The Insider Threat

by Brad Taylor

  The town itself was a labyrinth. An ancient city constructed out of the sea by brute force, whose locals had little sympathy for the influx of tourists.

  They’d stomped around for forty-five minutes, crossing one canal after another without getting any closer to their hotel. They’d walked down an alley and ended up at a small dock next to the water, and nothing else. A dead end. Jacob had about lost it until a man had pulled up in a johnboat.

  Jacob had asked a couple of questions, and the man was more than helpful, taking them in his boat and driving them to the closest point to their hotel, talking about his job and life as they passed multiple small docks, all with skiffs and johnboats. Jacob had realized two things: One, the quickest way around this place was on the water. And two, he could steal a boat.

  Listening to the man describe life in Venice, Jacob began to understand how difficult the mission would be, even as Carlos and Devon marveled at the tourist attractions. The city was nothing more than footpaths, cut across in a chaotic way with canals, and separated from the mainland by a healthy bit of water.

  Murdering four people here will be damn near out of the question.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. It would be easy to kill someone in Venice. There wasn’t much police presence. Some outstations with cabrini, and some roving patrols, but all in all, if he wanted to take someone’s life, then stake the body to a cross for all to see, he could do it, and he stood a fair chance of getting away.

  His problem was much, much greater. He had to kill without anyone knowing. In Syria, such a thing would have been easy, leaving the carcass to rot next to the others in the desert. Even in his old world, he could make a single man disappear by burying him in the Everglades, letting the alligators have some lunch. Here, the terrain itself was formidable. There was no desert or swamp to transport the victims to, letting the sun and carrion eaters destroy the carcass before it was found.

  On top of that, they had to kill four men. The chaperone and his three charges. They had only four nights to do it, and they had to accomplish the mission here, before the group traveled to Rome. Which brought up the final obstacle.

  They had to do the murders in such a manner that nobody knew the victims were gone, because they intended to assume their identities.

  Following the church leader, Jacob had begun to believe the mission was impossible. Right up until he saw the chaperone kiss the woman.

  46

  Jacob followed the couple through the remainder of the palace museum, stalking them through the myriad of palatial rooms and ignoring the history dripping from every corner. If asked later, he couldn’t have described a single thing from the inside of the palace. Not one painting, one throne, or one sculpture. But he could have told you in minute detail what the man and woman did, because he photographed most of it, waiting on the money shot.

  It didn’t come. They never kissed again inside the museum. Jacob snapped plenty of shots of them close together, some where they were even rubbing against each other, but none that were inherently incriminating. Which was something Jacob needed to make his nascent plan work.

  From the beginning, Jacob knew his target set was split in two: the chaperone and the kids. He instinctively understood that he had to divide in order to conquer. He simply had no idea how to do that. Outside of pure chance, there was no way to predict when the chaperone would be separated from the boys, and reacting to those occurrences—as he had today—was not a recipe for success. There needed to be some control. Some method to predict when the man would leave his charges or, better still, predict when and where he would be.

  And now Jacob had it. If he could get the money shot.

  The couple exited the marble courtyard of the palace, walking through the revolving gate into the Piazza San Marco, an expansive square flooded with visitors from all over the globe. Jacob gave the couple a second, then followed, temporarily losing them in the crowds.

  He skipped past children playing with pigeons in the square, the filthy birds perched on shoulders and heads, parents taking photos and patently ignoring the prohibitions against engaging in such behavior.

  He walked rapidly past the clock tower, swiveling his head toward the ornate San Marco Basilica. All he saw were lines of people waiting to enter both places. He went deeper, scanning for the purple scarf the woman wore. He caught it on the edge of the square, disappearing into an alley.

  He sprinted to catch up.

  He entered the alley, a small hallway carved out of stone, leading away from the square. He saw the couple ahead of him exiting, going left in front of a bridge across one of the ubiquitous canals. He began jogging, jostling people out of the way to catch up. He slowed at the bridge and turned the corner, now moving with the rhythm of the tourists.

  He saw the chaperone and his busty date talking to a gondola coxswain. Debating a price.

  One of the many small ports threaded throughout the city, it held multiple gondolas waiting for passengers, similar to a taxi stand in New York, only much, much more expensive. If the target was hiring a gondola, he had no destination in mind other than peeling the clothes off of the person he was riding with.

  Looking like oversize canoes, the boats plied the canals all over Venice, some gondoliers singing, and some offering other amenities. Jacob remained where he was, knowing he was about to lose the chase. He raised his point-and-shoot camera and zoomed to the fullest extent of its cheap capability.

  And got the money shot.

  The man leaned over to the woman, surreptitiously cupped her breast, and kissed her full on the mouth. In eight-megapixel color.

  * * *

  He returned to the Best Western, finding Devon and Carlos sitting in the room going through the television channels as if repeated clicking would make one change over to English.

  They glanced up at him, earnest faces surrounded by chocolate wrappers and potato chip bags from the minibar, the room a mess.

  “Jesus Christ. What the hell have you guys been doing? Do you know how much this shit costs?”

