A simple gesture, pre-arranged but otherwise innocuous.
The recipient of the gesture then made his way to the flat, open roof of that unremarkable building, to the opposite terrace that faced the street beyond it. Although Massarra could no longer see him, she knew he would soon signal the driver of a dusty gray Mercedes sedan, its driver a local man who had been offered a hold-all filed with useful items of trade in return for waiting in the street in his car. The man conveyed a single passenger in the back seat, a man not known to him, and stood ready to drive the short distance to the entrance of the building when instructed to do so.
Massarra waited for a glimpse of the Mercedes as it turned the corner, tension gathering in her body as time stretched. It seemed too long before she saw it nose through the crowd, horn coaxing people aside as it crept forward.
She remained vigilant because she knew this was the moment in which, if she had in any way been wrong, missed something, the consequences would manifest when the Mercedes drew up outside the building and its passenger stepped out onto the street.
Her hand grew tighter on the pistol, possession of it bringing its own risks as she had seen people randomly searched by Zuwayya green-bands.
The Mercedes made its way through the crowd, which parted like waves off the bow of some great ship, horn still baying. She nearly signaled the driver to cease the incessant noise for the attention it might attract, but she had heard similar noises so frequently across the town that it might have attracted more attention had the driver been silent.
Eventually it drew up outside and the rear door opened. Massarra took the pistol half out and waited, still studying faces and bearings within the crowd all the way along the street. The passenger disappeared into the building and would now, she knew, be climbing the stairs to small room at the back of the building, away from windows and both prying ears and eyes. The room had already been swept twice in a search for listening devices because, even in these times, even after the event, Massarra feared such things.
She waited a moment longer, watching the entrances to the street at both ends, and the rooftops above for signs of movement that might indicate an incursion. Only when she was satisfied did she cross the street herself and enter the building.
At the entrance to the room stood a tall, thickly set man who made no attempt to hide the sub-machine gun that hung from a single-point harness across his chest. He nodded to Massarra as she approached and stepped aside to open the door for her. Heat flushed in the center of her chest as she entered.
An elderly man in a neat gray suit and tie, and a young woman in jeans, sat in dining chairs in front of an empty weathered armchair. Ufuk Erdogmus was in the process of folding his shemagh and keffiyeh and laying them on a small table beside the chair. He turned to Massarra as she entered, and she returned his questioning look with a nod.
“There’s nothing,” she said. “We’re clean. But we shouldn’t remain long.”
“Thank you, Massarra,” the elderly man said.
She noted he said it with some deference. This surprised her. She retreated to the back of the room and stood quietly.
“Ufuk,” the elderly man said. “So very good to see you. We are very glad to see you alive and well.”
“As I am you, Hasan, my old friend.”
She’d never met him before, but the name Hasan confirmed Massarra’s suspicion. This was one of the elders of the Levantine Council, one that Massarra had never met but knew of. From Syria. The more dangerous end of their circle. Security was strict even within her own organization.
“Would you care for some coffee?” Hasan said to Ufuk. “I cannot speak to the taste, but it’s something at least.”
“Thank you.”
The man reached for a tall steel flask and poured. He handed the delicate cup to Ufuk who took it and drank. Massarra admired how he hid his reaction to what had to be a bitter taste. The Turkish-style coffee had been steeping for a long time in the grinds.
“How many of you survived?” Ufuk said.
Hesitation. The young woman glanced at Hasan, who returned her gaze and then turned to Ufuk. “Not many. We had made preparations, but they were inadequate. We had hoped to dissuade Iran and Israel from the courses they’d chosen, but—”
The young woman interrupted him: “They wouldn’t listen. By then, all that mattered was their response. It has always been that way with them. If they do not respond they think they appear weak. Escalation follows escalation—”
“Enough, Elsa.” Hasan held out a calming hand.
“We are his allies, and he calls you friend.” Elsa spat the last word out. “And yet he did nothing to warn of us this apocalypse? How many millions died because of this man, this—”
“Enough!” Hasan yelled, in a voice that growled with more venom than his frail body seemed to possible to contain. He put his coffee down and smoothed back strands of gray hair that had sprung loose. “Mr. Erdogmus had his reasons. We put this behind us. We move on.”
Massarra studied the young woman, who held her tongue but glowered at Ufuk, a cobra ready to strike if unleashed. She recognized a lot of herself in the woman’s dark features, the intense eyes and sleek black hair.
Ufuk paused and smiled awkwardly before asking: “What can you tell me about the Middle East?”
“Western news reports were mostly accurate, but the damage is not as extensive as at first it might have seemed. Many areas are uninhabitable. Tens of millions dead, of course. Tel Aviv and the coastal cities are gone, all the way to Beirut and Tripoli. Even Jerusalem was destroyed. The smaller yield weapons and weaker delivery systems at Iran’s disposal were still very effective. Israel, of course, has much stronger weapons in its possession.”
“What of Iran?”
