James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

Still, there was one place. Hala wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did. The question was, Which way from here? She was completely turned around in an unfamiliar part of this large American city, this enemy outpost, their capital. It was impossible to know which way to run.

But staying put was no option. “This way,” she said, picking a direction. They’d figure it out. “Just run. Run as fast as you can, Tariq. Follow me.” I will take care of you, as I always do, my love .

It’s not like my phone rings in the middle of the night all the time — but I’m sure it does more than most. “Alex Cross,” I answered. There was a click, then two short beeps. That meant a secure line of some kind. Whose line?

“Detective Cross, this is Betty Chow with the CIA Directorate of Intelligence. I’m very sorry for the hour, but I’m calling to ask you to come to a meeting out here at the counterterrorism center in Langley.”

That woke me right up. What had happened now? And what was the CIA suddenly doing in the mix? For that matter, what was I doing in it?

“Can you tell me what this is regarding?” I asked while wiping the sleep from my eyes. “That would help.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss any details, but you’ll be fully briefed at the center,” she said.

I looked at the clock. It was just after four a.m. “When’s the meeting?” I asked.

“We’re set to convene at five-thirty, Detective. Can I tell them you’ll be here?”

I didn’t even know who Betty Chow meant by “them.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

“And, Detective? I’m to stress that this is a classified matter and that you’re not to tell anyone where you’re going this morning, under penalty of federal law.”

“Of course,” I told her, and hung up.

I thought about calling Bree anyway. She was still on duty, working the graveyard shift these days, and might even have some idea about what had happened to initiate all this. But then I thought the situation through again. If I was getting secure calls from the CIA on classified matters, there was a good chance — a very good chance — they were already listening in on my line.

I got dressed quickly and left the house in the dark.

Figuratively and literally in the dark.

The usually long drive to CIA headquarters in langley took no time at all without traffic.

What I got off the car radio was that two police officers had been killed sometime overnight at the Brentwood rail yard. Was that why I had been summoned to the CIA? Doubtful. I figured it must be something even worse. But what did they know that I didn’t? I didn’t like being on the wrong side of this mystery again.

Bree, after so many nights on duty, would be exhausted when she got home and would wonder where I was. I missed her like crazy. That’s a good thing, but sometimes it feels so bad.

An escort met me inside the main entrance to the agency’s complex. He took me up to one of the nicer conference rooms on the sixth floor, where most of the two dozen high-backed leather chairs were already taken.

I recognized only a few people around the table. Ned Mahoney was one of them.

He came right over and shook my hand. A little formal for Ned. “Alex. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I mean it. This’s been about the craziest week of my life.”

I hadn’t laid eyes on him since this roller-coaster ride had started. Part of me still wanted to be pissed at him, but what was the point? Ned was a friend.

“Any idea what we’re doing here?” I asked him in a quiet voice.

“I’m not sure. But listen,” he said. He turned me around so we were both facing a glass wall that looked out to guest parking and the rolling, deep green woods beyond. The sun was just coming up over the hills.

“I need to apologize for how this mess has gone down so far,” Ned said. He spoke quietly but still in that rapid-fire way of his. “It wasn’t my call, but I know that doesn’t mean anything when you’re at the shit end of the stick.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“I do worry about it. I think you’re a hell of a resource, Alex. And a friend, too. I don’t want to lose either one. We okay?”

“Just write me a nice check or something. Buy me a Philly cheesesteak and a beer.”

He smiled at that and I guessed we were already over the hump. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure they’d listen to me,” he said.

“About what?” I asked.

“About bringing you into the loop.”

Before I could respond, a voice behind us was calling the meeting to order.

“Good morning, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Evan Stroud, head of the Directorate here at the agency.”

Ned and I sat down at the far end of the table. I knew Stroud’s face, but only from the news. He’d made a blip in the media when he started this job, all of four weeks ago.

“If you’re here, you’ve already been cleared by the heads of your respective organizations,” he went on. “Beyond that, everything we cover is for the eyes and ears of this group only. You’ll find clearance credentials in the folders in front of you. You have to fill them out before you leave.”

Stroud made all the introductions himself. He impressed me by knowing everyone’s name and title without notes. It was a complete alphabet soup in that room — CIA, FBI, NSA, MPD. There were counterterrorism analysts, as well as reps from Secret Service and Homeland Security, and one exhausted-looking agent from the National Clandestine Service who had just arrived from Riyadh.

When he was done, Stroud sat down and nodded to the analyst on his right. “Let’s begin,” he said. “We have a hell of a lot of material to cover this morning.”

I raised my eyebrows at Mahoney. This was a big meeting. Ned made a little circling gesture with his finger, mouthed the words “in the loop,” and then pointed at me.

Yeah, I guess so.

“At approximately three o’clock this morning, two DC metro police officers were shot and killed at the Brentwood rail yard in Northeast Washington,” the analyst started in. It wasn’t any easier to hear about the murders a second time. Both officers had families. I didn’t know them, but that didn’t matter. When another officer goes down, we all feel it.

“An indeterminate number of suspects were on-site, all of whom escaped. What we did find, however, was twenty pounds of Semtex explosives. And six canisters of aerosolized sarin. The sarin had already been deposited in the air-conditioning ducts of several Metro subway cars.”

My head was starting to buzz. That was a staggering amount of deadly material. A couple pounds of Semtex can take down a high-rise, and sarin gas is a nightmare at any dosage.

The professional decorum in the room began to break apart at that point. Several side conversations started up around the table, and the questions were flying all at once.

“Are we any closer to knowing who’s running this... this attack?” one of the NSA guys asked. He was bigger and louder than the rest of us.

“Actually, yes,” the analyst said. He looked across the table at his colleague from Riyadh. “You want to take that?”

The man from Riyadh’s name was Andrew Fatany. He was clearly running on fumes and needed a shave. His voice was disturbingly hoarse when he got up to speak.

“Here’s what I can tell you,” Fatany said. “We now have credible intelligence on the existence of a fledgling, independent terror organization based out of Saudi Arabia. Beyond that, we have several unconfirmed reports regarding the establishment of a multifunctional cell here in Washington, a very serious and deadly one, I’m afraid. They’re well financed and organized.”