Threat Level

by William Christie

  Storey actually smiled at that. A smile that even creeped out Troy, who was watching the whole scene. Then Storey shot the Arab in the kneecap. An earsplitting howl rocked the house. Storey tied a tourniquet around the thigh, not being careful about moving the leg. Al-Rashidi screamed at every jolt.

  Storey grabbed his hair and shook it to get his attention, holding the satellite phone up to his face. “I need names to go with the numbers on this phone. Or I will shoot you in your other kneecap next.”

  A quick gasp of “Wait. I will tell you.”

  Storey picked up the phone, scrolling down the numbers in the address book and reading them off. Al-Rashidi put a name to each one. Troy laid his rifle across his knees and wrote them down in his pocket notebook.

  Storey plucked his pistol back out of the holster and shot al-Rashidi in the other kneecap. Another piercing scream. Al-Rashidi bent over as far as his bonds would allow, crying, snot pouring from his nose.

  “We are fools, is that it?” said Storey, tying on another tourniquet. “You can tell us any lies, and we will believe them?”

  “I spoke the truth,” al-Rashidi sobbed.

  Storey grabbed him by the hair again. “We have all the names, do you understand? You think we do not know that you lie as easily as you breathe? I have plenty of time, and plenty of ammunition. I will say the numbers again, and I want to hear the name of Abdallah Karim Nimri.”

  Al-Rashidi looked up at him.

  “That is correct,” said Storey. “I know everything. Match the names with the numbers. God will forgive you. After all, the final victory will be his, will it not?”

  The pain got worse. Storey went through the numbers again, and al-Rashidi gave a completely different set of names. Including Nimri’s.

  “Again,” Storey commanded. He read the numbers in a different order. Then once more, in another order, and faster. He looked over at Troy, who was still writing the answers down. Troy nodded. Storey looked out the window. Faint light was beginning to show at the horizon. No more time for questions.

  Storey shot al-Rashidi in the head.

  Troy was outwardly unmoved. But he was remembering something the master chief had told him. You didn’t want to be on the side Ed Storey was fighting.

  Storey flicked out his folding knife and cut off al-Rashidi’s cuffs. “Let’s go drag the guy outside in here. We’ll light the house on our way out. Any luck, there’s no CSI around here, and the locals won’t figure it out.”

  After that was accomplished, Troy took fingerprints and DNA swabs. Storey slashed open the furniture to reveal the padding. Troy walked around the house setting fire to the curtains in every room and any paper he could find.

  Loading up the pickup, he said to Storey, “You know, they’re going to find the SLAMs.”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “Why don’t I go get them? They’re neutralized by now.”

  “They’re supposed to be neutralized,” Storey said. “If someone had a bad day at the factory the antitamper feature’ll set them things off in high order right in your face.”

  Troy tried not to smile, because he was beginning to recognize those rare moments when the West Virginia cracker peeked out from Storey’s usually perfectly enunciated English. “I’ll risk it.”

  “It ain’t worth it,” Storey insisted.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s your funeral,” said Storey.

  Troy rushed off. Storey started up the pickup, waiting for something to go boom. He could see flames flickering through the windows of the house.

  But Troy returned with a huge grin on his face and the two SLAMs, which he stuffed under his passenger seat.

  “SEALs,” said Storey.

  Racing the dawn, they sped down dirt roads toward the camouflaged Honda CRV. After quickly changing back into their vacation clothes, Troy led in the CRV, Storey following in the pickup.

  Choosing a lonely stretch of forest a mile away from where they’d hidden the CRV, Troy dug a hole while Storey smashed or otherwise disabled all their equipment. Doing that to perfectly good and very expensive gear went against every one of his Staff NCO instincts, but there was no percentage in having it with them in case they got stopped. Everything went into the hole: weapons, equipment, pajamas, and boots. They filled it up and replaced the foliage, scattering the excess dirt and brushing away their footprints as they retreated back to the road. The jungle would take of everything soon enough.

