by Rick Jones
Getting into the United Kingdom, however, wasn’t quite as informal. Though Atwa’s ID clearly stated him as an Iraqi businessman with no radical ties, he still became the subject of scrutiny and profiling. The agent called for a personal inspection of Atwa, who was escorted to a room and asked to strip down to his undergarments, which he did without complaint. A wand to detect metals were passed over his clothing. A dog was sent in to sniff out trace elements of bombing chemicals or incendiary compounds.
But Atwa was clean. Then he was thanked for his cooperation with indifference by the investigating agents and allowed passage into the United Kingdom.
#
When the agent scanned Atwa’s passport a red-alert flag summarily appeared on the screen. Facial-recognition software had hit upon several landmarks on the passport’s photo through several identifiable points from the mid-face to forehead, and from temple to temple. Where the beard had once covered his face to hide certain points for positive identification, there was enough of a match from the passport photo to indicate him as Mehmoud Atwa, who was posing as Bouswa al-Mahini from Iraq, a businessman.
The red-flag message was clear: should such a man of Atwa’s level try to make a gateway passage into the country, then certain protocols were to be followed per instructions of MI5. The man was to be detained and agencies were to be notified. Should Atwa come in completely sanitized, then he was to be released.
But only when the players were in place.
After Atwa was cleared from the inspection area, he quickly grabbed his bag and left the terminal, the man never realizing that he was drawing a tail.
There was always a reason for keeping your enemies close.
#
As soon as Atwa exited the terminal doors, he was greeted by the damp and muggy air of a recent rain. Beyond the doors a car awaited, a blue and white-striped Citroën. Atwa’s bag was tossed into the rear of the vehicle by the driver, and then, once behind the wheel, pulled away from the curb and into the center lane.
Atwa immediately removed his tie and tossed it in the backseat. “How people can wear these things is beyond me,” he commented. Then he reached up and rearranged the rearview mirror to give him a view of what was behind them. Minimal traffic. And nothing to give him cause for suspicion.
He turned the mirror back to the driver’s advantage.
“You think we are being followed, yes?” asked the driver.
“It’s always best to be diligent than to be complacent,” he said.
The man behind the wheel was a logistical player, not an operative. His duties were to act as a custodian to people like Atwa by introducing them to a new society, such as key areas where Arabs congregated and sequestered themselves from London culture, places where plans were hatched or shelved.
“You must be tired,” the driver led.
Atwa nodded. “Very. I’ve been quite busy working as Allah’s vessel, a great honor.”
“Then today you rest. Tomorrow you meet with Beckett.”
“The area is one of neutrality?”
The driver nodded. “Yes. You’ll be quite safe.”
“It’s not my safety I’m worried about,” he answered. “As sophisticated as the Islamic State has become, certain intelligence agencies have also met the demands to keep pace.”
“Beckett has also taken measures,” the driver said. “He, too, wishes to remain unseen, since he has much at stake.”
As they rode the rest of the way in relative silence, Atwa’s mind worked.
He would act as the liaison between Mabus and Beckett, trading the True Cross for the M600 target-precision rifle. He had been given little detail by Mabus as to the long-range goals of possessing 5000 weapons. But it had been made clear by Mabus that for the deal to go through, Beckett must hand over five rifles as an act of good faith before he would allow Beckett to lay his eyes on the idol, with the rifles to be sent to the United States for testing. Everything hinged on the perfect performances of the weapons. If the rifle lived up to its reputation of functioning a near-perfect kill rate, then Mabus would exchange the True Cross for an additional 5000 rifles.
Atwa looked at his watch and knew he would sleep little between now and the moment he met with Oliver Beckett, where he would hammer out a deal that would strengthen the push of the Islamic State deep into European nations.
Then Atwa praised Allah with continuous blessings for allowing him be such a vessel in all things important. Allahu Akbar, he chanted to himself over and over like a mantra. Allah is Great … Allah is Great … Allah is Great …
The vehicle continued towards London.
#
Atwa was right to look in the rearview mirror. And this was something MI5 anticipated.
While Atwa was being detained and searched, MI5 was sending in its field troops to make sure that Atwa never left their sight. When everyone was in place, radio contact had been made to the principal of the Behavior Detection Officers, or the BTO, to release Atwa.
The moment Atwa left the terminal and entered a vehicle, the game was on.
MI5 had established a vehicle in front of the targeted Citroën, about fifty meters. As soon as the Citroën pulled away from curbside, MI5’s sedan pulled away simultaneously and remained in front of the Citroën until the Citroën passed them without suspicion on the causeway. From this point three additional intercept cars came into play. As the lead sedan team radioed its position, an intercept car homed in and pulled in behind the Citroën, and the lead sedan fell back and out of view. This repeated action of intercepting and falling back was designed to give the occupants of the Citroën the perception that they weren’t being followed, since every trailing vehicle seemed to come and go with a new model and make taking the lead car’s position.
