JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA
You two are crazy,” said Akeem bin Nayef over his shoulder. He was driving a white Infiniti JX35 SUV with heavily tinted windows, which was inching east toward Mecca on a jammed Highway 40. The sun was just now rising over the horizon.
In the backseat, Mike Califano and Ana Thorne glanced at each other, both thinking the same thing: He’s right.
“Look at this traffic,” said Akeem. “We’re in the middle of the hajj. Millions of Muslims from around the world are descending on Mecca this week.” He shook his head in frustration. “I’ve lived here most of my life. I’ve been a CIA regional coordinator for more than fifteen years. And even I don’t go anywhere near Mecca during the hajj. I mean, have either of you even been to Saudi Arabia before?”
Califano and Thorne both shrugged and shook their heads no.
“Oh my God,” groaned Akeem. “Listen to me. People literally get trampled to death every year during the hajj. And God help you if anyone finds out you are not a Muslim. It’s a crime in this country to enter Mecca if you are not a Muslim. Five years in prison, followed by deportation. And that’s if the crowd doesn’t kill you first. Are you guys sure you’re up for this?”
Califano shrugged. “Yeah, sounds like fun. I mean, I went to a Springsteen concert at the Meadowlands back in ninety-five. Couldn’t be any worse than that, could it?”
Ana rolled her eyes. “Nice mustache,” she said.
“Thanks.” Califano gently smoothed out the thick black mustache that the CIA disguise people had provided him with just before he and Ana left for their middle-of-the-night flight from Dulles to King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeddah. In addition to the mustache, Califano was dressed in traditional Ihram attire: a white cloth wrapped around his waist like a skirt, and another white cloth gathered at his shoulder like a tunic. He felt ridiculous. He turned to Ana and sized up her outfit. “Nice burka. Really compliments your figure.”
“Hey, at least I don’t need sunblock.” Indeed, her white burka covered every square inch of her skin except her eyes. And even there, the CIA disguise folks had left nothing to chance. They’d changed her eye color from green to dark brown using tinted contact lenses. They’d tied her hair back and covered it with a black wig to prevent any stray locks of blond hair from suddenly poking out from beneath her veil. And, as with Califano, they’d applied makeup to her face to help her blend in better with the local population. “What are you reading?” she asked.
Califano looked up from the book he’d been flipping through for the past twenty minutes. “Arabic phrase book,” he said.
“What, now you’re suddenly going to start speaking Arabic?”
“Ayn al-hammam de mujir?” Califano replied without missing a beat.
“What did he just say?” Ana asked the CIA driver.
“He said, ‘Where is the men’s bathroom?’ And he has a pretty good accent, too.” Akeem caught Califano’s eye in the rearview mirror and nodded his head, apparently impressed.
Ana shook her head. Photographic memory. That’s cheating.
“Actually,” said Akeem over his shoulder, “knowing just a few Arabic phrases will probably get you by during the hajj. Muslims make up nearly a quarter of the world’s population, and they speak more than sixty different languages. So trust me, you won’t be the only ones here who don’t speak Arabic. But I wouldn’t go around speaking English, either.”
Califano’s phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket. He checked the incoming text message, which was from Admiral Armstrong. “Fulcher’s here,” he said quietly. “His plane arrived an hour before ours, and NSA’s got a satellite spotlight on his vehicle right now. They’re up ahead of us in traffic about two miles.”
“You were right about all of this,” said Ana, intending to pay Califano a compliment.
“Just lucky. Besides, it was you who figured out the Jasher connection.”
Ana smiled beneath her veil. “Okay, so tell me more about this Black Stone. Where exactly is it located in the Kaaba?”
Akeem overheard their conversation. “Are you guys talking about the Black Stone of the Kaaba?”
Ana nodded. “Yeah. Are you familiar with it?”
“Min-fad-lak,” said Akeem with wide eyes. “Of course I am. It is the holiest relic in all of Islam. Not that we’re supposed to have relics. But if we did . . . that would be it.”