  The pickup was abandoned in the next village they passed through, the keys in the ignition. That would take care of the last of the evidence.

  They’d been without sleep for over forty-eight hours, but this was not a condition unknown to either SEALs or Delta operators. And Storey had no intention of stopping for a nap. He also did not intend to cross a border again. They drove straight south, heading for the Malaysian capital of Kuala Lumpur.

  “You did good,” he told Troy as they were driving along.

  “Thanks,” said Troy. “You really didn’t think I was up for it?”

  “Thought you’d be,” said Storey. “Didn’t know. You never know until it comes up.”

  “It was a lot more pleasant than it would have been if they’d caught us out there in that cane field. You must have seen some kneecapping when you did your tour with the Brits.”

  “Saw the end result a couple of times. The IRA does it for terror. As a way to get someone to talk, it’s useless. They’ll tell you whatever they think you want to hear. It only works when you’ve got a specific question that you absolutely know that they know the answer to.” Storey paused for a moment and said, “This is a test of wills.”

  “You mean like some kind of Nietzsche thing?”

  Storey was impressed that Troy had even heard of the German philosopher. “No. What I mean is, Al Qaeda’s hoping we’ll become their partners in atrocity. If the only way to beat them is to become like them, they’re betting we’d rather go home. They’re testing our will. But the difference, the way we win, is that they do it indiscriminately and we do it to them. Only. They do it with pleasure, and we do it with disgust. They do it at every opportunity, and we only do it when we have to.”

  “I don’t worry about the deep thinking,” Troy said emphatically. “I just fight the motherfuckers.”

  “That’s what a master’s in psychology will do for you,” said Storey, sounding more like a master sergeant now. “Consider yourself warned.”

  Troy wasn’t sure if Storey had been trying to explain himself or convince himself. “What were we supposed to do? Give him a candy bar and send him on his way because the rules don’t let you kill someone after you take them prisoner?”

  “Geneva Conventions don’t apply to terrorists,” said Storey.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I surely do. Today we’re the heroes of the war on terrorism—forget about all the hard things we had to do. Five years from now it’s Vietnam, and we’re on trial for first-degree murder. Which is why neither of us is going to put anything that happened after we entered that house down on paper or in any communications. He died of wounds incurred in capture.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Take it seriously. Because Washington was real careful how they worded those last orders so no one took any responsibility but us. Someday some general or politician—”

  “Same thing,” Troy interjected.

  “Some general or politician is going to get theyselves into trouble and need someone to throw to the wolves. Like us. Or some Dudley Do-Right staff officer who spent his career behind a desk might stumble across our report one day and decide it’s his duty to report a war crime.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me. Didn’t bother me, and I didn’t see it bother you.”

  “That’s why my wives both said they left me. Among other things, they said I was emotionally unavailable.”

  “Yeah?” said Troy, amused by that. “Well, don’t worry about it, man. It’s easy to be emo
tionally available if you’re a fucking hairdresser. Be an emotionally available warrior and they’ll be feeding you Thorazine in your padded cell.”

  “Words of wisdom,” said Storey.

  It was over three hundred miles to Kuala Lumpur. Once in the city they parked the Honda and left the keys in it. Too bad for the Thai rental agency, but they weren’t about to complete a paper trail by turning it in. The identities they’d used to rent the car and cross the border would be discarded, and they’d leave Malaysia on new passports.

  Once clear of the car they flagged down a cab to the U.S. Embassy. It was okay for the big boys to play games, but Storey knew their asses were on the line if they delayed turning over their intelligence. So the first stop was the CIA duty officer, who took them right in to the chief of station, who went by the name of Gordon and listened very carefully to Storey’s briefing.

  “It’s a shame al-Rashidi didn’t make it,” he said coldly. “If you’d bothered to get in touch with me I could have gotten you some help.”

