Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

“Just seeing how everyone is.”

  Massina had asked Chelsea if she wanted to be involved, but she demurred. Her instinct was to get back to what she had been doing all along, to not let the attacks alter her course.

  She regretted that now.

  “Here’s something we’re stuck on,” said Chiang. “Check it out.”

  In the immediate aftermath of the attacks, there was a flood of postings and communications on social media. The vast bulk of these were not by terrorists; even those expressing “solidarity” with the bastards were almost always far removed from anything nefarious. Nonetheless, a tiny minority of these accounts could be linked to other accounts that were using high-level encryption programs to send messages. A list of these accounts had been developed by the NSA and shared, through the CIA, with Smart Metal.

  Chiang’s team—or more precisely, their computer software—had broken the encryption the night before. But the messages themselves yielded no useful information about terrorist operations; the bulk were trivial greetings. Of course, those could be code: “All good here” or “Happy Birthday” could easily be meant as a signal to start an attack or lay low. So Chiang and his team were now sifting through those messages and the accounts associated with them, comparing them to different news events and other intelligence that they had gathered to see what information they might tickle out of the cross-references. Thus far, though, none of the patterns they’d noticed seemed significant.

  Except one. But it was baffling.

  “We’ve looked at some Facebook pages with baseball postings that might be interesting,” said Chiang, explaining that the subject seemed to be an anomaly—onetime entries by posters who otherwise seemed to have no interest in the sport. “We thought maybe they were targets or messages about meeting places, but it looks like a dead end.”

  Chiang pulled up one of the pages, then clicked into a window that showed the owner’s “friends.” A number of the accounts were bots, created to increase hits and ratings. The team had ignored them for the most part; Chelsea asked why.

  “They’re just kind of noise in the system,” said Chiang.

  “Do you mind?” Chelsea asked.

  “Please.”

  Chelsea sat at the workstation and began looking at the links associated with the bots. The bulk had been traced to outfits in China and Russia and labeled according to expected intent—propaganda was big with the Russian contacts, which, in many cases, used the links to legitimate commenters. The results tended to cluster, with multiple accounts and interlocking links.

  So what was interesting?

  Not the links, but the lack of them.

  “What about this Croatia website?” she asked Chiang about an hour after sitting down. “What’s the story?”

  “Tourism,” said Chiang. “The Google translation is pretty good.”

  “The pictures are all taken from other sources.”

  Chiang smirked. “Welcome to the internet.”

  “Can we get a list of who looks at the site?” Chelsea asked.

  “Well . . .”

  Chiang leaned over and hot-keyed up a tool to hack into the server.

  It was harder than Chelsea thought it would be, way harder than most of the other sites, on par with the work done by the best Chinese sites.

  “I think we should look at this one pretty hard,” said Chelsea when they finally reached the folders associated with the site. “That’s a hell of a lot of material for a tourist site.”

  “Yeah,” said Chiang, opening a folder and a document at random. It was written in Arabic. “You think they get a lot of tourists from the Middle East?”

  28

  Boston—two days later

  The fact that Johansen brought a lawyer bothered the hell out of Massina, and his annoyance only grew as the lawyer insisted on opening the meeting with a statement.

  “For the record,” he intoned, “you are private citizens, acting entirely out of your own self-interest, sharing in good faith with us information you have developed.”

  The only way Massina managed to hold his temper in check long enough to let the idiot finish was to focus on the rearrangement of the gear and furniture. The Box had been reconfigured as more of a conference room than a computing center for the meeting; a large table sat in the middle of the room. All but four of the dozen chairs were empty. Besides Johansen and the legal beagle—Massina had blocked out his name, Bert Backlash or something—Jenkins from the FBI had been invited. Massina had decided to present the data himself.

  “So, for the record,” continued the lawyer, “we are all here with no preconceived commitments and no entanglements.”

  “No one is making a record of this meeting, as far as I know,” Massina said. He had trouble pushing the words out of his clenched teeth. “There is no need for legal bullshit.”

  “I think we all understand each other,” said Johansen, trying to soothe things. “This is simply an exchange of ideas. The source of these ideas is not relevant. That’s all.”

  Massina opened his laptop, which was hooked into the large screen at the front of the room to his right.

  “This is a restaurant in Palmyra, Syria. It’s supposedly a decent restaurant, or it was. There’s a small computer in the storeroom that’s used as a server. On first glance, the files on the server appear innocuous. They turn out to be sites on the so-called dark web, which I assume you all understand are addresses that, among other things, don’t show up on your standard Google search. I’m not going to take you through the entire process,” Massina added, “and won’t bore you with everything we’ve found. But we were able to trace the funding network for an organization associated with Daesh through this site.”

  “This server is linked to the Boston attack?” asked Johansen.

  “A credit card associated with one of the bank accounts that this server is regularly used to access, yes. It’s an administrative account; the same credentials were used to set up the file system and a peripheral, so we believe there is a physical presence there.”

  “In other words,” said Johansen, “that’s where our bad guy is.”

