“Nothing,” said Kane. “I’m not here to deliver justice for what you did.” Firash’s shoulders slumped in relief and he wisely, he thought, kept his mouth shut. Kane headed for the door. “What I am going to do, however, is put the word out that you were very cooperative. Too bad you have no way of reaching your friend to let him know that it’s a lie.” Kane swirled his finger at his surroundings. “Enjoy this while you can. I don’t think you’ll be alive to enjoy it for much longer.”
Every muscle slackened in Firash’s body, and shame swept through him as urine ran down his leg, puddling on the floor at his feet.
Kane smirked at the sight. “You have a nice day now.”
He and the traitor left, the door slamming shut, and his entire body shook as he thanked Allah that his brother had taken the family into the city to shop, otherwise they would be witness to his shame. He stared at the television, the screen black, and his mind drifted inexplicably to the nonsensical. He was two seasons into Breaking Bad and he had to know how it finished.
But he could be dead before the day was through.
He forced himself to focus through his panic. The man who had paid him had warned him not to tell anyone anything, and yet the only thing he hadn’t shared was the fact he had the telephone number. His eyes shot wide and he leaped from his chair, his foot slipping in the puddle of urine, taking him down to a knee. It twisted painfully. He gasped and steadied himself, pushing back to his feet and wiping his urine-soaked hands on his robes. He grabbed the phone and pulled up a number in the contacts, filed under Building Supplies, and dialed, praying he could convince the man he hadn’t cooperated at all.
Kane climbed into their SUV and started the engine as Mo closed the passenger side door. “Did you plant the bugs?”
Mo nodded. “Yeah, I put the listener behind the table he was charging his phone on, and luckily I found the right battery in your satchel.” He patted it, still sitting on his lap. “You’ve got quite the selection in here.”
Kane grinned. “Who knew being a Boy Scout would pay off in my line of work.”
Mo’s eyes narrowed but Kane silenced any question with a wave, instead pressing a combination of buttons on the vehicle’s radio. A static-laden transmission began with a bang, then a yelp, then some cursing. He glanced at Mo who shrugged but remained silent as Kane pulled out his laptop, making sure the transmission was being recorded and relayed to Langley. There was a clattering sound, then a phone dialed.
Kane switched the audio over to the phone tap so they could hear both sides of the conversation. He checked the laptop, the number that had been dialed displayed. He sent a quick message to Langley, indicating for them to trace the phone and run voice recognition against the call. If they were lucky, Echelon might have monitored other calls made from this number that could lead them somewhere useful.
The call was finally answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Firash.”
“Who?”
“Firash from Cheyabi. We had some dealings last month.”
There was a pause. “How did you get this number? I told you we would never see each other again unless you betrayed me.”
Kane smiled. This was definitely the coordinator on the ground.
“Forget that,” said Firash. “The Americans were just here.”
Another pause. “What do you mean by Americans?”
“An American and his translator were just here. They lied to me about selling me something that would cover all my repair costs for what I bought, and then when I let them inside, they attacked me immediately, tied me to a chair, and kept beating on me.”
Kane and Mo exchanged bemused glances.
“I didn’t tell them anything, I swear, but I think they know who you are. They showed me a photo of you!”
Kane chuckled. This guy was good, slickly laying down a line of bullshit that just might cover his ass.
“And what did you say?”
“I said nothing! I said I didn’t recognize you! I’m not a fool! But when they were leaving, the American said he would make it known that I did cooperate. But I didn’t, I swear!”
“You are a fool. I told you when you were paid to tell no one about this, to forget it ever happened. Yet not only did you keep my phone number, you’ve now called it. Stay where you are. Someone will be there tonight to discuss what happens next.”
“I understand.”
The call ended and Kane switched the audio over to the bug Mo had planted behind the table. Firash was muttering incoherently, then finally exclaimed, “The new truck!”
Kane glanced over at one of the most unreliable motor vehicles on the road while footfalls faded and grew louder as Firash rushed around his home.
“What do you think he’s doing?” asked Mo.
“I think he’s packing.”
Mo indicated the cursed SUV. “And he thinks he’s going to get away in that?”
“He said ‘truck.’ He might not know better, but I think he’s talking about the mosque’s truck that he bought. It’s probably in good working order.”
“What are you going to do? Let him go or take him in?”
The door flew open and Firash burst through carrying several bags. Kane rolled down his window and drew his Glock. He put two in the man’s chest then stepped out, straddling the gasping Firash, pointing his weapon directly at the man’s forehead.
“This is for killing six Americans who did nothing but try to help you.” He fired twice more, delivering the first of what he hoped would be many more sentences over the coming days.
25 |
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
Morrison watched as Kane executed one of those involved in massacring American troops. He pointed at the screen. “I clearly saw him reaching for something. Could have been a gun in one of the bags.”
Leroux agreed. “Or a bomb.”
Tong caught on as Morrison suspected a woman of her talents would. “Special Agent Kane had no choice. He had to shoot him.”
