Enemy of the People

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “Why Harris didn’t want to arm the Syrian rebels?” Ariel sipped from her wineglass, looking at him curiously. “They were fighting for democracy, after all.”

  “Harris wanted the civil war to burn itself out. He wanted the US to set an example by staying out and hoped the Russians would do the same. But the Russians stepped in and helped Assad. So the US had no choice but to help the rebels.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s what I do. The proof is buried in Benghazi investigation. Ambassador Arnold was the US liaison with the Libyan rebels for more than a year. He’d been working with a man named Abdel Hakim Malik.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the Libyan rebel leaders. Malik was head of the Libyan military council trying to impose some order on the country. He agreed to help the CIA ship the weapons to Syria. This was not a small project. It was 400 tons worth of arms.”

  “Are you really with the CIA?”

  Kyle smiled and shook his head. “Me? CIA? Hardly.” He drank some wine. “On the day of the Benghazi attack, Ambassador Arnold met with Turkey’s Consul General in Libya.”

  “About the arms shipment?” Ariel asked.

  “Yes. They weren’t talking about the weather.”

  “And?”

  “He explained to Malik that the CIA was using a private contractor, specifically Benedict’s Atlas Global, to ship the weapons. That way the US could say that it wasn’t involved.”

  “No wonder Jerome couldn’t talk about it,” Ariel said.

  “The plan was to load the weapons onto a cargo ship in Tripoli and move them across the Mediterranean to southern Turkey where they’d be unloaded and trucked into rebel-held territory in Syria.”

  “What happened?”

  “Benghazi happened. Word got out that the US had all of Gaddafi’s weapons. The Islamic jihadists wanted them and figured they were being stored at the US consulate office in Benghazi.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “An angry mob of Libyan jihadis attacked the consulate the night of September 11. But most of the consulate security was at the CIA annex building about a mile away. It took time for reinforcements to get from the CIA annex to the consulate. When they arrived, they fought off the attack and pulled Arnold and the others into a safe room. By the way, there were more than 30 people there at the CIA annex. Almost all were CIA and contractors, not State Department personnel. The annex was under attacked for another couple of hours.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “It was. The CIA guys in the annex called their buddies in Tripoli who were loading the arms shipment. But, they couldn’t help from Tripoli because they were several hours away. But six or seven of the Atlas Global guys in Tripoli bribed a pilot to fly them to Benghazi. When they arrived at the CIA annex about 5 a.m., it was quiet. They figured the fighting was all over.”

  “Let me guess. It wasn’t.”

  “A few minutes after the early morning prayers, mortars began to rain down on the CIA annex. That’s when some of the Atlas contractors were killed.”

  Ariel looked into her wine glass, then out to the moonlit field. “So, that’s where Jerome died? He was trying to save the other Americans?”

  “I’m not sure. But yes.”

  “That’s important for my son to know. He needs to know that his father died a hero.”

  “Because of what the security guys did, almost all of the Americans were rescued and taken to safety. Like I said, most were CIA personnel.”

  She held her glass in both hands, her tears glistening in the light from the fully risen moon. She brushed the tears away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help it.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Kyle said, putting an arm around her and pulling her close.

  Ariel rested her head against his shoulder and sobbed. After a few moments, she drew a halting breath and slowly exhaled, using a finger to brush away tears.

  “You loved him,” Kyle said.

  “Yes,” she said, sitting up and clearing her throat. “A part of me always will.”

  They sat in silence gazing at the moon, now poised, large and full over the mountains, looking twice normal size. The cool night air smelled of pine. “My God, the moon is bright,” Ariel said, sighing deeply.

  “When is the blood moon supposed to begin?” Kyle asked. “It might be nice to see.”

  “It won’t come until about three in the morning.”

  “In that case, I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Me, too. I gave several massages today.”

  “Are you headed home?”

  Ariel shook her head. “I’d prefer not be alone tonight.”

  “What about your son?”

