by Rick Jones
Kimball turned to him. The man was obviously fighting for his own calm, and placed a warm hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “I understand your position,” he told him. “And I’m not asking you to understand mine. Until we find the True Cross, then I will wear the collar around my neck as a badge of honor and as a reminder of who I am as a Vatican Knight. Once the True Cross is in our possession, once the objective has been achieved, then I will remove this collar and take my chances as to who will lord over me, Heaven or Hell. Mabus needs to be dealt with.”
Isaiah said nothing because there was no point. Kimball was Kimball. Heaven and Earth couldn’t change his ways once he had something in mind, no matter the deed.
Then from Kimball: “We have a job to do.”
Isaiah nodded in agreement.
It was time to go after the True Cross.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Syria
Mabus sat on a cushion staring at the True Cross. He had touched it, caressed it, but felt no special tingling at the fingertips. If it had any special powers, they certainly didn’t present themselves to him.
By late noon Chahine finally showed up at the hut. The air was thick and hot and as thick as soup. The wooden shutters to the windows remained shut.
Mabus looked at him. “You have news from Atwa, yes?”
Chahine shook his head. “Nothing. Our couriers in London have yet to be contacted by him.”
“But the deal with Beckett has been consummated?”
“Very much so. Beckett sent his message to his contacts in Mexico. Five rifles have been sent to America and will arrive shortly. The deal is done.”
Mabus seemed to mull this over. “Strange that Atwa remains silent.”
“Yes, Mabus.”
Then: “Did you get the message out to all couriers?”
“As requested by you.”
“Excellent, Chahine. You really are a good man to have around.”
“A kind honor coming from you,” he returned.
“We’ll give Atwa another day or two. London can be a strange place. Nothing like Syria. It’ll take time for him to develop a cell there.”
“Yes, Mabus.”
“And what of our contact in D.C.? I’m assuming he’s been informed when and where to pick up the weapons?”
“Mohammad Allawi is his name.”
Mabus waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. He’s still an American by birth.”
“He will get the job done. First the delegates … And then …” He let his words trail.
But Mabus finished for him. “And then anyone who moves. Man. Woman. Child … Anyone.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mohammad Allawi was sitting outside a fast-food restaurant feeding on a basket of seasoned curly fries when he saw the shadow of someone standing beside him. Allawi didn’t offer an acknowledging glimpse to see who it was. He already knew. So he pointed to the empty seats opposite him. “Sit.”
One was a young man of nineteen, though he still appeared to be about sixteen, who looked too young to grow tufts of hair on his chin let alone a beard, and wore a T-shirt that had the image of Testudo, the musclebound turtle and mascot for the University of Maryland. Beneath the image it read: Go Terps! The two that were with him were much older and bearded, obviously seasoned recruits who were ready to raise a scimitar in Allah’s honor. They had set their backpacks down and took the seats that flanked the young man who was a Jordanian by birth. The other men also had traits from the Middle East, with both having naturally tanned complexions and unfashionable beards that had been shaped by minute loops of curly hair.
Allawi pushed his basket aside. “Where are the other two?”
“Coming,” said Terrapin Boy. “They got held up in Boston.”
“Something to be concerned about?”
“No.”
After Qasim Ali disappeared from Brockbridge, this kid, still in his teens, was suddenly anointed to take Ali’s place. Allawi didn’t like it. Kids were impressionable and liked to boast because it gave them a sense of importance at so early an age. Sometimes they just couldn’t handle it; their tongue too loose. But it wasn’t Allawi’s call. He was obviously conscripted so that his impressionable weakness could be groomed to serve in the future without question, like surrendering your life in the name of Allah moments after a Semtex vest was strapped to your body.
“So you have a message for me?”
Terrapin Boy nodded. “The weapons are on their way. Five units. The Mexican cartel was able to smuggle the weapons into Arizona and are en route as we speak. Those who are transporting the weapons will arrive on time. No problems there.”
“Very good.”
“Also, word from my peer is that the dignitaries will be arriving at separate times. First from France, then from Belgium … with Israel the last. The principals want you to take out the man from Israel, who is believed to be a Mossad leader.”
“That takes one man for one target. Not five,” said Allawi.
“A decision has been made for the others to spread across certain points in Washington. The order is to take out soft targets, preferably women and children.”
Allawi sat there unspeaking. The only thing that moved were the eyes in his sockets as they studiously scanned his team. Then: “Understood.”
“Good.”
“Is there any news about your predecessor?” Allawi asked. “It’s disturbing to me that he simply disappeared within the confines of a prison.”
Terrapin Boy shrugged. “No one seems to know. Perhaps he is in lockdown. But it matters little since I am now the conduit to the principals.”
Allawi pulled his basket of fries towards him and began to eat. The fries had grown cold.
