“Of course, there is idleness, too. During the long winter months, the men, if not kept busy, begin to quarrel and discipline suffers. It takes a strong hand to keep them occupied and rewarded with simple amusements when they do well. If you would, please summon my soldiers so that we may be off.”
Sayed slowly twirled an unlit cigarette. “Rasul is an adequate leader, is he not? Surely you trust him to command during your absence?”
“That is hardly the point. Please allow me to depart in peace.”
Sayed stretched out in his chair. Sighed. “Arzu, I must insist that you remain with us for the time being—until after the New Year.”
“That is nearly a week off!”
“I apologize, but I must insist.”
“I have been your trusted ally for years,” Cossack growled through his teeth, “and you disrespect me so in front of your men?”
“An ally, yes, certainly. However, this close to certain victory, I cannot take any risk that might jeopardize our plans. Rasul will follow your orders while I keep you close, Arzu. As for your soldiers? Your men will be well treated. You need not worry on that account.
“And as the Americans’ New Year’s Eve celebrations near? We shall be receiving many visitors here, many friends and comrades in arms. Let us eat, drink, and enjoy ourselves while we await this triumph, eh?”
Cossack saw it all in Sayed’s eyes. The paranoia. The suspicions. Couched in pleasantries that did not mask the “velvet chains” by which Cossack found himself bound.
I can do nothing except capitulate. I must assuage Sayed’s mistrustful nature and wait for a viable opportunity to leave this place.
He sat back and relaxed. “Then I shall settle in to enjoy a much-needed respite, General Sayed. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
Chapter 27
USAMA ESCORTED COSSACK to breakfast as he had many days in a row, for nearly a week now. Cossack played his usual part in the charade. He offered cordial greetings to Sayed’s lieutenants, joined them in prayer, and treated them as faithful but lesser officers.
In return, Sayed’s lieutenants were uniformly polite—and uniformly restrained. They liked Cossack, that was plain, but they must have received orders to remain aloof. To put nothing more than superficial trust in him.
Cossack understood their dilemma. He took his meals apart from them—as a general should—and in every way conducted himself with the discipline and deportment befitting his status. He employed every opportunity to show himself a devoted follower of the Prophet and a loyal ally to the cause.
Day by day, he waited for Sayed to call him, but only three times did Sayed’s men usher him into Sayed’s presence to share the midday meal. They ate and Sayed alluded to his grand schemes but, when Cossack asked for details, Sayed politely refused.
“All in good time, Arzu,” Sayed promised.
The routine continued in the same manner with no change. Until today. This morning following breakfast, instead of returning Cossack to his room, Usama escorted him to Sayed’s salon.
Sayed sat on a cushion before the low table at the center of the conversation area. His servant and two guards stood nearby. Sayed was absorbed with the contents of a wide bowl, while his servant eyed Cossack and gestured to the sofa across from Sayed.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Cossack lowered himself to the sofa. He watched Sayed dig his hand into the bowl, fill it, and let the small, cellophane-wrapped bits fall through his fingers. He held the last one up to the light and studied it.
“I thought white ones stamped with a crescent moon most appropriate,” Sayed murmured. He slid his gaze to Cossack and tossed the object to him.
Cossack caught it. Held it in his hand. The tablet was small, round, fairly flat, and very light. He noted the distinctive crescent Sayed had remarked on. The other side was stamped with a stylized “x.” A candy, perhaps? The clear wrapper was fused at both ends similar to a peppermint or an individual Life Saver.
He smiled to himself. When was the last time I thought of Life Savers?
“What is it?” he asked.
“Our gift to America on New Year’s Eve.”
Cossack’s eyes jumped back to the innocent-looking thing, but he said nothing.
“You want to ask me, Arzu. It is written on your face.”
Cossack shrugged. “As you have not trusted me with details before today, I will not ask you to extend an explanation that you feel you must refuse.”
