The God Complex: A Thriller (17 page)

Paula Suarez and Jim Walker reached the entrance to Cell Block A and ground to a halt. A fully armed and ready FBI SWAT team blocked their way.

“Why the hell are you not getting in there
?!” shouted Jim.

The team parted, revealing a
thick metal door with a small porthole, wired with enough explosives to bring the building down.

“That’s why!” said the SWAT team leader.

“Bomb squad?”

“On the way
, sir”

The shooting continued behind the door
. Paula paced anxiously, going as close to the door as she dared in an attempt to see through the small porthole. It was covered on the other side, blocking the view beyond.

“Any idea
of numbers or who they are?” she asked. “There was a building crew working at the back of the car park.”

“Yes, I
saw them this morning, they’ve been there for days,” said Jim Walker. “About twenty of them, resurfacing the car park.”

The SWAT team leader nodded
. “Yeah them, only we’ve not been able to find one person in this building who signed off that work, or who even thought it needed doing. Surprise, surprise, the crew have vanished,” he said, pointing to the cell entrance.

“Weapons?”

“Whatever they could fit in the trucks, they’ve been running in and out of here for days.”

“Holy shit!” said Paula.

“Coming through!” came a shout from behind. Two men dressed in bombproof gear trudged towards them, a small remote control buggy leading their way.

“Can everyone clear back to a safe distance please?” asked the
leader, seeing the door for the first time. “Which would be across the street,” he whistled through his teeth.

“I’m staying right here,” said Paula
. “The second that door opens, I’m through there.”

“Me too,” said Jim with a little less conviction. The SWAT team looked
at their leader, who nodded. There was no way they could leave, but they shuffled back to give the bomb team space to work.

Everything had gone exactly to plan, every detail up until the point they had been given the go
ahead had been as though Allah himself had planned the operation. As far as Imran, the leader of the small group of Taliban fighters, was aware, it was Allah himself who had planned it. The package had arrived some weeks earlier, with travel plans, papers and documents for him and his small band of fighters to take their battle to the heart of the infidel. Every part of their journey was laid out in detail; it was a pilgrimage for them to undertake on behalf of Allah.

Imran and his group had been selected above all others to rid the world of the infidel leaders. The small plane had met them exactly where it was supposed to
. As instructed, his men spoke with no one. It delivered them to a city. Imran remembered the word ‘Muscat’, but he had no idea where it was. There, as promised, they found an apartment. Suitcases filled with clothes awaited them. They bathed and shaved, spending the next few days adding color to their faces, protecting the darker tanned areas with sun cream, while tanning the previously bearded areas.

Imran followed his instructions to the letter. His men spent the evenings in Muscat learning a few basic English words and phrases, perfecting them with DVDs that had been supplied. Photos were taken of the men and posted in the provided envelope
. A few days later, passports arrived. Allah had thought of everything.

Over the next few days
, they all took separate journeys, followed their instructions to the letter, and a week later, they met once again in Washington D.C. The house was full of all the weapons and equipment they would need— AK47s and suicide vests. This was a pilgrimage that would take them to Allah himself.

For the next few days
, they went through the motions of relaying a perfectly good garage floor while building their stockpile of weapons and explosives within the target building. Finally the ‘go’ had come. His men donned their vests. If all else failed, they would kill anyone within six feet of them and be sent straight to heaven, by Allah’s side. The excitement amongst his men was palpable. They were minutes away from Allah.

Imran had the plans to the cell area but over the previous few days had managed to get in for a look. One door led in and out
. Behind that door was a small holding area. Beyond that, was a thirty-yard empty corridor that led down to another door, which was the entrance to the cells themselves. Once they shut the main cell entrance and wired it, their jobs were all but done. After that, it was a simple case of his men deciding whether to shoot the prisoners or detonate themselves next to them. Whatever the case, none of them were ever going to see the light of day again, only the beautiful light of heaven, in the glow of Allah.

