by Ward Larsen
Hadad collected his thoughts and began rehearsing his next phone call. The number would be the same he’d called earlier, the National Guard emergency line. He would give his location and claim to have the situation in hand. One more element to the confusion. A false sense of security instilled.
Hadad’s eye caught on the open front door. For all the chaos, there wasn’t the slightest scratch on it. He went over and began to swing it closed. Halfway through the arc, a large boot flew in and kicked it straight back in his face. It crushed his nose a second time.
* * *
When the second double buzz arrived, General al-Bandar was ready. He had the phone halfway to his ear before the first cycle ended.
“Tell me what you’ve found!”
“We were able to triangulate the call from the Syrian policeman,” said the voice from the command center. He followed with a rough estimate of the direction and distance from the tower.
The general was already on the balcony, and in the given direction he saw blocks of apartments and a small shopping mall under construction. “Put together a response!” he ordered. “Immediately!”
* * *
Hadad was wavering on his feet, a cold-cocked boxer deciding which way to fall.
Slaton held the Syrian upright, spun him against the entryway wall. When awareness flickered back into his eyes, Slaton leaned in and barred an arm across his neck. He kicked the door shut with a heel while his eyes swept the condo. He saw a dead man on the floor with multiple bullet wounds. There was a gun on the kitchen counter—probably, but not definitively, the one he’d seen Hadad carrying. Slaton saw and heard no one else, but a hallway to the right led to other rooms. These had to be cleared.
Hadad was a mess, his face battered and bloody. Slaton searched him thoroughly for other weapons, found none. The most useful discovery came from the jacket’s inside pocket. A worn leather credential holder. Slaton flipped it open. There was no badge, but instead a card embossed with the seal of the Syrian Ministry of the Interior, Damascus Police. Next to that was a photo ID, and an identity card with the man’s name in both Arabic and English. Inspector Omar Hadad, criminal investigations division. Sorensen’s metadata analysis had been dead-on.
Slaton wrenched his captive away from the wall and marched him toward the hallway junction. Passing the counter, he picked up the gun—a Glock 17 Gen 4. He released his captive long enough to perform a press check, saw a round in the chamber, then reasserted his grip on Hadad’s collar. He kept the detective out front as they approached the hallway—not as a human shield, but because he knew Hadad would react if he was out on point and there was a threat in back. Nothing happened.
Hadad regained his faculties, began standing straighter. Slaton addressed this by driving a knee to the man’s stomach. The Syrian doubled over and fell to the floor. Slaton made a quick search of what turned out to be one bedroom, two closets, and one bathroom. All were clear.
He went back to Hadad, bent down, and readdressed the moaning policeman.
“Do you know who I am?” Slaton asked in English, the most likely language they would share.
Hadad shook his head. “No.”
“Then I have you at a disadvantage.” Slaton nodded toward the Glock in his hand. “Or maybe I should say, another disadvantage.”
Hadad’s eyes blinked as he tried to follow.
Slaton said, “Three days ago I saw you outside a hair salon in Damascus, a place called Chez Salma. You arrived up in one of two cars that had come to arrest Ludmilla Kravchuk. You were in the back seat, and at one point you opened the door, got out, and took a look around. That was right before all hell broke loose.”
Hadad’s eyes narrowed. “You … that was you?”
“Small world, huh? I’m the guy who lit off that truck full of Hezbollah rockets.”
Hadad looked at him despairingly.
“It seems strange that our paths should cross again so soon … and here of all places. I’m guessing neither of us has come for the hajj. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m here for the same reason you are—the dedication of this big new tower. Something like that could be a tempting target for Saudi Arabia’s enemies.”
The Syrian said in heavily accented English, “I received information about a terror plot. I came to intervene.” He gestured all around the room.
Slaton stood and took in the room more carefully. He saw two large drones on the main counter, some tools and hardware. On the balcony outside were two more drones, one on the floor, another on a cheap plastic table. The one on the table was clearly different—it had been modified with two small canisters and a network of metal tubing. The hardware looked very similar to the images Sorensen had shown him from the incident in Darfur. The idea of being a few steps away from a fully primed weapon of mass destruction should have been unnerving to both of them. Yet as Slaton looked at Hadad, he thought the inspector seemed far more worried about the Glock.
Something didn’t add up.
Slaton pulled Hadad to his feet and herded him across the room. With all the finesse of a sledgehammer, he dumped the Syrian in the corner near the balcony sliding door.
Slaton asked, “When did you receive this information about an attack?”
Hadad hesitated a bit too long. “Last night.”
“But instead of calling the Saudis to warn them, you decided to fly here and save the day yourself?”
Silence.
Slaton went out to the balcony and studied the drone rigged with hardware. Then he looked at the one next to it, and the two inside. Why four? he wondered. Two would offer a backup. But four …
He reached out and, using the barrel of the Glock, tapped the two canisters in turn. Both sounded empty. He picked up the modified drone and thought it seemed surprisingly light. Slaton looked at the distant tower and checked his watch. The ceremony was to begin in ten minutes.
He knew he was missing something, and time was running out.