  “He’s spending the weekend at his best friend’s house. It’s summer, you know.” She looked into Kyle’s face as she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Chapter 16

  Tariq moved carefully, his footsteps quietly treading the high mountain trail. Crickets chirped and a couple of coyotes howled in the distant darkness. The full moon, now bright in the high mountains, lighted the forested slopes, throwing mottled shadows across the trail.

  Tariq followed Carlito, who seemed devout enough, he thought, and was enthusiastic in his new-found beliefs. Tariq had insisted Carlito be given an Islamic name and had called him Omar al-Amriki, Omar the American. Like himself when he was younger, Carlito had embraced the tenets of jihad like few others. But, how strong was Carlito’s commitment to Islamic jihad? Would young Omar al-Amriki die for Islam? Would he reject the pleasures of this world, embrace martyrdom, and take his reward in heaven?

  Carlito wasn’t the only former kafir with them. There was the woman Jennifer, who’d taken the name of Halima. She had come to the mosque in Abiquiu with her friends. There as the Iranian woman Aliyah, a woman whose beauty made him ache. But she was a Shia, which made her no better than her kafir boyfriend, the one named Miguel. They had visited the mosque and listened to his lectures on Islam and the need for jihad. But unlike Omar al-Amriki and his woman, now Halima, the two others had rejected his teaching and stopped attending the mosque.

  It was good, Tariq thought, because he didn’t trust the one they called Miguel. The young man was quiet and seemed curious about Islam, but rarely asked questions.

  When Tariq had faced the Americans in the mosque, he sometimes doubted his abilities to awaken their passion for Islam. They simply sat and listened. But his men disagreed, telling Tariq he inspired them much like their hero, the Imam Anwar Al-Awlaki. No one spoke as eloquently as Al-Awlaki, the emir of the Internet, or with such clarity and passion, certainly in English, about the virtues of Islam. The Americans had killed Al-Awlaki in a drone strike. The cowards! Tariq felt anger clutch his chest again. Yes. It was another reason why he would fulfill this mission. He would sever the head of the Great Satan.

  Tariq had closely followed the teachings of Al-Awlaki, who preached one should not focus on pleasure and wealth, but on the spiritual rewards of the next life. Like Al-Awlaki, he told his men not to worry about rizq, their daily bread. But rizq meant more than just food, he explained, it meant all the material wealth the world has to offer. Attachment to the material world was the greatest evil. To crave and seek worldly pleasures did not bring true happiness, Tariq said often. Competing for material wealth was a waste of life.

  It was ironic, Tariq explained, because the only inevitability of life was death. A life well lived was one in which each person prepared for the next. That meant rejecting the material world and those who were infected with a love of it. And who, he asked, drew people away from love of Allah and to the world of material pleasures? The whole of the western world! The Christian crusaders who were now led by the biggest evil of all, the United States!

  Tariq had told the American students that if they practiced Islam, they s
hould never trust their government because its army was killing Muslims every day. Of the Americans, only Carlito, now Omar, had smiled and nodded. And soon, the young woman Halima had come around as well.

  Now, as they walked quietly in the cool the mountain night, Tariq pushed his lingering doubts about Carlito to the back of his mind. It had frustrated Tariq that the other two Americans had not become part of this mission. He could have used them. But still, Allah had given him the two young converts. It was enough. So far, both had done well, extremely well, and quickly learned to handle the AK-47 pistol and to shoot it. More importantly, Carlito/Omar knew the mountain trails, and as he had promised, was taking Tariq’s men undetected to the lodge at the Vista Verde Ranch. Tariq’s heart pounded at the thought of what he and the others were about to do, even as fatigue clouded his mind.

  Tariq tapped Carlito on the shoulder. “We need to stop here for a few minutes,” he said, and raised his hand to stop the single-file column. The night forest fell silent. Carlito turned to Tariq. With his head wrapped in a black and white patterned scarf, that left only his eyes exposed, Carlito nodded silently and pointed through the trees.

