Dead Edge: the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child. Jack Ford
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is a different issue.’
Chuck shook his head. ‘Try telling that to the solider who’s being shot at by terrorists with an advanced weapon. The same advanced weapon sold by the United States government.’
‘For God’s sake, Chuck, we don’t sell to terrorists.’
‘Agreed. But we do sell to governments who we know sympathize, donate money and weapons to the groups that want to see the West destroyed. And if we’re talking about Qatar, weren’t they the ones who gave Khalid Sheikh Mohammed sanctuary? A hiding place? Mr President, the scars from 9/11 are still healing, still unresolved, yet we deal, negotiate and do business with countries who are known terrorist sympathizers, as if we’re inviting them to the Minnesota state fair… Everything is connected, Mr President. Everything! And one day, it’ll come back and bite America on its ass… Let me tell you something. You put me in the post because you knew I was the best at what I did. There is nobody better for the job, yet you continually block me and question my judgment. We have to jump through Goddamn hoops so the country can sleep well in their beds and people can get up and go to work without fear.’
For the first time in the meeting, Lyndon Clarke added to the discussion. ‘Chuck, I think now would be an appropriate point for you to calm down.’
Chuck glared at Lyndon. Stood up. Walked round towards him. ‘Not too long ago in this country you could never speak to me like that. You understand what I’m saying, Lyndon?’
‘Are you kidding me, Chuck? Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?’
The coldness hit Chuck’s eyes. Words. Whole demeanor. ‘I don’t know Lyndon, you tell me. What am I saying?’
‘Chuck, I’d say that’s enough. Don’t go there,’ Woods said.
Chuck, pouring himself a glass of water, shrugged. ‘Understood, Mr President, I know when to stop. Isn’t that right, Lyndon?’
Calm, quiet and tense, Woods said, ‘We’ve got to close now, but there is just one other point, Chuck… What do you know about a kid who had this theory that there were two impact tremors on the day of the bomb?’
Calm, quiet and tense, Chuck replied, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr President. Should I?’
‘Some information came to me via one of my staff that this kid was making a lot of noise about a seismograph reading he’d taken on the evening of the bomb. He was desperate to get someone to listen. Called up every agency there was, apparently.’
‘There’s always someone with some kind of conspiracy theory.’
‘That’s true, but according to this source, he got in contact not only with the CTC, but you actually spoke to him.’
Chuck shook his head. Locked eyes with the President. ‘Not wanting to sound disrespectful, but it hardly sounds likely does it? I mean, if I met up with or spoke to every crazy oddball who called up the CTC, I wouldn’t have time to do my job… So, no, Mr President, I certainly didn’t meet up with some mixed up kid from Chatham with some mixed up theory. But I’m curious, how did this source of yours know I’d supposedly spoken to him? Did the kid tell them that we’d met up…? Seriously, Mr President, I’m surprised you even asked me.’
‘Why did you say Chatham?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You said, the kid was from Chatham. I never told you that.’
With as much ice as Chuck could muster, he said, ‘I know you didn’t, but I don’t think I’d be much use as a counter terrorism expert if I couldn’t figure out the simplest of things. You told me he’d taken a seismograph reading on the evening of the bomb, so it’s pretty basic to guess he comes from the area, seeing as all the other bombs went off in the afternoon. I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr President, I have a country to try to protect.’
FIVE MILES OUTSIDE GOROM-GOROM,
BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA
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The heat of the day made the air feel heavier, denser than it really was, and the miles of clearing where villages had once stood stretched out into the distance, where the distance met the edge of the earth and the edge of the earth met with the unforgiving sun.
Shots fired out from guns, and the sound drifted and disappeared far into the beyond.
‘Hold the gun firmly… that’s it. Against your shoulder. Hold it steady. Have you got your aim?’
‘Yes.’
The cudgel was carved from the locust bean tree, and the strike to the side of the head ruptured and split the skin of the soldier’s temple as they fell, toppling down into the burnt-out grasslands which no longer gave shelter to the lizards and snakes that darted and weaved, seeking refuge from the African sun.
‘Comment t’appelles-tu? What’s your name?’
‘Amira.’
‘Bonjour, Amira. Welcome… But I think you’re forgetting your manners… How should you address me?’
Through pain filled tears, Amira cried. ‘Commandant. Commandant.’
‘Yes, Amira: Commandant. Do not forget it.’
‘No, Commandant.’
‘We cannot always oblige; but we can always speak obligingly…Voltaire. He was a French poet, but he was a man who spoke out against Islam. And what does that make him, Amira?’
The blood ran into Amira’s mouth as she shook and began to talk. ‘A Kafir, Commandant.’
‘Good, Amira. You’re learning.’
‘And what is a Kafir?’
‘An infidel. A non-believer, Commandant.’
‘Excellent. And what does it say to do with non-believers, Amira?’
‘It says, when you encounter the Kafirs on the battlefield, cut off their heads until you have defeated them. Seize them and kill them wherever they are… Commandant.’
‘That’s right. A Kafir will always be our enemy and we shall always treat them as such. Now get up.’
Pushing herself back up onto her feet, Amira picked up her gun, listening to the graveled voice of the Commandant. ‘When I tell you, fire your weapon.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
The Commandant signaled, shouting to a nearby solider who stood attentively a short distance away.
‘Our newest soldier, Amira is ready…’
Turning back to Amira, whose-dirt covered face was streaked with blood, the Commandant said, ‘Hold your aim… Fire.’
The gun discharged a round of bullets which hit the sand, spraying and plunging into the hot dry earth.
‘Try again, Amira.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
She aimed once more.
‘Now wait…Wait… Fire…’
A smile spread across the Commandant’s face. ‘Amira, look, a hit. You did well. God is great.’
In the distance a woman staggered. Trying to run. Trying to push through the pain as the bullet embedded deep into her calf. Tearing it open to expose the tissue. She stumbled over the dead bodies of those who had gone before. Her screams merging as one with the cries of the others. The men and women. The children. Who stood, lined up and ready, waiting for their