The Mirage: A Novel (37 page)

“No,” Samir said. And once more he was in freefall, but this time the fear was galvanizing rather than paralyzing. Like an acrobat in midair, he twisted and reached, drawing the .45 automatic from the leg holster of Private Dimashqi beside him, turned again, shoved his door open, stepped out, and aimed up. Samir’s first three shots missed, but the fourth hit the bottle even as the Minuteman got the rag alight. The Minuteman became a burning man with a blazing three-cornered crown.

Samir fired the pistol until it was empty. Then he ducked down beside Mustafa and Amal and Salim and the startled corpsman. “I’m sorry,” he said, weeping. “I’m sor—”

The ground shook. All the windows in the Piggly Wiggly blew out, and the roof, suddenly fluid, bulged upwards, flinging Minutemen into the air. “Shaitan!” one of the Marines cried, thinking that the helicopter gunship had returned. But this was no missile strike; it was another bomb, detonating inside the store—or rather, in the parking level below it.

The roof fell back in and with a long rumble the outer walls collapsed, spilling a last few screaming Christians into the rubble. After that a stillness fell, a stretch of calm during which even the roar of the gas station blaze seemed muted. When half a minute had passed with no more shots being fired, the Marines began to relax.

A voice called out: “Mustafa al Baghdadi!”

Heads—and guns—turned towards the sound. Forty meters back along the parking lot from where the Humvees were stopped, a pale man had appeared, standing out front of a greeting-card store with his arms in the air. His hands were open and empty, and he’d unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a scrawny chest to which no bombs or weapon holsters were strapped.

The unarmored Humvee drove up beside him. Marines jumped out and shoved the pale man to his knees.

Mustafa stood up. “Hey!” Umm Husam said. “Your helmet!” Mustafa nodded and got his helmet and then walked down the parking lot to the unarmored Humvee. When he got there, one of the Marines was staring through the open door of the greeting-card store; just inside, another Minuteman lay dead with a loaded RPG launcher beside him.

Mustafa turned his attention to the pale man. “I am Mustafa al Baghdadi,” he said. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

“My name is Timothy McVeigh,” the pale man replied. “I’m an agent of the Texas CIA and I was sent here to find you—to protect you.” His eyes flicked briefly to the dead man, and then to the pile of rubble across the pike, before returning to Mustafa. “The director would like to see you, sir.”

T
HE
L
IBRARY OF
A
LEXANDRIA

A USER-EDITED REFERENCE SOURCE

Christian Intelligence Agency

(Redirected from
CIA
)

The
Christian Intelligence Agency
, or CIA (sometimes also referred to by its members as “Christ in Action”), is the primary
espionage
arm of the government of the
Evangelical Republic of Texas
. According to the public version of its charter, the CIA’s function is to collect and analyze intelligence on foreign governments, organizations, and individuals. However, it is believed that the agency also engages in domestic spying and acts as a
secret police force
, detaining, torturing, and assassinating political dissidents.

The CIA’s headquarters are located in
Crawford
, about 15 kilometers west of the city of
Waco
. . .

“N
o,” Umm Husam said firmly. “I cannot permit this.”

They were standing in the parking lot of another strip mall on the far side of the crossroads. More Humvees and a tank had arrived, and the road was now blocked off in all four directions. The only nonmilitary vehicles that had been allowed through were a couple of fire engines, whose crews, under the watchful eye of Marine riflemen, were working to put out the gas station. Two helicopter gunships now circled overhead, and a medevac chopper had just landed. With Lieutenant Fahd heading back to base still unconscious, Umm Husam was the senior officer on site.

“I understand your reluctance to allow me to go with this man,” Mustafa said. “But if he wanted to kill me, I think he would have done so already.”

“If he kills you he cannot kidnap you,” said Umm Husam. “Do you know the term
Verschärfte Vernehmung
?”

“ ‘Sharpened interrogation.’ It’s a Lutheran euphemism for torture.”

“American Protestants call it
enhanced
interrogation. The latest version is what’s known as crucifixion: The victim is tied spread-eagle to the hood of a car and driven around at high speed. Road debris pelts the front of the body, while heat from the engine block causes burns to the back.”

“I don’t believe he intends to crucify me, either.”