“Tehran, we are certain is gone. Very likely Isfahan and Shiraz. We are less certain about Tabriz and Iran’s other major centers. We have assets, but communication with them has been our true challenge. We do know that there has been a military coup by a coalition supported by groups from Pakistan and Afghanistan. We do not know for certain, but we believe they’re linked to Daesh. The stability and resources of radical Islam have served to unite even moderates with jihadists.”
“Has there been any analysis of radiation effects?”
“We are told the weather has helped prevent the spread. There has been a steady flow of refugees south, through Jordan and into Saudi Arabia. Millions of people, most of whom are already sick or who succumb to the weather or starvation. What remains of the Saudi military is under the control of wealthy Shaikhs. They have not been welcoming as you might imagine. There is a report.” He handed over a flash drive. “It is explained in greater detail.”
“What progress with the African Union?” Ufuk put the drive into a coat pocket.
“Our relationship remains good and we continue to make arrangements with them. They’re keen to see you, Adejola in particular.”
“Adejola? He is well?”
Adejola Eberechi, Nigeria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs and representative of the Nigerian Government to the African Union. One of few men in the region Ufuk had ever told Massarra he trusted.
“He leads the what remains of the Assembly and the Executive Council of the Union. When you are ready with your work here, when we have something definite to tell him, we will meet with him together. He has already set aside a location that he feels is secure.”
“There is a lot to do,” Ufuk said, taking a moment to process. “The Zuwayya have Al-Jawf in a tight hold. If we are to loosen it, we need to do it from within. You understand what is at stake?”
“Of course. If we can offer the African Union a way into Al-Jawf, they have the resources and support to depose the Zuwayya.”
“We must have fairness,” Ufuk added. “A transparent system of government in North Africa. Daesh and groups like them still have much power. If we hope to offer people a place to live, to survive the coming winters, we need to be better than what exist
ed here before. A just and fair coalition between the Levantine Council and the African Union is the only way we can be strong enough to resist violent incursions.”
“We will get there. As long as you can deliver what you say you can.”
“And what of America?”
“Not much more than rumors. New York and other eastern coastal cities were wiped clean to the bedrock, as if they never existed. Tsunamis washed a hundred miles—”
“The correct term would be tidal wave, at least for the initial impact.”
Hasan nodded at the technical correction. “Even Washington is gone.”
“But the West Coast?”
“You would know better than we would, with all respect.”
Ufuk took a sip of his drink. From his expression, he wasn’t really getting much in the way of new information. “Have you heard anything of Müller?”
“Nothing lately.” Hasan leaned forward to steeple his fingers together. “His own apparatus seemed able to remove him into Asia in the wake of the destruction of Sanctuary Europe.”
Massarra’s own contacts had rumored that Müller was already in China.
“There were more meteor impacts in Russia,” Hasan added. “And in Scandinavia and the north Pacific Ocean. More tsunamis, but the coasts are empty now.”
“Jovians,” Ufuk muttered.
“Müller has created a narrative, within certain circles, of being able to predict further celestial events. We are trying to confirm his exact location. When we do, we will inform you. But be warned—he has very strong friends, even here.”
“Much easier to peddle lies when there’s no one left to oppose you.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Ufuk settled back in his seat. “Where will you go now?” he asked. “What are the Council’s plans?”
“Places like this are close enough to home. The Nile delta was overrun by the seas, saturated the deserts for dozens of miles inland. The rains have begun in places that haven’t seen water in a thousand years. We are negotiating with Saudi Arabia. There is much to do.”
Ufuk cradled his chin between cupped hands and rocked back and forth, his mind a million miles away. “I will help wherever I can.”
“We appreciate your support, and all you have made available.”
“Do you have it?” Ufuk asked. He stopped rocking back and forth and sat rock steady, his eyes locked with Hasan’s.
“Of course.”
The old man nodded at Elsa, who snorted but admirably contained an anger seething inside she didn’t bother to try and conceal. She stood and walked to the side of the room, then lifted a woolen blanket.
Beneath it, a sleek gray metal box, three feet long by two wide and a foot thick. Highly engineered, gleaming. Filaments of green light on its top side, with a single cord connected into what looked like a battery.
Chapter 10
Outside of Al-Jawf, Libya
From a distance, the men had the appearance of Bedouin, quietly pitching a camp not far from Al-Jawf, little more than a half-day’s walk through the frigid desert. In their movement was practiced efficiency, and their clothing and facial hair, even their skin tone, also gave them that appearance of locals. Their efficiency was military in its precision, the well-drilled competence coming from a place very different to generations spent living as nomads.
For some of them it came from tours served in Afghanistan and Iraq. At least one had served in Somalia. In Helmand province, in Fallujah and Baghdad, across war-torn nations where westerners were rarely welcomed by either party to the conflict, all had learned their lessons hard: better to be unseen or unnoticed in such places than to be forced to engage in a fighting withdrawal. These men were specialists, well versed in being invisible.
