by Ben Coes
Ryan turned to the passenger seat. He looked at his little brother, Matthew.
“What would I even do?” asked Matthew. “I don’t have my license. How would I get home?”
Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.
“You take a bus,” he whispered, handing him the money. “Call Father when you get there.”
“What would I tell him about you?”
“The truth.”
Matthew stared at the green flush of bills. “Will I be able to see Mother? You know, up there?”
Ryan smiled. “I don’t know. But she would be very proud of you for asking.”
Matthew smiled too. “I want to go.”
“And you’re willing to die?”
Slowly, Matthew nodded. He reached for the door.
They entered the mosque at the back of the building, just as Mohammed had instructed.
Inside, the hallway was dimly lit. It was stale smelling and decrepit, reeking of body odor. The hallway was crowded with men, all Middle Eastern, seated on the floor, speaking in hushed tones, looking at cell phones. As Ryan, David, Matthew, and Harun entered, they cast weary, distrustful looks in their direction.
One of them stood up and stepped toward them. He scanned them all from head to toe.
“Ryan?” he asked, his accent an odd mixture of Arabic and French.
“I’m Ryan.”
The man nodded.
“I’m Mohammed. Welcome. Come with me.”
They walked to a set of stairs near the front of the mosque. They climbed up one flight and then went through a door that led to a low-ceilinged hallway. Light emanated from a doorway at the end. The door was slightly ajar.
Mohammed walked in front. When he reached the door, he knocked gently.
“Imam?”
“Yes, Mohammed,” came the voice from inside the room. “Are they here?”
“Yes.”
“Please, bring them in. I’ve been waiting to meet them.”
* * *
On the first floor of the mosque, one of the Arabs, Attah, stood up and looked at the other men seated in the hallway.
“I’m going to the store,” he said. “Does anyone want anything?”
“Gatorade,” said one of the men. “A red one.”
Attah nodded and walked down the hall into the front room, then through the entrance. Outside, he went right, zipping up his coat. As he walked toward the convenience store, his eyes darted to a blue delivery truck parked across the street. He made eye contact with a man in the front seat. Ever so slightly, he nodded at him, then made a beeline for the store at the end of the block.
* * *
Inside the blue delivery truck, the FBI driver turned to the man in the passenger seat, Toby Jones. Jones was in-theater commander of the FBI operation to capture Idi Al-Amin, an imam and known Al Qaeda recruiter, along with his document man, an experienced forger named Basal. The operation, code-named “Red Maple,” had been planned for more than a year in conjunction with Canadian law enforcement and with the consent and approval of the U.S. Congress. On foreign soil, FBI agents don’t have authority to make arrests except in certain cases where, with the consent of the host country, Congress grants the FBI extraterritorial jurisdiction. In this case, Al-Amin was running a major recruitment route from the U.S. to Pakistan via Canada, and the U.S. government wanted it stopped. It also wanted access to Al-Amin’s contacts overseas.
Red Maple was the most important foreign operation the FBI had ever run.
“That was Attah,” said the agent in the driver’s seat. “It’s a go. The students are there.”
Jones tapped his earbud and triggered commo.
“One minute, guys,” he whispered to the three FBI operators already scattered around the neighborhood.
Jones looked into the back of the truck.
Out of view from the cab and the street were three FBI communications engineers, at work in the back. Each engineer was seated in front of a variety of plasma screens, eavesdropping monitors, and other diagnostic equipment all focused in on the mosque, clunky earphones on their heads. Each of them sat before a console of screens, dials, and other high-tech hardware that appeared like a colorful light display and ran the length of one wall. In addition to the plasmas, smaller CPUs sat in front of each man, along with keyboards. Various control panels and devices were arrayed neatly at the front of the console, enabling the men to manage a host of listening devices and surveillance cameras surrounding the mosque. Behind the engineers and equipment was a fenced-in holding cell, accessed from the rear, large enough for at least a dozen prisoners. The truck was tied in to FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., specifically to the bureau’s Strategic Information & Operations Center (SIOC), the FBI’s state-of-the-art operations center.
