Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  “I know, I know. He’s got a shoot in Fez for something. Using the medina. I think I can do it then. I’ll have to send you coordinating instructions.”

  “Perfect. I also want the bank account information as well. The one that led me to Gibraltar.”

  Johan heard nothing for a moment, the pause so long he said, “Dexter? You there?”

  “Why do you want that information?”

  “Because it might provide another thread. I can cross-check accounts, discover linkages, maybe find something in Fez that will help me.”

  “The file’s too big to send over email. It’s huge.”

  “So create a file-sharing account. Dropbox or something. I don’t need the entire Panama collection. Just the ones that are tied into that account. The ones with your name on them. Come on, boss, why are you jerking me around?”

  “Because you’re putting my company in jeopardy! That’s why!”

  Johan heard something more. “Is that all you fucking care about? Have you seen the dead in Houston? Do you want to be responsible for the next attack?”

  “Why are you saying that? Why do you keep accusing me? I have nothing to do with this.”

  As before, the vociferousness of the response raised Johan’s fine-tuned antenna for bullshit. He’d lived in a world of duplicitous lies for so long, he could no longer determine whether Dexter was truly concerned about his business—or whether he was worried about something else.

  Either way, Johan needed Dexter on board, if only for the funding. He said, “I wasn’t implying you did. I’m saying you have the means to prevent it. It’s why you sent me to Granada, isn’t it? It wasn’t only about the money, was it?”

  Johan waited a moment, growing suspicious yet again. He repeated, “Was it?”

  Dexter said, “Okay . . . Okay. I’ll do it. Are you planning on flying tomorrow?”

  “If I can get the visa in time to catch a flight. If not, I’ll wait another day.”

  “Keep me informed of what you find.”

  “So you can feed the beast? Or protect your interests?”

  “Both.”

  Johan hung up, once again wondering if his boss wasn’t hiding something. For the first time, wondering if Dexter had said a word to anyone about Granada.

  He toyed with the terrorist’s phone a little bit longer, but his heart wasn’t in it. He kept returning to the central question, which wasn’t who was doing the attacks, but why he even gave a shit.

  But he knew why. At the center of it was a village in Africa. And a lot of dead children.

  46

  Jalal hoped the cab driver knew where the Blue Gate to the medina Fez-el-Bali was located, because he sure didn’t. He’d never been in Fez before, and, even as a Moroccan native, he felt out of place. He was used to the bustle and hum of the city, with the usual honking traffic and pedestrians who seemed to believe they were invincible, but it was new in other ways. Unlike his hometown of Chefchaouen, this city had modern steel and glass competing with buildings created eons ago.

  And the tourists were everywhere. It seemed there were more foreigners than Moroccans here.

  His driver seemed to want to talk, acting as a free tour guide, pointing out sights and explaining what they were. He droned on and on, but Jalal paid little attention. He was more worried about finding his cousins inside the medina. A walled city, it had been around since the ninth century and was the oldest living medieval habitat. More than 150,000 people called it home, and it was composed of 9,400 alleys, some barely two feet wide, others dead ends. It was a labyrinth that now stood as a mix of tourist attraction and a living, breathing piece of Moroccan life, and it confounded visitors because there were no detailed maps of the area. You either knew the terrain, or you had a guide who did. Wandering inside alone was asking to get lost.

  Yes, there were some tourist prints, and Jalal had one, but from what his cousins had said, they were all designed to focus the traveler on the specific shopping areas. Spices, copper, silver, leather goods, and the like. Which, given that the four men he was meeting were working in the tannery, should help.

  At the very least, he could talk like a local. And because he looked the part, wearing a T-shirt, torn jeans, and running shoes, there was little chance he’d be given bad directions by someone looking to pull a prank on a European.

  The taxi pulled into a cul-de-sac and was immediately stymied by a myriad of double-decker vans parked around a platform with elevated lights and cameras. The area in front of the platform was roped off, with a man in US camouflage, body armor, and an assault rifle arguing with a local woman about something. The driver pulled around the ropes, generating shouts from the men on the platform.