Sayed laughed softly. He looked to his servant and the two guards, and they laughed with him. Sayed turned back to Cossack. “Do you know what the date is today, Arzu?”
“I confess that I have found it difficult to keep track of the date since I arrived.”
“Yes, I suppose I take your point. Well, it is December 30, General. We are eight hours ahead of America on their east coast, so it is already December 30 there also, but earlier in the day. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and the Americans set great store by their New Year’s Eve celebrations. Very large, very public celebrations.”
Cossack tossed the candy back to Sayed. “All right. What are these?”
Sayed grinned. “Since the plan is now in motion, I can trust you with the details, Arzu.” He scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned forward. Dropped the candy into the bowl with the rest. Reached his hand into the bowl and filled it. “Ecstasy is a popular recreational drug in America. A party drug—and what bigger party is there than New Year’s Eve?”
“Drugs? You packaged drugs to look like candy? What if a child were to—” Cossack stopped himself. Sayed cared little for the children of his enemies.
“Calm yourself, Arzu. I suppose it is possible, but children are unlikely to eat these. If they did?” He shrugged again.
Cossack wanted to kill him. Right there, he wanted to strangle the man and see the darkness in his cold, unfeeling eyes go out.
Sayed smiled. “Put another way, children are not my target. No, it will be adults, mostly young adults, who benefit most from these beauties. Some may mistake them for candy, but anyone acquainted with the drug ecstasy will recognize it.”
“I am not familiar with it.”
“No? I hear it gives the user boundless energy, a sense of well-being or euphoria. American youth love to take it when dancing. The drug allows them to dance and enjoy themselves for hours.”
Cossack was somewhat confused. “How is this a weapon?”
Sayed chuckled. “The tablets are made to disguise our most special gift. You see, each of these ‘hits,’ as I believe they call them, also contain a potent dose of fentanyl.”
Cossack’s thoughts moved at lightning speed. “Your weapon lacks an effective delivery system. You said the New Year’s attacks would be devastating and point to the Russians. That they would “soften up” the Americans for the follow-on blow.”
He laughed at Cossack. “My dear General! We won’t be walking the streets of New York’s Times Square, handing them out. Of course, we have a delivery system.”
At Sayed’s nod, one of his men handed him a tube-like device. He held it up for Cossack’s inspection. “We tested a number of these and settled on the 80cm model for power and range.”
Cossack nodded but said nothing. Sayed laughed again.
“It is harmless, I assure you. It is called a confetti cannon. We have, of course, required our manufacturer to make improvements. Each cannon must be able to not only shoot the confetti high into the air, but also three hundred of our ecstasy tablets. As I said earlier, anyone acquainted with ecstasy will recognize it for what it is. And are they not all individually wrapped to ensure their cleanliness?”
“You’re going to shoot a few hundred of these into the air at midnight and expect devastating results?”
“Not a few hundred. To be precise, six hundred thousand—three hundred ‘hits’ shot from two thousand cannons. During their public celebrations, ten cities on the east coast of the United States will each be the beneficiaries o
f two hundred of these cannons and sixty thousand tablets.”
Sayed giggled. “We will salt Allah’s faithful among the unholy celebrants. At the stroke of midnight, they will discharge the cannons as instruments of celebration. What could be more innocent?”
“You’ll have these loaded confetti cannons at big, outdoor New Year’s celebrations and, at midnight, your people will shoot the cannons, launching the ecstasy tabs into the air. You think people will pick up the tabs from off the street—and swallow them?”
“Our studies show that half-inebriated partygoers are not the most discriminating consumers. However, the outdoor celebrations will not be the only places we sow our gifts. We have positioned squads of willing helpers, both men and women, in these same ten cities. They are all young and zealous for the jihad, eager to serve Allah. They have targeted the largest, most popular dance parties of the night and will attend them, dancing the evening away until the countdown to the new year.
“At midnight, they, too, will shoot confetti cannons into the air above the partiers. Trust me when I say that scores of partygoers belonging to America’s up-and-coming generation will enthusiastically catch the tabs as they fall and partake of them. Why should they not? We’ve taken pains with our packaging to assuage their qualms.”