  Tariq saw the spacious valley below and the full moon’s pale gray light reflected from the roofs of the lodge and outbuildings. He strained to see the guards posted around the lodge, shadowy figures outlined by the glow of the interior’s yellow lights.

  Another coyote howled in the distance.

  Tariq lifted his gaze to the moon shining through the trees and noticed a slight change in its glow, a weakening of the brightness. A small shadow had fallen across a corner of the orb, as if a piece of the moon had been bruised and bitten away.

  Tariq glanced from the moon to Carlito, whose dark eyes glistened, filled with a mixture of fear and joy. Carlito was handy with a weapon, but he had never been on a mission like this. Carlito could become a liability. Tariq knew he would soon find out enough. Now that he and his men were at the lodge, Carlito’s job was complete. He’d done what Tariq needed, which was bring him and his men to within striking distance. Tariq thought he should kill the young Hispanic now to get him out of the way. But he resisted the impulse, knowing that he need all of the men now. If Carlito killed just one of the infidels, it was worth keeping him alive.

  Tariq had known others like Carlito, Americans who had come to the Islamic State to join ISIS. No one trusted them. The Amrikis were soft. They had lived in luxury all their lives and did not know what it meant to suffer and sacrifice. That’s why the caliphate sent the Amrikis on suicide missions, turning them into suicide bombers to demonstrate their dedication to jihad.

  Tariq remembered the one they called Abusalha, the Florida boy who became the first American suicide bomber in Syria. He had lived in a gated community, Tariq learned, and no one could understand why he would leave that life to come to Syria and die. He had taken the war name of Abu Huraira, after a friend of the Prophet. It meant father of the kitten, because both Abusalha and the Prophet loved cats. Privately, Tariq was disgusted by the name, but said nothing about its silliness because the other fighters had respected it.

  Now, Tariq thought, Abusalha was with the Prophet in Heaven. He’d made a video of his final testament and it ended with a scene of his explosive-filled truck detonating, sending a fiery cloud roiling skyward. In the video, Abusalha had smiled and held a cat. Tariq remembered it well. “We are coming for you,” Abusalha had said, speaking directly to President Harris. “Listen to my words, you big kafir,” Abusalha had said. “You think, oh, because you killed Osama bin Laden, that you did something. You did nothing. You think you have won? You will never defeat Islam.”

  Tariq appreciated the way Abusalha had spoken because he had spoken directly to Harris, telling all Americans neither he nor the rest of ISIS were afraid of the Great Satan.

  Still, Tariq wondered, would Carlito die for Islam? What about the rest of his men? Tariq dismissed his doubts. He was confident his men were dedicated jihadis. They had been with him at the beheadings. They had been with him as ISIS surged across Syria and into Iraq for the taking of Mosul. He had no doubts about what they could and would do for Islamic jihad and the Islamic State. There was no turning back now. Next stop, heaven.

  Tariq looked again at the girl Jennifer, now Halima. She, too, was beautiful, but not like Aliya. He needed to protect Halima because she was his bargaining chip. She was the reason they had been able to secure the device—the device that would make their dreams come true. She would do whatever Carlito wanted. He had never seen such dedication from an American woman. She embraced the teachings that required a woman to be modest, subdued, and attentive to the needs and desires of her husband. Tariq was jealous. He himself had wanted a woman like Halima, but knew it was not to be. She would not be a problem. She was part of the plan, an integral part, though she didn’t yet know it.

  Tariq had come to respect Halima, who wasn’t like her Iranian friend, Aliyah, the apostate. Unlike women from the Islamic world who quickly lose their dedication once they get a taste of the western world, Halima had done the opposite. She was neither arrogant nor demanding. She didn’t criticize her Muslim brothers. She was unattached to material pleasures and maintained her modesty. Yes, that was Halima.