“If you are wrong, you won’t be the only one who pays.” Umm Husam shook her head. “I am sorry, but I don’t wish to risk more Marines on a rescue mission.”

Mustafa looked at McVeigh, standing just out of earshot with a pair of Marine guards. “He predicted this would be your reaction.”

“That hardly makes him a seer.”

“He asked me to give you this.” Mustafa held up a gas station map of the county, backfolded to show a portion of Herndon village. “A gesture of good faith, he says. He’s marked the location of a house that he claims is the current headquarters of the leader of the militia that attacked us.”

Umm Husam chuckled. “You want to know who really lives there? Someone this man has a grudge against. Perhaps someone he owes money to.”

“Here I would be inclined to agree,” said Mustafa, “except for one thing . . .” He showed her what was written on the map beside the circled address. “Do you recognize this name?”

“No.”

“So it’s no one famous, then?”

“Not that I am aware of. Why?”

“Before I left Baghdad, I was shown a list of people who were in some way connected to my investigation here. This name was on that list.”

Umm Husam remained skeptical. “What list is this? Who showed it to you?”

Before he could answer, Amal appeared beside him. She’d been helping load Salim into the medevac chopper, and the hand she grabbed the map with was still sticky with her son’s blood.

She said to Mustafa: “Find out what the house looks like.”

McVeigh’s co-disciple Terry Nichols drove up in a silver van with a guitar logo and the words
MESSIAH PRODUCTIONS
painted on its side. The Marines let him through the roadblock, and McVeigh opened the van’s rear doors and bade Mustafa get in. “You’ll have to sit on the floor,” he said apologetically, “but it won’t be a long ride.”

“It’s fine,” said Mustafa. “Do you need to blindfold me?”

“Not for this part of the trip, no.” He glanced up knowingly at the helicopters overhead. “It’d be pointless.”

Samir, who had not been invited, stood by waiting to see if McVeigh would wave him aboard at the last moment. Umm Husam, in the midst of a planning session with Amal and several Marines, looked over as well, her expression making it clear that she still wasn’t happy about this. Mustafa nodded to them both, mouthing, “God willing.” Then McVeigh shut the doors.

The ride, as promised, was brief, their immediate destination a railway underpass just off the Davis Pike. As they entered the underpass and eased to a stop, Mustafa raised his head up and saw a second van, with identical markings, driving away out the far side: a decoy for the helicopters.

“Now we wait awhile,” McVeigh said. “Go ahead and stretch your legs, but stay under cover.”

They all got out. Nichols went to urinate behind a pillar. McVeigh lit a cigarette and offered one to Mustafa. As they stood smoking, Mustafa looked around the underpass, his attention drawn to a phrase—T.A.B., HAJJI!—spray-painted on the far wall. A shallow pit dug into the embankment beneath this graffito held the remains of something that had been doused in gasoline and burned. Mustafa drew deeply on his cigarette and tried not to think too hard.

Eventually a car came. The driver, a gray-haired white man with the beard and sun-leathered skin of a Rocky Mountain tribal warrior, got out and nodded to McVeigh and Nichols. “Keys are in it, Randall,” McVeigh told him, and the man nodded again and got into the van and sat behind the wheel with the engine off. Nichols got into the front passenger seat of the car.

McVeigh turned to Mustafa. He pulled a cloth hood from his pocket and said: “If you don’t mind . . .”

This next part of the trip was longer. With the hood over his head Mustafa couldn’t see the road, but the cloth was thin enough that he could still judge light from dark, so when they stopped again he could tell they were outside in the open. McVeigh helped Mustafa out of the back of the car and led him, still hooded, across a gravel-covered expanse.

“Two steps up, here.” They pushed through a thick plastic curtain. “OK,” McVeigh said, and Mustafa pulled the hood off.

They were inside a building that was still under construction. The outer plywood walls had been attached, but the windows were open holes covered with plastic sheeting and the interior was bare studs and concrete. The studs were furry with dust, as if construction had halted some time ago.

“This way,” McVeigh said.