Sayed stood to pace, his excitement growing. “I have heard infidels say that the followers of Islam across the world comprise a very large number and that we jihadis are only a tiny fraction of that number.” He laughed. “The intelligent ones—not that there are many—warn that even a small fraction of a very large number is still a really big number. What they do not perceive is that this axiom applies in many situations.”
He stopped pacing and faced Cossack. “The first collapse of the night will occur within fifteen minutes of the new year. Death within another five minutes or so. Of course, when the first victims succumb, no one will suspect the ecstasy. The pounding, deafening music will play on, the strobing lights will dazzle and mesmerize, the crowds will continue to dance, drink, and flaunt themselves, and more partiers will indulge in a little harmless ‘molly,’ as they call it.
“By thirty minutes past midnight, party organizers will realize they have a problem on their hands. Minutes later they will see death all around them. Some of the partiers may even wonder if the ecstasy they’ve blindly swallowed might be the problem. Soon after, their concerns won’t matter.
“You see, fentanyl binds to certain receptors in the brain and switches them off. Without those receptors, the brain doesn’t know that the body is low on oxygen. The confused brain will forget to tell the lungs to breathe—and so the victim will stop breathing. Death soon follows.
“In the cities we’ve targeted, calls to 911 will overwhelm the system. Not enough ambulances, police, or firemen—not enough time and not enough Narcan. Narcan can pause a fentanyl overdose, buy the victim a little time, but only if administered quickly enough.
“Did I say, ‘pause a fentanyl overdose’? Yes. Narcan—naloxone—bumps the fentanyl off those vital receptors in the brain, but only for about thirty minutes. Without additional treatment, the fentanyl will reattach itself to the receptors and continue marching the brain to its own death.”
Sayed said with wonder, “Did you know that only two milligrams of fentanyl is lethal? Two milligrams! Subhan Allah! Comparable to a few grains of table salt.”
Cossack was like a spring stretched to its breaking point. His shoulders and neck were so tight he was afraid the rigidity of his posture would give him away. He wagged his head slowly side to side to mimic Sayed’s mad awe. “I did not know this! Indeed, this is a powerful weapon, General.”
Sayed grinned and laughed for joy. “But can we expect the devastating results I promised?” Breathing hard, he said, “Let me reassure you. Three hundred tabs per cannon multiplied by two thousand cannons? That’s six hundred thousand lethal doses spread across ten cities. We’ve run the numbers through various computer models, using our lowest casualty estimates.
“If only two percent of the tablets are ingested? Twelve thousand deaths will result. Twelve thousand! The noble jihadi acts of September 11 resulted in less than four thousand deaths. At the very least, we will kill many times that number. What do you think of that, eh, Arzu?”
Cossack was frozen to his seat, unable to speak. When he could answer he murmured, “You were not exaggerating when you said your plan would outstrip 9/11.”
“Your enthusiasm is less than expected, less than desirable, my friend.”
Cossack snorted. “Not at all! I am . . . I am overcome by the beauty and sheer audacity of your plan.” Dear God or whatever high power exists in this craven universe, please help me play along. “I am trying to wrap my feeble mind around the sweeping scope of your plan.”
Cossack pursed his lips thoughtfully. “However . . .”
“However?” The corners of Sayed’s mouth turned down, declaring that he did not wish to hear anything but praise.
“My General, I am merely wondering why the Americans will attribute this act to Russia. That is your objective, is it not? That the Americans will blame Russia and condemn it as an act of war? And when they do, Russia will shift its attention away from us, from the rise of the new Islamic caliphate?”
Sayed’s good humor returned. He sat down beside Cossack and slapped him on the back. Then he removed one of the candy-like pills from the bowl and took up a small penknife. He sliced down the middle of the wrapper. He laid the pill on the table and used his fingers to carefully tease one of the fused ends apart. He laid a portion of the clear wrapper on the table and reached for a magnifying glass.