  Tariq refocused his mind on the buildings in the distant valley, then gazed at the moon, now burnished. The coyotes had begun to howl, giving a foreboding voice to things yet to come. No, the coyotes were not afraid of the darkness. They embraced it. This was their song, their communion with the night. In full-throated intensity, their howls echoed in the forests as the moon was colored rust red.

  It was time.

  Tariq turned to his men, telling them to cover themselves with their black head scarves, like the one he’d worn for the on-camera beheadings. He went from man to man, quietly whispering the instructions. They’d gone over the plan many times, but it never hurt to repeat and reinforce. This was the worst time, the moment before battle when his stomach was tight and felt like a heavily knotted rope. His breath came short and fast, his palms were moist. Just do it!

  They would emerge from the forest shadows like creatures of the night, he told them. Move silently, swiftly, and do not fire your weapons until the very last moment. Surprise was on their side. No one would ever suspect what was about to happened. And if it was Allah’s will, Tariq said, they soon would hold their blades to the necks of the Great Satan and his minions.

  Moments later and lighted only by the muted moonlight, Tariq’s face remained hidden by the shadows as he surveyed the distant lodge, now quiet. He signaled to his men, each armed with pistols, assault rifles, and grenades pinned to their jackets, to get ready. He nodded to Carlito, motioning for him to lead.

  They moved through the forest, and after twenty minutes, paused in the shadows where the forest ended, giving way to the open and grassy field that extended to the looming main lodge of the Vista Verde Ranch. Tariq scanned the open valley eagerly, gauging the distance between the cottages and bungalows scattered in the tree line on each side of the lodge. Like the lodge, the outbuildings were quiet. Most of the government and military vehicles were clustered in the circular drive fronting the lodge. Only a few lights glowed from the lodge’s interior. A handful of Atlas Global and Secret Service agents stood guard in various locations around the perimeter. All was eerily silent. The earth’s extended shadow had mostly crossed the moon, and it now was quickly becoming full again. They needed to move now before the moon’s blue-white light would again flood the valley and surrounding mountains.

  Tariq drew a slow, deep breath and motioned his men forward. They became dark figures scurrying noiselessly from the edge of the forest across the 100 yards of the grassy field. Bent at the waist, holding their weapons close to their chest, half of the men dropped noiselessly to the ground, between the lodge and the trout pond, and waited for the other to advance.

  Tariq crouched in the shadow at the bas
e of a pine tree to gauge the progress, speaking softly into a microphone, part of his lightweight headset. “Is everyone in position?” he whispered. He paused and listened, then said, “Praise be to Allah.” Tariq looked up to the moon, still half red, as it was becoming bright again. “Our target is President Harris,” he whispered. “Alive. He must be captured alive.”

  Tariq held the AK-47 sniper rifle against his shoulder and sighted down the barrel, past the noise and flash suppressor. He fitted his eye against the scope. Through the night vision scope, the valley, lodge and environs looked light green. The scope’s crosshairs settled on one of the guards posted about twenty yards from the corner of the lodge. “Does everyone have a man in their sights?” Tariq waited for a moment, then said, “Allah be praised. On the count of three. One ... two... three.”

  Tariq squeezed the trigger. The muffled shot thunked softly, the rifle jerking slightly in his hands, as the eight other rifles, similarly muffled, popped and emitted small flashes from the barrels. Tariq watched and waited, then counted at least six of the guards at the lodge who had crumpled to the ground.

  Tariq shifted his night scope to one of the two agents on the porch near the front doors of the lodge. The man had drawn his pistol and was now prone on the porch, minimizing himself as a target after seeing his fellow agents fall. The agent scanned the surrounding forest in search of the source of the gunfire, then his shots rang out, breaking the night stillness.

  Tariq squeezed the trigger again and felt the rifle’s recoil against his shoulder. Through the sight, he saw the agent’s body jerk, then writhe. The man struggled to his knees, gripped his pistol with both hands, and fired successive rounds into the darkness of the surrounding forest.