Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Cowards, every single one of them. Leaving the dirty work to the fanatics they’d snookered into believing it was the will of Allah.

As Tony and Jack waited their turn, a uniformed officer moved along the security line with a bomb-sniffing German shepherd on a leash.

Jack checked his watch, a spare Rolex he always kept in the drawer by his bed. It would never replace his father’s Hamilton, but it was accurate and that was good enough for now.

The time was nearing half past eight.

The President wasn’t due to make his remarks until nine P.M., and no sign of his motorcade had been in evidence. As usual, he’d make a last-minute entrance, give his speech, then let the Secret Service whisk him back to Air Force One for the flight back to D.C.

Assuming he was still alive.

As they moved to the front of the security line, Jack and Tony took their keys from their pockets and deposited them into a tray provided by a uniformed guard. Tony went through the scanner first and got through clean. But as Jack stepped through the beeper went wild and his heart kicked up a notch. The security guard stopped him, gesturing to the Rolex, and Jack quickly removed it, laying it in the tray. He went through the scanner again and managed not to set off any more alarms. He was glad, then, he was wearing a vest and jacket. His shirt was miserably damp with perspiration.

He moved with Tony to retrieve their belongings.

Hurdle one taken care of.

Just past the security station was the museum’s Court of Honor, a large, rectangular courtyard surrounded on all sides by lighted Ionic marble columns. A gigantic bronze cast of Rodin’s masterpiece The Thinker sat on a high pedestal near the front of the courtyard, and just beyond this, rising up from the floor, was a blue glass pyramidal skylight.

Placed in strategic viewing positions all about the courtyard were roped-off glass display cases, each featuring a work of Islamic art-a thirteenth-century Syrian glass beaker with an ornate design running through it, a piece of carved Egyptian ivory depicting men at war, a Kashan wall tile featuring a fire-breathing dragon, a Mughal dagger with a hilt made of gold, rubies, and emeralds…

People were everywhere, browsing the displays, laughing, talking, drinking white wine and champagne and sampling hors d’oeuvres offered on trays by waiters in crisp white jackets. A string quartet of lovely young women played a gentle classical tune-Beethoven, String Quartet No. 1 in F major, Opus 18. He and Tony moved together, working their way from display to display.

Exchanging glances, they each reached into their pockets and worked at unscrewing the miniature flashlights attached to their key chains. These were really nothing more than hollowed-out tubes. Inside each tube was an earbud transmitter-receiver that Mike Abernathy had scored through his black market contacts. They connected wirelessly to plastic microphones in their ties-the kinds that wouldn’t upset metal detectors-and were activated by a depression switch inside a cuff link. They were military grade and set to a seldom-used frequency that the Secret Service wasn’t likely to detect.

That was the theory anyway.

Each man glanced around for prying eyes, but the other patrons were too rapt in their own small talk to pay attention to them. Pretending to scratch his head, each man nonchalantly popped the device into his right ear. It was small enough that it sat snugly inside the ear canal and was nearly invisible to the naked eye.

When Jack had his in place he activated it and said softly, “Can you hear me?”

Maxine Cole’s voice immediately came alive in his ear. “I hear you, Jack.”

Max and Dave Karras were out in a far corner of the museum parking lot, sitting in a small Chevy van they’d rented for the occasion. Karras had brought along a laptop and was busy trying to hack into the museum’s network.

“We’re also reading you loud and clear,” another voice said.

It was Doc Matson, who was exiting a battered Jeep Roadster, along with Mike Abernathy and Jonah Goldman. They were parked in the roadside parking lot of the Cliff House restaurant down the hill, which overlooked the ruins of the Sutro bathhouse.

Doc had paid a visit to one of his urban explorer friends, who drew him a map to the approximate location of the one known entrance to the Lincoln Park bunkers, which was located just beyond the cliffside. Their plan was to scope the area out to try to determine if anyone had made entry.

“Excellent,” Jack said. “Tony, are you reading me?”

“I’m standing right next to you, genius.”

Jack shot him a frown. “Is your com unit working or not?”

Tony smiled. “Loud and clear, brother.”

Jack’s heart was thumping like crazy and he was sweating like mad. And while he knew what they were about to attempt might prevent a major catastrophe, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sara. Wondering what they had done to her.

Wondering what they would do to her if she were still alive.

You’ve got to stop thinking about her, he told himself. He needed to focus on the task at hand or untold millions would die. Sara would understand that. Hopefully, one day, so would he.

“Okay,” he said to Tony. “Let’s split up and do our best to blend in. I figure we’ve got about fifteen, twenty minutes before the show starts. Dave, have you hacked into their security cameras yet?”

“Still working on it.”

“Come on, man, the clock is ticking.”

“Take it easy, Jack. These custom jobs take a little extra time. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m in.”

“All right,” Jack sighed, then turned to Tony. “Shall we join the party?”

Tony nodded, and they moved to the nearest waiter. Each grabbed a glass of plain soda water, to stay sharp, before heading in opposite directions.

As Jack walked, smiled, mingled, he let his mind work on something else that still bothered him, something he hadn’t been able to figure out. Something from the encrypted e-mail.

The reference to “twins.”

The men had spent the night in the tunnels, coming in under cover of darkness when the park was deserted and no eyes were watching. They had slept and prayed on coarse mats they kept rolled up in their satchels, and ate crackers and drank bottled water for sustenance.

They were all good soldiers of Allah, ready to give their lives in his honor, but only one of them would be chosen tonight and the hour was almost upon them. Their leader, Hassan Haddad, was one of the Hand of Allah’s great soldiers and they were privileged to be serving under his command.

Haddad ordered them to stand at attention in a line against the wall, then slowly moved from man to man, carefully studying the eyes of each as he asked, “Are you ready to give your life for the eternal glory of Allah?”

“Yes,” each man replied in turn.

When Haddad made his choice-a slender twenty-year-old named Rashid-he pulled the young man out of line and they all prayed together, asking Allah to watch over his mission and his immortal soul.

Then the others followed as he led Rashid through the tunnel and into the small rectangular room that stood directly beneath the basement of the palace. They took the vest they had prepared during the night and quietly slipped it over Rashid’s head and arms and belted it around him.

It held enough explosives to level the museum.

The young man’s breathing increased visibly, audibly. Haddad held his cheeks and looked into his eyes and smiled. After a moment, the young man relaxed. Haddad then set the timer and an LED readout rapidly began counting off the seconds. It was set to go off in exactly thirty-five minutes.

Right in the middle of the President’s speech.

Haddad gestured toward the rebar ladder that led up through a narrow shaft in the corner of the room. “Your destiny awaits you up there, my son. When the time is right, Allah will show you the way. Are you ready?”