James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

It felt like half the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Nobody said a word now, just listened.

Fatany went on. “Our liaison with the Istikhbarat tells us they’re aware of the group but not of any criminal activity inside the Kingdom itself. That said, we’ve been moving as many operatives as possible out of the embassy in Riyadh and into the southern part of the country, where we believe Al Ayla is training its people before sending them abroad — meaning here, the United States. That includes Washington for sure, possibly New York and Los Angeles as well.”

“Al Ayla,” Stroud repeated for him.

“Right. Sorry.” He got a few grim, sympathetic smiles as he took a long swig of coffee. “Al Ayla is the purported name of this organization. It translates as ‘The Family.’”

“Which may or may not have something to do with the use of married couples at the operational level,” the first analyst said. “It could also just be a coincidence.”

“But I sincerely doubt it,” Fatany said, half to himself.

“Excuse me.” Ned raised his hand. “Not to get too far ahead of ourselves here, but do we know anything about Al Ayla’s larger objectives? Current targets, future targets, ideology, anything like that? Anything useful to us on the ground.”

Both analysts automatically looked to the head of the table.

“No,” Stroud answered for them. “Nothing at this time.” It was less than subtle code for the fact that we’d reached a wall in terms of what they were prepared to tell us. At least on the topic of Al Ayla, The Family.

“But we do have one other important piece of intel to throw into the mix. This could be useful,” Stroud added. “It’s about Ethan and Zoe Coyle.”

One of the assistant directors from the Bureau, Peter Lindley, took over now.

“We’ve received a second package from Ethan and Zoe’s presumed kidnapper,” he said. “At a minimum, this is someone who has or has had access to the children since they were taken from the school grounds.”

Everything about this was news to me. Two packages? What packages? I could tell I wasn’t the only one playing catch-up at the table. Lots of frowns and head shaking around the room.

“The first came to us several days ago,” Lindley said.

He pulled a pair of eight-by-ten photos out of his briefcase and started them around the table. “The little black case you’ll see is known to belong to Zoe. And the note in the other photo was folded up inside.”

A respectful silence followed the pictures as they were passed around. When I saw what was in that note, I understood why.

“ There is no ransom. There will be no demands. The price, Mr. President, is knowing that you will never see your children again .”

You can’t read something like that and not feel compassion for the victims — the kids and their parents. I have an unfortunate tendency to take these things personally, as if my own family had been harmed. That’s my strength, and my weakness.

“And yesterday, we received these,” Lindley said, passing around two more photos. “They’ve already been DNA-tested and matched to Ethan and Zoe, respectively.”

The new images were of a boy’s white oxford shirt and a pair of thick-soled red boots, the kind a girl like Zoe might wear to school.

“Any formal theories?” someone asked.

“Actually, I was going to ask Detective Cross for his take on all this,” Lindley said. Everyone turned to look at me, probably in time to catch the surprise on my face. “I know you’ve only been working around the edges so far,” Lindley said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot here.”

“It’s fine,” I said. At least I knew why I’d been brought in now. I’ve done as much profiling for the FBI as anyone in Washington. The pictures were all passed back my way, and I looked at them as a set.

“First thoughts?” I said. “The note’s unequivocal — no ransom, no demands, period. So then the next question, Why send the second package? ”

“Maybe just to string us along?” one of the Bureau wonks contributed the obvious. “Flaunt an advantage. Hang it over our heads. Show off.”

“I think that’s probably true,” I said. “But there’s a personal element here that’s directed at the president. He’s the one named in the note. If someone wanted to make him suffer, the best way to do that would be to draw this search out for as long as possible.”

“Go back a second,” Stroud said. “When you say this is personal, are you suggesting it’s also an individual act? Is this one man’s vendetta against the president?”

I thought about it before I answered, but my first impulse didn’t change.

“If you want my best guess,” I said, “yes. That’s what this feels like to me. But for the sake of argument, terrorism can be very personal, too, even in the name of a larger cause.”

“ Especially in the name of a larger cause,” Fatany said. “Most of these shits take what they’re doing very personally. They’re willing, even eager, to die — as we’ve already seen.”

Lindley started to move on, but I jumped back in when one other thing occurred to me.

“This is above my pay grade — but I’d also recommend keeping President Coyle out of the public eye, if that’s not already in the plan,” I said.

“Why is that?” Stroud asked, although I think he already knew the answer.

“If I’m right, it deprives the kidnapper, or kidnappers, of a primary motivation. Don’t let them see the president dealing with this. That’s probably exactly what they want. To humble the United States president in front of a world audience.”

One of the Secret Service reps cleared his throat. “The president and First Lady are in a secure location,” he said. “We’ll keep Detective Cross’s recommendation under advisement, but any decisions about that kind of thing—”

Just then, a familiar voice came into the room from an unseen speaker.

“Excuse me. I’d like to say something.”

It was coming from the wall, or the ceiling, or maybe even the table itself. I couldn’t tell. But there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

President Coyle was there with us, and apparently he was ready to make a statement.

Two wide screens flicked on, one at either end of the room. Suddenly President Edward Coyle was there, sitting at a generic-looking desk, with a set of plain blue drapes drawn behind him.

For all I know, it was a set piece, a bit of theater meant to hide any clues about where he actually was at this time. Still, it gave me a chill. Probably did the same for everybody in the room.

“We have you, sir,” Stroud said. “Go ahead. We’re here and we’re listening.”

Coyle looked bone-tired, and his face was drawn. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I also got the impression he hadn’t been planning on doing this, speaking to our group right now.

“Let me state the obvious first,” he said. “I have two separate and distinct obligations here. One is to Ethan and Zoe, and the other is to this country.

“Right now, we don’t seem to know how enmeshed those obligations might be. But I do know that by all indications, and according to the best advice I can get, our capital city is under attack.”

The president was incredibly focused. I thought of the eye of a hurricane as I watched him. He was obviously a strong man and it was no fluke that he had risen to this position.

“I’m not saying that we’ve reached some critical point at which a decision has to be made between my children and our nation’s security—”