by Vince Flynn
Rapp slammed the trunk shut. “What?”
Akram could tell he was really pissed off. “Don’t worry about it right now. Irene says she’ll bring you up to speed in the morning. You’re supposed to be at the White House at nine a.m. for a briefing.” Akram folded his hands in front of him. “Until then, she wants you to go home and get some sleep.”
Rapp laughed in a mocking manner.
“She said you’d do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh at the thought of anyone ordering you to go home and sleep. Irene said it stems from your deep-seated problem with authority. I told her I understood completely, and we agreed that if you argued I’m supposed to order you to go to Langley and help with the translations, at which point she predicted that you would curse at me some, and then go home and sleep.”
Rapp laughed sincerely this time. Kennedy knew him too well. “All right…you guys are real funny. I get the picture.”
The first prisoner came off the plane. It was Ahmed Khalili, the young computer man from Karachi. He had a hood over his head, but this time it was clean—nothing like the filthy burlap sack that he had sported in Afghanistan. Rapp and Akram had talked at length about Khalili. Either he was going to be extremely helpful, or he had completely deceived them to this point. He’d talked freely throughout most of the flight. Rapp had recorded everything, and then every few hours he would send the information back to Langley via an encrypted burst transmission.
Khalili’s revelations were helping to peel back the layers of communication within al-Qaeda, revealing the way they used the internet to contact cells in America. They were getting much smarter, having learned the hard way about the power of American spy satellites. They still used high-end encryption software and placed messages within known websites to be retrieved by their disciples abroad, but for every two real messages, a fake one was sent to confuse the Americans. To frustrate the listeners and watchers even further, they’d also begun a campaign of disinformation, flooding sites that they knew were monitored with messages claiming that an attack was imminent. Khalili told of times they sat in cafes in Karachi watching CNN and laughed with hilarity as the terror alert in America was raised in the wake of one of their frenzied message-sending campaigns. These feints were classic guerrilla tactics, designed to water American security forces down. Al-Qaeda was no longer one-dimensional. In order to survive they had been forced to adapt.
Every system of communication had its weakness, and Khalili had given them a crucial piece of information concerning al-Qaeda’s. In the mountainous border region between Afghanistan and Pakistan, the al-Qaeda leaders no longer used phones or radios to talk to each other. The American satellites were always overhead looking down, watching and listening, spy drones could often be heard circling overhead in the dark sky with their distinctive low-pitched hum, and jet fighters and helicopters with well-trained commandos were never far off.
To beat a high-tech enemy, al-Qaeda simply went low tech. Hand-written messages were couriered between commanders. This delivery system would often take days, and restrict the speed with which al-Qaeda could plan and react, but it was better than getting a 2,000-pound laser-guided bomb dropped on the place where you were sleeping.
Khalili told Rapp they were now using a similar low-tech strategy with the internet. Instead of using high-end encryption software, which was all but useless against the National Security Agency’s supercomputers, they were now communicating with their American cells using teenage internet chat rooms. It had been Khalili’s idea. The volume at these sites was overwhelming and it wasn’t encrypted. In Khalili’s mind it was the last place the supersnoops in America would look. After a phone call back to the CTC, Rapp found out Khalili had been right.
Rapp looked at his car keys and said to Akram, “I want Marcus to meet with him first thing in the morning.” Rapp was referring to Marcus Dumond, the CIA’s resident computer genius. “I understand maybe a quarter of what he’s talking about, so for all I know he’s been selling me a load of crap.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“No…but what do I know?” Rapp shrugged. He was at the end of his rope.
“You have great instincts,” Akram told him. “Based on everything you’ve told me, I think you’re on the mark.”
Abdullah was carried out of the plane by two men. It was obvious to Rapp that since the Saudi wasn’t screaming, he was fully dosed on morphine. “I gave him another shot about thirty minutes ago.” Rapp grabbed a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Akram. “Just like you told me…I wrote down every dosage and the time they were administered.”
Akram looked at the sheet. No wonder Rapp hadn’t slept, he’d had to give the man a shot every sixty to ninety minutes.
“Good luck with him,” said Rapp. “I think he might be a pathological liar.”
Akram smiled ever so slightly. He loved a good challenge.
Car keys in hand, Rapp pointed at his Pakistani friend, and said, “After you’ve got these two tucked in, I want you to take a crack at the two guys they picked up in Charleston, and if you get any crap from the feds, let me know and I’ll expedite things.”
Akram nodded. A master at concealing his emotions, he gave nothing away. Kennedy had told him under no circumstances was he to tell Rapp of the events that had transpired between the White House and the Justice Department. Telling Rapp at this late hour would only ensure another sleepless night for him and anyone else he decided to roust out of bed.
Akram reached out and nudged Rapp toward the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry about anything. Just go home and get some sleep. You look like hell.”
ATLANTA
It was the dead of night as the cab drove past a dormant Turner Field. It continued east down Atlanta Avenue for three quarters of a mile, before it turned into the parking lot of a nondescript two-story motel. The neon vacancy sign was dark, as was the manager’s office. A few cars dotted the relatively small parking lot, but other than that the place looked deserted.
