by Tom Clancy
Bin Rashid’s patience had worn through, though, so he did not repay the kind tone with friendliness of his own.
He said, “I need specifics from you. I need you to provide what you promised, and I need you to do it now.”
INFORMER said, “I am ready to begin funneling you information. But as I have made clear many times, I can well imagine what you are doing with this information, and this will make me one of the most hunted men in the world.”
“We have had this discussion before. You are safe. I won’t be connected to the end users of this information. And I don’t know you, how to get to you, or anything about you. Obviously you will be even more removed than I am. I just need information, and I need you to not concern yourself with whatever news you hear, news you might somehow think related to the intelligence you sold me.”
INFORMER replied, “Again, I am ready to proceed, but as I mentioned in my message to you last week, the price has doubled. You can take it or you can leave it. But as I am certain you have had time to prepare things on your end to exploit the information, I imagine you have already gone to great lengths and great expense to move your assets into place. I think you have to agree that even at my new terms, you have no suitable option but to go forward.”
Bin Rashid wanted to reach through his phone, grab the other man by the throat, and rip it out. This shakedown had been planned from the beginning, he had no doubt. This bastard had bin Rashid on the hook, and now he was reeling him in. Every fiber of Sami bin Rashid’s being was telling him to tell this man to take his information and shove it up his ass, but he could not do that. He had to acquiesce.
He controlled his breathing, and said, “I accept your terms, assuming you can give me the latest updated targeting information today.”
INFORMER did not hesitate. “Of course I can. You simply place an order on my dark website, just as we discussed.”
Sami bin Rashid opened the page on his computer. While he did this, INFORMER said, “So to recap, my terms are as follows: packages on field intelligence operatives are $500,000, as are military officers over the rank of major. Officers below the rank of major, or intelligence analysts or support personnel, are $250,000. Any general, admiral, intelligence community executive or the like will cost you one million dollars. Special operations military enlisted personnel are $250,000, unless they belong to Joint Special Operations Command. This is the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Development Group, otherwise known as SEAL Team Six, or the Army’s Delta Force. Targeting packages for these elite enlistees will cost $500,000.”
They then spent the next few minutes discussing what sorts of targets were available with the latest updates on their whereabouts, and then Sami bin Rashid, for all intents and purposes, placed an order on the e-commerce webpage on INFORMER’s site.
Bin Rashid then transferred Bitcoin to INFORMER’S dark web address while the two men were on the phone. Five million dollars, for a total of one dozen targets, many of them lower-tier individuals. The Saudi knew his fight in America would cost him an average of one million dollars a day, at least, plus significant operating expenses from al-Matari’s cell, but if the end result meant America came to Iraq with boots on the ground, pushed back the Iranian hordes encroaching toward the south, ended pro-Iranian Alawite rule in Syria, and brought the price of oil back up to a level that would protect Saudi Arabian leadership’s domestic security . . . well, then, Sami bin Rashid would have done his job, and the King would reward him for life.
A moment later INFORMER confirmed he received the money, and he told his customer to watch his mailbox in the dark web portal on his computer, and to wait for the files to come through.
True to his word, INFORMER’s files began popping up, one by one. While bin Rashid clicked on the attachments, a smile grew inside his trim gray beard.
First, the name, the address, and a photograph of a woman. A map of the area around where the woman lived. A CV of her work with the Defense Intelligence Agency, including foreign and domestic postings that would have her involved in the American campaign in the Middle East. Real-time intel about her daily commute, including the house where she would be watering the plants and checking the mail all week for a friend.
Incredible, bin Rashid thought to himself. Where the hell is this coming from?
The next file was all necessary targeting info on a recently retired senior CIA operations officer, who continued to work on a contract basis in the intelligence field. He spoke Arabic, trained others in tradecraft, counterintelligence, and counterterrorism, and consulted on security affairs at a pro-Christian D.C. think tank.
The file after this was of a former Navy SEAL with a high profile and a record of missions against Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State. At first bin Rashid didn’t understand why this man had been selected by INFORMER, but after skimming down through the dossier, a rare smile formed on bin Rashid’s lips, and softly, to himself, he said, “Yes. Perfect.”
One by one bin Rashid went down the list of a dozen targets. These weren’t admirals or generals or top operatives of the CIA, but he wanted Musa al-Matari’s cells to begin their actions with less well-protected victims. The leaders of America’s military and intelligence would be worthy targets, of course, but at the outset bin Rashid wanted victories for al-Matari, lower risk for moderate reward. He wanted . . . he needed new recruits to flock to the cause, and he knew this would happen only if the operation registered some early wins.
He called INFORMER back after reading through the last of the dozen files.
The man with the curious accent said, “Hello, friend. I trust you are satisfied with the products I sent you.”
Bin Rashid replied, “How certain are you of this . . . this information?”
An audible sigh over the line. “This is what I do. As you see, all the targeting data is completely up to date. Some of the information I updated this very afternoon.”