The closest audio engineer gave Jones a thumbs-up, indicating noise levels were calibrated and commo was functional and live-wired.
Jones opened the door and stepped out of the truck. He walked quickly to the corner, eyeing Hamza Mosque a block away.
The streets were crowded with cars, buses, trucks, taxis. Horns blared every few minutes. The sidewalks were also filled with people, most alone, some walking dogs, a few couples.
He saw Parker first, walking to his right, looking into shop windows. Then the light from the taxicab lit up out of the corner of his eye as Ramirez moved. Looking over his shoulder, Jones spied Giannucci stepping through the door of the small café a half block east.
Jones walked toward the mosque now, in the lead. The four agents were staggered, approaching separately.
Ramirez crossed the street so that he was now alone on the east side of the busy road. The mosque was in front of him only a few hundred feet away.
All four men wore coats that concealed their weapons, two silenced Beretta 9mm semiautomatic handguns. In addition, Jones and Giannucci each had a suppressed submachine gun strapped to his back.
Jones tapped his ear four times, enabling him to close-loop the communication and speak only to his three men.
“One more time,” he said. “The stairs are near the back of the building. Me, Jimmy, and Al enter at the back, Tony, you come in through the front door. Watch your fields of fire. Tony and Al remain on the first floor and secure the access points. Don’t let anyone leave. Don’t let ’em play with their cell phones. Jimmy, me and you go upstairs and find the imam.”
“Got it.”
“There’ll be some teenagers milling about, young jihadis. They shouldn’t be armed.”
“If they are?”
“On the record, only shoot in self-defense. Off the record, anyone lifts a fucking weapon, you shoot ’em dead. Got it?”
“Yeah, got it,” said Parker.
6
QUEEN STREET
TORONTO
A man stood at the window of the third-floor apartment looking out onto Queen Street. He had high-powered thermal vision binoculars against his eyes. He swept the binoculars between Hamza Mosque, a block away, and the FBI surveillance truck that was parked directly in front of the apartment building where he stood.
The man was bowlegged, with a slight stoop. His arms pushed out to the side, though only because he was so packed with muscles. He was six feet tall and somehow loomed larger. His blond hair was pushed back messily, long enough to fall below his ears. Several days’ worth of stubble covered his face. What skin did show on the man’s face was pale and pockmarked from acne scars. Though he stood still, there was about him an aggressive nature, an implication of purpose and restlessness, even belligerence.
The man’s name was Kyrie.
The two-bedroom apartment was empty. Nothing, not even a wastebasket, with the exception of a long duffel bag. It was on the floor behind him, next to Guimar, filled with weapons, ammunition, explosives, and communications gear. It was still zipped.
“Let’s go,” said Guimar.
Kyrie ignored him, continuing to study the mosque.
Guimar pu
lled out a submachine gun from the duffel, along with a Glock 21 Gen4 .45-caliber pistol. Mindlessly, the way a blackjack dealer handles cards, Guimar threaded a black cylindrical suppressor into the weapon’s muzzle.
“Kyrie,” said Guimar again, more insistent. “It’s time. They’re moving.”
Kyrie removed the binoculars but kept his back to Guimar, continuing to look out the third-floor window.
“Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
Kyrie studied the delivery truck, parked directly beneath the window.
“We’ll need a VBIED,” said Kyrie, referring to a car bomb. “Set the timer to three minutes.”
Guimar nodded. He reached for a metal object about the size of a soda can.
“Thank God we finally get to leave this fucking apartment,” said Guimar.
Kyrie glanced at Guimar, making rare eye contact, but said nothing. He knelt next to the duffel bag and removed a pair of handguns. Though his movements were slower than the young Guimar’s, he threaded the silencers faster. He said nothing as he worked, then, when done, looked at Guimar.
