by Isaac Hooke
* * *
Ethan took the shuttle to the domestic terminal and passed through security control. He picked up a chicken wrap from the Tadında Anadolu restaurant in the food court and met up with William, who was engaged in an animated discussion with a man who appeared to be Jordanian.
There was no reason for him and William to pretend they were on individual journeys anymore—the Turkish officials didn't have the manpower to tail Ethan throughout the airport, and even if someone did confront him, he would simply claim he'd met William for the first time in the departures lounge of Riyadh's King Khalid airport.
He took a seat and let William introduce him to the Jordanian, who apparently worked as an importer of ripoff goods from China. The newcomer excused himself a moment later, saying he had a flight to catch. William expressed interest in distributing the bogus goods, and he wouldn't let the Jordanian go until he'd obtained his contact details. When the man was gone William continued tapping at his cellphone screen, likely making notes about his new asset.
Ethan retrieved his own Android while he ate the wrap. He issued a hard reset and wiped the data again, in case the airport officers had installed some trackerware app while he was in custody.
"Well that was fun," Ethan said, putting the smartphone away.
William looked up from his cell. "What?"
"My little adventure in passport control."
"Oh." William returned his attention to the smart device. "How much did they take?"
Ethan shrugged. "Two hundred lire. You weren't detained?"
"Nope. I slipped the deskman ten lire when I saw what happened to you. He didn't even glance at my passport."
"Bastard."
William arose. "I'm getting a snack."
He returned a few minutes later with a kebab. "Ah, goat meat." William bit into a chunk. "I developed a taste for the stuff back in Iraq. Remember that game we used to play with the locals? What the hell was it called again? The game with the dead goat."
"Buzkashi," Ethan said. "And that was Afghanistan, not Iraq."
"That's right," William said. "It's all a blur these days. Anyway, who but Afghans could come up with a game that involves dragging around a dead goat from horseback and trying to get it between two goal posts? I mean come on. They must have been standing around playing soccer when someone unleashed their AK-47 at the ball in a fit of rage after a bad goal. And then they thought, well shit, how the hell are we going to play now? Then a goat bleated nearby, and all their heads turned toward the animal at the same time. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' Joe Afghan said to his friends. Then they all leaped onto their horses and ran the goat down, cut the fucker's head off, and then started playing Buzkashi with its decapitated body. Brings new meaning to the phrase 'playing with your food.' Imagine what the game would be like with announcers. He goats, he scores!"
Ethan finished his wrap. "It was certainly an... interesting game."
William grinned; goat juices trickled down his chin. "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy bashing those Afghans from their horses while dragging that damn goat around. You were a badass out there."
"Yeah, it was a real joyride," Ethan said sarcastically, though in truth he liked the game. It was surprisingly fun, mostly because of the novelty factor.
William finished the last chunk of meat. "What the hell did they call the dead goats used in the game again? Cock something."
"Kokpar," Ethan said.
"That's right! Cock part. Gonna drag my cock part around the field and score myself a goal! Ahh, I miss the good old days. Still, you have to wonder about a society whose favorite pastime is dragging around dead goats."
"You do indeed." Ethan stood, and the two of them proceeded toward the boarding gate for the next flight.
six
The domestic Pegasus Air flight landed in Gaziantep a few hours later. Ethan and William shoved their way past the pitchmen in the arrivals area and boarded a taxi. It smelled of vomit and sweat, but at least the air conditioning worked.
Gaziantep was the center of pistachio production in Turkey, and in fact the latter syllables of the city's name were derived from the Turkish word for pistachio, antep fıstığı. With a population of over a million people, Gaziantep was a modern, clean city with well-maintained streets. The twin minarets of the Grand Mosque were the tallest structures in the city and jutted above the skyline like two gleaming swords ready to fight for the faith.
As the foul-smelling vehicle moved into the town center, the buildings became crowded. The two-level structures were made of the more traditional calcareous stone, and their close proximity to one another reminded Ethan of the Old City in Sana'a, though the bland white-walled structures lacked the quaintness of the latter city.