“It’s got quite a history, huh?” said Califano.
“Indeed. It is said to have formed part of the altar of Adam and Eve. And it is the original cornerstone of the Kaaba in the center of Mecca, the temple where all of these pilgrims are heading right now. In some sense, the Black Stone is the cornerstone of Islam itself. It was placed in its current location by Mohammed, and has only ever been moved once since then.”
“That’s when it was stolen, right?” asked Califano.
“Correct. Stolen by the Qarmatians in 930. Returned twenty-three years later in a most mysterious manner. It was tossed into the mosque in Kufa during Friday prayers with a note that said ‘By God’s command we took it, and by God’s command we return it.’ It is said that the man who stole it suffered a very unusual death. He deteriorated from the inside out, until he was eventually consumed by worms.”
Califano and Thorne glanced at each other. They were both thinking about the unusual aging pattern they’d seen with Dr. Holzberg and, to some extent, with his son, Daniel.
“The stone is actually made of several pieces, isn’t that right?” asked Califano.
“That’s true, although a lot of people don’t realize it. The Black Stone actually consists of ten individual stones, which are held together with some type of cement that was made back during the time of Mohammed.”
“And I bet no two of them are touching each other,” said Califano quietly.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Is it true that the Black Stone predates Islam?” asked Ana.
“Yes, according to historians,” said Akeem. “The Black Stone was already an object of worship in Mecca long before Mohammed arrived in the eighth century. No one knows exactly where it came from, other than the myth about it coming from the Garden of Eden. But it was apparently here in Mecca long before Islam.”
“And which station is it on the hajj?” asked Califano.
“It’s part of the first tawaf,” said Akeem. “Pilgrims circle the Kaaba seven times. And on each round, they are supposed to kiss the Black Stone.”
“Kiss it?” said Ana. “Sounds like a lot of germs.”
“They do it because Mohammed himself kissed the stone. As I said, the Black Stone is very special to Muslims. It is, without a doubt, the most sacred object in all of Mecca.”
Ana turned to Califano. “What do Dr. Fulcher and his goons think they’re going to do with it today? I mean, do they actually plan to steal it in broad daylight?”
Akeem laughed aloud from the front seat. “Oh, that would be quite impossible. During the hajj, you are lucky to even see the Black Stone, let alone touch it. Most pilgrims are content simply to point in its general direction. The idea that someone could steal the Black Stone from the Kaaba is ludicrous. Especially during the hajj.”
“Well, they’re obviously up to something,” said Ana.
Califano nodded in agreement. “And unfortunately, they’re ahead of us. Hey, Akeem, any chance you could bypass some of this traffic?”
“Impossible,” replied Akeem.
Three hours later, the Infiniti SUV pulled into the parking lot of a seedy strip mall and came to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Ana.
“From here, you walk,” said Akeem.
“Where are we?” asked Califano.
“You are just west of Third Ring Road. I can’t drive much farther into Mecca without a special permit. Which I don’t have. Besides, it will be quicker for you to walk from here anyway. You’re only a few miles away. Just follow that parade of white.” He pointed out the window at the steady stream of pilgrims just outside the car. It was like a human river of white. “Trust me, they’re all going to the same place. Just fall into line with them.”
Califano turned to Ana and tapped the Transmit button for his radio. “Can you hear me okay?” he said into his microphone.
“Loud and clear,” Ana replied. “How about me?”
Califano nodded. Then he tapped the Transmit button again. “Admiral? You on?”
A second later, the crackly voice of Admiral Armstrong came on the line. “Yes, Michael. I can hear you just fine.”
“Still painting their vehicle?” asked Califano.
“Affirmative,” Armstrong replied. “It appears to be stopped about a mile east of your location, in a hotel parking lot. Oops, hold on . . .” Armstrong went off-line and returned a few seconds later. “Two men just got out. Both dressed in white. They’re joining the crowd. We’ll try to paint them both with a beam.” He paused for a moment. “Damn, this is going to be a challenge. We’ve never done this in such a large crowd. And they’re all wearing white, too.”