Nor would their weapons have marked them out as foreign, if they’d been observed. They carried weathered Kalashnikovs, albeit each was modified according to operational need and personal taste, those modifications the result of weeks spent in conflict zones where equipment needed to function both optimally and comfortably. Taped padding on the stock of an old Dragunov for one of the snipers, night vision sights for those who felt them necessary, quick-attach suppressors that could be removed easily when the advantage of surprise and silence was lost.
They knew that some of those searching for them, and from whom their presence needed to be concealed, utilized airborne surveillance devices similar to those they themselves possessed. As a consequence, they used various methods to camouflage their presence and they acted as far as operationally possible as Bedouin would.
While some pitched tents in the Bedouin style to form a goum, as much in the lee of a high dune as possible, setting the shelters tight against a gathering wind that kicked up a glistening mist of crystallized sand, others prepared themselves for the short nighttime trek to a rocky outcrop in order to look on Al-Jawf itself. There they would bivouac overnight, watching and waiting. Observing movements into and out of the town. Studying its borders and security measures. Securing every possible piece of data they could to take back with them and collate into an intelligence package for their employers.
One of them possessed a small holographic device that was similar to the one that Ufuk Erdogmus, at that exact moment less than thirty kilometers away, was himself scrutinizing. In their truck, under cover of tarpaulin, lay a drone almost identical to those Ufuk controlled.
However, the decision had been taken not to use it. The engineer who undertook the final preparations to launch when the time came had advised that someone might intercept signals sent by the drone. The team’s commander had decided against using it for now.
Better, he had said, they do this the old way and use their own eyes to gain the intelligence they required.
As the reconnaissance specialists laid up in bivouacs, watching Al-Jawf from a suitable distance, a single rider on a camel took to the desert, ready to journey during the night to where he knew there was a second goum located. That camp was similar to his own, although the team within it had been tasked with a different mission. As Montgomery and Clarke had done for the purposes of Operation Bertram during the Second World War, in a region not so very far from this one, that team was tasked with disguising the approach of a second, very much larger military force.
The presence of either team in this desert couldn’t afford to be discovered, so they communicated sporadically. There was no need for anything more frequent as both knew their operational tasks. When they did communicate, they did so via the use of this single outrider rather than through radio transmissions that might be detected.
Yet when the outrider was only a short way into one such trek across the frigid desert, during a light sandstorm which was itself slicked with bitter sleet, he was faced with a decision to break that communications embargo. A group of salvagers, two trucks with a number of people both in the cab and under a rigged tarpaulin, raced over the dunes. Their route appeared from their tracks not to have deviated for a sometime and would inevitably take them close to the camp from which he had just come.
If he chose to turn and head back, to warn his comrades of the approaching danger, he might not make it in time. He would serve to provide a warning to the scavengers and lose his team’s element of surprise. Instead, he relayed a short message.
The trucks advanced over the dunes and selected a line that would place them in a position to see the camp and the outrider considered his decision justified. He followed at a safe distance, circling round behind the two trucks to take up a position that would allow him a tactical advantage.
No further communication with his team was necessary. The outrider knew what would happen, what had to happen. No one could know the camp existed.
The trucks turned sharply toward the camp and drew up not far away. Through a thermal imaging scope, the outrider watched his team emerge from their tents, seven white ghosts shifting against a contoured, ash-gray landscape. Beneath their clothing he could make out the bulges of their weapons.
; The shapes emerging from the trucks were a variety of shapes and sizes, and the outrider took them to be both men and women, or perhaps some were younger, even teenagers.
The outrider couldn’t hear the conversation that passed between the salvagers and his team. He thumbed the safety of his own weapon and rested a finger on the trigger.
The thermal imaging gave the people who died over the course of the next nine seconds an anonymity that, had the outrider not long ago already become inured to the emotional consequences of killing, he might have subconsciously appreciated. All he considered then, in fact, was how easy it would be to dig into the frozen ground to bury the bodies.
Chapter 11
Al-Jawf, Libya
The azan Islamic call for afternoon prayer echoed from loudspeakers around the camp. Jess and Giovanni made their way back to the simple collection of shelters and tents she now called home. For a moment she might have been back in Afghanistan, where there were refugee camps just like this, where the sick suffered quietly, and where the azan had filled the air five times each day. It was all the same: the dust and sand, the arid wind, the low buildings framed by rugs and blankets and painted Arabic script on doors and walls. The endless searching of shadows and faces for indications of hostility that had been necessary there and here. Even the smells were similar: the unwashed and sick, the cloying stench of rotten meat. It reminded her of the harsh Afghan winters.
Neither she nor Giovanni had spoken much on the drive back, each choosing instead to stare through the dust-laden glass toward the unfamiliar landscape beyond. The silence felt like a prison, chains Jess wanted to break free of and run.
“Where have you both been?” Ufuk demanded the moment they ducked into the shelter.
Jess stopped in her tracks. “What’s the problem?”
“We need to know where you are,” Massarra said. “We need to know where every one of us is at all times. We said two hours. You’ve been gone four.”
Resistance (Nomad Book 3) Page 19