The call to prayer issued as the vehicle passed a mosque. The driver didn't react at all, nor did the other vehicles, or the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Perhaps their behavior wasn't all that surprising, considering how secular Turkey was. So much for fighting for the faith.
The taxi arrived at the Princess Hotel in the downtown core. Ethan paid the fare and emerged into the steppe climate. After the air-conditioned car, it felt like an oven out there.
Ethan checked them in. By the time he climbed the stairs and dropped off his backpack in the generously decorated suite, both he and William were covered in sweat. An air conditioner furnished the room—but when Ethan set the fan level to full, all the device did was recirculate the air at the same temperature. He opened the window but the heat from outside was worse so he closed it and pulled the shades shut.
Fighting the weariness wrought of sixteen hours of traveling, he wedged a rubber doorstop from his backpack beneath the entrance. Then he grabbed the versatile radio-frequency detecting SK199 ink pen from his gear and proceeded to go over the place with William. As he worked, Ethan thought vaguely about Sheik Jasir Al-Khayr, who had likely used similar off-the-shelf equipment to find trackers.
It took almost half an hour—and all his remaining energy—to search the room from top to bottom with William, and when they were both satisfied that there were no bugs, they flopped down on their respective beds for some well-deserved shut-eye.
A knock at the door awakened Ethan a few hours later.
"Open up you sons of camels!" someone shouted in Arabic from the hall outside. The accent was Yemeni.
Ethan recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to the same man who had vouched for him over the phone during secondary screening at Atatürk airport. He groggily hauled himself upright and kicked aside the rubber wedge.
A tanned, bearded individual stood in the entryway. He looked like a younger version of Al-Khayr. He was dressed in traditional Yemeni garb, with a lavender thawb matching his tribal headgear. He wore an ornate jambiyah dagger in front of his navel. On his back was a small rucksack, and tucked under one arm was a silvery MacBook Pro.
Aaron.
Ethan warmly clasped the hand of his friend and teammate, then led him inside.
The smell of fried dough permeated the air, and the stains at the bottom of the brown paper bag Aaron carried beneath the MacBook promised greasy delights. Aaron dropped the bag on a nearby table. "Baklava?"
Ethan grabbed an odd-looking bun from the bag and examined it. The top was sprinkled with the region's famous pistachios. "Baklava? Looks like a samosa gone bad." He bit into the honey-soaked, layered pastry. "Pretty good," he admitted.
"Clean?" Aaron asked, gesturing at the walls. He was referring to eavesdropping devices.
"It's clean," William answered, snatching a baklava from the bag.
The three of them took seats around the table.
"Last time I saw you," Ethan said between mouthfuls. "You were headed down to the Yemen highlands to team up with the Houthis."
Aaron frowned. "I had a helluva time convincing them I wasn't an Al Qaeda spy. They never really brought me into their inner circle. Too bad, because they're going to be running the country soon. Long story short, Sam pull
ed me and sent me here."
"You've filled out a bit since the last time I saw you," William said.
Aaron shamelessly grabbed a baklava from the bag. "I figure I might as well stock up on the fat stores now while the getting's good. Once we cross the border, it's going to be lean times, baby."
Ethan nodded at the jambiyah dagger at Aaron's waist. "Tracking device?"
Aaron shook his head. "We're going in black. No trackers. Sam doesn't want to give the Islamic State a reason to chop off our heads."
"Myself, I'm kind of glad we're going in black," William said. "I'd prefer not to have the DIA breathing down my throat."
"That's not Sam's style," Ethan said. "Too bad about the trackers, though. If we could find a way to smuggle them in undetected, they could prove useful during an emergency extract scenario."
"Yeah, except there will be no emergency extracts," Aaron said. "If you get in shit, you're looking at the quick reaction force."