Terrapin Boy rose from his seat, pushed away from the table, and said: “Allahu Akbar.”
Everyone responded, including Allawi: Allahu Akbar.
And then he was gone, the boy who on the cusp of becoming a man too naïve to realize that he was being prepared for death.
Allawi watched Terrapin Boy get into a car, start it up, pull slowly into traffic, and drive away.
As soon as the vehicle took the corner, Allawi addressed the larger of the two men. “Your talents.” It wasn’t a question, but an order to provide him with a résumé of his skill set.
“I’m fit, as you can see. I have a black belt in Aikido. I speak perfect English without an accent, a plus in this country. And I’m proficient with firearms.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
Then to the second man: “What about you?”
He didn’t appear as confident as the first. In fact, he appeared marginally ashamed that he had a minimal skill set compared to the man sitting beside him. “I work with computers,” he said. A slight accent? “I recruit in the name of Allah. I build His army, for which I am proud of.”
“And?”
The man shrugged. “And what?”
“That’s it?”
The man appeared sheepish. “Yes.”
“No combat skills?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
Allawi sighed. These were the people he was given? At least his other cell had some type of military sophistication. But he also knew that the principals had chosen wisely. They sent him those who were typically off the radar. With the M600 you didn’t need to be a skilled practitioner. You aim, you target, you lock on, and then you pull the trigger. The weapon does the rest.
Then from Allawi: “Today we plan. I’ll take a position within the field overlooking the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center. I’ll take out the Israeli. The rest of you will be set up at points north, south, east and west. Take out as many soft targets as possible, women and children only. This will push Washington to
the brink of chaos. Questions?”
There were none.
“Good.” As cold as the fries were, Allawi still found them delicious.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The AKçAKALE Checkpoint
The Turkey-Syria Border
AKçAKALE on the Turkey-Syria border is the closet point to Raqqa at 68 miles, or 104 kilometers, between these two cities. Though Turkey is indifferent to the United States, they’re not completely hostile, either. But they are hospitable to a degree.
Kimball and Isaiah had rented a fully gassed vehicle that was completely engineered to take the rises and falls of the rough terrain. But the driving time, even at such a short distance, would be approximately one hundred minutes.
The day was hot, the sun relentless as they stood well behind the fenced border of AKçAKALE. Syrian refugees had been gathered along the front to be vetted by Turkish authorities, the masses growing daily.
But when the air began to cool and the sun began to lower, Kimball and Isaiah, with the help of MI6, the international branch of MI5, upon the political request of leading principals of the United Kingdom, were given passage into Syria with the gate behind them closing with a metallic clank that sounded definite.
The journey was slow. The terrain was harsh and the landscape Martian-like. Dead and devoid. To the west the streamers of sunlight began to fade as the final streamers of light began to change from bright reds and oranges to shades of blues, and then finally to a deep plum.
They continued to head south toward Raqqa, both men silent, both men knowing that this mission may also be their last. Whereas Isaiah had his sights on the True Cross, Kimball had reasons that were fueled by ulterior motives that went beyond the Cross. He wanted Mabus. He wanted to squeeze the life out of his lungs and see the light leave his eyes. And he would not leave Syria until he saw this done.
They drove on.
And finally, in the distance, with the Euphrates cutting across from west to east, they could see the lights of the city, which was massive, with the lights glimmering like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet.
They would mask themselves wearing Thawbs to cover their bodies and Gutrahs to wrap about their faces, showing only their eyes as they wandered the dust-laden streets. But as darkness settled, they parked in the shadows between the banks of the Euphrates and the city, making sure that they didn’t draw attention from suspicious eyes, which two men sitting in a vehicle would surely do at two in the morning.
While they sat there Kimball set up an Ismarsat BGAN satellite and laptop system provided by MI6. The benefit of these terminals was to connect a laptop computer to broadband Internet in remote locations, such as Raqqa, as long as the line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites existed in order to receive a feed. Further appeal of the BGAN was that it was smaller than the laptop, which Kimball had connected the unit to. Within seconds, and as long as the battery lasted, Kimball would have global coverage.
Kimball typed in MapQuest using the satellite version, and zeroed in to the location of the Busqua Bazaar, which was approximately one kilometer north of the National Hospital. Then he transferred the data to a GPS system using their current point to the precise location of the Bazaar, and mapped out the shortest route. A blue line surfaced on the screen, the shortest path between points, and locked it in. When the sun rose and people began to mill about the streets, then they would follow the GPS to its listed set of coordinates, spot Chahine, and then they would shadow him right to Mabus’s front door.
Kimball closed his eyes.
The night air wasn’t cool. But it wasn’t hot, either.