Morrison smacked his hands together. “Good. Then we’re all in agreement. He followed his ROEs.” He turned to Leroux. “What now?”
“We may have just received a treasure trove of intel. We’ve got a photo of the man, his voice, and his phone number. The fact that it still works almost two months later tells us he’s been using the same number the entire time. We should be able to hopefully find intercepts from Echelon and other sources.”
“Where is he now?” asked Morrison.
Tong checked. “The call came through a cell tower in Kabul.”
“Can we send in a team to pick him up?” asked Child.
Leroux shook his head. “He’s long gone. The moment he ended that call, he destroyed the phone and left. We’ll still send a team in, though. There might be some residual intel we can use, but we won’t be getting him.”
Morrison slapped him on the back then headed for the door. “Get to work, people. We don’t want to lose this guy. Not when we’re so close to finally getting some answers.”
26 |
Kabul Star Hotel Kabul, Afghanistan
Abu Mohammed Akhtar ended the call then cursed repeatedly at the stupidity of the man he had just spoken to. He swiped his thumb and deactivated the cellular connection before attaching the phone to his laptop. He launched a program provided by a trusted friend that pulled all the information off the phone then wiped it for when he was switching to a new phone. As the program ran, he rushed into the bathroom, relieved himself, then grabbed his few toiletries and tossed them in his small suitcase. He packed his few belongings, checked that the data transfer on the phone had been completed, then waited impatiently for the wipe to finish. It finally did and he flipped shut his laptop, adding it to the suitcase. He zipped it up, grabbed the phone, then pressed it against the edge of the table and pushed hard, snapping it at the center, rendering it useless.
He grabbed his bag and headed for the door of the modest hotel he had been
using as his base of operations for the past two months, each month pre-paid in cash, meaning there was no need to settle a bill. Within five minutes of having ended the call, he was out in the late afternoon sun. He hailed a cab and instructed the driver to head for the nearby bazaar, a crowded place where he could easily lose himself until he procured a new phone and contacted the man he had been dealing with for instructions. He had a mission in two days, and everything had already been arranged. Another American team was due to be targeted, and he didn’t want this screwed up because of some idiot.
He didn’t know who he was working for. He was certain they weren’t Afghan, but the man’s Pashto was perfect, though there was a hint of an accent. When contacted several months ago, it had been quite a shock. Two men had shown up at his door, intimidating, with bulging chests indicating shoulder holsters. They were dressed in business suits, something not common in his neighborhood.
He had been leading a quiet life with his family, lost among the masses of his country’s biggest city, praying no one ever found out who he actually was. He had once been Al-Qaeda. A personal friend of Bin Laden’s. But there had been a falling out. He had objected to the September 11th attack plan. He thought it was too ambitious and feared the wrath it would bring down upon them should it be successful. And he had been right, though had never been given the opportunity to gloat, for he had been forced out for questioning the leadership. Now he was a wanted man, not only by the Americans and their allies, but the Afghan government. He had been on their list for over two decades.
But it was those he called friends, what remained of Al-Qaeda, and of course the Taliban, that he truly feared. They had been after him for years, many assuming he had betrayed the leadership since so many of them were now dead. He had done no such thing, of course. He was loyal to the cause, and if he hadn’t been wanted by his own people, he would have joined ISIS and sought a martyr’s death. But the only option left to him now was his own personal jihad carried out in silence.
That was until the two men appeared at his door.
“Are you Abu Mohammed Akhtar?”
“No.” He immediately closed the door when a foot blocked it open. A suit jacket was drawn aside, a handgun revealed, and the two men “invited” themselves inside. The door was shut and they stepped into the living area. His wife and children could see the fear on his face, and it added to their own. “Everyone into the bedroom.” His wife led the children away, all sons, all at the age where they would soon be ready to fight.
The two men sat, indicating for him to do so across from them. “We have a proposition for you, if you are indeed Akhtar.”
Akhtar wasn’t sure if he should confirm it, though the fact the men were here meant they were already certain. This was a game being played, where what one knew was doled out slowly, as needed, to keep the opponent off guard, to keep them more honest than they were perhaps inclined to be. “If I were, what proposition would you be offering?”
“A way to get back into the fight.”
His heart raced with excitement. He was tired of sitting at home while his former friends raged jihad on the infidel invaders, all because he was accused of something he hadn’t done. He wanted back in the fight desperately. To die an old man in bed, surrounded by his loved ones, had never been the future he wanted. He wanted to die in glorious battle, taking Americans and Jews with him. “Just what did you have in mind?”
“What is your opinion of the Americans?”
“It hasn’t changed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good. And your thoughts on them leaving?”
“The sooner, the better. The sooner the invaders are out, the sooner we can take our country back.”
“And you think that’s good?”
The question surprised him. “Don’t you?”
“If the Americans leave, then how are you going to kill them?”