“Keep … your … fucking … mouth … shut,” Kyrie said quietly. “You have a big mouth. Keep it shut. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Kyrie.”
Kyrie tucked one of the pistols into a holster beneath his right armpit. He walked out of the apartment door and down the hallway, followed by Guimar, then took the stairs to the lobby. Kyrie pulled the hood of his anorak over his head as he walked outside. He strolled casually to the back of the delivery truck. He stopped just behind the driver’s window, out of sight, weapon at his side and out of view.
He looked into the cab of the truck. A lone figure sat in the driver’s seat, fidgeting with the steering wheel as he looked straight ahead in the direction of the mosque.
Kyrie tapped lightly on the window. The driver jerked his head around. An anxious look crossed his face. Kyrie knocked again.
“Just a dollar,” Kyrie said loudly through the glass, his face shrouded in part by the anorak hood.
Thinking he was a vagrant, the FBI agent shooed him away with his hand and turned back to the mosque.
“Just a dollar,” said Kyrie. “Please, sir.”
The driver turned with a hateful look. He knew opening the window was a risk, but it was better than risking the vagrant making a scene. He reached to his pocket for some change, then turned to Kyrie and lowered the window, extending his hand.
Kyrie lurched at the man’s wrist and grabbed it with one hand. With his other he swept the gun through the window and trained it on the man’s head. Kyrie waited, more intrigued than anything else, watching the FBI agent’s mind at work, trying, in that precious half second, to figure out what to do. The agent finally reacted, reaching to his earbud to try and warn the others.
Before the driver could utter even a moan, Kyrie fired. The silenced bullet ripped into his larynx, blowing him back across the seat, killing him. With his other hand, Kyrie reached in through the open window and unlocked the door. Calmly, he opened it, pushed the dead agent over, and climbed in.
Behind the seat was a door. Kyrie grabbed the handle but didn’t move it. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Guimar.
In silence, Guimar signaled with his index finger: The bomb is set.
Kyrie did not respond. He paused, then slowly opened the door to the back. Bright fluorescent light boomed out. He saw two men, both with headphones on, looking at screens. They looked up and their eyes grew wide. Kyrie fired two quick blasts. Slugs tore into each man’s forehead. Kyrie pushed the door all the way in and was face-to-face with the third man, who had a snubnose pistol already out and aimed at him.
“We have a—”
Kyrie fired three quick blasts, three metallic thwangs sounding, sending the last man bouncing off his chair in a blood-swirled tumble to the floor.
He inspected the back of the truck, making sure no one else was there, then climbed out, shutting the door.
Guimar was leaning against the truck. He looked at Kyrie.
“Start the timer,” said Kyrie.
Guimar nodded.
Kyrie popped the mag from his gun and caught it, sticking it in his pocket and removing a full one. He slammed it in as he eyed the mosque a block away.
* * *
Al-Amin’s small office was lit with a table lamp and several candles. Photos of Mecca and religious paintings adorned the walls. The room’s two windows had been covered with a blanket nailed into the wall above.
A pair of slightly dilapidated couches occupied the middle of the room.
Al-Amin sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Across from him, with his back turned, was a rotund man in jeans and a brown T-shirt.
Al-Amin was in his sixties. He was tall, light skinned, with dark, intelligent, suspicious eyes. He had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He wore a black hijab.
“Won’t you please come in, my sons?” Al-Amin gestured to the couches as he stood and walked around the desk. “And tell me, how was your trip from Michigan?”
Al-Amin stood between the sofas as Ryan, David, Harun, and Matthew tentatively sat down.
Mohammed stood silently inside the door.
“It was good, Imam,” said Ryan.
Al-Amin looked at him.
“You must be Ryan?”
Ryan stood and offered his hand, though Al-Amin held up his palm, turning it down, but in a gentle way.
“We do not do that here. It is a Western custom.”
“I … I’m sorry,” Ryan stammered.
“Do not apologize. How could you know? This is what we do.”