While the vehicles constantly transferred positions keeping the Citroën in view, a chopper loaded with infrared and thermal-imaging lenses came into play as well. From an elevation of four hundred feet and utilizing a muffling-rotor system, the chopper kept Mehmoud Atwa within its sight.
Now that the helicopter took lead and remained in radio contact with the mobile units following Atwa, the cars eased back to a greater distance in order to keep Atwa from raising a suspicious eye.
Nevertheless, MI5 was keeping their enemy close.
#
Oliver Beckett picked up the phone after the first ring. “Yes.”
“The information was right,” the voice stated on the other end. “Atwa is being followed.”
“By MI5?”
“Yes.”
“Contact the driver and have him divert.” Then: “You know what to do. Take care of the situation.”
“Yes, Mr. Beckett.”
Beckett hung up without any worries.
#
The driver of the Citroën received a call on his cellphone, flipped the phone open with his free hand, and spoke a greeting in Arabic.
“In English,” said the voice.
“What do you want?”
“You’re drawing a tail.”
“Impossible.” The driver looked into the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights to a vehicle shone far behind. “Are you sure?”
“We received confirmation. Four vehicles and one chopper.”
The driver tried to look skyward through the window, but the angle was impossible since the chopper was directly above. “I hear nothing,” he said. “No helicopter.”
Atwa perked up at this.
“That’s because it has a muffle system. It’s there.”
The driver looked at Atwa, then spoke into the phone. “What do you want me to do?”
“Head to the diversion point.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And don’t worry,” the voice added. “Everything will be taken care of.”
The operator on the other end hung up.
The driver shook his head. “No. We’ll be fine. We just need to redirect.”
“Redirect. Why?”
“Because we’re not alone.”
Atwa was about to turn around and look out the back window. But the driver intuited this and grabbed Atwa hard by the forearm. “Do not turn to look,” he told him. “It would only draw suspicion from those who are surveying us. Believe me, Mehmoud Atwa, we’ll be fine. Mr. Beckett plans for everything.”
Atwa mulled this over for a moment, but the man couldn’t relax.
Without his knives he was out of his element.
The Citroën took an unscheduled turn to the west and continued on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Flying time from Rome to London is two hours and seventeen minutes. So the Vatican had commissioned an airbus A319 through Alitalia Airlines, their contract charter company. Onboard the plane sat Kimball, Leviticus and Isaiah, with each poring over intel reports gathered from the SIV, MI5 and 6, and the CIA.
Kimball read extensively the dossiers on Mabus and Atwa, trying to glean as much as he could about his opponents. Then he read everything there was to know about the M600 target-precision rifle, a modern-day marvel of engineering that had been perfected by the DOD, with the same model presumed to be perfected by Beckett Industries.
The marvel behind the smart-weapon technology was its ability to home in on its target, as long as the target didn’t move faster than fifteen miles per hour, or by metric standards twenty-four kilometers per hour, and was within 600 yards or 550 meters. The kill-rate of 100% was an achievable reality, even in the hands of a non-skilled shooter. Aim the rifle, lock onto the target, pull the trigger, and the weapon would do the rest.
But what stuck out in Kimball’s mind was the fact that the rifle worked on a battery with a three-hour lifespan, which would hamper its use for desert warfare once the battery charge was depleted, rendering it and the rifle useless. And since there were no power grids with the exception of a few areas close to Damascus, it didn’t make any sense to Kimball as to why the Islamic State would trade such weapons for the True Cross if it had limited ability.
Then Kimball realized that he was looking at the entire scenario from a single viewpoint, that of desert warfare. But what if they were to be used for other purposes beyond desert warfare? What if the M600 had another use outside the obvious? And then it hit Kimball like a sharp slap, one that rocked him.
There was another purpose, he thought.
And it was devastating.
The plane began its descent into Heathrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Shari Cohen was livid. Qasim Ali was taken out of her grasp before she could prospect the man for information regarding Mohammad Allawi.
“Homeland Security came across intel regarding Ali’s possible collusion with possible strikes against the Capitol. So I was told by the attorney general to stand down immediately.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did you find out?”
“Right after you left. When I informed the DHS that you were leading the investigation, they immediately thought it necessary to run interference.”
“What is it they think that Ali, or Trayveon Scott, is involved with?”
“They’re not sure, which is why he was extracted from Brockbridge. But they did inform me that he had been receiving privileged mail from his attorney over the past few months, after it was confirmed by the DHS that Scott’s attorney hadn’t sent Scott a letter since his notification of his last appeal more than eight months ago.”
Shari knew that privileged mail from an inmate’s attorney was strictly off limits to the eyes of prison staff. Mail was deemed strictly confidential due to attorney-client privilege, and couldn’t be read like non-privileged mail, which was outgoing correspondence to family and friends that could be read by staff, in order to pick up on illegal acts that might be going on behind prison walls.