  Jalal said, “What is this?”

  The driver ignored the shouting, saying, “Movie. They’re making a film about Iraq.” He waved his hand and said, “This is supposed to be Baghdad,” then began laughing.

  Jalal said, “So, where do I go?”

  The cabby pointed across the square to a stone gate, the opening shaped like a minaret and the outsides sprinkled with indigo tile. He said, “That’s the Blue Gate. Entrance to the medina.”

  Jalal paid him, saying, “Wish me luck.”

  The cabby laughed and said, “You’ll need it!” Jalal exited, hearing him bark back at a man on the platform before wheeling his cab away, leaving the plaza.

  Jalal shouldered his rucksack and wove around the cameras and lighting. Within seconds, he’d escaped the chaos of the cul-de-sac only to hit the chaos of the medina.

  He fought through the swirling mass of humanity—through donkeys carrying propane, gaggles of women in hijabs, and Europeans wearing sun hats and Teva sandals. It was a claustrophobic smorgasbord of activity that dwarfed his youth in Chefchaouen.

  The lanes in the medina went from arm’s width to large enough for a car, as if a child had built the place by squeezing out mud from his fingers, laying out the paths without thought.

  He continued to the west, not really attempting to read the map, because the tannery was one of the most famous places inside. He passed a meat market, one stall having the newly severed head of a camel hanging to show the freshness of the product, then walked by a sign proclaiming Wi-Fi for an Internet café, the past and future fighting for supremacy, much like in Islam itself.

  Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through the crowds, he inadvertently punched out of the medina, finding himself next to a canal, the walls made of fresh concrete. Somehow, he’d missed the tannery.

  He reentered, and for the first time, asked for directions. In short order, he was walking down an alley with a distinct odor, like socks worn for days. Or dead things. From his conversations with his cousins, he knew he was close. He passed a sign proclaiming TANNERIE CHOUARA with verbiage in French and English. He took the next set of narrow stairs to his right.

  He reached the top and saw hundreds of leather purses, vests, and jackets, all in various multicolored hues. A man approached, thinking he was a customer, and immediately began a hard sell in English.

  In Arabic, Jalal said, “I’m not here to shop. Sorry. I’m here to visit my cousins.” He gave their names and the man said, “Yes, yes. They are working right now. Do they know you’re coming?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t know the time. I was supposed to be here yesterday, meeting them at their house.”

  The man smiled and said, “Follow me.” He walked up another set of narrow stairs, reaching a balcony. Before exiting, he pulled a sprig of mint off of a shelf and held it out. Jalal said, “What’s that?”

  “Put it under your nose for the odor. Those who come for the first time might want it.”

  Jalal shook his head, and they stepped out into the sun. Into what looked like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Looking over a balcony into a pit of hell, he saw raw hides stippled with fat draping ove
r rails and tanks of caustic chemicals, each having a man knee-deep in the solution, stepping and sloshing about, washing or dying the leather. Other men were scraping the sheets of skin of impurities or stretching the hides out for drying. Overshadowing it all was a stench like the back side of death, a rotting animal odor cloaking the entire area, making Jalal’s stomach flip. He smiled at the man next to him but wished he’d taken the mint.

  Jalal looked about the facility, then spotted Wasim, waist-deep in filth and chemicals. He shouted his name, and Wasim looked up, breaking into a smile. He held up a finger, then left the tank, washing his legs and feet with a hose of dirty water.

  He came running upstairs and hugged Jalal, saying, “What happened? You were supposed to be here last night.”

  Jalal said, “Nothing. Just had some problems getting on the road.”

  Wasim said, “I was worried. I thought you’d changed your mind. We are ready.”

  Jalal flicked his eyes to the salesman and said, “We can talk about this later. Not here.”