  “That’s where a bad guy is,” said Massina. “Or at least someone directly interested in the Boston attacks and helping fund them. Maybe indirectly,” he allowed.

  “It’s an intriguing connection,” admitted Jenkins.

  “If it were just that,” continued Massina, “you wouldn’t be here. Another account linked with this server belongs to an alias used by this man.”

  “Ghadab min Allah,” said Johansen when the face came up on the screen.

  “You have definite proof that he’s tied into the attacks?” asked the lawyer. “Beyond the rumors, which are popular on the web.”

  Another screen.

  “This card was used to pay for a plane ticket to Canada a year ago. It was also used to rent a car. The mileage on the account shows that it could have come to Boston. The names are here; I assume you can verify in your own data from Immigration if he crossed the border.”

  “He wasn’t here when the attacks occurred,” said Jenkins.

  “No. He was in Libya.”

  Massina brought up the next screen, which showed the alias he believed Ghadab had used there: Durban Rahm. He continued sketching out what they had found, laying out the network as they knew it. Every so often he would glance at Johansen, trying to gauge how much of this he already knew. But the CIA officer’s face remained neutral—until Massina’s presentation shifted from briefing to a plan to deal with what they had found.

  “Here’s what I suggest be done,” started Massina. “First—”

  “We’ve heard enough,” said Johansen, rising quickly. “And Bert has another meeting.”

  “Uh—”

  “Thank you for briefing us as a private citizen,” Johansen said.

  The others were already heading for the door.

  Massina watched them leave. He knew this must be some sort of internal politics, but it bothered th
e hell out of him.

  Johansen was waiting in the hall, alone; the others were near the elevator, just out of earshot.

  “Why the lawyer?” asked Massina.

  “I know.” Johansen nodded.

  “You know what?”

  “Let’s get a cigarette.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Upstairs, Johansen strode quickly from the elevator, through the lobby and outside. Massina took his time catching up.

  Johansen knew bringing the lawyer was a mistake, but his boss had insisted on it. He needed a witness when the shit hit the fan.

  Which eventually it always did these days, no matter how much good you tried to do or how right you were to do it.

  “I didn’t mean to blindside you,” he told Massina. “The deputy director—”

  “Why are you covering your ass?” demanded Massina. “Am I supposed to take the hit if things go bad?”

  “You don’t understand the atmosphere in Washington these days, Louis. And this administration—let’s just say they don’t have our backs. Happy to take credit, though.”

  “And what happens to me?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. You did your civic duty, and you have a witness from the FBI and the CIA—two witnesses—to prove it.”

  “They’re going to accuse me of breaking the law?”

  “Did you?”

  “I could give a shit.”

  “Then that’s your answer. And, uh, given the FBI’s reaction, I’d say you must not have.” Johansen shifted uncomfortably. He wouldn’t hang Massina out to dry, but he couldn’t be sure no one else would either. Still, this had to be done. “Look, we’re going to get this guy,” he said, changing the subject.

  “But if things don’t work out, it’s not going to be a CIA operation.”

  “It’s never a CIA operation,” said Johansen.

  Johansen had approached Massina because he wanted Smart Metal expertise and tech, but the company’s involvement would also provide a very convenient cover if things went south.

  Hey, we didn’t do it. It was a private company who funded the thing. Apparently there’s no law against that—Congress hadn’t thought of making it illegal for upstanding citizens to take revenge on bastard scumbags who blew up their city.

  At least not yet.

  “Your information parallels ours,” added Johansen. “Obviously I couldn’t say it inside.”

  “So I wasted my time.”

  “No. Not at all. It’s always good to have independent validation. And when we take a look, you may have more details. To be honest, I think I trust you more than our people anyway.”

  Johansen looked over to the corner. The others were standing there, waiting. He took out a cigarette—plausible deniability was important. Nobody could lie, yet nobody could tell the exact truth.

  I saw him with a cigarette. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying.

  Not lies, certainly. But not the entire truth.

  “You promised two volunteers to watch the equipment,” Johansen told Massina. “I need them in Arizona next week. This thing is moving along.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m still deciding.”

  Johansen considered asking for Chelsea Goodman—she had done amazing work in the Ukraine, and he knew she wouldn’t wilt under pressure, something in his mind that techies tended to do—but he decided not to ask.

  “They have to be volunteers, your people,” Johansen reminded him. “Even though they’ll be behind the lines. Volunteers.”

  “That part won’t be a problem,” said Massina.

  29

  Syria—that day

  Worn by the fatigue of his travels, Ghadab fell back to sleep after morning prayers and would have missed the noon call had he not felt the presence of someone waking him. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see a young, slender woman kneeling next to his bed.

  “Honored sir,” she said in Iraqi-flavored Arabic, “time to waken.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Shadaa.” She bowed her head.

  Ghadab raised his head, looking around. “You’re here alone?”

  “I am yours.”