  Carlos said, “It don’t cost nothing. It was all on top of the fridge. It came with the room.”

  Jacob shook his head, muttering under his breath. He kicked towels out of the way, stepping over the makeshift sleeping pallet on the floor that the other two men used. He noticed a prayer rug next to the pallet, an Islamic State–sanctioned prayer schedule next to it. He picked it up and said, “What the hell is this?”

  As if Omar were in the room, Carlos said, “We can act like the infidel, but we will not become the infidel. We have to maintain our strength.”

  Livid, Jacob smacked him in the back of the head, shouting, “Are you fucking insane? You need to become Catholic. Catholic! What will happen if the maids see this? What the hell are you guys thinking?”

  He stood, tearing the schedule in two. He turned in a circle, looking at the mess in the room, the two simpletons in it, and his own reflection in the mirror. He felt a clawing pressure. He saw the shock on Carlos’s face from his outburst, and Devon cowering in a chair. He instinctively knew he was failing. Knew that leadership was needed here. Leadership such as Omar would have provided. The religion was nothing. He needed to rise above that and provide the leadership these men craved. As he had in the white house.

  He sat on the bed and said, “Okay, okay. Tell me you knuckleheads did something today.”

  Like a light switch, Carlos turned from Islam and became the common criminal he had always been. He said, “I’ve walked all over the area here, and I’ve got four johnboats that I think I can steal. Two are on the Grand Canal, and two are on smaller feeder canals. If we need a boat, I’ll get one. They don’t pay a lot of attention to security. A rope and maybe a chain, and we’re in.”

  Jacob didn’t bother to ask any questions about operating the vessels. Coming from Florida, all three could operate a skiff and motor. Instead, he focused on the specifics. “How long before someone knows it’s missing? Can we take it and get it back,
or once we take it, the clock’s ticking?”

  “During the day, we’re fucked. After about six, I think we’re good. They won’t notice the boat missing until the following morning.”

  Thinking, Jacob said, “And you can navigate the canals? If I gave you a spot?”

  “Yeah. It’s actually not that hard. I got a map. A water taxi map. I can figure it out.”

  Jacob nodded. “Good. Devon? Any luck?”

  Devon was tasked with befriending the boys after the chaperone left.

  “I followed them for a while, and they did what any tourist would do. Wandered around to all the attractions. When they reached the Rialto Market over on the other side of the canal they stopped for lunch. I approached them then. We struck up a conversation, and I asked if they wanted to party. They said no.”

  Jacob waited, then said, “And that’s it? What, did you offer them cocaine or something? They’re high school kids.”

  Devon smiled and said, “They said not today, but asked me if I was hanging around for a few days. They said they could maybe party later. Actually looked at one other as if they were breaking the law. I don’t think they realize the drinking age here is, like, sixteen or something.”

  “So?”

  “So they said their chaperone runs the show, but he’s apparently here partially on business. They’ve got a sightseeing trip planned for tomorrow during the day, but tomorrow night they’re free. The chaperone’s going to be busy doing something, and the following day he’ll be in business meetings. They’re on their own. They asked if I knew of a place to go to after he left. I found a pub called the Devil’s Forest. I told them to meet me there tomorrow night at nine.”

  Jacob smiled. Business meetings. Right. This might work after all.

  “That’s perfect. Devon, you meet them and get them liquored up. So drunk that they’ll let you in their rooms. Figure out the lay of the land of their hotel. Get control of one of their keys. We only need one. Put them to bed but leave with a key.”

  He tapped his finger against his lip, thinking. He continued, “Do we know the specific room the chaperone is using?”

  “Yeah. His is a floor above the kids. After you started following him, I found the room, but that hotel isn’t good for a hit. It’s a mess, with hallways and rooms spread out like a crazy aunt built it. I can follow the kids back and tuck them in, maybe even get a key, but we can’t kill anyone there.”

  “I’m not going to. Carlos, I’m going to need that boat tomorrow around ten at night.”

  Carlos said, “For what? We can’t kill them when they’re out drunk with Devon.”

  “I’m not talking about the kids. We need the chaperone first. I’m taking him tomorrow night.”

  “How? All we know is that he won’t be with the kids. You can’t kill someone in this city like that.”

  “He’ll be where I say, when I say. Does this hotel have a printer? A business center?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Jacob raised his camera. “I have to print some pictures.”

  47

  Rashid read the direct message on Twitter and was astounded at al-Britani’s lack of security. Didn’t the man remember anything he was taught while working with Jabhat al-Nusra? Was the Islamic State so arrogant they no longer cared about operational compromise? How had Omar al-Khatami succeeded as long as he had with this example of leadership?

  The message was succinct and to the point: Attack delayed, possibly tomorrow or maybe the next day. Inside man’s work schedule changed.

  Rashid put an email address from a service called ProtonMail into his direct message response. He ordered al-Britani to create his own account, encrypted end to end and anonymous, and send him a message tomorrow. He instructed al-Britani to set the encryption password for the body of the email the same as the subject line, which would come through unencrypted. It was a risk, as someone could conceivably crack the email with the hints given here, on Twitter, but they’d have to find the new account al-Britani created first, and ProtonMail—located in Switzerland—was outside the eyes of the prying NSA. Anyway, it was much better than talking over Twitter, and he would change the password after the first message.