FBI Director Larry Johnston opened a manila folder on his desk, grabbed a few Photostat copies, and laid them on top of his desk. They were photo copies of the envelopes that Scott had been receiving over the past few months. “Mr. Scott, or Ali, knew that privileged mail could not be read as long as they were sent from his attorney. Somebody on the outside had these envelopes made and printed with the attorney’s name and address on it, along with everything that looked legit. But when no correspondence went out, that’s what drove suspicions. Given that Scott is Qasim Ali and serves to radicalize people to join the Front of the Islamic State, DHS went to the firm and spoke to the principals who confirmed that the envelopes entering Brockbridge had been fabricated. That’s how he’s been communicating, Shari. He’s been receiving privileged mail that went unread per law by someone in the ISIS organization, and most likely transferring that information to inmates, who have been relaying that information to those upon visitation.”
“What possible information could be strong enough to take Scott to a black-site?”
Johnston surmised. “Over the past week Scott received three letters when he normally received three letters in a period of three months, so something big might be going down. Since the information is deemed quite sensitive, it’s possible that a strike against D.C. landmarks is about to take place. Chat rooms are vague, but they’ve picked up as well.”
“So I’m out? I just let Mohammad Allawi run about?”
“No. You still need to do your job in counterterrorism, that doesn’t change. You just can’t go after Trayveon Scott, or Qasim Ali, to achieve the means. You have to find another way.”
Shari bit on her lower lip. Trayveon Scott was her key. Now he was gone and most likely would never see the light of day again, since black-sites had a way of making people disappear permanently.
“I’m sorry, Shari. But DHS hopped all over this and immediately reacted. I was hoping that you could get something out of Ali before they responded.”
“I got nothing,” she answered glumly. And Mohammad Allawi is still out there and most likely setting his sights.
“You’re a good agent,” said Johnston. “Just do your job.”
“It seems that when I do, then the powers that be suddenly see the need to rain on my parade. Or to piss on it, to be more exact.”
“I know you’re upset, Shari. But the jurisdiction regarding Qasim Ali now belongs to Homeland Security. You need to move on from that.”
“It’s hard, Larry.”
“I know.”
“Will the attorney general be working with DHS?”
“I assume so.”
“Will he inform you about certain things to relay to us, in order to maintain national security?”
“Enough to keep us safe.”
“And if Ali, or Scott, ties Allawi into what they believe may be coming down the pipe?”
“Then you’ll be informed enough to achieve the means, along with other organizations to see us safe. Nothing more.”
Shari was beside herself with seething anger. She hated being restricted. That was the problem when there were so many organizations assigned to the same task: to protect the country from subversives. The problem was: nobody wanted to share.
“Thank you,” she stated coldly. Then she left the director’s office.
Now she was at square one.
Again.
But like her grandmother who had the fortitude to press on despite the huge disadvantages that faced her in Auschwitz, Shari would move forward with Mohammad Allawi in the crosshairs of her sights. I will find you, she told herself.
She could feel the weight of her firearm against her hip.
And it felt good.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Black-Site Facility
West Virginia
“My name is Qasim Ali!” shouted Scott. He was trussed up like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, with his arms and legs spread out as he was tethered to posts and beams, and was raised a foot off the ground.
“Your name is Trayveon Scott,” the interrogator stated flatly. “You are a traitor to your country. And you’re–”
“I am a vessel of Allah!”
“–a traitor to the faith of Islam.”
“I am a vessel of Allah!”
Mike Millette was a man of massive proportions, beefy with muscle and thickness. His neck was like the trunk of a tree, wide and powerful. And his forearms were as wide as blocks of ham that complemented a barrel-like chest and broad shoulders. His appearance was definitely a physiological tool meant to intimidate.
“Your name is Trayveon Scott,” Millette said with even measure. “You are not Qasim Ali.”
“I am a vessel of Allah!”
Millette nodded as if disappointed with the man’s response, then he lowered Scott to the floor, bound the man until his arms and legs were firmly bound to his sides, lifted Scott to a board, and laid him flat.
Scott begged the huge man, who looked down at him with indifference. “Please,” he said. “Pleeeeeeeeease.” The wet and rheumy look of emerging tears began to settle on the rims of Trayveon Scott’s eyes.
But Millette was a man of conviction who blocked his emotions. He settled a damp cloth over Scott’s face, and then he poured ice-cold water over the cloth, simulating the act of drowning.
Scott coughed, gagged and choked, his lungs filling with droplets that escaped through the fabric. When the coughing subsided and he tried to suck in air, Millette repeated the process. After the sixth time, Millette lifted the board so that Scott stood at a sixty-degree angle and removed the cloth. “Who were the letters sent by? Who is your correspondent?”
