Zaida reached over and took a bite of tuna from the Salad Niçoise tray her mom was building. “I don’t bring boys here. I bring men.”
Rayna stopped what she was doing and glared at Zaida. “Men! My unmarried daughter brings men into her home?”
“Well, I can’t do it once I marry, can I?”
Her mother’s eyes went wide. “Zaida. You disrespect me.”
“I’m teasing.” She chuckled. “Just, please, close my door when you’re in here.”
“All right. I will. Do we need to discuss with your father the men you bring here?”
“No. We do not. I don’t bring men here. Or boys. Or anyone.”
Rayna shook a fork at Zaida. “It’s time you did, though.”
Zaida gave her mom a shocked look. “You just had a fit at the thought of it.”
“Yes. I know. But you aren’t getting any younger and I want grandbabies. It’s unfair to put such a burden on you, but I was only able to have you, so you must be the one who gives me a dozen grands.”
Zaida choked. “I will not.”
“One at least. Masha'Allah. Jamal is ready to settle down.”
“Jamal is not my type.”
“He will be when you marry him. You have to mold him, like I did with your father.”
“I’m not marrying him, Mother. I’m not marrying a man I have to mold.”
Zaida’s front door opened, admitting her father. Both of her parents had their own key cards to her place.
Rayna leaned close to whisper, “We’ll discuss this later.”
“No, we won’t,” Zaida hissed.
Her father, Darim, took his shoes off in her foyer and set his briefcase down on the hall table. He came over to kiss both her and her mother, then went straight to the washroom to clean up for supper.
Her parents settled themselves at her table and talked about his day. Zaida watched them, letting her fear fade away. It all seemed so normal, like the world hadn’t been turned on its side just minutes ago when Hidaya had visited her.
Everything was going to be all right, Zaida told herself as she put the group’s cookies on a plate for her parents. It was going to be fine. What Hidaya and her brother Abdul were dealing with was some kind of terrible cyberbullying.
It was all going to be fine. Really.
Zaida walked down Pearl Street Mall in the heart of Boulder’s Old Town. Her nerves had tangled on the way here until she was a bundle of knots. Mike Folsom was sitting at a bistro’s outdoor table. He stood when he saw her, waving her over, giving her a hug and a kiss when she joined him.
He seemed even more tense than usual. She hadn’t seen him since his last visit to the area a few years earlier. He’d aged a little, more lines creased his forehead, but his eyes were as alert as ever. He had that slightly unkempt look that he always had, with his scruffy beard and the baggy clothes he wore, but his broad, square face was a welcome sight to her. He’d been a big part of her childhood. He was who had helped her parents relocate from Iraq, years before she came along. He was, to her parents, an angel that looked out for them.
Zaida hoped he’d be her angel too.
They both placed their orders. She looked at Mike, wondering how to broach the subject of her friend’s problem, but he opened their conversation for her.
“You’re actually why I’m here in the States, Zaida.”
“I am? Why?”
“I’ve been informed that a fatwa has been issued against you from an ISIS terror group in Syria.”
Shock didn’t even come close to what that news made her feel. No, it was something much more explosive, like terror. She wasn’t surprised that some in her community might push back against the stories she wrote and the freedoms she advocated, but to call a fatwa upon her was unacceptable.
“A fatwa? Against me?”
“I’m still investigating the whys, hows, and whos of this, but it appears that you sent a piece of code out into the world to identify likely terrorist threats. This code is technically called a worm, but it’s also ransomware. It’s self-executing and can jump from network to network. It’s fast moving—it took only a month to go from here to the Middle East and back.”
Zaida’s eyes widened. Ransomware? Was this connected to Hidaya’s problem? She took out the paper her friend had given her.
Mike looked at it then at her, his eyes narrowing. “That’s it.”
“I’m not a coder or a hacker, Mike. I’m a romance writer.”
“I know. But the worm was launched from your computer.”
“How?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Does the term ‘freedom code’ mean anything to you?”
“Yes. It does.”
“And what is that?”
Zaida gave him a pained look. How could she say this so that he would understand? Men took their individual freedom for granted. Women still had to fight for theirs, especially in areas under stringent Sharia law.
“It’s my belief that when women own their own sexuality, they can’t be oppressed. I call it our freedom code. It’s one of the reasons why I write what I write.”
Mike tucked his chin in and looked at her over his glasses. “So women having sex sets them free?”
“No. Women having proprietorship over themselves gives them freedom. Sex is the most elemental freedom they can have. It has nothing to do with code or worms or international terrorists. Or even men. It has everything to do with independence and self-determination.”
Mike held up his hands. “Just being a devil’s advocate here…can’t women already say no?”
“If they could, then men wouldn’t still be sexually harassing them, they wouldn’t be forced or sold into marriages—often while they’re still underage, they wouldn’t be assaulted in war for the purpose of genocide, and they wouldn’t be subjected to genital mutilations. All these atrocities still occur. A woman having control over her own body is about much more than just sex. It’s about freedom.”
“Okay.” Mike’s gaze lowered to the table between them as he considered what she’d said. “Sure. But it can’t be a coincidence that the worm was called that.”