And then he drifted off into a light doze, where shifting dreams that made no sense at all played in his mind’s eye.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C.
Next Day
FBI’s HRT unit had been briefed by Shari. And tactics had been formulated until the mechanics of these plans could have been recited verbatim by everyone on her team. Local authorities had been informed as well, with Maryland’s FBI field team assisting by allocating their members to survey other warehouses, in case she had grossly misinterpreted Allawi. Unmarked squad cars would be everywhere, and people dressed as civilians would be walking the area. Bethesda would be in lockdown, and nobody outside the local law enforcement would know that it had been so.
At approximately 2015 hours, if the intel was correct, which they believed it was after coming from two different sources, Mohammad Allawi would be captured and the rifles confiscated.
Shari was sitting at her desk. The day was still young, not quite noon. And she took a deep breath to calm herself. She had always been a rock, solid and steady. But today she was nervous. When she held her hand up it trembled, the slight shivers a barometer as to what she was feeling at the moment, which was anxiety.
She was consumed by rage, by anger, while mildly possessed by the fear of looking directly into the eyes of the man who had killed off her entire family.
She then let out a long breath after discovering that she had been holding it for too long.
Then she lowered her hand, looked at the clock. The second hand was rotating smoothly as time moved at its normal pace. But time had never seemed so long.
On her desk were a series of photos, of Gary and her daughters. She missed them terribly and felt the horrible pang of loneliness that inner strength could control for only so long. And then a tear slipped from the corner of her eye, a catharsis that enabled her to handle the moment. And then she wiped it away because she wanted to remain angry.
She traced her fingertips over the photos, and smiled.
“For all my babies,” she said.
For all my babies it ends tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Raqqa, Syria
From their position they could see thin columns of smoke rising from areas in the city after Russia had sent sorties the day before. Right now it was calm, the morning still.
After Kimball booted up the laptop and engaged the GPS, the directions had shown up on the screen. So Kimball directed Isaiah, telling him which roads to take into Raqqa.
While driving through the streets they could see congregations of men who were armed with assault rifles, where others had an RPG strapped to their backs. Other people looked subservient even though they claimed some form of allegiance to the Islamic State, when, in fact, they had refused to leave their homes before Raqqa had finally become a guerilla stronghold for the Islamic State. Now they were prisoners in their own city.
Kimball and Isaiah had folded the tails of their Gutrahs around their faces to mask their identities. Whenever they drove by someone and drew a curious stare from someone holding an assault weapon, Isaiah would toss up a hand and wave as he passed them by in the vehicle, which often got a nod of acknowledgement from the interested onlooker.
Kimball looked at his watch. The time was close. Chahine would arrive within the hour if he kept to his schedule. And the Bazaar was moments away.
Everything was starting to come to a head.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Outside of Bethesda, Maryland
Mohammad Allawi’s entire team had finally met as one. No doubt they were raw, all of them. But they also had an undeniable conviction.
8:00 P.M. was quickly approaching, so plans had been decided upon and pored over.
With the exception of Allawi, who would take position close to the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center, the others would be spread out all over the city close to places that were of interest to tourists. Their orders were simple once they studied the operation of the M600. This was a simple field test of the product. Once they felt comfortable with the weapon’s system of operation, then they were to target women and children when the time presented itself.
It would be a coup for Allah.
And the shots in America will be just as loud, if not louder, than the shots that rang out in Paris, Belgium and Vatican City.
Not only was the Islamic State pushing into Europe, it was also pushing its way into the United States.
Allahu Akbar!
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Raqqa, Syria
They had pulled up to the Bazaar where people sold wares and livestock. Goats were tethered to stakes. Meats that had their carcasses stripped from them hung from hooks, drawing flies. And vegetables and fruits that Kimball didn’t recognize barely filled the carts that showcased them. Walking the aisles between the carts were men sporting assault rifles, the men often traveling in pairs.
When 10:00 A.M. arrived, a small pickup truck pulled up close to the stands, about twenty meters away, and parked. A small man exited the vehicle and made his way to a band of unarmed men who stood and greeted Chahine as if he was a prince.
“That’s him,” said Kimball. “That’s Chahine.” Kimball rummaged inside a small canvas bag and retracted a cylindrical-shaped device that looked like a hockey puck. Only it had a mirror polish to its metal coating. It was a magnetized tracking unit that could to be attached to any metal and hang tough, especially over the bumps and rises of the Syrian landscape. When he depressed the button a small green light lit up on the surface, activating the unit, and handed it to Isaiah. “Be careful,” he said. “Draw no attention.”
Isaiah took it and exited the vehicle. Kimball, as large as he was and despite the garments he wore, would draw attention the moment he left the truck. Big men such as he often stuck out in a place where most men were slender and of average height. Isaiah, however, fit the bill.
