symbol of jihad; namely, Saladin—or something more?
Born Salah Ad-din Yusuf Ibn Ayyub in about 1138 in Tikrit—current-day Iraq—Saladin had quickly risen to figurehead status during the Crusades, first as the defender of Baalbek, then as the sultan of Egypt and Syria. The fact that Saladin’s battlefield record was by some accounts spotty at best was of little consequence in Muslim history, but as was the case with many historical figures, East and West alike, it was what Saladin came to represent that mattered. To Muslims he was the avenging sword of Allah standing against the flood of infidel crusaders.
If there was any insight to be gained from the URC’s name, it probably lay in the first word, Umayyad, after the Damascus mosque that housed Saladin’s final resting place, a mausoleum containing both a marble sarcophagus donated by Emperor Wilhelm II of Germany and a plain wooden coffin, in which Saladin’s body still remained. The fact that the Emir had chosen Umayyad as his organization’s operational word suggested to Jack that the Emir saw his jihad as a turning point, just as Saladin’s death had been a transition from this life of struggle and suffering to everlasting paradise.
“I’ll give it some thought,” Jack said. “Not a bad hunch, though.”
“It ain’t all sand up here, cuz,” Brian said, smiling, as he tapped his temple with his index finger. “So what’s your dad doing with all his spare time now?”
“Don’t know.” Jack didn’t spend much time at home. That would mean talking to his parents, and the more he talked about his “job,” the more likely his dad would be to get curious, and if his father found out what he was doing here, he might blow a gasket somewhere in his head. And how Mom would react didn’t bear contemplation. The thought grated on Jack. He wasn’t a mama’s boy, that was for sure, but did anyone ever really get past trying to impress their parents or seek their approval? What was that saying? A man isn’t truly a man until he kills his father—metaphorically, of course. He was an adult, on his own, doing some serious shit at The Campus. Time to step out from under Dad’s shadow, Jack reminded himself for the umpteenth time. And a damned big shadow it was.
Brian said, “Bet you he gets fed up and—”
“Runs?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve lived in the White House, remember? I had my fill. I’ll gladly take my cubicle here, hunting bad guys.”
Mostly on the computer so far, Jack thought, but maybe, if he played his cards right, more in the field. He was already rehearsing his pitch to The Campus’s head, Gerry Hendley. The MoHa thing had to count for something, didn’t it? His cousins were smart shooters. Did the term fit him? Jack wondered. Could it fit him? In comparison, his life had been a sheltered one, the well-protected son of President John Patrick Ryan, but that had come with benefits, hadn’t it? He’d learned to shoot from Secret Service agents, had played chess against the Secretary of State, had lived and breathed, albeit obliquely, the inner worlds of the intelligence and military communities. Had he, by osmosis, picked up some of the traits for which Brian and Dominic had trained so hard? Maybe. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Either way, he had to get past Hendley first.
“But you ain’t your dad,” Dominic reminded him.
“True enough.” Jack turned in his chair and powered up his PC for the morning news dose, public and classified. Too often, the latter was only three days in advance of the former. The first thing Jack logged in to was the Executive Intercept Transcript Summary from the NSA. Called EITS or XITS—and bearing the unfortunate moniker “zits”—it went only to high-level officers at the NSA and the CIA, and the National Security Council at the White House.
Speaking of the devil ... There he was, the Emir himself, in the XITS again. An intercept. The message had been strictly administrative. The Emir wanted to know what someone—just an anonymous code name—was doing, whether he had made contact with some unknown foreign national, for some unknown purpose. That was the standard with most of these intercepts—a lot of unknowns, sort of like fill-in-the-blank, which was, in truth, what intelligence analysis was all about. The biggest and most complex jigsaw puzzle in the world. This particular piece had prompted a brainstorming meeting at the CIA.
The proposed agenda was the topic of a full single-spaced report (almost all of