  Wasim caught the look and immediately backed off. He said, “Yes. Of course.”

  Jalal didn’t question what Wasim meant by We are ready. Didn’t plumb the depths of someone so willing to give his life in the pursuit of otherworldly goals. He understood it, of course, having been steeped in the value of jihad, but he himself would never take that step. He respected it, but a part of him wondered if he could hold the same commitment.

  He would never tell Wasim this, but he took pleasure in sending them to their deaths. He was the architect. He was the controller of destruction, just like the prophet had been. Others would die—for him—and it was intoxicating.

  47

  Tapping his feet in the hallway of the West Wing lobby, Kurt Hale was growing impatient. George Wolffe said, “I know that look. Storming down the hall without a security badge isn’t going to win you any friends. And you need some friends at this point.”

  Kurt said, “Yeah, okay, but if I find out that Alexander Palmer is making us cool our heels out here as some sort of power play, I’m going to throat punch him.”

  George heard someone coming down the hall; then Palmer turned the corner. “Speak of the devil.”

  Palmer handed them both badges with a bright red V, indicating visitor. He said, “Kurt, I hope this is important, because President Hannister has a busy calendar.”

  They started walking and Kurt said, “It is. I’ve had to make some decisions, and I need to let him know.”

  Palmer snapped his head to Kurt and said, “Don’t tell me you’ve initiated some operation without sanction of the Oversight Council.”

  “Not exactly, but I had to move some personnel, and I need Kerry’s assistance. He’s here, right?”

  Palmer opened the door to the Oval Office and said, “Yeah, he’s here, but don’t expect a lot of love. You jerked him out of something hot as well.”

  Kurt walked in first, followed by the other two. At the Resolute desk, Hannister heard the door and lowered his glasses. He said, “Kurt, I don’t have a lot of time. What’s up?”

  Kurt shook hands with Kerry Bostwick, then the president. He said, “Sir, the operation in Chefchaouen was only partially successful. We captured the target, and he’s talking. We have a lead on Jalal al-Khattabi in Fez through some relatives of his. They work at the tannery in the medina, and the target firmly believes that they’ll know where Jalal is and what he’s up to.”

  “So you want Omega authority to go after them? You know I can’t do that unilaterally. Is this time sensitive? Are we looking at an imminent threat?”

  “Yes, sir, I do think there is an imminent threat, but I’m not asking for unilateral Omega without Oversight Council approval. As I said, the operation was only partially successful.”

  He paused for a minute, not even wanting to say the words. But he did. “Pike and Knuckles were arrested.”

  He saw the collected group begin to wind up with questions, and he held up a hand, saying, “It’s not that bad. The target was being chased by the police, presumably for his drug activities, and Pike managed to snatch him from right under their noses. In the process of securing the target he was arrested, but it’s all circumstantial, based on nothing more than the fact that his vehicle looked like the one that had left the scene. The biggest piece of evidence—the target—is missing. They have nothing else, the Grolier Recovery Services cover is very solid in that region due to the historic nature of the area, and both Pike and Knuckles have plenty of training in SERE activities.”

  “So why the meeting?”

  “Two reasons: One, because I need him back in play. I’m sure there’s another hit coming. Maybe more than one, and Pike’s on the thread. The length of time it will take to resolve this on their own leaves the team pretty much non–mission capable, and putting in a new team will cause us to lose ground.”

  Palmer said, “Just order them to continue the mission without Pike and Knuckles.”

  “Yeah, I could do that, for the active-duty guys, but Jennifer won’t. No way. It’ll split what’s left of the team.”

  “Tell me again why we put up with this civilian shit? Tell me why we don’t just use active-duty folks?”

  Kurt glared at him and said, “Because they get results. More than anyone else, and part of that is predicated on their loyalty to each other.”

  President Hannister waved his hand, interrupting the exchange. He said, “And point two of why you wanted this meeting?”

