Thursday, September 15, 11:00 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

So far it couldn’t have gone much better, Majid Alavi thought as he scanned the cathedral. All the sentries were at their posts, and all the stairways had been wired with explosives. A look into the Wilson Bay, down the south side of the nave, confirmed that the tech crew was busy wiring up the camera and the Internet connection. Each of the rooms adjoining the main sanctuary had been searched and their occupants captured or dispatched. All this without losing one single man to injury or death.

Allah, you are with us today. Thank you for honoring our Ramadan sacrifice.

Saifullah walked up next to him. “Do we have a final count?”

Alavi nodded as he looked out at the three groups that were now being individually searched for any weapons or communication devices. He pointed to the largest group and said, “That is the release group. It has 249—women, children, elderly, and the excess men we don’t have need for. I’ve also included some of the security people because, as we said, it’s better to have them outside than in here conspiring.”

Saifullah grunted. “I’m still not fully comfortable with that decision, Majid. Won’t they take out valuable information?”

“They will,” Alavi agreed. “However, probably not much more than what the Feds are already getting right now through their surveillance devices.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and the mounted cameras. “And as we have discussed, the benefits of keeping the surveillance devices active outweigh disabling them.”

Saifullah nodded. “Once we demand the constant Internet feed on Saturday, people all over the world will be able to watch what is happening here twenty-four hours a day.”

“And they will, too. The world is full of voyeurs. They’ll keep us open on their computers continuously, just waiting for something to happen. And as they watch, fear will embed deeper and deeper into their psyches.”

“And followers of the faith will draw more and more strength from us.”

“Exactly,” Alavi said. “So, yes, law enforcement will draw information from the released hostages and from the cameras, but we don’t really expect this is going to go the full thirty days anyway. Of course, if you want to retain the hostages, we will do as you say, but my recommendation is to stay to plan.”

“No, send them,” Saifullah said, waving his hand. “You are right. How many are in the second group?”

Alavi pointed to another cluster of bodies, mostly men in suits. “That is our fodder group—the expendable ones. There are twenty-five. We’re holding on to them primarily to keep the number of hostages up. And they will be the ones we will use if we have to make a point.”

Saifullah turned toward the final group, located nearest to the front. “And in that group are our illustrious senators and congressmen.”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-nine senators and thirty-seven congressmen—sixty-six total, fifty-nine men and seven women.”

“Very good,” Saifullah said softly.

Both men studied this assembly of diverse characters. While all these legislators had power, it was easy to tell which ones had achieved it based on character and which ones had bought, schmoozed, or cheated their ways to the top. The ones with character were cooperative in action but bore an underlying defiance in their attitudes. The burning behind their eyes bespoke a warning to Alavi and his men. These were the ones who would have to go first.

But a larger majority of the congressional members were carrying on just as he had expected—crying, begging for their lives, making unfulfillable promises—Much like they do on the campaign trail, Alavi thought with a smile. They are spineless, sniveling vermin. Vermin that will soon experience the extermination that all pests deserve.

“How long do you think we have until the Americans try a rescue?” Saifullah asked.

Alavi thought for a moment. “Judging by the growing assemblage outside, I’d say not long. Fifteen minutes—twenty, tops.”

Again, Saifullah grunted. “Then we’d best get our first message out and slow them down. Has the tech team prepared for the video recording?”

Alavi removed a small walkie-talkie from his belt. “Tech, this is Lead.”

A moment later, a voice responded, “Go ahead, Lead.”

“What’s ETA for going hot?”

“Two minutes for video. Ten for uplink.”

“Roger. Lead, out.”

He turned to Saifullah. “Let’s go do it. We aren’t uplinking this first message anyway.”

Saifullah nodded, and the two men began walking toward the Wilson Bay and the video camera. “Two, this is Lead,” Alavi said into the walkie-talkie as they rounded the chairs on the south side of the nave. He could feel the eyes of many of the hostages on them as they walked.

“Go ahead, Lead,” Ubaida Saliba responded.

“The imam is ready for his first vid. What’s the ETA on the first vest?”

“Thirty seconds. We’re ready for you.”

“Excellent. Send him over immediately. I’m with the imam, so you take the conn,” Alavi said, directing Saliba to take their place on the stage at the front of the sanctuary.

“Ten-four. Out.”

The surreal nature of his situation momentarily disoriented Alavi as Saliba signed off. In his mind, he was transported to the backyard of his parents’ house. It was as if the war games of his childhood were suddenly being played out in real life. As he thought of it, he realized that much of the déjà vu he was feeling originated in the terminology they were using.

