugby instead of soccer, using his shoulders and his weight to forge a path. It would have been so much easier had they staked out a position at sunrise, but the Mahdi had been explicit in his instructions.
Still, they eventually got to where they needed to be. Exactly where they needed to be. The President would be well within range.
‘Come on then,’ Chris said. ‘Give me my trigger.’
‘No, not yet. Not until he pulls up. Until the car stops. How many times do you need to be told?’
Walid was now perspiring too. Nothing like Chris, but he could feel the sweat beginning to pool around his armpits. He watched as the lead car in the procession passed, quickly followed by another car that looked exactly the same, and then another. Walid thought the little American flags on the cars’ aerials looked strange. Stiff. They didn’t seem wave about like a flag should.
He turned away from the procession and looked up to the sky when he heard the helicopter. The Mahdi had said nothing about a helicopter. Oh well. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing could stop them. Not now.
The Presidential limousine was in sight. Not the two decoys – they had already passed – but the one they called the Beast. The one that carried President Forrester. Salim moved his right hand into his pocket in anticipation of handing the first trigger to Chris – not that he expected it would be pressed. More likely the one in his left pocket would detonate the bomb. The glory would be all his. He smiled as he thought of the rewards that awaited him.
When the President’s limousine came to a sudden halt, stopping on a dime, Walid thought of a Formula One car – a McLaren or a Red Bull pulling up in the pits at Albert Park during the Australian Grand Prix. He drew a depth breath and withdrew the trigger from his pocket. ‘Chris,’ he was forced to mutter to get the idiot’s attention. Discreetly, he transferred the palm-sized trigger into Chris’s hand. ‘Not until he is out,’ Walid warned.
He looked at his mate and waited to be acknowledged. But, just then, Chris’s head exploded like a watermelon.
Chunks of brain slapped Walid in the face. Only then did the sound of the bullet reach his ears.
The helicopter hovered directly overhead. Walid did not have to look up to know the sniper’s rifle was now aimed at his head.
‘Freeze!’ screamed a soldier on the ground as a swiftly formed battle group stormed his way.
But Walid only followed orders from one man.
He was dead the moment he made his move.
EPILOGUE
Goulburn Correctional Centre, Goulburn, NSW, Australia
JAX walked into the visits room and was surprised to find only Sami sitting behind the steel desk and a satellite phone sitting on top.
‘Where’s Clarke?’ Jax asked.
‘This doesn’t concern him. Take a seat, kid.’
The absence set off an inner alarm. This solo visit from Sami, along with his terse dismissal of Clarke, seemed almost sinister. There was mischief in this mystery, Jax felt sure, but solving the riddle would have to wait. He glanced at the padded black travel case Sami guarded with his right hand before sitting down.
‘Sorry for leaving you in the dark, but it has been a busy couple of days,’ Sami said. ‘I hope Clarke’s thugs were a little less bruisy when they escorted you back to your cell.’
‘Going home?’ Jax said as he gestured towards the military-style Ogio duffle bag on the floor. Jax knew the brand and model because he’d once had one just like it.
‘Soon,’ Sami said as he heaved the bag onto the tabletop. ‘But I think you will find this a little more interesting than my underwear.’
Jax suddenly felt like a kid at Christmas. Answers: the ultimate gift. He’d spent the two days since the foiled attack attempting to fill in the dots. Trying to work out the whys more than the hows. He’d done the best he could without his phone and laptop – which had not been in his cell when he was unceremoniously returned before morning muster – but this was a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw with a thousand missing pieces.
Sami began working on the padlock. It was nothing like the padlock Jax’d had on his Ogio. In fact, it was nothing like any padlock Jax had ever seen. Sami held the mobile-phone-sized lock in his left hand and moved his right hand towards what appeared to be an LCD screen. The lock chirped: an electronic acknowledgement, after Sami had pressed the fleshy pad of his index finger against the black glass-like surface. Then the steel cable that bound the oversized and steel-strengthened zip end sprang free after Sami punched a six-digit code into a number pad that had appeared on the LCD screen.