The
President’s convoy had swept past them, delivering the President and his security detail to the door at the far end of the garage that led to the cell blocks. The go command came shortly after. Four men guarded the entrance while another two waited by the convoy.

Imran instructed three of his men to take them out. Two walked towards the entrance while the other man walked towards the convoy. The slimline, high tech suicide vests which had been supplied to them were unlike anything he had ever seen before. The fabric itself was the explosive
. A small electronic device near the base of the garment was the trigger, which was linked wirelessly to a small button device paired with each vest. The three men looked like innocent unarmed workers as they approached the secret service agents.

Only as they had continued to walk beyond the point the agents felt comfortable
with, were they warned to stand back. By that point, it was already too late. The blasts, one after another, decimated the nine human beings, while causing minimal structural damage.

With the entrance clear, Imran and his men grabbed their AK47s and ran towards the cell area. He’d lost another three men to an agent waiting near the entrance to Cell Block A.

With him out of the way, the explosives were laid on top of the main cell block entrance and the door shut behind them. The thirty-foot corridor sat before them.

Two of Imran’s men had rushed down immediately to secure the corridor but the agents took them out almost immediately
with head shots. His men hadn’t stood a chance and their vests were useless at that range. All the additional explosives they carried had been used to secure the door behind them. They were going to have to fight their way to the targets.

Imran had fifteen men
, including himself, prepared to die for their cause, thousands of rounds and Allah willing them to succeed. What had surprised him was that the Secret Service agents were themselves prepared to die for their cause. They stood resolute before them in the face of overwhelming power and accurately picked off his men, trading life for life with Imran’s men. He was down to eight men. They had lost at least that, if not more.

Imran instructed another two of his men to make the run. All willingly accepted
. The sooner their turn came the sooner their trip to heaven and Allah.

Imran opened the door and his two men charged out
. He quickly closed the door behind them as two shots rang out. However, this time, his men’s screaming and the sound of the AK47 went on for longer. There was also no return fire. Imran opened the door slightly to see the second of his two men still racing towards the bottom of the corridor. The first lay face down a few yards from the door, a smile frozen on his face. The agents at the bottom of the corridor stood with their weapons ready to bludgeon Imran’s man.

The Americans were out of ammunition.

His man had spent his thirty rounds and continued rushing towards the agents, closing in to striking distance. Imran closed his eyes. The flash he knew was coming would have otherwise momentarily blinded him.

The corridor was clear
. The two agents and Imran’s man lay in a bloody mess on the floor.

Imran picked
out sheets of paper from his backpack and handed them to his remaining men. The sheets contained photos of the key targets to be killed. Although they were all were to be killed if possible, certain people had been selected to ensure that if, for any reason, they couldn’t kill everyone, they made sure they killed the most important ones first. They all recognized the President and he was top of the list. A few recognized the Vice President but beyond that, even Imran didn’t know who the people were.

All he knew was that Allah wanted them dead.

With the vault door closing behind him, Senator Bertie Noble knew he had succeeded. The presidency would be his. Within the hour, he’d be sworn in and given the seat that should always have been his. The Nobles thought that knowledge alone gave them power, but they had no idea how much power he had at his disposal as President. He would take charge of Atlas Noble and he alone would decide the plans for the new world.

He had never agreed with the grand plan
. A far more radical downsizing was required. His military might, once the truth became clear, would give him the power to dictate and shape the world he wanted, a world that he would rule. Once the truth was out, there’d be no more elections, no more governments, just his military might. The Nobles had spent generations upon generations with only one goal: to save the population. Once complete, their role was over. The wealth, the standing, the power, all would disappear in the new world, all would be meaningless in the future that lay ahead. Senator Bertie Noble had a different vision. He had grown accustomed to the power, he lived for it. To keep it, he had to take it, or Antoine would simply give it all away.

