‘Yes?’
Ranon read off the first phrase. ‘I am calling for our mother.’
The voice replied. ‘Go on.’
‘She is well.’
‘Yes.’
‘But her ankles still hurt her.’
‘Yes.’
‘She would like a visit from you soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘The south end of her roof is leaking.’
‘Yes.’
‘She sends her love, very much.’
‘Yes.’
There. The last phrase. The Sudanese had been clear. Hang up immediately after the last phrase. Do not hesitate. Do not say anything more. But the man on the other end of the phone...who knew where he was. Perhaps he was in Bali. Perhaps he was in Hamburg or Paris. Perhaps even New York City itself! Ranon felt the shiver of excitement, sensing that this man was a part of something greater, a wonderful web of connections and phone messages and planners, all working towards jihad. This man ... he could not just hang up.
‘Sir?’
‘Eh?’
‘God is great.’
The man exhaled softly and said, ‘Yes. He is.’
And there was a faint click as the man from far away, his comrade and friend, broke the connection. Ranon held the phone tightly in his hands, closed his eyes, thinking of what had just happened. Something easy, something simple, the Sudanese had said. And Ranon knew what he had just done. An important message had been transmitted, something important indeed, and when the news came out over the next days or weeks or months he would wave the newspaper at his aunt and uncle and proudly tell them of what he had done. For he had no doubt that something enormous was in the works, for that was what the Sudanese had said. What had happened at the nightclub would soon be forgotten. Let his aunt and uncle cry and worry about the infidels then.
Ranon got up and put the phone back in the bag, and then he took the piece of paper. From another pocket he took out a small book of matches, and under the overhang from the shuttered store he lit the paper and watched it quickly burn down to ashes. Then he started walking away again until he came to a bridge arching over a narrow brown stream. Again, to make sure that no one was observing him, he stood on the bridge for a while, not moving even as a bus came by and sprayed him when the fat wheels went through a puddle. He heard laughter from inside the bus but didn’t care. He was doing God’s work, and when the bridge was empty, just for a moment, he turned the plastic bag upside down and let the cellphone tumble into the stream.
A pity, really, that such an expensive device had to be thrown away like that. But the Sudanese had been adamant. No trace, no evidence. Nothing.
Ranon looked down at his other hand. The silly wooden kangaroo had a carved smile on its face and seemed to be mocking him. He thought of tossing the carving into the stream, but no, that wouldn’t destroy it. The wood would only float and it would still survive, perhaps, by washing up on a bank somewhere or on a sandbar.
Then he had a thought.
Ranon went back the way he’d come, enjoying the walk, heading back to where he had started, back to Haikon Street. And there the wreckage of the nightclub lay before him, unchanged. He looked at the faded flowers and even scraps of cloth - flags representing the infidel countries who had sent their crusaders here - and held the kangaroo in his hand. He leaned over and gently placed the carved kangaroo next to the red-white-blue flag of Australia, and just as he did that the morning sun broke through the clouds, warming his arms and his back.
A good sign.
A sign from God, no doubt.
And though he had been impassive on his earlier visit to the nightclub, Ranon had to let himself be free now. He couldn’t help it. He started smiling and almost started laughing as he walked away from the place that had been a funeral pyre for so many unbelievers.
God was indeed great, he thought.
~ * ~
CHAPTER FIVE
In Maryland, Adrianna Scott took a breath to calm herself as she looked over the members of her team. She took a guess at what they were thinking. After Afghanistan and Iraq, there had been a feeling, no doubt a wrong feeling, but it was there, that the war on terrorism was being won. Not won in a flashy series of set-piece battles, like World War Two, but won in a steady series of bomb plots foiled, terrorist cells raided, and rogue bank accounts seized.
Now she had made it clear. Bad things were coming. The war was a hell of a long way from being over.
Adrianna looked over at the team again, nodded to her NSA man, and said, ‘Darren?’
Darren’s slightly bug eyes widened some more as he looked up from the screen. ‘Yes?’
‘Your report, please.’
Darren cleared his throat. ‘Latest we have from our Level One intercepts show increased chatter from suspected cells in Pakistan, Bali, and Great Britain. All have referenced the upcoming May 29 date, and the fall of Constantinople. At first we thought that what we were seeing was idle chatter, talking up the past glories of Islam and the Caliphate, but it’s clear that the talk is referring to the actual upcoming date.’
Monty spoke up. ‘How do we know it’s going to be big? Maybe it’s just another spoof, something to scare us, get the threat color notched up another level, piss off the flying and traveling public.’
Darren said, ‘There’s a foundation to the increased chatter, a rhythm. After months of recording, you can determine pretty much the usual level of traffic. It’s when you see a spike, especially within a certain range, that we feel we’re onto something. Plus...there’s a tone to the voices we’re hearing. They’re excited, they’re thrilled that something’s coming.’