“Either of them walking with a cane?” asked Califano.
“Uh, no,” replied Armstrong a few seconds later. “They both appear to be fit and able bodied. They’re moving along with the crowd now.”
“I bet it’s Krupnov and Sashko,” said Ana quietly.
Califano nodded in agreement. He was still marveling that Armstrong could track two individuals in a huge mob of people using a geosynchronous spy satellite orbiting 22,236 miles above the earth. Truly incredible.
Ana tapped Califano on the arm. “Hey, we’ve got to go. You ready?”
Califano nodded that he was.
“Rendezvous here when you’re done,” said Akeem. “And good luck.”
Moments later, Califano and Thorne were out of the vehicle and were almost immediately swept up by the human river of white that was slowly thronging toward Mecca.
“Stay close,” said Califano into his microphone.
“I’m trying,” said Ana. She felt herself slowly being wedged away from Califano.
“Here, take my hand.” Califano extended his hand, and Ana grabbed it just before she was about to be swept away by the crowd. Califano gripped her hand tightly and pulled her close. “This is our only hope of staying together.”
Ana nodded and squeezed his hand tightly.
“Admiral, where are they now?” asked Califano over the radio.
Armstrong’s crackly voice came online a couple of seconds later. “Still about a mile ahead of you, heading east with the crowd. You two really need to pick up the pace.”
“Easier said than done,” Califano muttered. He and Thorne were in a sea of humanity that was moving at its own slow pace. Nevertheless, in an effort to reduce the bad guys’ lead, they did what they could to cut and duck through the swarming mass of white.
“How we doing now?” asked Califano over the radio. He and Thorne had been powering their way through the swarming mass of hajji for the past hour, slowly but surely advancing their position in the crowd. It was hot, grueling work. And the stench of body odor was overpowering. Deodorant and perfume were prohibited during the hajj. A true hajji was supposed to enter Mecca “pure.” Even if that meant stinking to high heaven.
“They’re still a good five hundred yards ahead of you,” reported Admiral Armstrong over the radio. “Looks like they just entered the Grand Mosque. You should start seeing it any minute.”
“Yeah, I see it now,” said Califano. He pointed Ana toward the nine minarets that could just now be seen towering over the crowd in the distance. Ana nodded that she saw it, too.
The Grand Mosque in Mecca was the largest mosque in the world, covering an area of more than eighty-eight acres. The three-story, colonnaded exterior of the mosque enclosed a massive courtyard designed to accommodate more than a million pilgrims at once. At the center of this courtyard was the Kaaba, the holiest temple in all of Islam, the exact spot on earth where a quarter of the world’s population oriented themselves to pray each day. Facing the qibla during Muslim prayers literally meant turning toward the Kaaba.
The Kaaba itself looked like a giant cube that, during the hajj, was draped in a ceremonial black fabric with gold ornamentation and Arabic writing. It was an impressive and incredibly moving sight for devout Muslims, who were required to visit the Kaaba at least once in their lives. For most, seeing the Kaaba for the first time was the most memorable moment in their entire lives.
“We can’t move any faster,” said Ana. She and Califano were pressed tightly against the thousands of other hajji around them. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back.
“I know,” said Califano. “How are we going to make up five hundred yards?”
Armstrong’s voice suddenly crackled over the radio. “You can make it up during the tawaf.”
“What do you mean?” asked Califano.
“The pilgrims circle the Kaaba seven times, but they do it in tightening circles. Everyone moves counterclockwise, so as soon as you enter the Grand Mosque, you need to start pushing as hard as you can toward the left. If you can punch through to the faster traffic on the inside, you can still catch these guys.”
Several minutes later, Califano and Thorne approached the west entrance of the Grand Mosque. “Check that out,” said Califano, pointing to a green neon sign perched high above the west entrance. In Arabic, it said: GO.