Zaida shook her head. “I don’t know why the worm appropriated that term. I don’t know anything about this worm.”
“So, would you call yourself an activist?”
None of this conversation was going the way she thought it would.
“What does that even mean, Mike? Am I stirring the pot? Yes. Am I empowering underprivileged women? Yes. Am I financially supporting a half-dozen women’s literacy organizations around the world? Yes. Am I writing stories with characters that act as role models and do I get them in front of the very women who most need to read them? Yes.”
“That’s propaganda.”
“What isn’t? TV commercials, restaurant ads, news media, blogs, magazine articles. Everyone has a bias. Mine is to show women how to assert their rights and advocate for their needs and desires.”
Their food arrived. Mike went silent until the waiter left.
“You are your mother’s daughter,” Mike said, smiling.
“I am.”
“I can see you feel strongly about all of this. Are you at a point in your mission that you would hire muscle?”
Zaida stared at Mike, shocked at the ease that he slipped that question into their conversation. What was he getting at, exactly? “I have hired help.”
“And…have you armed them and had your own fatwa ordered?”
“No. I hired translators. English is my first language. I do speak, read and write Arabic, but it’s not my natural language. It’s easier for me to write in English and pay for a translation. I also have my work translated in Pashto and a few other languages. I have no idea how one goes about ordering a fatwa, or why I would anyway. I’m a pacifist, Mike.”
“I think we’re talking about two different forms of activism. I was trying to understand how you came to the attention of some serious bad guys and how you could have garne
red enough attention from our enemies that a religious edict was set against you. I’m sorry you’ve gotten caught up in this. All I know is that the worm seems to have started in one of your computers. Would you be willing to let my company examine your machines?”
“Of course. Am I in danger?”
“Yes.” He gave her a hard stare. “I’ve tracked communications from the terrorist group, Tahrir al-Sham, to some of their adherents here in the U.S., a sleeper cell, if you will. They’ve been called up and appear to be on their way here. To you.”
Zaida’s eyes and mouth went wide as she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “What do I do?”
Mike sighed. “I’m going to have some agents cover you. I can’t actually do anything here on U.S. soil, so we have to keep this on the down low. When we figure out the facts and the players, I’ll turn it over to the FBI. I gotta get the case put together.”
So, her parents’ family angel was CIA, since he admitted he couldn’t act here in the U.S. “I’m scared Mike.”
“I know, honey. I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. I’m sorry for the tough talk—you know I love you and I love your parents. You’re the only family I have. You’re like a daughter to me. I have a few things to do here, then I’ll come up and stay with you until backup arrives.”
They ate more of their meal, then Mike asked. “Why did you call me?”
Zaida pointed to the paper with the ransomware text. “My friend’s Facebook and social media accounts have been hacked. I’m afraid someone wants to harm the Muslim community where we live.”
Mike sighed. “I get that your freedom code means the world to you, but is it worth dying for? Is it worth the destruction of your community?”
“Are you asking me if we women shouldn’t shut-up and put-up and get on with life? Are you really asking that?”
“Look, I’ll admit I don’t understand your stance, but I’m not a woman, and I’ve lived too long in a world where keeping the peace is almost more important than challenging the status-quo. If this is a battle you believe in, then it’s a battle I believe in.”
Zaida’s eyes watered. “Thanks, Mike.” She sniffled. “I never thought it would be a battle. I thought it was a philosophy, a matter of education. I know, in some cases, I’m pushing back against religious doctrine, but that’s still an intellectual endeavor, not a feat of war.”
“When a challenge like yours undermines the foundation of power—and what you’re doing is driving a power shift—then those whose foundation is crumbling will have to fight. In case you didn’t know…that’s how wars are started.”
They finished their meal, then made small talk, catching up on family news. Mike walked her to her car in the parking garage, which she was very grateful for.
“I’d rather my parents didn’t know about this,” she said as they had a last hug.
“If I can keep it contained, that’s fine by me. I’ll come and stay with you until this whole thing is done. You still have that swanky apartment in Fort Collins?”
“I do.”
“It might be late, but I’ll be up there tonight.”
2
Some nights were easy. Some weren’t. This one wasn’t.
Retired Navy SEAL Levi Jones jerked awake. His hands were wet and sticky with blood. He splayed his fingers even before he opened his eyes. Slowly, he realized the arms holding him back were no arms at all but the strong legs of his black shepherd. He looked at his hands, his fingers still spread wide.
They were clean and dry.
He slumped back on the sofa, keeping his hands aloft as his dream world gave way to the real world. Beau pawed him again. Levi took another deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the dream go…and Jules with it.
He supposed there’d be a fair reckoning when he joined her on the other side. He’d lived to see life outside the service; she hadn’t…because of him.
Beau whined and nudged his way up Levi’s chest to lick his face. Levi couldn’t hold back the tears. And why should he? It was only he and Beau here. He wrapped his arms around the shepherd and buried his face in Beau’s furry neck. As far as Levi knew, Beau had never received PTSD service training, but the retired K-9 dog knew just when Levi most needed him.