  He hit send, logged out of his Twitter account, then cleared the history of the browser. He stood and saw two police officers enter the café, sending a little shiver of adrenaline down his back. They went to the counter and bought time on a system, then walked behind him to a computer at the end of the row.

  Rashid exhaled, realizing they were from the security of the US embassy next door, and more than likely just on a break.

  Really need to find another Internet café.

  He exited the dungeonlike shop, walking up the steps from the basement, leaving the gloom and entering the sunlight. He went down Rruga e Elbasanit, passing right in front of the United States embassy compound, threading through the local-national guards milling about. He kept his head down, and hid the smile on his face.

  He took a left, going past the Tirana soccer stadium and leaving the embassy behind. Blending into the crowds, appearing more local than not, he continued on, looking for the small grocery/pharmacy his apartment was above. He saw the sign above the store and ruefully thought that at least the rejection of bringing his entire team had meant less rental space needed. Less coordination.

  He’d convinced the leadership of Jabhat al-Nusra that his trip was to ensure the success of the Islamic State attack, but in so doing he’d cut off his ability to bring all the men he needed. After the crusader air strikes, he had five left who were fiercely loyal to him, and unquestionably lethal, but the al-Nusra emir had balked when he said he wanted all five.

  Why? he’d asked. Why do you need all of them to fly to Albania? If you’re just making sure the transfer occurs successfully, from the outside? Two will be enough to protect the transfer.

  Yes, two would be enough to protect the transfer, but it made capturing Omar very, very hard. And there was no way he was leaving Tirana without Omar’s scalp hanging from his belt. Quite possibly literally.

  He entered the small hallway next to the market and tromped up the stairs. Not wanting a surprise, he knocked on the door, paused, then twisted the key. He found his two men sitting at the kitchen table, looking at him expectantly. He smiled.

  “So how did your day go? Did you find me another Internet café? One away from the crusader embassy?”

  The first nodded and said, “Yes. Actually, there’s one about four blocks away.”

  Rashid scowled, saying, “And you sent me to the lion’s den instead?”

  The man recoiled, saying, “I . . . I didn’t know. I’ve never been here. I did the best . . .”

  Rashid waved a hand, saying, “You did fine. I just don’t want to return there. How do we look for tomorrow? For the meeting?”

  “We’ve both been into the garden. It will be hard. The meeting site is set back, in the glade, and there is no easy escape if we have to force a man to come with us.”

  Rashid said, “We won’t take him there. We’ll follow to a more suitable location.” He saw the man had a further question, and said, “Yes?”

  “Well . . . we were wondering . . .”

  Rashid waited, but both were too respectful to talk. Rashid grew sick of the reticence. “What, Hashim? Damn it, don’t act like a woman.”

  Hashim stiffened at the insult, then said, “Why aren’t we talking to the Albanians? You know the meeting, and you could contact the men. Why are we doing this risky operation? Just get them to put a gun on him.”

  Rashid said, “That would seem to be easiest, but I don’t trust the Albanians. They are working for money. Don’t believe they have the faith, even if they’re Muslim. They would just as likely tell Omar what we planned.”

  The second man said, “Why don’t we just kill him? Why do we need to capture him? We could shoot him from a distance before the meeting, then get the Albanians to give us the weapons. After all, they�
��re our weapons. They’re just holding them.”

  “If all I wanted were the weapons, I wouldn’t even bother killing Omar. I’d just get them back.”

  When neither man spoke, he continued, “The Albanians have no idea what Omar has planned. Only he knows that, which is why we will capture him. I want to know his plan, and, as I told our command, I want to facilitate its success. Only with our mantle. Our leadership. He will tell us what he’s doing, and we will deliver the weapon to his team. And then we will claim credit, as we are about to do in Jordan. We will be the undisputed leaders, regardless of the propaganda from that blasphemous caliphate.”

  Hashim smiled at his words, nodding and looking at his partner. He said, “I thought so. I said as much to Kamal.”

  Kamal bowed his head to Rashid and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question. We have the weapons you requested. We can do what you say. Insha’Allah, it will be done.”

  Rashid said, “Look at me. Both of you.”

  They did.

  “Are you prepared to find martyrdom tomorrow?”

  The both nodded, with Hashim saying, “Of course. It would be our honor.”

  “Are you prepared to do so without accomplishing our mission? Do you want to meet Allah and tell him failure?”

  Confused, they both slowly shook their heads.

  Rashid stood, walking to the small kitchen and opening a bottle of water. He took a sip, reflecting, then said, “Allah will help us on our path, but make no mistake, He won’t protect us from the Chechen demon. I’ve met that man once before, and it wasn’t pleasant. Underestimate him, and you’ll meet the afterlife sooner than you want.”

  48

  Omar al-Khatami said, “Destroy the phone we’re talking on as soon as we hang up. Use that email to communicate. Nothing else. Do you understand?”