A phone began to ring
; it was a red one on the corner of the main table that ran down the center of the room. Senator Noble looked at the phone and the senior agent, Jed Walters, who picked it up.
Could this be it
?, he thought. Months in the making, years in planning, decades waiting. He had spotted his opportunity; it was down to the wire but he had spotted it and he had taken it.

Jed Walters nodded a number of times
then looked at the Senator and beckoned him forwards. “Senator,” the agent said instantly disappointing Bertie. “It’s for you, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“The Israeli President, sir!”

Bertie’s hopes rose again.

“Mr. President,” said Bertie taking the phone.

“Senator Noble, I have been unable to reach the President
. I wanted to alert him to an issue we had discussed and that we are in the process of resolving.”

“All very cryptic,” joked Bertie
. “Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

“It’s fine
, if you could pass on that message, he’ll understand.”

“Of course
, Mr. President.”

“Oh and Senator, your nephew has been trying to reach you.”

“I’ll call him later,” said Bertie nervously.

“No need, he’s on the line, goodbye
, Senator.” The phone clicked but the line stayed open.

“Uncle Bertie
,” said Antoine. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of!”

Bertie desperately wanted to hang up but couldn’t, he needed to know what Antoine knew or suspected.

“End it now before it’s too late,” said Antoine forcefully.

“It’s too late, there’s nothing I can do.”

“In that case, it was nice knowing you.”

Bertie
laughed. “Are you threatening me?”

“You sad
, stupid, old man, you have no idea how far down the chain you really are. You have no idea of our power or reach, or the scale of the operation that our family has built to protect our people.”

“I am going to be
president of the most powerful nation on earth.”

“You won’t see the outside of that bunker if you don’t stop what you started
,” promised Antoine.

“Don’t be ridiculous
, I’m surrounded by agents that will give their lives to save me.”

“Perhaps, but look around you, do you recognize anything in that room
?”

Bertie humored him and looked around the room, nothing. He couldn’t see anything untoward.

“Look closer,” said Antoine. “But hurry, if your plan succeeds, you die.”

Bertie looked closer
. He recognized the small logo on the leg of the table. He looked around some more and noticed it on the phone, the stamp on the hinge of the vault door, the logo on the corner of the computer screens. The very familiar logo of the Atlas Noble empire, an intertwined A and N, buried in an airtight metal tube hundreds of feet below the ground. The AN logo was on the air system.

“You can’t!
You can’t kill me, it’s forbidden.”

“Conrad!” shouted Antoine over his shoulder.

Conrad hit a button on the laptop in front of him, shaking his head. “We can’t,” he mouthed. Antoine nodded insistently.

A red light began to blink almost instantly in the bunker above Senator Noble’s head.

“What’s that?” asked Jed, looking at the red light on the ceiling that had started to flash.

Another agent rushed to the control panel
. “The air system’s cut out!”

“It’s fine, there’s enough air for two hours in the bunker,”
said Jed. “Otherwise we’ll open the door.”

“You
’re too late, Antoine,” said Senator Noble. “There’s nothing I can do!”

“Bullshit, you always have a backup
,” said Antoine. “Conrad!” he shouted again. The sound of high-powered fans drowned out almost all the noise inside the bunker.

“Your plan has failed, the fans have kicked in
,” said Bertie jubilantly.

“
Au contraire, mon oncle
,” said Antoine. “I think you’ll find they’re sucking the air out, not pushing it in!”

“Open the door
!” shouted Bertie to the agents.

“They can’t
,” said Antoine. “Stop it now or die. Do you not understand? There is nowhere on this planet I cannot get to you. You have no idea how much power I have,” said Antoine evenly.

Senator Noble withdrew his phone and switched it back on, the
Wi-Fi connection was all he needed. “It’s probably too late,” he said, hitting the ‘Send’ button.

“If you’re not
, I’ll turn the air back on. After all, the agents have done nothing wrong,” he said, while instructiing Conrad to turn it back on in a minute. He couldn’t kill Bertie, no matter what he had done.