Brian yawned and said, ‘Could be bullshit that’s coming, that’s all.’
Darren was still looking in Adrianna’s direction but his words were directed to his seatmate. ‘And how’s that, detective?’
Brian smiled now and said, ‘Have to agree with my man Monty - maybe it is just a spoof, something to keep us all on edge. Their way of saying, “Hey, we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.” They want to pretend that they’re still bad asses out there, ready to kill us all, get us all worked up.’
Adrianna nodded, keeping her gaze on Brian, and recalled the first time they had met.
~ * ~
The lobby of the Hilton hotel on Tysons Corner in McLean, Virginia. Adrianna Scott strode in and spotted Brian Doyle right away. He was sitting stiffly in a chair, watching everybody go past him without hardly moving his eyes. He was fit, with close-cropped black hair that was streaked with gray along the sides, and a clean-shaven face that looked hard indeed. She knew his age, knew his educational and professional background, knew of his recent divorce and monetary problems and what kind of car he drove and what his favorite drink was. But even with the NYPD-supplied photographs of him she noticed something right away that wasn’t apparent from the briefing and the photos. Even sitting down he had this nervous, restless energy about him, like a herd animal out on the African savannah, tasked with protecting the group but desperately afraid of not doing the job well enough to save everyone.
He spotted her, stood up. She held out her hand and they shook briefly and then she sat down across from him, watching again how his eyes worked, knowing that he was using his own private male checklist to determine whether she was beddable material or not. She was surprised at how she wondered how she’d just rated.
Adrianna spoke first. ‘Detective Doyle.’
‘Miss Scott. Or should it be Mizz Scott?’
She laughed. ‘Adrianna will be fine. How are you doing?’
Brian shrugged. ‘All right, I guess. Still trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.’
‘That should have been explained in your orientation.’
His hard eyes were still staring at her. ‘The orientation was the usual crap of filling out forms, fifteen-minute coffee breaks in the morning and afternoon, and lots of Powerpoint presentations. How about you tell me, no bullshit, why t
he CIA wants a New York City detective to tag along.’
‘It’s not just the Central Intelligence Agency,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s a number of—’
‘Yeah, I know all that,’ he said. ‘Liaison teams, set up with representatives from Fed agencies, including the military and intelligence groups. Fine, that makes sense, as far as it goes. Still doesn’t tell me why you’ve pulled me out of my precinct to spend time out here in the boonies.’
Adrianna folded her hands over a knee. ‘It’s simple, Brian. We need you.’
‘Why?’ he shot back.
She looked around at the lobby, knowing the type of people who were streaming in and out of here, day after day, setting up shop for the inevitable visits to departments and agencies sprawling out from DC, all within easy driving distance. Lobbyists. Software salesmen. Retired intelligence officers. All still filled with righteous indignation, even years later, for what had happened to their country on 9/11. All filled with a desire to wreak revenge. All filled with another desire, of course, to make some money while doing it.
And all doomed to failure.
Adrianna said, ‘There are numerous reasons why we got hit on 9/11. I’m sure you can come up with a few yourself. But let me give you an important one, one that might have been overlooked.’
For the first time since she had met him, Brian smiled, just a bit. It was a nice sight. ‘Go on. Sure you’re not revealing any secrets?’ he asked.
‘You’ve already signed the necessary paperwork.’
‘There might be eavesdroppers.’
‘They can eavesdrop away. The real secrets can wait. Here’s the deal, Brian. We got hit because we’ve lost our edge.’
‘That’s nothing new. Listen to those mad mullahs out there - all they preach about is the decadent West.’
Adrianna shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you understand. I’m not talking about the West or our society losing our edge. I’m talking about my agency, other agencies. With very, very few exceptions, Brian, we’ve gotten fat, lazy, and complacent. Oh, we do a magnificent job intercepting and interpreting electronic intelligence, and our surveillance satellites do amazing things from orbit. There’s no nation or organization on earth that can match our technical prowess in recording or intercepting electronic intelligence. But that’s been our problem. Most everything’s been done from here in the USA itself or in orbit. For example, let’s say you’re an intelligence officer, newly assigned to Langley. What kind of career path are you going to choose? One that puts you in a comfortable cubicle during the day and home by six p.m. every night with wifey and the kids, and Little League games and ballet recitals on the weekend? Or a career path that sends you to some Third World country with little electricity, no hot water, food that gives you the runs every other day, and unfriendly types who might walk up to you in a crowded marketplace and put a nine-millimeter round through the back of your head. What choice would you make?’
‘I see your point,’ Brian said. ‘But I’m not one to choose living in a Third World hellhole, either. Just so you know.’