The cabbie turned around and looked at his fare through the smudged Plexiglas divider. “You sure you want to be dropped off here?”
Imtaz Zubair swallowed nervously and nodded. He, in fact, did not want to be left here, but his handler had called and given him specific instructions.
“Yes, this is the right place,” the Pakistani scientist said with more confidence than he felt.
The driver simply shrugged his shoulders and threw the car in park. Most of his fares made sense, but not this one. Picking someone up after midnight at the Ritz in Buckhead and taking him to a low-budget motel by the baseball stadium didn’t make a lot of sense, but as long as the guy paid, he could care less what was going on.
The cabbie grabbed the large suitcase from the trunk and set it on the curb. When the fare had paid him he got back in his car and left.
Zubair stood nervously on the curb and watched the cab drive away. In the distance he could hear the noise from the freeway and the sound of a dog barking. The Pakistani scientist looked around anxiously and then set his computer bag on the ground. The big red Coca-Cola machine was right where it was supposed to be. Following the orders he’d received over the phone, Zubair grabbed a dollar bill from his wallet, smoothed it out, and fed it into the vending machine. He pressed one of the ten buttons and then reached in and grabbed his can of soda, along with a room key that had been left for him. Zubair looked at the number and slid it into his pocket.
He stood there for a moment, next to the soda machine, and took a few swigs while he casually looked around as if he was waiting for someone. After clearing customs in Los Angeles, Zubair had found the rest of the journey less stressful. Flying to Atlanta had still been nerve-racking, but the knowledge that he was done having to lie his way through customs made everything easier. The most difficult part after landing in Atlanta had been taking the gigantic escalators down to the underground train and then up again when he’d arrived at the main terminal
. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d been swept up in a sea of people and virtually shoved onto the sadistic metal stairs he doubted he could have made it to the baggage claim area.
His recruiter had taught him only the basics of spy craft, but Zubair took them seriously. He’d stopped to use the bathroom twice in the airport, both times checking to see if any of the same faces either entered or waited outside for him. When he was confident no one had followed him, he left the airport, and as instructed by his Saudi handler, took a cab downtown to one of the major hotels where he walked through the lobby, out a side exit, and down the block to a second hotel where a room had been reserved for him and paid for in advance by a fictitious corporation.
Zubair stayed downtown and out of sight on Monday night. On Tuesday he took a cab to the airport, and then instead of getting on a flight he jumped back in another cab and was taken to the posh Ritz Carlton in Buckhead. On Tuesday evening he ventured out to the local mall where he spent most of his time marveling at the items in two electronics stores. America was a very seductive place. The breadth and availability of consumer goods was amazing. Zubair could have spent an entire week examining the electronics, but he was so disturbed by the atmosphere of the mall that he had to go back to his hotel and pray. Only through prayer could he block out all the distractions and temptations and try to regain his purified mind.
He had finally seen with his own eyes just how corrupt America was. Young girls walked about in public with barely a stitch of clothing and no male escort. They roved around the mall like packs of dogs, flirting with boys, and no one did a thing about it. Here, indeed, was proof that America was an evil place. It was a country firmly in the grip of Satan himself, and if something wasn’t done, the Americans would drag the rest of the world down with them.
After praying for several hours, he’d slept well through the night. The next morning he awoke late and ordered room service. While eating he turned on CNN and was alarmed to find out that the U.S. government had intercepted four ships headed for America. Zubair spent the entire afternoon in his room glued to the news coverage of this unfolding story. He did not know the specifics of his entire operation, but he did know that the weapon was being transported to America by ship.
It was just before five in the evening when the phone in his room rang loudly. Zubair answered tentatively, and was both relieved and frightened to hear the voice of his handler. There had been a change of plans, and the man gave him specific instructions concerning them. Zubair tried only once to ask what had happened with the ships, but had been so severely admonished that he dared not ask again.
Now he found himself standing in this dark parking lot in a city he did not know, following the orders of a man who scared him to death. Zubair took another swig of soda and looked at the various rooms of the L-shaped motel. Only a couple of lights were on, otherwise it appeared everyone was sleeping. As instructed, the Pakistani scientist threw the rest of the soda in the garbage can and looked at the number on the key he held. As luck would have it, the room was on the second floor. Zubair extended the handle on his big suitcase and began dragging it up the stairs one step at a time. When he reached the balcony he stopped, slightly out of breath, and looked around to see if anyone was watching him.
Room 212 was at the end of the balcony. Zubair slid the key in and held his breath. Perhaps his handler would be waiting for him in the dark, or perhaps the game was up and it would be the police. He opened the door and turned on the light. The room was a far cry from the one he had just left at the Ritz, but it was still better than almost anything he’d find in his native Pakistan. The scientist closed and locked the door and then checked to make sure no one was hiding in the bathroom. Grateful to be alone and having been given no further instructions, he sat down on the bed, turned on the TV, and began to wait.