  Kurt let his anger subside, focusing on what was important. He said, “Because Pike and Knuckles have been taken to Casablanca. We tracked the beacons embedded in their phones, and they’re currently being held at the headquarters for DGST.”

  Palmer said, “DGST? What the hell is that?”

  Kerry said, “Direction Générale de la Surveillance du Territoire. It’s their version of the FBI, except it doesn’t really care about human rights. It’s more of a secret police.”

  President Hannister said, “So why are the Taskforce Operators being held by them? Are they responsible for drug interdiction?”

  Kurt said, “No, which is why I’m here. They deal with terrorism and state security, and Pike getting pulled into them, for whatever reason, gives us an edge.”

  Hannister said, “How?”

  Kurt pointed at Kerry and said, “Because the CIA deals with them on a daily basis. Shit, after the attacks in France and Belgium, everyone deals with them on a daily basis. They have the pulse of the Moroccan extremists.”

  A suspicious look on his face, Kerry said, “How’s that help?”

  “Remember Carly Ramirez?”

  “Yeah. You stole her from me.”

  “I prefer to think she chose a different career path, but anyway, she’s still on the CIA books. I want to use her as a CIA liaison. Get her into DGST headquarters and cause a little smoke about who they have, get them to release Pike and Knuckles as a gesture of mutual cooperation, but that’ll depend on leveraging the station there. Technically, she’s still a CIA asset.”

  “What are you talking about? I can’t have her walk into the chief of station in Morocco and demand help. The first thing he’ll ask is why he wasn’t read on to a covert action on his soil. The next thing he’ll ask is what section of the agency the two knuckleheads who were arrested work for. And I can’t defend either one.”

  “Yeah, you can. Don’t paint it as an operation. He doesn’t need to know what caused the arrest. Paint it as a transit.”

  “Even a transit would be included in cable traffic. He’ll be livid that someone entered his domain and he wasn’t informed. It’s why we have a chief. You don’t understand the significance.”

  “Yes, I do, and no, he won’t. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll understand he can’t be read on to every single covert action around the globe, and if some crew had to transit Morocco on
a mission, then it just happened, and now you’re going to ask for his help.”

  “What, specifically, are you thinking?”

  George Wolffe, a CIA paramilitary officer who’d done more than his fair share of operations just like this, stepped into the breach. “Simple, sir. Carly shows up at his doorstep and asks for his help with DGST, using your weight as the director. She tells him a bullshit story, then endures his wrath for a few minutes. He sends a cable back to the mission center for Africa or the Near East—whoever’s controlling Morocco nowadays—bitching about being left outside the loop, they tell him to comply, and he gets in touch with his contacts in DGST. Then she gets them out as CIA assets.”

  Aggravated at an old CIA hand short-circuiting his excuses, Kerry said, “And then what? They’re going to continue the mission in Fez, right? How can I do that without including the CIA?”

  Kurt nodded and said, “Actually, I want to include them, at least on the face of it. I think the DGST will help us find these assholes. It’s just a hunch, but I believe that they’re involved here for the same reasons we are. They’re on a thread of terrorism, even if they don’t know what it is. There’s no other reason for a simple drug bust to end up in their hands. Let Pike develop the situation. Let him figure it out, but get him out of their custody under CIA auspices.”

  “So you’re saying we’re going to read on the chief of station to the Taskforce?”

  “No. Come on. Don’t tell me you can’t build a bodyguard of lies around Pike. Jesus, do you actually work for the CIA, or do you just pretend to? Give the chief of station a reason to feel important, then cut him free.”

  Kerry remained silent. President Hannister said, “Can you do that?”

  Kerry nodded, then said, “I can do it, but I can’t contain the fallout if it goes wrong. I can’t drag in the CIA after the fact. All of you need to be aware of that. If you include the chief of station, you open the operation to investigation after the fact. If this blows up, I’m not going to have the chief of station interrogated on the Hill by the House and Senate intel committees on a covert action for which they never got a finding.”