‘And we don’t intend to send you anywhere like that.’ She leaned closer toward him, wondered briefly why she found that pleasant, and said, ‘What we need from you are your skills, detective. Your street smarts, as they say. For the most part, our little group will be made up of people who are quite skilled in examining and interpreting intelligence, and presenting recommendations. What we’re weak on are people with the smarts to ask the tough and embarrassing questions, not to put up with any bullshit, and to go with their hunches. Your service record is admirable, Brian.’
He looked uncomfortable with the praise. ‘There are others who’ve done better. I’ve been lucky a couple of times.’
‘Perhaps. But you have the combination we need. And luck is always a wonderful commodity. Which is why you’re here.’
Brian stayed silent.
Adrianna said, ‘And what happened to your father, well, we also thought that—’
She was surprised at his response. He said quickly, ‘Please leave my father out of this, all right? This is my job, that’s what it’s going to be. It’s not going to be personal. Understand?’
She nodded and he said, ‘Thing I learned, right out of the Academy, you start to take things personally out on the street, your thinking gets fucked up, you don’t see what’s there, you make the wrong decisions. You’re thinking with your heart or your balls, and not your head. And that’ll get your ass in a sling, soon enough.’
Adrianna allowed herself a small smile. This tough guy was going to work out just fine. She said, ‘Thanks for the anatomy lesson, Brian. Any other questions?’
‘I’m sure I’ll have a shitload, once we get going.’
‘So. You’re aboard?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, yeah. Like I had a choice. But still. . .’
‘Yes?’
Brian looked around again, like he was afraid that he was being listened to by the constant stream of guests and hotel workers walking through the lobby. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t believe what I was hearing during those orientation sessions. About the level of authority you have. And the oversight ...’
Adrianna’s hands were moistening up as she remembered the very first time her responsibilities had been outlined. Jesus Christ, she had said to herself, how can I possibly do this? How can I?
Because you have to, the answer had come back to her. There are no other options.
‘We can talk about it in more detail later, Brian. When we’re not in a hotel lobby. But what we’ll be doing will be perfectly legitimate, perfectly legal. The proper findings have been reviewed and signed by the President and Congressional leaders from both parties. The oversight will be kept at a minimum. There’s going to be a lot of trust put in us and our abilities, and with that trust comes responsibility. Responsibility to protect our people.’
Brian’s look seemed to have hardened again. ‘Especially when it comes to killing terrorists, suspected or otherwise, without benefit of arrest or trial?’
‘We protect our people, Brian. Whatever it takes. Do you have a problem with that?’
There was a pause, and then he sat back in a comfortable chair in a comfortable hotel lobby in the most comfortable nation on earth.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a problem with that.’
And with that, Adrianna kept her emotions in check. He was on board. He would do his job well. And that was the best news she’d had this day.
~ * ~
Adrianna observed the questioning look from Brian and knew he was doing his job, poking and prying, and she was glad that he was still performing well, months after his hiring. She turned to Victor and said, ‘Doctor? If you please? The medical report from that gentleman in Vancouver.’
Victor coughed, wiped at his face, and started tapping on his laptop’s keyboard. The plasma screen flickered into life and a man’s face appeared, apparently a passport photo. He appeared young, with large brown eyes, thin face, long nose and scraggly beard.
‘This is John Muhammad Akim. Originally from Brighton, in Great Britain. Twenty-four years old. Some records of juvenile crime when he was younger. Breaking and entering. Stolen cars. Entered Her Majesty’s Prison at Maidstone more than two years ago. When he was there, converted to Islam. That’s where he and his fellow pilgrims picked up their new middle names.’
Darren said, ‘Unfortunately for all concerned, it looks like he didn’t convert to the peace, love and understanding branch of Islam.’
If it had been an attempt at humor, the attempt failed. Nobody laughed.
‘Late last year,’ Victor continued, stammering a bit, ‘he came to Montreal on a tourist visa. Was supposed to stay six months and depart. Never did. Dropped out of sight.’
Monty said, ‘And Canadian immigration? Domestic intelligence? They just let him slip out?’
Adrianna said, ‘He wasn’t on any watch list. If anything, he was just a minor player. Oh, they did a
day or two of surveillance on him in Montreal, just to say that they did something. But you know the pressures our northern neighbors are under. Can’t afford to be seen offending anyone. Victor, go on.’
He coughed, punched a few more keys, and the passport photo was replaced by another. It depicted a slightly older, more fleshed-out John Muhammad Akim. The face was nearly chalk-white, and the man was lying on a slab of metal. A white sheet was pulled up to his neck, and near his throat a rubber-gloved hand was holding a slip of paper that showed Akim’s name and a string of numbers.
Victor said, ‘John Muhammad Akim. Now deceased. And at the Vancouver General Hospital in Vancouver, BC.’
Final Winter Page 4