Levi hadn’t thought of Julia in a long time, hadn’t let himself think of her. Damn Mike all the way to hell and back for conjuring her up again.
Levi shoved free of Beau and walked barefoot across his living room to his front door. It was just five a.m., his favorite time, when anything was possible for the day ahead…and nothing had yet gone FUBAR.
CIA Special Agent Mike Folsom had called yesterday, asking to see him today. Mike had been the intelligence asset on the op Levi and Julia were working under the auspices of DEVGRU’s Black Squadron two years ago. That probably explained why Levi had had the dream again—hearing from Mike again brought everything to the top of his mind.
Levi’s phone rang. Who was calling him this early in the morning? He took the call, recognizing the number. Commander Greg Lambert. Only one reason he’d be calling. “Jones here.”
“Morning, Levi.”
“Commander.”
“Got a job for you.”
Levi had taken one other job for Lambert since his discharge in January. He was beginning to see why Lambert was running this shadow op business; there were too many threats for regular law enforcement to handle.
“I’m listening.”
“Your friend, Mike Folsom, has been tracking the activity of the Syrian terrorist group Tahrir al-Sham.”
“Odd that you mention that. We’re meeting later today.”
“He’s dead, Levi. He was found beheaded in an alley in Boulder a few hours ago.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Like I said, he was tracking some activity coming here to the U.S. He said participants in a Tahrir al-Sham sleeper cell had been activated and were on their way to your area.”
“Why?”
“A woman who lives in Fort Collins appears to have started a worm called Freedom Code. It was brilliant. And powerful. The worm burrowed through tens of thousands of computers, starting in Fort Collins and circumnavigating the globe. It hit a Tahrir al-Sham outpost in Syria. Their tech guys reverse engineered its code and hacked into a database the worm was sending info to.”
So that was what Mike was working on. Levi knew Mike worked cybercrimes in the CIA—it was how they met on the Tbilisi, Georgia, op.
“What kind of data?” Levi asked.
“The worm’s sole function was to analyze the footprint of every computer it infected, profiling the user as either a terrorist, a potential victim of terrorism, or a non-threat. The Tahrir al-Sham group were of course identified as terrorists. It stole some critical info from them.”
“Why would this woman do that? What did she get out of it? Big money?”
“No. As far as we can tell, no money exchanged hands. Her profile doesn’t fit a potential recruiter, and she doesn’t come from a tech background, but she is an activist for women’s rights.”
“Then why involve herself in this?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. She claims to be innocent.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
“Haven’t met a terrorist yet who didn’t claim to be innocent. Mike, however, did believe her. He knew her and her family. She and Mike met yesterday. I’ll be sending you a recording Mike made of their chat after this call.”
“So what’s the mission exactly?”
“Take out the Tahrir al-Sham guys coming for her. And keep her safe until we can determine her level of involvement.”
Keep her safe… That was all he’d had to do with Julia, but he’d failed—on too many fronts. He hated cybercrime ops. He really should turn this one down.
“I’m in.”
“You know the drill; keep this shit quiet,” Lambert said. “We don’t need the public stirred up and calling for the government to raise the threat level. It’s al
ready high. We got to do what we do so it doesn’t get higher. All our enemies need is the window of opportunity that mass panic would give them.”
“Copy that.”
“As with the other op you ran for me, this can’t come back to the government. You need something, you call me, but otherwise you’re on your own.”
“Roger that.”
“A packet will be delivered to your house shortly. In the meantime, have a listen to the interview Mike recorded with the woman. Her name’s Zaida Hussan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m out.”
The call ended just as one of Levi’s motion sensors was triggered. Someone was driving onto his property. Levi picked up his pistol from the coffee table. A knock sounded on his front door. Beau barked. Levi motioned him to lie down. He instantly complied, taking a tense crouch as he watched the door.
No one was at the door when Levi opened it, but a sub-compact foreign car was leaving his driveway.
Levi looked down at the package leaning against his stoop. He picked it up and went back inside, giving Beau a nod to release him. He spread the packet’s contents across his kitchen counter. It was a mix of photos, documents, and other media. And a security key card. There were satellite images of the Tahrir al-Sham tech camp in Syria, pics of individuals who were suspected members of a sleeper cell based in Michigan, transcripts of unencrypted convos activating several of their men here in the U.S. Mike’s notes on the woman he was to contain and a dozen images of her were also in the packet.
Ho-lee-fuck was Zaida Hussan hot. No, not hot—searingly beautiful.
She looked like Middle Eastern royalty. Her hair was shiny, brown-black, and long, sometimes curled, sometimes straight. Her skin was a pale olive color. Black brows, carefully shaped in an almost straight line, stretched out over big, espresso-brown eyes. Her lips were neither thick nor thin but the perfect feminine shape—the bottom a little wider than the top. Her nose was thin, but the tip of it was lower than her nostrils, giving her an arrogant air. Her cheeks were high but not exaggerated. Her narrow chin was well defined. Her oval nails had a white band across the tips. It was hard to estimate her height since no one was near her in the photos. She had a nice rack, slim torso, hips that were wide, thighs that were all female on legs that tapered down to slim calves and narrow ankles.
Freedom Code Page 2