  Storey didn’t bat an eye. “You’d have to take that up with our chain of command, sir. Not us.”

  “Oh, I will. Depend on it. That’s all we need, the Pentagon fighting their own private wars on my turf.”

  Storey didn’t feel a need to comment on that.

  “And you say you’ve got names to go with the numbers on this satellite phone,” said the chief of station. “How?”

  Storey reminded himself to be careful. This guy was no dummy. “They were on a list, sir.”

  “Then where is the list?”

  “The list didn’t make it out, sir. It was badly damaged and not transportable. We copied the names and numbers.”

  “You copied them. You’ve got all the passports and ID, the phones, the laptop and CD-ROMs, but you copied the list?”

  “Yes, sir.” Storey didn’t particularly care whether he was believed or not. “If you’ll permit me, sir, we need to move on those numbers before they perish on us.”

  “Do we? Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you very much for that insight.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir,” said Storey, acting as if the sarcasm had gone right over his head. “I’ll be noting that I have turned them over to you, on this date and time. And hopefully a quick exploitation just may wrap up the plot on the president’s life.”

  Troy enjoyed that one, and not just for the look it put on that snotty-assed chief of station’s face. Go ahead, you Ivy League prick, fuck around and get the president killed. See what happens to you then.

  Evidently it did start things moving. Because Storey and Troy were both woken from a sound sleep two hours later and brought up to the chief of station’s office again, who started off by saying, “I’m told you’re both Arabic speakers. Who’s the most fluent?”

  “I am, sir,” said Storey.

  “You’re the only ones in the embassy,” said the chief of station. “And we need you right now.”

  It spoke volumes about the lack of language proficiency within the government in general and the CIA in particular. Arabic wasn’t one of the primary languages of Malaysia, but with the level of Islamic fundamentalist activity you’d think they’d have someone around who could speak it. But there weren’t all that many people in the entire CIA who spoke Arabic. Damn near all of them had French, though, for that posting to Paris.

  The chief of station explained what was going to happen. The National Security Agency, the arm of the intelligence community that intercepted communications, had shifted them priority on all assets. They would call all the numbers on al-Rashidi’s cellular phone, and the NSA would try to locate the parties on the other end.

  Storey knew a bit about it. The NSA had listening stations all over the world, not to mention satellites in orbit. That movie Enemy of the State was pure fantasy, but the NSA could intercept an ungodly amount of communications traffic. Though less now that the world had turned to digital cellular and fiber-optic landlines. And much more than they were ever able to listen to, translate, and analyze. Which was why, unless they were listening for something or to someone in particular, most of the information they gathered was after the fact. After something like 9/11 they’d go back over the tapes and find out everything the U.S. should have known in the first place. Luckily satellite phone transmissions, which went straight up to the satellite, over, and then back down, were easier to trace than run-of-the-mill cellular calls.

  Storey wasn’t just going to call up a bunch of Al Qaeda on the phone and chat about the weather. He borrowed a tape recorder and went outside, getting down traffic, horns, and street sounds at close range.

  Then he took up al-Rashidi’s Iridium phone. The CIA guys were on their own secure phone links to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. The NSA knew both numbers. They knew the location of the Kuala Lumpur embassy, and therefore which of the Iridium satellites the outgoing call was going to hit. The odds were pretty good.

  When the connection was made Storey turned on the tape recorder at high volume, placing it close to the phone. But he spoke into it at arm’s length. And a little scratching on the plastic to make a sound like static. Under all that noise saying, “Hello? Hello? Is this . . . ?” and then the name of the party. “I cannot hear you, brother. Can you hear me?” And then repeating it over and over and over again until the other party was either screaming with frustration or finally hanging up—hopefully not too soon.

  It was working. The word came back from Fort Meade. Pakistan. Mindanao. Java. One right there in Kuala Lumpur. Vietnam. China. Laos. Cambodia.