Slaton pulled out his phone and took three pictures of the drone from different angles, then uploaded them to Sorensen. He followed up with a call.
“You’re in the apartment complex?” she asked immediately.
“Number 304.”
“We just got word that the Saudis are responding to a reported threat in that building.”
“Where did the report come from?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Slaton looked at Hadad.
“We got the pictures you sent. What else is in there?” Sorensen asked.
“Altogether, four drones, one dead guy, and a certain Syrian detective.”
“Then you’ve done it! I’m looking at the pics you sent and I see the canisters. They look almost identical to the ones from Darfur.”
Slaton kept staring at the drone.
“David … what is it?” Sorensen asked, sensing his doubt from thousands of miles away.
“This is too obvious. Think about it. Whoever is running this show knew we would find the equipment in Darfur. I think they wanted us to find it, along with the links to Iran.”
“You still think this is a false flag op?”
“Has to be. The Jeddah Tower event is an obvious target, so they might have anticipated an intervention.”
“So what we’re looking at is a diversion? A bit of last-minute insurance to throw everyone off the real threat?”
“I think so.”
“Where does that put us? The ceremony starts in eight minutes.”
After a long hesitation, Slaton said, “If the threat in this apartment isn’t genuine, then the real one is still out there … and it’s probably imminent.”
“The Saudis will be there shortly. They can call up a chemical weapons unit from the army to inspect the canisters.”
“Not in seven and a half minutes they can’t.”
“What other option do we have?”
“I can only think of one.” Leaving the call connected, Slaton set the phone on the table. He picked up the entir
e drone assembly, carried it inside, and set it on the floor at Hadad’s feet. The Syrian still seemed less concerned about the drone than the Glock in Slaton’s hand.
Slaton edged to one side and pointed the gun downward. He took careful aim at the larger of the two canisters and his finger went to the trigger. He paused momentarily to gauge Hadad’s reaction.
There was none.
Slaton said a silent prayer. Then he pulled the trigger.
SEVENTY-FIVE
The sound of the shot mixed with a metallic clank, and a jagged hole appeared dead center in the first canister. Slaton stood still, waiting. Watching. Ready to run. There was no hissing stream of mist venting from the breach, no ooze of green liquid. Nothing at all. His next shot drilled the smaller canister. Same breathless moment. Same result. Empty. Hadad had flinched at the shots, but he ignored the canisters. He looked at Slaton like he was a madman.
It had been a gamble, but not as big as might be imagined. Even if there had been precursors inside, either one would likely be harmless by itself. Slaton picked up the phone again. “The canisters are empty. This is definitely a tactical misdirection.”
“Okaaay … good to know,” said a cautious Sorensen. He knew she’d heard the shots over the open line. “So now what?” she asked.
“We’re back to square one. Do you have a schedule of how this event is going to play out?”
“If not, I’ll get one ASAP.”
“While you do that—” Slaton’s thought was interrupted by the sound of engines revving in the street out front. The Saudi National Guard was indeed responding.
If he remained here, in a room full of terrorist hardware and bloody suspects, one of whom was dead, he would have some serious explaining to do. He would be disarmed, detained, and hauled off for interrogation. At some point he would convince the Saudis to contact Sorensen, who would vouch for him. At that point, Slaton would be released. All of which would take hours, if not days. In the meantime, the real attack would proceed and he would be out of the fight.
Slaton moved out onto the balcony and scanned the horizon 180 degrees. One thing seized his attention. Half a mile away, the fireworks display being assembled. Could that be the method of an aerosolized attack? In the hands of the right bombmaker, he suspected it could. Large-scale fireworks were essentially mortars—only smaller in caliber, with recreational fusing and designer warheads. It was a possibility that had to be ruled out.
He heard shouting out front. Slaton glanced at Hadad. He was curled in a fetal ball, rocking in the corner. Slaton doubted that would change as adrenaline wore off and pain kicked in.
He leaned over the rail of the third-floor balcony. The second-floor unit below had a duplicate balcony. On the ground level was a stone deck surrounding a community swimming pool, the water sparkling in the midday sun. From where he stood, the twenty-five-foot drop onto travertine was an invitation to broken bones. He might leap out far enough to reach the pool, but he wasn’t sure how deep it was—a detail every bit as important to special operators as it was to kids jumping into backwoods swimming holes.
Slaton adapted to the situation.
He gripped the balcony rail firmly, vaulted over the side. Reversing his grip, he then lowered himself as far as he could by walking his hands down a pair of rails. With his legs dangling beneath the base of the balcony, he began to oscillate back and forth. While he maneuvered, he heard a crash as the door of 304 was breached.
On the next inward swing he let go, aiming for the second-floor balcony. He landed awkwardly, striking the rail with one leg. He twisted as he hit the tile, and his phone shot out of his pocket. He reached out with a hand, but too late—he watched the handset flip over the edge. Moments later he heard the crack of plastic and glass shattering on stone.
“Dammit!”
He got up gingerly, his right hip stinging with pain. That’s going to leave a mark, he thought as he went to the rail. He saw the shattered phone, pieces strewn across the deck. He could only ignore it.
