“Even if our demands are ignored, think of how many people we will reach by placing our demands before the world,” Tariq said to Abdulla, unable to hide his growing excitement. “Think of this, my brother. How many men will we bring to the cause? Hundreds if not thousands! Think of that, my brother! Of course we don’t expect the kafirs to comply, but, we must take advantage of this moment. The world is watching.”
Tariq shifted his gaze to Carlito. “I know you are strong with Islam. But many of your concerns are not ours. I am grateful for what you have done for us. You must help us put our message out to the world.”
Carlito looked on silently, then nodded.
Tariq sipped his tea, growing more confident. Yes, Tariq thought, his inspiration, the cleric al-Awalaki, had been called the emir of the Internet. But now that al-Awalaki had become a martyr, I will take his place, he thought. I will be the new emir of the Internet.
Carlito nodded, seemingly eager to become involved again. “You should know that my journey began very near here.” He circled his finger in the air. “Near this place.”
Tariq raised his eyebrows.
“This is the heart of the land grant I told you about. This land was given to my ancestors 150 years ago.” Carlito drew a breath, then quietly exhaled, gauging Tariq’s reaction.
Tariq nodded ever so slightly, signaling for Carlito to continue.
“This land grant was stolen from my family and neighbors.”
Tariq sipped his tea.
“This was once part of Mexico. The Americans took it after the Mexican-American war. But the Americans refused to accept that Mexico had given it to my ancestors through official grants and deeds.”
Tariq nodded. “It is the same thing that happened to the Palestinians. The Zionists stole the land from the Palestinians after the Six Day War in 1967.”
“Yes. Exactly,” Carlito said. “That’s what drew me to Islam. One day I visited an event hosted by the Palestinian students seeking justice for themselves. I realized that the people of northern New Mexico and the people of Palestine had much in common. We share the same fate. That is why I became a Muslim and have joined the jihad.”
Tariq nodded again, knowingly. “We fight for justice and for Islam.”
“They killed my grandfather,” Carlito continued, “because he was grazing his sheep on his own land,” Carlito said. “They also killed my father because he fought to get this land returned to the rightful owners.” Carlito sucked in a halting breath, his eyes glistening. He brushed a finger against his eyes, then cleared his throat, collecting himself. “This is where the journey of my ancestors began and this is where I am willing to die, if it is God’s will.”
“You speak well, Omar al-Amriki,” Tariq said. “But we can speak about death later. Today we talk of justice and freedom.” He sipped his tea and looked at the others. “We must craft a message for the Christian crusaders. It is the will of Allah that the oppressors be destroyed. In the Quran, the Prophet wrote, ‘will any be destroyed but the unjust people?’” Tariq smiled at the passage, pleased with his recollection. “The only way the Americans want to deal with Muslims is by force. So, now we give them a taste of their own medicine.”
Carlito lifted a hand and Tariq nodded. “I know of a journalist who might help us,” Carlito said.
Tariq frowned. “I do not think we need such a person. We have the Internet. Besides, I have killed some western journalists. They know who I am. They hate me. They will not help us.”
“Perhaps,” Carlito said. “But this man tried to help my father once. He understands the oppression we suffer. We need a person we can trust to deliver the correct information,” Carlito said.
Tariq scratched his thin beard, tugging at his chin hairs with a thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. After a moment, he nodded to Carlito. “There may be some wisdom to what you say. The Americans will not negotiate with Muslims. That is why the western journalists were killed. Their deaths sent a message to President Harris. In truth, it was not us who killed the journalists. It was President Harris and his refusal to negotiate.” Tariq fell silent as he gazed at Carlito, then Abdulla, and Hamid. “What is this man’s name?”
“Kyle,” Carlito said. “Kyle Dawson.”
Chapter 19
Kyle stared at his laptop screen, trying to form the next sentence. What he thought would be a routine political story over a weekend had morphed into a monster. The world was now riveted to the events unfolding in this luxurious retreat in the mountains of northern New Mexico. He groped for the right words to describe not only what had happen, but the dramatic and lasting implications of it all.
