The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

“Wouldn’t a guest lecturer be too high profile?” Evarts asked.

“The more renown the better,” Baldwin said firmly. “Esteemed academics move in rarified circles. They’re celebrities on campus and authorities shy away from challenging Islamicists for fear of being accused of prejudice, bigotry, or intolerance. They could get away with murder.”

“Damn it!” Wilson exclaimed.

Evarts and Baldwin turned to see what had provoked Wilson’s anger. She was staring at them.

“What is it?” Baldwin asked.

“Last year, I offered the same analysis in a meeting and got shot down. They said the leader of the Ikhwan wouldn’t be a public figure, and he wouldn’t teach Islamic fundamentalism because that would make him an obvious target for investigation. They insisted the caliph would be hunkered down in some seedy hotel keeping as low of a profile as possible.”

“Who’s they?” Evarts asked.

“It was my first and only attendance at an ODNI meeting. I was substituting for my sick boss and sitting along the wall. When the Director, National Intelligence asked for open comments, I was too naive to know that he wanted opinions from the brass around the table. I suggested a similar scenario and got shut down hard. Afterwards, General Smithson reprimanded me for speaking from the cheap seats without being called on. He ran Army Intelligence at the time.”

“Well, it still might not be a sound idea,” Baldwin offered.

“No, it’s good. When I hear it from another party, it sounds even more plausible,” Wilson said. “Besides, we got nothing else to work on. The Capitol Hill Club investigators won’t submit any more reports until their bosses wake up in the morning. London hasn’t responded yet. In fact, I suspect they blew me off and went directly back to O’Brian. So, I think it’s worth us spending a couple hours running it down.”

“Okay,” Evarts said. He turned to face his wife. “How do we do start?”

“Let’s see,” Baldwin said as she started typing on her computer.

In a few minutes, she said, “Two avenues of investigation. Diane, I sent you a list of links about visiting lectures at Universitas Islam Negeri Syarif. But we can’t assume that’s the correct university, so Greg and I will look at Islamic scholars. I made a cursory review of booking agencies, but none identified which scholars were available for short-term programs versus of one-off speeches. We’ll need to find specialties that look promising and then focus in on the men and their whereabouts.”

Each of them went to work.

In less than an hour, while starring at her screen, Baldwin asked in a distracted tone, “Anyone have anything on Ali as-Saad?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” shouted Wilson. “Why? What have you got?”

“He’s a Qutb scholar, but other than that I find little about him.”

“Would you like his address?” Wilson asked gleefully.

Evarts and Baldwin stared agape at Wilson.

“He’s teaching at Universitas Islam Negeri Syarif as we speak.”

Chapter 44

Evarts rolled over, uncomfortably. Someone jabbed him again. Irritated, he opened his eyes. O’Brian hovered overhead, scowling down at him. They had spent two more hours trying to verify their supposed find. At about three in the morning, Baldwin said that if they didn’t get a few hours’ sleep, they’d be useless the next day. Wilson curled up on the floor. Evarts and Baldwin took the two short office couches. Without being able to straighten his legs, Evarts had not slept well.

Evarts rolled off the leather sofa, stood, and stretched for the ceiling. He glanced at the coffee pot. The light was off. Without speaking he went over and started making a fresh pot. While he filled the pot, he glanced at his watch. A quarter to six in the morning.

“I need you,” O’Brian said.

“Alert, I presume. Let me get a hot cup of coffee in my hand. Is there a toilet kit around?”

O’Brian went to a file cabinet and rummaged around until he tossed Evarts one of those plastic enclosed toilet kits that hotels and airlines handed out.

Evarts started for the door.

“No, in here,” O’Brian said, opening his office door. “You can use my private bathroom.”

In a few minutes, Evarts felt almost as if he had had a decent night’s sleep. O’Brian met him outside the bathroom door with a hot mug of coffee and motioned him to take a seat at his conference table.

“I want to review our threat assessment with you to see what you think.”

He slid over a thin file folder.

Evarts took a sip of coffee to stall for time. Then merely said, “You think today?”

“That’s our guess. Fits with London.”

“Any additional indicators that this was related to the London bombing?”

“Some.” He hesitated. “Probably in the eighty percent range.”

“What were their other targets in London?”

“Second was Tower Bridge, a shrapnel bomb. That one was a dud, which left enough clues to capture the terrorist team. Three-man cell. Next, they intended to bomb the London Eye, then blow the hell out of the Globe Theater during a performance, and finally a very exclusive men’s club. The first bomb took out twelve members of the House of Commons, the middle three were targeted at tourist sites to reassure the elites that the terrorists weren’t after them. The men’s club was meant to be the coup de grâce. It would have been timed for the annual membership meeting.”

“How did they plan to get the bomb into the building?” Evarts asked.

“In a box of canned chicken bouillon. A staple ordered regularly by the kitchen.”

Evarts opened the folder and scanned the contents.

“You suspect they’ll go after a tourist site today?”

“Consistent with the London M.O.,” O’Brian said.

“Logical … except they know MI-5 interrogated the team. They might mix things up in case we connect the two events.”

“We thought of that, but how?”

“I don’t know … go after an academic target, a church or synagogue, or a landmark without people.”

“We discussed those as well, but let’s assume that today they want to hit a public space like Tower Bridge. What would you choose in D.C?”

“Obvious, the Mall … probably too obvious. The Capitol Visitor Center is always