“I noted that, yes. When will I get more? More like these?”
“When you pay for more. That’s how all this works.”
“I know that. I mean to ask . . . are you prepared with more? Of this quality, or perhaps of higher-quality targets?”
“There are an unlimited number of products I can sell you. They all will be different, some perhaps you will find more . . . interesting than others. Some you will unquestionably find more expensive than others. The limit to this is your ability to process your way through the targets and your ability to pay.”
The Saudi understood that by “process,” INFORMER meant kill. It was clear to bin Rashid that INFORMER knew he was providing targets for assassination. But it was also clear to bin Rashid that INFORMER had already seen what happened in Italy, so the man clearly did not possess a weak stomach.
“Very well,” bin Rashid said. “I will wire additional funds to the account next week, enough for another dozen files. When I am ready for more, perhaps in another week’s time, I will be in touch. You have done good work.”
INFORMER said, “I am happy that you are happy, my friend. I wish you much success with your endeavors.”
—
Twelve hours later, and just before the twenty-four-hour deadline he’d given the Saudi to provide him with the intelligence he needed to open with his waves of attacks on America, Abu Musa al-Matari sat in his office in his Chicago safe house and read carefully over a batch of dossiers sent to him via Silent Phone. Intelligence officers, both current and former, men and women employed in the fight against the Islamic State. There was a file on a U.S. Special Forces operator in North Carolina, a bar frequented by a Navy SEAL platoon in Virginia Beach, along with photos of four of the men and their bios.
There was no other way to look at it; this was incredible material. He’d successfully had people killed in foreign lands with one-twentieth of the information he was being provided with here.
He focused on the dossier of a former Navy
SEAL who had come to prominence in the past few years due to a book he had written and several television appearances he’d made chronicling his days in the teams.
Looking through the dossiers, and then looking through Google on his laptop, al-Matari realized this man had become an actual American celebrity.
The man was staying for a month at a five-star hotel in Los Angeles, overseeing the shooting of a film about his exploits on a raid in Libya against the ISIS affiliate Ansar al-Sharia.
Al-Matari knew instantly that this would be a perfect target for the Santa Clara cell. They were currently based in San Francisco, but could send a couple of cell members down to L.A. tomorrow, to be ready to act the next day. A retired military man moving between a film set and his hotel sounded like a ridiculously easy mark, and the man’s prominence here in America would give al-Matari a large return on the relatively low risk to his mission.
In the next dossier he found an immediate operation for a couple of members of the Fairfax cell and then, a few files into his reading, he found another worthy target located within a day’s drive of Detroit.
With a lot of moving his men and women around the map of the United States, there were immediate, attainable targets for every last one of his cells. He decided he would keep Chicago out of the first round of activity. He needed them to serve as his protection force, to keep his safe house secure, and to continue providing Algiers and Tripoli with the raw materials for explosives they were constructing for the teams.
But the other four would go to work now.
He decided, after some time looking at his cleanskins and the locations of the targets on the map, that the biggest move of the first wave of attacks would be the Detroit cell. He’d need a few of them, three or four to be safe, to get on the road to the D.C. area, because he’d have the Fairfax team working on two other missions in that part of the country.
After al-Matari had decided on his initial victims and those assigned to terminate them, he picked up his mobile and opened Silent Phone, which allowed him to send files to the secure mobile devices held by each of the other cells, and he went to work. He delivered individual targeting packages and orders to Fairfax, to Santa Clara, to Detroit, and to Atlanta, along with orders to each unit leader to choose the right number and mix of cell members for each job. They would act at first opportunity, and they were to communicate with him if they had any questions, concerns, or information he might need.
At the end of each message, he typed in additional orders. Just before beginning each mission, al-Matari ordered the operators on scene to broadcast live video of the action through another app that allowed end-to-end encrypted live streaming. He told his leaders he wasn’t expecting Hollywood-level films, but he wanted some record of the events so that the Global Islamic Media Front, the propaganda arm of ISIS, could use the clips to whip up the frenzy of excitement for the operations here in America.
Abu Musa al-Matari did not mention any other reason that he wanted to see a live broadcast of each operation. But there was a second reason, and it was much more important than the first. He’d keep that to himself, for now, and with luck, none of his twenty-seven cell members would ever need to know that the suicide vests they wore could be command-detonated by al-Matari if a cell member was captured and decided against detonating the vest themselves. This would ensure a higher body count when first responders came upon a scene, as well as an additional level of operational security for the mission.
The twenty-seven cleanskins should have had enough fervor for the cause to martyr themselves, but if they hesitated for an instant, al-Matari would do it for them from afar.
His plan in America did not allow for any of his people to be taken alive.
26
Barbara Pineda and her burgundy Toyota Camry were stuck in traffic, par for the course on a workday afternoon.