A buzz came from Aaron's robe. He fetched an Android phone from his pocket and read the on-screen message.
That reminded Ethan of something.
"Sam mentioned the cellular coverage in Syria might be nonexistent," he said.
"You got that right," Aaron said, replacing his smartphone. "According to my contacts, there's no coverage at all these days. At least not in the areas we'll be operating in. But we do have this." He retrieved a small black object from his backpack. It had a thick, foldout antenna and a digital display.
"Satellite Internet?" Ethan said.
Aaron nodded. "Ground Control's Iridium Go model. It'll probably be confiscated at some point, though. Might be better to leave it behind."
"What's the plan on maintaining contact with Sam, then?" William said.
"The same way every other muj keeps in touch with his family: Internet cafes, which use their own satellite hotspots. We have reports that the Islamic State has seized hotspots from private owners to install in their own compounds, so we might not even have to leave home."
"That's good, because I don't think there will be many Internet cafes where we're headed," Ethan said.
"There are actually quite a few in the capital. Raqqa."
"You're assuming we'll even be assigned to Raqqa," William interjected.
"We will," Aaron said. "For a short time anyway. That seems to be the path most foreign jihadists take. After training, the militants bring the new recruits to the capital to show off what the Caliphate is capable of. Kind of a dog and pony show to make them feel good about their decision to join before the emirs ship them off to the war zones to serve as cannon fodder."
"I'm really looking forward to that," William said sarcastically.
"What about your MacBook?" Ethan nodded at the laptop. "Will they confiscate it?"
"They might, but I doubt it. They usually let the foreign fighters keep their laptops and phones, though I'd be careful to delete any music, movies or photos. The muj sometimes get special treatment in regards to what sorts of media they're allowed on their devices, but best not to risk it."
"So, when we use the local Internet services to keep in touch with Sam," Ethan said. "I'm assuming we'll have a way to encrypt our traffic?"
"Of course." Aaron retrieved an envelope from his backpack and dumped three USB sticks on the table.
"Amn al-Mujahid?" Ethan said, guessing at the contents of the USBs. That stood for "The Mujahid's Security."
"Yup. Latest windows revision."
The Al-Fajr Technical Committee was established by jihadis in September 2012. Affiliated with Al Qaeda, the group produced encryption software to help mujahadeen communicate "safely and effectively." The latest incarnations of the software could be installed on Windows desktops or Android phones and used to send and receive encrypted emails, texts, videos, and so forth. The nice thing about running the same software other jihadis did was that if the sticks were confiscated, no one would think twice about the contents—he loved the irony of using their own tools against them.
"There's also software included on the USB to remove any stealth key loggers or screen recorders," Aaron continued. "And any other tracking malware the Islamic State or cafe owners may have installed on their computers. Plus, there's a little goodie called readme.txt.exe you may be familiar with."
"Regin?"
Aaron nodded.
Ethan had used that specific malware before. All Windows computers were set to hide file extensions by default, so that particular executable would appear as readme.txt, a text file. Most people clicked on text files named readme without thinking, and once that nasty file was clicked, it would infect the target computer with a modular cyberespionage tool known as Regin, developed and maintained by two full-time teams working for the NSA and MI6.
Remote operators could tailor the software to specific targets in real-time, as long as the target system had a working Internet connection. It could capture screenshots, take control of the mouse and keyboard, log keystrokes and passwords, monitor web activity, retrieve deleted files, and so forth. Regin made use of several state-of-the-art stealth techniques to stay under the radar, such as encrypted virtual file system containers and payloads, and it had the ability to infect and store parts of itself on other machines in the same network. It could even embed itself in the firmware of certain commercial hard drive brands. It also had an auto-update feature, facilitating long-term intelligence gathering—it's ever-evolving footprint allowed it to continually evade virus scanners.