“Like a traffic light,” said Ana.
A damn good idea, thought Califano. As he watched, the green light suddenly went dark and was replaced with a red neon sign that said STOP in Arabic. Shit. “Where are they now, Admiral?” he asked over the radio.
“Inside the Grand Mosque. They’ve already completed one revolution, and they’re just starting their second. You can still catch them before they reach the Black Stone. Remember, push left. Always left.”
Five minutes later, the light above the west entrance turned green again, and Califano and Thorne were quickly swept along in the great throng of hajji that were now crushing their way through the west entrance and into the massive courtyard of the Grand Mosque.
As soon as Califano and Thorne entered the courtyard, they understood what Admiral Armstrong had been trying to explain. The entire mass of humanity inside the courtyard was circling counterclockwise. Everyone. In unison. And Califano and Thorne were on the very outer radius of that circling motion, practically scraping against the courtyard walls.
“This is incredible,” Ana whispered, although nobody could hear her. The noise inside the Grand Mosque courtyard was deafening, as more than a million devoted Muslims shouted out prayers and lamentations over the sustained roar of two million shuffling feet. Above all this, dozens of booming loudspeakers along the perimeter were delivering singsong messages in Arabic.
For more than an hour, Califano and Thorne struggled through the crowd, constantly pushing left, slowly working their way toward the inside of the swirling sea of white circling the Kaaba.
Suddenly, Ana was shoved rudely from behind. She lost her grip on Califano’s hand and instantly felt herself being swept away to the right, away from him. “Mike?” she said into her microphone as the jostling and pushing intensified.
“I’m here,” Califano replied. “Just keep pushing left. Push hard.”
“I am,” said Ana through gritted teeth. But she wasn’t the only one. Everyone, it seemed, was pushing at full strength toward the center of the mosque—toward the Kaaba. Ana dropped her left shoulder and redoubled her effort, finally succeeding in pushing through a trio of fat women in burkas who had tightly linked arms to avoid being separated. This was a common tactic among the hajji, which made punching through to the middle even more difficult.
“You guys are getting close,” said Admiral Armstrong over the radio. “They’re straight ahead of you, about fifteen yards.”
“How close are they to the Black Stone?” asked Califano, screaming to be heard over the tremendous cacophony of grunting and shouting near the Kaaba.
“They’re close, Mike.” Armstrong’s voice suddenly got very tense. “Whatever they’ve got planned . . . it’s about to happen.”
Shit. Those words hit Califano like of shot of adrenaline. He immediately lowered his stance, stiffened his shoulders, and barged through the swarm of hajji like a Sevillian bull, pumping his legs in linebacker fashion as he slowly plowed through the sea of sweating bodies.
Behind him, Ana was doing the same but with much less success. “Mike, I think I see you now,” she said into her microphone. “I’m about ten feet behind you.”
Califano heard nothing. He continued muscling through the crowd using every ounce of his strength. Finally, he looked up.
And there it was. The Black Stone. Just as he’d seen in pictures. It was encased in a silver frame and embedded directly into the eastern corner of the Kaaba. Just as Akeem had described, it was a cornerstone . . . both literally and figuratively.
Califano looked up and noted a guard standing on a platform about six feet above the Black Stone. He was shouting directions to the fervent hajji below, all of whom were desperately jostling for a chance to kiss the stone. Every few seconds, the guard jabbed a long pole into the side of some hajji who dared spend more than half a second with his lips on the Black Stone.
“Mike,” said Armstrong over the radio with great urgency. “You’re standing right behind one of them! He’s directly in front of you!”
Califano glanced all around and quickly spotted a man a few feet in front of him who clearly looked out of place. And what’s that he’s holding? A split second later, Califano realized the man was holding a small chip of black material between his thumb and finger. It was from the Tunis stone that Haroldson had delivered to the Russians, the same one Fulcher had used for his demonstration in the White Sea. Now, the man was extending it outward, straining to touch it to the Black Stone. Of course, Califano realized. He’s trying to create a time dilation.