When Alavi had returned from his training in Somalia, he was determined to do everything exactly as he had been trained. But as soon as he began drilling the young men in the warehouse this week, he realized that very few of them understood a single word of the technical military jargon he was using. And why should they? True military training was an experience that they never had a chance to share.

What they did share, however, was a childhood watching Power Rangers, X-Men, and Transformers. Later, most of them had graduated to CSI and NYPD Blue. Recognizing that, Alavi took a bold step. He dumbed down their communication from complex military parlance to a commonly understood blend of superhero- and cop-speak. Suddenly everyone knew exactly what everyone else was saying and what was expected of them.

Now here he was, leading a band of real militants, shooting real bullets, fighting in the name of Allah, and using the language he grew up hearing come out of the mouths of Red Ranger and Optimus Prime. Better quit thinking about it, or you’re going to freak yourself out, Alavi thought, shaking his head.

They walked through a small arch and into the Wilson Bay—a cutaway of sorts along the southern wall of the nave. In it was the final resting place of President Woodrow Wilson—The only president buried in Washington, DC, if I remember my history correctly. Those windows are beautiful, Alavi thought as he looked around.

Three large stained glass windows filled the area with a rainbow of light. One figure caught his eye. At the bottom of the left mosaic, a brown-skinned, red-hooded, young-looking figure stood staring at him with large, clear eyes. His arms were outstretched and his hands were turned such that it looked like he was about to pull himself out from the window and into the room. The overall visual was accomplished so effectively that it was a bit disconcerting, and he turned away.

The camera was set below the windows facing Wilson’s stone casket. Through them Alavi could see the north side of the nave. Unfortunately, the square footage of the area was a little less than they had anticipated and would be cramped for some of what they had planned. But they could probably make do.

“Where are you taking me? Please don’t hurt me! I’ve got a family!”

Ah, our friend is arriving, Alavi thought, turning toward the eastern arch. A man in a black suit and a teal-and-gray tie stumbled through the entrance, followed by one of Saliba’s team.

“What is your name?” Saifullah asked him.

“Please don’t hurt me! I’ve got a—”

Saliba’s man drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s hip, dropping him to the ground. “Answer the man’s question,” he demanded.

“Dermott Lawrence,” the man croaked out, trying to ride through the pain.

“Ahhh, Congressman Lawrence,” Saifullah said. “If I am not mistaken, you are from New Hampshire, are you not?”

Lawrence nodded emphatically.

“That’s fine, Mr. Lawrence. Now, I am about to record a video. Your job is to be my model—seen but not heard. Just another pretty face for the camera. Do you understand?”

Again Lawrence nodded.

“Very good,” Saifullah said. Turning away from the camera, he looked across the nave. The seats were filled with people of the first group—the release group. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to the camera. “Lift him up, and let us begin.”

Alavi grabbed the congressman by the jacket collar and lifted him to his feet. The cameraman pressed a button, counted down with his fingers—three, two, one—and then pointed at Saifullah.

“This is for the person or persons leading the rescue attempt only. If I find that this video has been released to the public, I will kill five hostages. I trust you will take me at my word. Otherwise I will have to prove my sincerity.

“We have 340 hostages. Of those 340, sixty-six are members of your legislative branch of government. If you attempt a rescue, please know that we will open fire on the hostages, not on our attackers. Our goal will be to achieve the maximum amount of damage. The dead will easily reach triple digits. And if you think that maybe you can beat us to the trigger, then hopefully this will still your hand. . . .”

He nodded off-camera, and Lawrence stepped into the picture. “Unbutton your jacket please, Congressman,” Saifullah said.

Lawrence did so, revealing a vest loaded with explosives.

“We have fitted most of your senators and congressmen with these.”

Alavi knew that was a lie. Logistically, they could only get ten vests assembled and into the cathedral. But that was still enough to cause all the damage they needed.

“All I need do is press a button, and they will all vaporize along with everyone within twenty yards of each of them. So please don’t make me do it—it’s a nasty way for anyone to die.”

Saifullah placed a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and encouraged him back off the screen.

“At 1300 hours eastern time, a live feed will be going up through the Internet. Attached to this disc, you have found written the link to this feed. I want all the network and cable news channels to have access to this link so that the people of America may watch our message live. If anything is done to interrupt that link, there will be consequences. I trust I make myself clear on that point.

“Also on that piece of paper is a number for a cell phone. I will expect a call from you five minutes after the live feed has concluded, but not before. Again, I trust I make myself clear.”

As Alavi watched, the old imam’s eyes hardened.

“Please understand that we are all prepared to die, and we fully expect to meet Allah before this is all over. It is up to you to decide how many will come with us. I pray for the sake of the hostages that you make the right choices.”