He handed the glass to Cossack and motioned to the wrapper on the table. “What do you see, eh?”
Cossack took the glass, held it over the tail of the clear wrapper, and leaned closer. The tiniest Cyrillic print appeared. Translated to English it would read Bogolyubsky Confectionery Concern.
Wholly owned by the Russian Federation.
“Ya lahwy! This wrapper was made in a Russian government factory?”
“Yes—as were the confetti cannons. We paid dearly for their ‘under-the-table’ production, but the wrappers and confetti cannons appear innocuous enough, no? That is, until the American FBI inspects them.”
Cossack smiled. “You have thought of everything, Sayed.”
Sayed lifted his head with pride. “Thank you. I have shared all this with you so that you will enjoy and appreciate the celebration.”
“Ah, I see.” Cossack had no idea what Sayed meant, but he tagged along, an eager audience to Sayed’s madness.
“Tomorrow we will host a party—my own officers and a few intimate outside friends, our fellow fighters in the holy struggle. These friends will begin arriving later today. In less than forty-eight hours, when it is the midnight of New Year’s Eve in America, it will be the first morning of the new year here. On that morning we will feast together and celebrate the glory of the attack as it is actually happening.
“A few hours after, we will hear from my commander in America, and he will report on the details of our victory, including casualty numbers as they are reported by the dumbstruck American media.
“Our fist—the fentanyl attacks—will fall upon the east coast of America, and when the evidence is collected, it will point to Russia as the malefactor. Perhaps, given enough time, the Americans will come to suspect that the clues we have provided for them are a bit obvious. However, within but a few weeks—before they can verify the Russian Federation’s innocence? They will experience the crushing weight of the ‘Hammer of Allah’ upon their heads. And when the ‘Hammer of Allah’ strikes them, there will be no doubt in the Americans’ minds who has attacked them. I promise you—there will be war between the Americans and the Russians.”
Cossack did not have to pretend his eagerness. “Tell me, Sayed. Tell me of this ‘Hammer of Allah.’ What is the plan?”
Sayed’s excitement cooled. “Not today, Arzu, but soon, I th
ink.”
He nodded to the soldiers who had brought Cossack to him. “Show him to his quarters.”
Cossack lurched to his feet. “You brought me to your stronghold only to tease me?”
“No, I brought you here to prepare you to witness our greatest moments. Also, to keep you under watch. You see, even now I am not entirely confident of you, Arzu.”
Cossack’s expression was a mixture of confusion and indignation. “I have fought for Chechen independence for two decades and served with you half that long! What do you mean?”
“Perhaps nothing, but if I err, I err on the side of caution.”
Usama approached Cossack, his meaning clear. Cossack nodded his compliance but threw Sayed a bone to stroke the man’s ego. “You have the courage of a tiger, General. I hope to prove myself trustworthy to you.”
“We shall see, Arzu. We shall see.”
Usama returned Cossack to his “room,” and he sat on the edge of his bed, the details of Sayed’s plans consuming his thoughts.
I knew Sayed planned to hit ten cities on New Year’s Eve. I had even learned he would use fentanyl as his weapon. However, I did not know how he intended to deliver the fentanyl.
I cannot hope that Wolfe’s people will untangle the complexities of Sayed’s plans enough to stop them. I gave them only what I had, and it was not enough! Moreover, as grotesque and inhumane as Sayed’s “fist” may be, I fear it will be overshadowed by this “Hammer of Allah.”
WOLFE STOOD BEFORE the task force. It was December 30, and he was staring the greatest intelligence failure of his lifetime in the face. He usually wore his responsibility well, but the weight of it lately had carved new lines around his eyes and mouth.
“People, the east coast of the United States will ring in a new year less than thirty-six hours from now. Please tell me you have actionable intel we can pass to our partners in the FBI, concrete information that will help them prevent the disaster looming over us.”
Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 30