  And finally the one he’d saved for last. His act didn’t give Storey much chance to listen closely to the other party’s voice. But he did pay particular attention to Abdallah Karim Nimri’s.

  Storey couldn’t help extrapolating. Nimri had hung up quicker than all the others. He was sharp.

  They waited for Fort Meade to do their magic. “Is he in the Philippines yet?” Storey asked. It was taking too long. They hadn’t been able to make the trace.

  The CIA agent on the line with Maryland frowned, and said into the phone, “Say again?” He listened some more, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and announced to the room, puzzled, “Parry Sound, Ontario. He’s in Canada.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Storey. “Jesus Christ, the Philippines is just a diversion. They’re going to do something in the States.”

  16

  As usual on Lake Superior when late summer blended into fall, the shoreline was shrouded in fog before the sun came up. The wind was light at five to ten knots, and the waves were only one to two feet. Perfect conditions. God is great, thought Abdallah Karim Nimri.

  He could only hear the boat. It was showing no lights. With the global positioning devices a set of longitudes and latitudes could be passed over the telephone, then located with perfect certainty.

  The waves lapped against the rocky point. Closer to its edge there was a fishy, seaweed smell. Not altogether unpleasant.

  The sound didn’t grow much louder, because as it came in the boat engine was throttled down. Then a thump as the hull contacted the rocks.

  Nimri had forbidden flashlight signals. The American Coast Guard Web site asked people seeing boat-to-shore signals to immediately report them. The GPS was enough. He would hear the boat, and he would find it himself.

  Nimri threw off the heavy wool blanket he’d been huddled under. Holding the plastic bag containing his clothes, he gingerly stepped down the rocks to the water. Fool. He should have kept his shoes on.

  The first step into the water, and his heart almost stopped. By God, the water was cold. He had never felt water that cold. He tried to hurry, but the rocks under his feet felt as if they were covered in slime. Two more quicker steps and he slipped and fell face-first with a splash. The water was only deep enough to make noise; Nimri felt the pain shooting through his knee, and knew the skin had been scraped off his palm. He felt like shouting, but his anger always boiled over at the times when he could not mak
e a sound.

  Afraid that if he got up he would only fall again, he crawled across those cursed rocks until the water was deep enough to swim in. At least the cold was dulling the pain in his knee, but then his legs were turning numb.

  The fall had disoriented him. He could not see the boat in the fog, and it was no longer making any noise. He might even swim right by it, then turn in circles, not being able to find the shore again before his limbs froze. God is great, Nimri repeated to himself.

  A few more strokes, and off to his left he thought he saw a darker shape inside the fog. He swam toward it. The plastic bag his arms were wrapped around was really keeping him afloat.

  It was the boat, God be praised. But it was the bow of the boat. Once again Nimri wanted to shout out his frustrations, but he knew God in His Infinite wisdom was testing him. He could no longer feel his feet. His breath was coming in gasps.

  There was a shining metal ladder at the back of the boat. Nimri grabbed it with his left hand and threw the clothes bag into the boat. He was moving, even though he could not feel his feet on the ladder. As soon as he was out of the water to his waist, hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up.

  Then, soaked and shivering uncontrollably, he was locked into a tight embrace.

  “Brother Abdallah,” the black man exclaimed into his ear. “You are with us at last. God be praised.”

  Nimri’s teeth were chattering so hard he could barely get the words out. “A blanket.”

  “A blanket,” the black man grandly commanded the shorter, stocky Arab who was the only other person on the boat.

  The Arab didn’t move.

  “A blanket,” the black man repeated. “Quickly, the brother is freezing.”

  “There is no blanket,” the Arab replied finally.

  “You forgot the blankets?” the black man said in disgust.

  “Open the bag. My clothes.” Nimri did not think he would ever be able to get the words out.

  They tore open the plastic bag and helped Nimri into his clothes. Which was necessary, since his fingers felt like pencils. The black man made the Arab put his jacket around Nimri, and they both rubbed his limbs.