Akhtar’s eyes narrowed at the question, something that had never occurred to him. For as long as he was alive, all he could remember was wanting the outsiders, the invaders, out of his country. He had grown up in the age where the Soviet Union was defeated, then in the aftermath, the Taliban had taken over most of the country, many of them the former Mujahideen supplied by the American government. He and others like him had hoped to create a state where no one else would dare invade, and when Al-Qaeda was seeking a place to train, Afghanistan was perfect for it. The Americans occasionally hit the country when the terrorist group successfully carried out an attack, but it seldom affected the Afghan people because troops were rarely involved.
He had joined Al-Qaeda as a teenager, and his devotion to the cause had him surging through the ranks. Until they overreached. Using loaded passenger airplanes as flying bombs was brilliant, but it also guaranteed a response like no other. If they had succeeded completely that day, and not only taken out the Twin Towers and part of the Pentagon, but the White House as well, the response might have been far worse than it was. But twenty years later, the original Al-Qaeda was broken, and the only reason the Taliban were resurging was because the Americans were leaving. He couldn’t see a reason to keep them here, which brought him back to the curious question.
How would they kill Americans if they were gone?
He shrugged. “We managed before.”
“This is true, yes,” replied the man. “And look what it got you. Twenty years of occupation.”
Akhtar eyed him, the phrasing suggesting the man wasn’t Afghan. “What are you getting at?”
“We have a proposal that may extend the American presence in your country, and at the very least will send a message as they depart.”
“A very bloody message,” said the other, the first time he had spoken. His Pashto had a much thicker accent.
The idea of keeping the Americans here just so that he could kill them wasn’t appealing. Too many Western ideas were running amok. He wanted all Westerners and everything they had brought here gone. He had little doubt the central government NATO was leaving behind would swiftly fall, and he would join the jubilant crowds on the streets on that day.
It was the notion of sending a message to the Americans on their way out that intrigued him. “And just what would this message be?”
“We want you to coordinate a series of ambushes on American troops all across the country. You’ll use your local knowledge to find volunteers for the attacks that will be paid very handsomely. And for each successful attack, you too will be paid more money than you could possibly imagine.”
Akhtar’s head slowly bobbed. The money didn’t interest him from a personal standpoint, though he of course would use some of it to improve life for his family. But funding for the cause, especially significant funding, might be a way to buy his way back into the good graces of those who would have him dead. And even if it didn’t, it meant participating in the death of potentially countless infidels, for the man was right. Once they were out of this country, the likelihood of him having any chance of earning his martyrdom was slim to none.
A deal had been struck.
And for over two months, he had coordinated over half a dozen successful attacks, with several more in the works, including one in two days. He didn’t get to participate in the killings directly, but he reveled in the photos, the proof demanded by his partners that the bounty had been earned.
But now there was a chance the Americans had caught up to him.
He should have been more careful. He should have been swapping out his phone more regularly, but it had never occurred to him. He’d hand over a preprogrammed phone, show them how to use it, then collect it when the job was done. He was dealing with simple villagers, most of whom didn’t know how to use a cellphone. And now his short-sightedness might have compromised the operation. If the Americans had indeed been there, they might have traced the call and perhaps even recorded it.
But if they had a photo of him, perhaps they had been on to him for some time. Even if that were the case, the phone call he ha
d just received revealed his location. He steadied his hammering heart and reassessed the situation as the taxi approached the bazaar. The Americans didn’t know where he was. They might have tracked the phone call back to his hotel room, though he doubted they had that level of accuracy. Even if they could, he wasn’t there anymore. And it was no longer a matter of hiding his identity if they had his picture.
It was hiding his location.
That was simple enough, though he’d be more cautious. The question now was what to do? His initial flight was to not only escape the Americans, but to reach out to his contacts to inform them of what had happened, to seek their advice and perhaps their protection. Yet now he was wondering if that was the wisest move. If they found out what had happened, they might cut their ties with him, and he couldn’t allow that.
He hadn’t felt this alive in years. He was personally responsible for the death of over 30 of the infidels that had invaded his country, and he had no intention of stopping. He had even made contingencies should his contact lose interest. He was saving the money he was getting paid, which was $10,000 per American head. Whoever his partners were, they were overpaying. They could easily find volunteers at half that price, perhaps even a quarter. Should things come to an end with them, he would put together a team himself and keep up their good work for as long as a single American soldier remained on Afghan territory.
When this had all begun, he was torn between whether he wanted the Americans to stay as a result of what he was doing, or to leave. And while he enjoyed participating in the killing and felt it was richly deserved, he would rather have his country free of the infidels and their influence.
And he was determined to make their sendoff as bloody as possible.
That brought him back to what he should do. If the roles were reversed and his partners told him they had been compromised, he would cut all ties. It was just the proper thing to do. It was how things in Al-Qaeda had worked. Few knew anything beyond what their cell needed to know, so if anyone were caught, the damage was compartmentalized. And he had been compromised. He should be cut loose, so that the mission could continue.
The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021) Page 11
