Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [93]
As it squawked in response, Sara pushed the lobby doors open and Jack moved with her.
“An Infantry Automatic Rifle,” Jack observed.
“Sorry?”
“That’s what your friend Ethan was carrying,” Jack said. “I don’t believe that’s standard Interpol issue.”
“As I’ve said, this is not a standard Interpol operation.”
They continued down a dingy hallway to a set of wooden steps, Jack once again wondering why the unit was housed here. Nothing about this struck him as part of a sanctioned operation, Interpol or otherwise, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d been too quick to trust these people.
They started up the stairs, but as they reached the third-floor landing, Jack abruptly stopped.
“We’re on the fifth,” Sara said, gesturing him upward.
“I think I’ve gone far enough.”
“What’s wrong?”
Jack stared at her. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you? You people don’t have a thing to do with Interpol.”
She didn’t have to respond. Her face said everything.
Jack turned, looking down the stairwell toward the first floor, where Ethan now stood, staring up at him suspiciously, his hands on the weapon.
Sara touched Jack’s arm, squeezing it. “It’s all right, Jack. You’re safe here.”
“Then why did you lie to me?”
“Because I wanted you to trust me. Take me seriously. I was with Interpol, but I left the agency some time ago.”
“Then who the hell are you people?”
“Survivors,” she said.
“Of what?”
“Each one of us has a different story. Brendan lost his wife in the London subway bombing and Ethan lost both his children to a suicide strike in Israel.”
“And you?”
Her eyes clouded. “Not now,” she said.
Jack decided not to push. He saw real pain in those eyes and backed off. “So you’re vigilantes.”
“In a sense. But I wouldn’t put it like that. We’re all former law enforcement, counterterrorism specialists. We became unhappy with the red tape and the shifting politics and the inability of our governments to handle this crisis. These fanatics need to be stopped, so we’re doing what we can on our own.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Two years ago there were over twenty of us. Now there are twelve. Life expectancy isn’t one of our strong suits, as you well know.”
“So how the hell do you expect to accomplish anything?”
“We have hundreds of contacts all over the world. People in law enforcement who are sympathetic to our cause. People like Bob Copeland who are willing to help.” She squeezed his arm again. “People like you.”
“People who hate terrorists, sociopaths, and flat-out liars, you mean?”
She was silent.
He looked down at her hand. Soft. Delicate. A hand that should be painting a picture, or playing the piano. But her grip was firm, and he knew from experience she was capable of striking a solid blow.
He looked into her eyes again. “You should have told me all this from the start.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
She was a very good actress, he knew that from experience, too. But there was a sincerity in her expression that was tough to fake.
“The fifth floor, you said?”
She nodded. Without saying another word, they continued up the steps.
As they reached their destination, Jack heard voices and saw another man standing guard in the hall, his cold eyes assessing them as they emerged from the stairwell.
He nodded to Sara. “Welcome home.”
Sara smiled at him and patted his shoulder as she passed, then took hold of Jack’s arm again and pulled him toward a lighted doorway.
They stepped into what had once been a decent-sized Parisian apartment, but was now a fully functioning antiterrorist command center. There was a large white board to Jack’s right, with the words HAND OF ALLAH written across it in red marker.
Several photographs were taped below this. Surveillance shots of Adam Swain, Abdal al-Fida, an older Middle Eastern man standing outside a mosque—Faakhir Zuabi, no doubt—and assorted other Arab faces, including one Jack recognized: the man with the wispy goatee he’d nearly bumped into outside the pub.
Hassan Haddad.