Mustafa al-Yamani waited in the shadows for more than an hour. Despite the general malaise caused by his radiation sickness, his survival instincts were as keen as they had ever been. They had to be. He had come too far, and sacrificed too much, to fail. Yet, despite his best efforts, something had gone disastrously wrong. He, too, had seen the television coverage concerning the ships. Even al-Yamani, who always planned for the worst, was shocked by the completeness with which the Americans had thwarted his plan. Intelligence disasters struck in two ways, or often a combination of both. Either you were penetrated by your adversary, or someone from within your group leaked information, wittingly or not.
Since leaving Charleston, al-Yamani had revisited this issue from every conceivable angle, and he had little doubt that there had been a leak. There was no way the Americans had penetrated al-Qaeda. It was far more plausible that someone had spoken too freely of the plan, and that their words were intercepted by American spy satellites. Al-Yamani had warned his colleagues of this possibility, but he knew that despite his best efforts they had ignored him. He was told there were finances to consider. Benefactors needed to be warned. If the plan succeeded, American investments, even abroad, would be decimated. Large amounts of money needed to be moved to safety. They had told al-Yamani that it could be done without the Americans noticing, but he had been skeptical.
Even worse, the Saudi knew all too well the inflated egos of his people. Stature was everything, and the temptation to brag to others that something big was about to happen would be very hard to resist. As a countermeasure, al-Yamani had launched a campaign of disinformation to try to mislead the Americans, but obviously something had gone wrong and the Americans had sensed that something was amiss. While following up on their suspicions, they must have captured and interrogated someone fairly high up in the organization. He saw no other way. If the Americans had intercepted all four ships, they had to be operating off of specific information.
Everything al-Yamani had put together was now in jeopardy, but at least he had been very careful to keep the mission compartmentalized. The left hand did not need to know what the right hand was doing. The Americans had dealt him a serious blow, but this operation was far from over. Al-Yamani didn’t travel all the way to America with his hopes pinned on just one plan. He was a military tactician, and the best strategies were always multipronged.
After leaving Charleston, al-Yamani had driven to the airport in Columbia, South Carolina, where he had gotten rid of the Ford Taurus and picked up a rental car using a Florida driver’s license and credit card. He left Columbia immediately and headed for Atlanta. On the way to Atlanta he heard that overnight the president and other leaders had been evacuated from Washington. It was later that he heard about the ships being stopped.
He had memorized the address of the trucking company his group had fronted, and when he reached Atlanta he approached the area with great caution. It was only midafternoon, and as he rolled to a stop at a light a block away, he looked to his right and paused briefly just as any normal person would have done. There was no mistaking what was going on. Police cars had the street blocked. Al-Yamani took his foot off the brake, accelerated through the intersection, and never looked back. There was nothing left to salvage. An entire year of work and the deaths of many of his brave Muslim warriors had amounted to nothing.
Al-Yamani did not let his anger get the best of him. There was no time for it. Someone had betrayed them, but he quickly resigned himself to the fact that he would never know who that person was. There wasn’t enough life left in his poisoned body to go searching for those answers. No, he had come to America to die, and he was going to take with him as many infidels as possible.
It was now two in the morning on Thursday. Al-Yamani had been extravigilant in arranging this meeting with the Pakistani scientist who was crucial to his tattered but still salvageable plans. Al-Yamani had spent two hours checking the perimeter of the Ritz Carlton in Buckhead to make sure the Pakistani wasn’t being watched, and then after making contact he had followed the cab from a safe distance to see if anyone else might be tailing him.
As al-Yamani looked through the window o
f his rental car, he decided it was time. He picked up the cell phone he’d purchased earlier in the day and dialed the number. The nervous little Pakistani answered before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“I want you to get rid of the large suitcase. Bring only what you need and be down by the soda machine in five minutes.” Al-Yamani pressed the red button and noted the time on the clock. Four minutes later Zubair appeared outside the room with his shoulder bag and hurried along the balcony. When he reached the soda machine, al-Yamani watched for a few minutes and then started the car. He stopped in front of the hotel and rolled the window down.
“Imtaz, hurry up and get in.” Al-Yamani could tell by the look on the scientist’s face that he did not recognize him without his beard. “It is me, Mustafa.” In a more authoritative voice he added, “Get in, you fool.”
Zubair finally recognized the eyes of the man who had recruited him. He jumped in the front seat and stared at the Saudi in semi-disbelief. “You never said you were coming to America.”
Al-Yamani checked the rearview mirror to see if any new cars had pulled out onto the empty street. “Very few people knew of my plans.”
“What happened today?” asked the disheartened scientist. “How did they know?”
All the Saudi could do was shake his head. “I have no answers.” If he thought for a second that the Pakistani had betrayed him, he would kill him, but that was impossible. Zubair knew none of the details about the four ships that had been intercepted.
“What do we do now? Do we go back?”
Al-Yamani glanced over at the young scientist and smiled. “No, we do not go back, Imtaz. Allah still has work for you. The Americans may have scored a victory, but we are far from done.”
Zubair was more than a little surprised to hear this. “What is your plan?”
Al-Yamani shook his head. “I am done discussing my plans. Too many good Muslims died digging up that cursed weapon. I should have never allowed so many people to know about it.” He shook his head again. “No…you will see soon enough, and until then you will just have to trust me.”