Al-Amin bowed slightly toward Ryan, then smiled. He looked at Harun, who stood up, soon followed by David and Matthew. Each introduced himself to Al-Amin.
Al-Amin slowly eyed the four students.
“You have each agreed to fight on behalf of Allah. But that was when you were in the safety of your homes. There’s no shame in saying you have cold feet. The men you walked by when you came in, all of them will—like you—be leaving tonight for the great struggle. But three of them are here for the second time, having each developed second thoughts when he first came. Yet they are back. I say this to you because I want you to know that when you commit to jihad, it commits to you. I commit to you. Do you understand me, sons?”
The four students said nothing.
Finally, it was Harun who spoke. “I’m ready, Imam.”
“I am too,” said Ryan.
“Praise Allah, I am committed, Imam,” said David.
Matthew, the youngest of the four, swallowed and nodded. “I want to fight, Imam.”
Al-Amin laughed.
“The spirit of youth,” he said. “It is what will deliver the caliphate to us.”
Al-Amin turned to the man at the desk, who was slouched forward, a high-powered halogen light on his head.
“Rufus,” said Al-Amin, “are you close?”
The man sat up and turned. He had a pale, ghostly pallor and a maniacal look on his face. Al-Amin and the students had to avert their eyes from the light, which swept across them.
“Yes, Imam, I’m done.”
He turned off the light, then grabbed a stack of blue passports. He handed them to Al-Amin, who opened the cover of the first one and examined the photo, then looked at Matthew.
“Here you are,” he said.
Al-Amin distributed the other three passports. He looked at Mohammed and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“When do the vans arrive?” he asked.
“In fifteen minutes, Imam.”
“Good, good. That is good. Mohammed, would you be so kind as to get warm water with lemon for everyone? We have time to talk for a few minutes before you leave. I would like to hear about life in America.”
* * *
Three of the four FBI agents charged to the back of the mosque; Giannucci was alone in front.
Parker was first to the back door. He flipped off the safety on the
submachine gun, then opened the door, swinging the MP7 in front of him as he stepped inside. He registered a couple dozen men seated on the floor looking up in shock.
Jones and Ramirez entered behind him, passing at a sprint and running up the stairs.
Parker swept the SMG in the air.
“Don’t fucking move,” he said. “We’re not after any of you.”
Suddenly, his eyes caught something. Halfway down the hallway, a young-looking Arab leapt to his feet. His arm was out …
* * *
In stride, Giannucci pulled his MP7 around from his back and charged toward the front entrance of the mosque. He flipped off the safety with his thumb without looking.
As he came to the front door, he paused an extra moment. He heard voices. He yanked open the door, submachine gun raised, finger tight against the ceramic trigger.
The front lobby was shabby, lit with a lone lightbulb that dangled by a wire. A filthy oriental carpet was too small for the space.
Giannucci followed the sound of voices. Off the lobby, to his left, he saw light. He glanced right. The prayer room was empty, its floor covered in cushions and mats.
An abrupt yell came from the corridor. He moved toward the sound, stepping into a hallway filled with young Arab males, all in a panicked uproar. At the far end of the hall stood Parker, his submachine gun visible above the heads.
Giannucci was alone. As he approached from the front, no one noticed him. Their eyes were on Ramirez. Suddenly, Jones and Parker stepped in, guns raised, and sprinted for the stairs.
A flash of steel caught a glint of light. Giannucci’s eyes shot left. One of the men was pulling out a handgun and moving it around toward Ramirez, shielding it from view behind another man.
He wore sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked no older than sixteen or seventeen.
Giannucci swept the MP7 toward the young gunman. He locked onto the man just as he completed the sweep, pulsing the trigger. A low metallic thud was the only sound as a bullet tore from the MP7 and ripped into the boy’s head. He dropped, falling on top of another man, who suddenly yelled as he realized his friend had been shot. The young man’s panicked eyes shot to Giannucci. He was the first to realize they were surrounded.