The pool was fifteen feet down, ten feet outward. With a running start, he could make a horizontal leap, the depth of the water no longer an issue. It would make for a spectacular escape. It would also create noise, a visual spectacle. And if he didn’t get his last step right, he could end up crashing onto the stone deck. There was a time for Hollywood and a time for practicality.
This was the latter.
Slaton lowered himself down the second-floor balcony as he had the one above. The final drop was a manageable ten feet, and he rolled onto his good hip in near silence. As he got back to his feet he heard shouting from above—Hadad being taken into custody.
He ran on an angle to the east, hoping to not be spotted by the Saudi team securing the apartment above. The fireworks staging area was half a mile from where he stood, entirely across open ground. There was no way to reach it without being seen. Slaton weighed the idea of going back for his car, but decided there wasn’t time. He set out on a sprint across the sunbaked desert.
As he ran the shouting from above faded, and for the first time Slaton noticed a new sound. Somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable resonance of jet engines tearing through the sky.
* * *
“And … delta … now.”
The words came over the radio in Lieutenant Colonel Jamil Issa’s unmistakable cadence, the flight leader’s words spaced at a precise interval so that on his final command all six aircraft moved in perfect synchronization.
The Saudi Hawks aerial demonstration team maneuvered as one, the five trailing aircraft flying with reference to a stable lead. The pilots made ever so slight adjustments of pitch, roll, and power to reconfigure the flight into a precise delta formation.
The flight leader looked over his shoulder and was happy with what he saw. His men were in good form and, with five minutes to go until the flyby, the rituals of their “warm-ups” were nearly done. The flight was twenty miles from show center, and Issa was feeling relaxed. Some performances required considerable planning, including the extensive study of ground references necessary to guide him through maneuvers. Today no aerobatics were involved. It was only a “pass-in-review” in delta formation, a simple flyby, although he was quite aware that his audience would include the king and crown prince. His reference point for show center, Jeddah Tower, could not have been more obvious—on any day as clear as this one, it could be seen for a hundred miles. All the leader had to do was get his timing right. He checked the aircraft clock, saw that his inbound run would begin in three minutes. He was to arrive at the ceremony at precisely 12:05.
Colonel Issa checked with his narrator, who was at the ceremony with a handheld radio. Everything was running on schedule. Issa banked into the last turn of their distant holding pattern. The only chore left was the final system test.
As he rolled into level flight, Issa keyed his microphone. “Smoke check, three … two … one … now.”
In perfect synchronization, all six pilots depressed a switch to activate their respective aircraft’s smoke generator. In the engine bay of each jet, dye-infused oil was released from a five-gallon reservoir and metered onto the exhaust pipe of an Adour turbofan engine. The high-grade steel exhaust shroud maintained a temperature of between five and seven hundred degrees Celsius, and the oil vaporized on contact.
For all the engineering, the result to viewers on the ground was typically a pleasing one. Six sleek jets trailed six plumes of smoke. In the case of the Saudi Hawks, two red, two white, and two green. This initial activation was only a test of the system, undertaken beyond the visual range of spectators at show central. After five seconds Issa ended the exercise.
“Smoke off … three … two … one … now.”
Six thumbs again acted in unison. In the tail sections of each jet, valves shut off the oil feed and awaited their next command. All, that is, except for one.
In the tail of the number 4 jet, flying slot, a distinctly different mechanism activated. Modified switches in th
e engine bay engaged a shunting device, disabling the primary smoke generator in favor of two smaller canisters that had been installed by a certain engine mechanic—a Jordanian national who now lay dead in a nearby apartment.
The next time the pilot of number 4 switched on his smoke, in less than five minutes, what would stream from the tailpipe of his jet was an odorless and colorless compound manufactured in a distant Siberian laboratory. And the effect it would have on those on the ground would be anything but pleasing.
SEVENTY-SIX
It wasn’t the fastest half mile Slaton had ever run, but probably the most grueling given the rough terrain and his mounting list of minor injuries.
He watched the staging area closely as he ran. Barring anyone hidden in the trucks, there were only two men working the site. Both wore off-white coveralls and appeared to have identity cards hanging around their necks on lanyards—evidence that they’d been screened at some level by the Saudis. Both men were six inches shorter than Slaton, both slight in build. Forced to guess, he would have pegged them as being Indonesian, maybe Sri Lankan or Thai. Their work vans were large and displayed identical logos, a company called Innovative Pyrotechnics. None of that dissuaded Slaton from the possibility that they could be terrorists preparing to launch an assault.
What did make him doubt it, however, was the men’s behavior. Both seemed wholly engrossed in their tasks, one packing mortars into a rack of launch tubes, the other connecting wires to a relay on a control stand—a table set up behind one of the vans. In the few minutes it took Slaton to reach them, neither man cast a single outward glance. They never noticed the tall man sprinting toward them, nor did they seem interested in the multiple security details in the distance. Neither looked at all on guard. If these two were in fact a terrorist element, they were among the coolest operators Slaton had ever seen.