"Check it out." Aaron indicated a collapsible button on the topside of the USB that blended seamlessly with the black surface. "A hidden button that saves your current GPS location to a custom folder on the stick for later retrieval. Also includes a mini Laser Target Locater Module. Hold down the button and after a second it emits a visible spectrum laser. Use it like a laser pointer to identify any nearby target you want to acquire—hold it steady, and the built-in laser range finder will compute the GPS coordinates of the target and record them."
"And who says we never get James Bond stuff?" William said.
Ethan shrugged. "Repurposed cellphone technology."
"Well, there's more," Aaron said.
"Don't keep me in suspense," Ethan mocked.
Aaron winked. "Squeeze the middle like this." He pinched the center portion. "And yank the top." He pulled the tip: the end telescoped outward. "And it becomes an RF antenna. When we connect it to our Androids with the built-in adapter, we can use it to send encrypted texts and voice messages among ourselves, or any other agency embeds within typical RF radii—around one mile in cities, or up to fifty miles if we're standing on top of a mountain. Very useful for the areas of little to no cellular coverage we'll be working in."
"That's great and everything," Ethan said. "But tell me how this is better than a two-way radio?"
"Well, it's a lot less obvious, for one. Very under the radar. We come in carrying something like a military-grade PRC-153, that's going to scream 'spy' to the muj. Anyway, here, give me your phone and I'll install the app for the antenna. I'll also pop in the mobile version of Amn al-Mujahid and the other stuff we'll need to stay in touch with Sam, since I'm assuming you wiped your cell before landing."
Aaron opened up his laptop and Ethan handed him his smartphone.
While the other operative worked, Ethan examined the USB. He held it to eye level and depressed the laser. Sure enough, a small red dot appeared on the far wall. "This is great and all that, but you know it's useless for long range targets, right?"
"That's why we have these," Aaron said, producing a small, binocular-like object from the backpack.
Ethan regarded the item dubiously. "Looks like a hobbyist-grade range finder. Something a golfer might use."
"More like a surveyor. It's the TruPulse 360 R laser range finder, except we've replaced the laser with a Class 4 to boost the range, and added in an anti-reflective coating to the lenses for glint reduction. Basically a GVS-5 in a consumer shell. It sends its data to the pho
ne via Blueteeth and—"
"Bluetooth," William corrected. "Really grates on the nerves when people mispronounce common words." He spoke it mis-prah-nance with his Texan drawl.
Aaron cleared his throat. "As I was saying, it sends the data to an Android app I'm installing on your smartphone that determines the altitude, latitude and longitude of the target via GPS."
"Well if we're going to carry these, why not just go with a LLDR 2H?" William said. That stood for the Lightweight Laser Designator Rangefinder, the compact 2H model, also known as AN/PED-1A.
"You shitting me?" Aaron said. "That's just as bad as bringing military radios. Worse. We carry US Army target designators into the Islamic State, you can bet they'll take them away, then schedule our heads for the chopping block."
"Point taken," William said. "But what's stopping them from taking away this surveyor crap, too?"
"Nothing. But other foreign jihadis have successfully brought in golf and sports range finders, so we should be fine. Oh." Aaron grabbed a small leather case from the pack. "Also got this for you."
Aaron handed the item to Ethan and returned his attention to the laptop.
Inside the leather holder was the lockpick set Ethan had requested from Sam. He perused the selection of picks and bump keys. It would suit his purposes, and was low tech enough that the Islamic State definitely wouldn't bother him about it.
"Sam told me you'd brief us on the plan to get into Syria," Ethan said. "So what's the deal? We simply drive across the border and swear allegiance to the Islamic State?"
"Pretty much. I've been in touch with a people smuggler. He'll get us into Syria and drop us off at an IS checkpoint."
"Where'd you find him?"
"IS is very active on social media. I sent a text to a public Kik Messenger account, saying we were three men on hegira to Shaam." Syria.
"You're sure the account wasn't an NSA honeypot?" Ethan interrupted. The NSA and other intelligence agencies often created fake Islamic State accounts and posted contact information in an effort to catch foreign jihadists.