As a civilian who worked at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, in the southeastern part of the District, she knew that every commute at the end of the day involved at least a half-hour of gridlock. If there had been no traffic, the thirty-one-year-old would already be home in Vienna, Virginia, leisurely getting ready to go out on a date with the new man in her life, a firefighter named Steve she had met at church.
Instead, this afternoon would be exactly like all others during the workweek when she had important plans. She’d screech onto her driveway late, dash from her car through her front door, fling off her business attire, and take the stairs three at a time to her bedroom in her underwear. There she would dress, rush into her bathroom to touch up her makeup, and come downstairs only at the last moment, if not a few minutes after, when Steve arrived to pick her up.
And on top of all this, this afternoon she had an extra stop to make on the way home.
Barbara was an employee of the Defense Intelligence Agency, where she served as an all-source intelligence analyst in the Directorate for Analysis. Before this she had served eight years in Army intel, joining up after high school, and earning both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees online at American Military University while enlisted. She’d done a significant amount of her coursework while serving in war zones, and now that she was out of the Army, working as a civilian at DIA provided her a smooth transition from a decade of near-constant deployments.
During her time in the Army she served in Afghanistan or Iraq, or else she was in training or supporting others deployed in the Middle East. Now she spent her days looking over intelligence matters relating to the U.S.’s fight with ISIS, a perfect match for the important but niche skill set she’d learned in the Army.
Barbara was happy enough with her work. She knew she probably wasn’t going to change the world, but she sure as hell was doing her part for her nation, even at her relatively young age.
Still fifteen minutes from home, she pulled off the 495 and into the suburb of Falls Church, happy to be on the more open residential roads and out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic. She parked on the small driveway of an attractive zero-lot two-story house, climbed out with her purse, and fumbled for the keys.
An old Army friend of Barbara’s who now worked in pharmaceuticals lived here, but she was away on vacation at Disney World with her family, and Barbara had offered to swing by every afternoon after work to water the plants, to feed the kids’ hamster, and to flip on and off a couple of lights to make the place look as lived in as possible.
As she headed up the drive she remembered she also needed to check the mail, so she turned around and headed back down the little driveway, still trying to find the right key for the front door.
A neighbor walking her dog on the sidewalk across the street waved to her, and Barbara waved back as she pulled down the door to the mailbox.
And as she did this Barbara Pineda’s world erupted in a flash of bright light and earsplitting noise.
The explosion had been command-detonated, meaning Fairfax cell members Ghazi and Husam were parked right up the street, close enough to see Barbara at the mailbox. They’d talked at length about waiting until she took the four-pound package containing the bomb out of the mailbox, or else just pressing send on their phone, activating the detonator’s wireless number, the instant she opened the mailbox door. They finally decided on the latter, thinking the force of the blast might be heightened and therefore penetrate deeper into the woman’s body from the mailbox, as if shot out of the barrel of a gun.
It was the theory of laymen with no understanding of their powerful weapon. The mailbox utterly disintegrated in the explosion, so there was no barrel for the explosion to travel down. But it didn’t matter. The bomb had been constructed by Tripoli in the back of the SUV while traveling from Georgia to Virginia for the dropoff of the weapons, and it contained two and a half pounds of store-bought galvanized two-inch nails. When the plastic explosive detonated, it sent the nails in all directions, along with the shock wave of the explosion, large chunks of shrapnel from the alumi
num mailbox, and even bits of the brick post. Much of the shrapnel and shock wave slammed into the chest and face of Barbara Pineda.
The thirty-one-year-old woman staggered two steps back into the street, and then she fell onto her side, dropping her purse and the keys as she collapsed, still enveloped inside the massive cloud of smoke.
The woman walking her dog across the street fell to the ground herself, half propelled back by the detonation and half affected by the incredible sound made by the explosion.
When she looked back in the direction of the noise, she saw the woman by the mailbox rolling onto her back, her chest heaving up and down rapidly, and her face all but gone.
Ghazi had pressed the button on his phone that triggered the bomb, and Husam had held his phone on the scene, his camera zoomed in to provide a distant but clear moving image of the incident. The man they called Mohammed had been watching in real time, and he congratulated the men as they drove out of the neighborhood slowly and carefully, and headed back toward their safe house in Fairfax.
They had placed the bomb here instead of at Pineda’s home because the targeting data they received just hours before said she would come here each afternoon to check the mailbox, and Pineda’s condo had tiny mail slots, meaning they wouldn’t have been able to use the device there.
The two men had no idea who was providing the intelligence they used. They assumed their leader, the man they knew only as Mohammed, had teams of spies working in the area.
The cell had discussed simply shooting the woman the moment she pulled into her driveway, but cell leader David Hembrick and Abu Musa al-Matari agreed that the information about the mailboxes gave them the opportunity to use the relatively low-risk remote-explosive option for their first attack. It was crucial that it worked, that the Fairfax cell remained intact, and although al-Matari didn’t say anything to Hembrick on the matter, frankly he was worried Ghazi and Husam would fuck up anything that got too complicated.