“No!” Califano shouted. At the same moment, he hurled himself like a human battering ram through the remaining rows of hajji between himself and the other man. As he did, he extended his arms and leaped into the air toward the man. The guard above the stone reacted immediately, shouting angrily in Arabic and attempting to push Califano away with the long pole. But the momentum of Califano’s body carried him through the painful jab and straight toward the man with the tiny chip of stone between his fingers.
As Califano fell through the air, he managed to just barely catch the man’s forearm and knock it downward with sufficient force that the small chip of stone came dislodged and fell to the ground. It disappeared immediately beneath the thundering crush of feet.
A few yards back, Ana Thorne was watching all of this as if it were happening in slow motion. She recognized the other man as Sashko Melnik, Krupnov’s Ukrainian henchman from the Hillcrest estate. As she watched in horror, both men dropped down and disappeared beneath the crowd. They’re going to be trampled to death!
“Mike!” Ana shouted into her microphone. There was no response. “Mike!” she screamed even louder, no longer caring who might hear her. Suddenly, someone grabbed her roughly by the arm from behind. She craned her neck and found herself staring at the face of Vladamir Krupnov. His cold blue eyes instantly locked onto hers and hardened with rage. A moment later, he pulled a small pistol from his tunic. He aimed it at her head, and . . .
Thwack! The guard with the pole knocked the pistol clear out of Krupnov’s hands. In the same instant, there was tremendous shouting in Arabic from above. Then, suddenly, Ana watched in amazement as the crowd itself began turning on Krupnov.
A gun in the Grand Mosque . . . just feet from the Kaaba. Such blasphemy would not be tolerated. Especially during the hajj.
Ana watched as Krupnov struggled futilely against an angry mob of men who had now turned their attention away from the Black Stone and were pummeling Krupnov mercilessly with their fists and elbows. Street justice in the Grand Mosque.
Seconds later, Krupnov disappeared completely. Swept away to an unknown fate.
“Mike?” Ana said emphatically into her microphone. No response. She felt herself being wedged away by the crowd, and she no longer had the strength to fight it. The Black Stone vanished from her view. “Mike?” she said one more time into her microphone.
Nothing. He was gone.
Two hours later, Akeem bin Nayef greeted Ana at the rendezvous location with a wave. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked as she approached.
“Sort of,” she mumbled. She was utterly exhausted, sweaty, bruised, rattled, thirsty, and hungry all at once. Yet the only thing she could think of was Mike Califano. Trampled. In her mind’s eye, she saw him slipping beneath the rampaging feet of a million pilgrims. She couldn’t stand that image anymore. Yet it kept coming back, again and again.
“There’s water in the car,” said Akeem. “You look dehydrated.” He opened the door of the SUV for her.
And there he was.
“Why didn’t you answer the goddamn radio!” Ana said, seething, as she crawled into the backseat with Califano. Akeem shut the door behind her.
Califano was slumped low in his seat. He slowly pulled open his tunic and showed her his badly bruised and bloody chest and ribs. “Transmitter broke,” he said.
“Jesus,” Ana whispered, lightly touching his black-and-blue chest. “That doesn’t look good.”
“Yeah? You should see the other million guys.” Califano tried in vain to laugh at his own stupid joke, but he immediately winced from the pain.
“I’m guessing you have some broken ribs.”
“Probably. But look what else I got.” He slowly opened his clenched fist to reveal a small black chip of stone—the same chip that had been delivered to the Russians by Stephen Haroldson, which Fulcher had used for the White Sea demonstration. When Califano gently moved his hand away, the tiny object stayed perfectly in place, floating inexplicably in midair.
“My God,” Ana whispered, astonished. She stared at the stone for several seconds in silence. Then she said, “Hey, do you think McCreary would let me make a necklace out of this?”
Califano laughed and winced. “I think he might have some concerns about that.”