  Puzzled, he ordered her out of the room. When she was gone, he rose and prayed, then changed the clothes he’d fallen asleep in for a fresh pair of fatigues. He spent some time contemplating the words of the Prophet most honored. He thought of his fate, and how he would fulfill it, and permitted himself a small bit of vanity, considering how deserving he was of the praises the African had given him on his arrival. They were meaningful, for the African was older than he was, old enough to be an uncle if not his father.

  “You are displeased with me?” asked Shadaa when he emerged from the room.

  Her hands trembled. She stood stiffly at attention, as if a soldier, in the middle of the hall.

  “I’m not pleased or displeased,” Ghadab told her. “Who are you?”

  “Shadaa. Yours.”

  “I have work,” he said.

  She bowed her head. He went downstairs, looking over his shoulder when he reached the landing to make sure she wasn’t following.

  She wasn’t. She stood in the same place, ramrod straight.

  Before the city had been liberated, the first-floor restaurant served a mixture of Western food—Italian and French, along with a little Greek. Although the bar had been removed and the liquor destroyed, there were still traces of this influence; steak and pasta remained on the menu, though the first was unavailable and the waiter frankly recommended against the latter. Only he remained from the old regime; the cook was the owner’s brother-in-law, which was not a recommendation.

  “We have lamb prepared with mint,” suggested the waiter, “and rice with apricots. The meat is fresh.”

  “That would be fine,” said Ghadab.

  “As you desire. Water? Sparkling?”

  Another Western touch, thought Ghadab. “Plain water.”

  The waiter bowed, then sped off to the kitchen.

  Ghadab was halfway through his meal when the African arrived. He had two young men with him, soldiers.

  “I see you are eating,” said the African. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “Sit with me,” said Ghadab. “We’ll have lunch.”

  “Very generous, brother. But we have already eaten. These are my aides, Amin and Horace.”

  Amin was a common name, but Horace begged explanation.

  “I was born in America,” said the young man, whose Arabic sounded Egyptian. “My parents were convinced that they should fit in. They were apostates, worse than infidels.”

  “And then they returned home,” said the African. “They returned to the faith.”

  “They have no understanding of it,” said Horace bitterly. “They practice the motions, but do not know the meaning. Empty bottles that should be filled with pure water.”

  “Like yourself when you arrived,” said the African with some fondness.

  “Who is the girl?” Ghadab asked. He gestured toward the second floor.

  “Shadaa,” said the African. “Yours to do with as you wish. The council has made it clear that all fighters’ needs are to be answered.”

  Ghadab didn’t respond.

  The African asked if she was not pleasing to him. “We can find another,” he added, “or if you prefer—”

  “She’ll do,” answered Ghadab. “I wanted only an explanation.”

  “The council is ready for you. At your convenience.”

  “Let’s go now.”

  The council was one of several groups that steered the Caliphate’s affairs. The Caliph himself was selected by the highest council, known informally as the majlis al-shura or Shura Council, the highest advisers of the people, learned religious leaders who had a deep understanding of the prophecies. The Caliph—to the West, Ibrahim Awad Ibrahim al-Badri; to his followers, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi—in turn appointe
d various aides to assist in governing and in the greater struggle. As an overseas soldier, Ghadab answered directly to a subsection of the War Council that ruled overseas jihad.

  Ghadab had met the Caliph only once, and then for only a few moments. He didn’t expect to see him today, or anytime in the near future. The Caliph was constantly moving and, in any event, had better things to do than meet with a mere soldier, even one who had recently scored a great victory.

  But it was the Caliph who greeted Ghadab when they arrived in the great chamber of the council building, a three-hundred-year-old mosque as yet untouched by the infidels’ bombs. Under the massive central dome of the vast prayer room, the Caliph looked smaller than Ghadab remembered, thinner, though still as vigorous. His eyes danced as he spoke, darting back and forth before settling on Ghadab’s own. The stare had the firmness of a handshake, and it energized Ghadab beyond even the words the Caliph spoke.

  “This is one of our truest generals,” declared the Caliph. Behind him, three dozen men milled back and forth, as if jockeying for position. Sunlight flooding through the ruby windows cast reddish sunbeams to highlight their faces. “He has struck the infidels’ barbaric birthplace. We expect great things. More great things.”

  Ghadab bowed his head. Emotion overwhelmed him. He was honored beyond belief, empowered. If he could have died in that moment, he surely would have found bliss. There could not be a greater honor than to be praised by the Caliph, with all these worthies watching.

  When he raised his head, only a moment or two later, the Caliph was already walking away, called by other business.

  “al-Bhaddahi wishes to talk to you,” said the African, nudging him gently toward a set of arches on the left. They entered an ornate room whose walls were enhanced with jewels and thick bands of gold chest-high.

  Of the Caliph’s deputies, arguably the most important was Abu Muslim al-Bhaddahi, a relative of Abu Muslim al-Turkemani and heir to his position as number-two man in the organization. al-Bhaddahi, kneeling alone in the room in prayer, rose as Ghadab entered.

  “My brother!” declared the jihad leader, clasping Ghadab to his chest.