The building was long and modular, each of its several sections consisting of a cluster of rooms surrounding a central corridor. Each section was more finished than the last—drywall appeared, then paint, fixtures, and carpeting—and the repetitive nature of the floor plan gave Mustafa the sense of a single office suite assembling itself around him as he walked. The final section had power. The sudden blast of air-conditioning caught Mustafa by surprise and he reacted as his father might have, clutching at the gooseflesh on his arms. “The director likes it cold,” Timothy McVeigh said.

A door at the very end of the hall was adorned with an official-looking seal that on close inspection proved to be hand-painted. It showed an eagle with a lone star on its chest and a scrap of parchment in its beak; one claw held a cross and the other a Bowie knife. The motto around the circumference was a quote from the Gospel of John: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

McVeigh knocked and opened the door. The office inside, like the building, was a work in progress. To the right as they came in were a mismatched sofa and chair that might have been collected off a street corner, along with a knee-high plastic table. To the left was a small pile of boxes. At the far end of the room was a desk, its top bare except for a massive leather-bound book that Mustafa assumed was a Bible, though which one he couldn’t say; stuck all around the edges of its pages and adding to its thickness were numerous slips of colored paper covered in writing.

A man stood behind the desk with his back to them. He faced a window as if contemplating a view, but the glass was still covered with a protective film that rendered it opaque.

“Sir?” McVeigh said. “I’ve brought Mr. Baghdadi, like you requested.”

The man turned slowly around. He was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had thick, curly brown hair and brown eyes behind gold-rimmed aviator glasses. His dark stubble beard was fading to gray. Mustafa placed his age at around fifty.

“Mustafa al Baghdadi,” the man said. “Thank you for coming. My name is David Koresh.”

“Can I have Timothy get you anything, Mr. Baghdadi?” David Koresh asked. “Coffee? Tea? Ice water? We have beer too, if you indulge, but my understanding is you don’t.”

“No thank you, I’m fine.”

“All right . . . You can leave us now, Tim.”

“Yes sir,” McVeigh said. “I’ll be waiting outside.” He left the room.

“So, Mr. Baghdadi . . . May I call you Mustafa?”

“Please.”

“Thank you, Mustafa. Please call me David.”

“David,” Mustafa said. “And ‘Koresh’? That is a Hebrew name too, is it not? Your family is Jewish?”

“No.” Koresh laughed. “My family name is Howell. Vernon Wayne Howell, that’s my birth name. I changed it to David Koresh after my anointing, when I realized God’s plan for me.”

“Ah. I see.” David for the prophet who slew Goliath, presumably. And Koresh—Cyrus—that would be the king who conquered Nebuchadnezzar’s empire. Mustafa pictured Koresh’s face on a statue, a hall full of statues. “I should tell you, David, if you seek the throne of Babylon, you’re going to have competition.”

“Saddam Hussein, you mean?” He laughed again. “We’re not in competition. Mr. Hussein is a creature of the world. I’m not interested in earthly rewards or titles. Not anymore.”

“Saddam is interested in you.”

“I know. He’s the one who pointed you in my direction, isn’t he?” Mustafa nodded, and Koresh said: “He’s a clever man, in his way. Evil too, of course, and an egomaniac, which makes certain truths impossible for him to grasp, but still. He knows as much about the mirage as any other Arabian, and no one has done a better job at following my trail of breadcrumbs.”

“You are talking about the artifacts?”

Koresh nodded. “He’s hardly the only interested party, but no one else has come as far in tracing the source. Gaddafi’s people, they’re still chasing false leads in Europe. Al Qaeda too, until very recently . . .”

“So it’s true, then. You are the creator of these objects? And of the mirage legend itself?”

“It’s no legend,” David Koresh said. “And I’m not a creator, just a messenger.”

“Will you tell me what you know?”

“Of course. It’s why I had you brought here. But it’s a long story.” Koresh gestured to the couch. “You should make yourself comfortable. Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“Perhaps some hot tea, if it’s a long story,” Mustafa said. “It’s chilly in here.”

“Agent McVeigh said you were CIA,” said Mustafa. “He called you the director.”

“And you’re wondering, if that’s true, what’s the head of the Texas CIA doing hiding out in Virginia?”

“Yes.”

“Well you know,” David Koresh said, “it’s traditional for both sides in a church schism to claim they represent the true religion.”