By any measure, it was a monumental victory for the Islamic State and the forces of radical Islam. It was a global humiliation for the United States and its vaunted security services protecting the US president. And, it was a monumental embarrassment for Hank Benedict’s testosterone-fueled Atlas Global security company. With both public and private organizations protecting the president in a remote and distant location in the Rocky Mountains, it was absurd that such a thing could have happened. But it had.
Kyle had gotten no further than the first sentence as he tried to answer the question on everyone’s mind: What went wrong? He leaned back and stretched his aching shoulders, then twisted his stiff neck, the cartilage crackling, as if it might loosen the flow of words. It didn’t. He wanted badly to talk to Raoul to get his take on it all. But Raoul was still with Benedict, as he should be, trying to salvage what they could of this disaster by getting President Harris and Blount out alive.
The assault on the lodge and the cornering of the president in his room had been fast and furious. But how was it possible that a random group of heavily jihadis had stumbled across a high-level meeting between the president and the two top leaders of Congress? It was hardly an accident. Kyle smiled at the absurdity. Now that the shock was over—an attack that left the nation and the world stunned—the reality began to dawn on him.
Kyle went back to the beginning. Frankel had called and asked him to cover the story. But there had been no prior public notice about the meeting, which was common practice. Only those with a “need to know” were informed. And since news organization were critical to the success of the event for both political parties as well as the legacy of President Harris, Senator Blount, and Speaker Divine, a select group of main-stream journalists had been invited. Kyle was among them.
Whenever the president moved, Kyle knew advanced preparation and planning was extensive and complicated. When the president visited foreign countries and their leaders, security arrangements demanded all the relevant agencies—the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, and the State Department—be on the same page, coordinating with the security agencies of the host countries. But this was in the continental US. So, who knew about this event? And why Vista Verde Ranch?
Kyle was convinced the selection of the Vista Verde Ranch for the meeting was not a random choice. The ranch was a prize holding of David Benedict and his son Hank. David Benedict’s influence on the conservatives in the country was notorious, but had been largely unexplained. Kyle wondered if David Benedict had pressured Blount and Divine to select Vista Verde? Of course! The two congressmen would have gladly agreed to the offer, not only to please the elder Benedict, but because it was such an obviously secure location. Or was it? Now Troy Divine, one of David Benedict’s champions, was dead, his corpse lying on the exterior flagstone patio of the lodge.
Kyle’s advance story had explained why both parties were anxious for the Vista Verde meeting to produce an agreement. Both sides wanted to claim a political victory. Certainly, President Harris could come out the meeting with bragging rights. But so could the conservatives. Most of all David Benedict and his Wolfe News Network could claim they’d instigated the meeting and ushered in a new era of leadership by the conservative wing and led by the Liberty League, the true believers
of the far right. Wolfe News commentators would note the weak leadership by Harris and the strength of the conservative agenda promoted by Blount and Divine.
But the jihadis? How had they known? Had the Islamic State broken encrypted communications? The Russians had the capability, Kyle suspected, as did the Chinese. Had the Russians or the Chinese cooperated with ISIS? Why would they? There was no obvious benefit for either country, except to expose the inherent weakness of the world’s oldest and strongest democracy.
A move like that by Russia or China made no sense. It was extremely dangerous for both. It only would give strength and credibility to maniacal jihadis and radical Islamists who had launched wars in Russian enclaves in Chechnya and Dagestan. The Russians destroyed Grozny, the Chechen capital, to put down the Islamists.
In China’s western province of Xinjiang, the population was half Uighurs, a Muslim ethnic minority. The Chinese had made it illegal for women to wear veils, the men to grow long beards, and parents to give their children Islamic names. The Chinese had sent an overwhelming force to quell rising violence there.
Kyle’s phone rattled on his desk. He didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway, after letting it ring a couple more times. “Hello?”
“Is this Kyle Dawson?” the voice asked.
“Yes, it is,” Kyle said. “Who’s asking?”
After a pause, the voice said, “This is Carlito.”
Kyle swallowed and said nothing, wracking his brain to remember when he’d ever met or knew someone named Carlito. He flashed on the movie, Carlito’s Way. That had been decades ago and starred Al Pacino, but this wasn’t him. “Carlito? Do I know you?”
“Yeah, you do,” Carlito said. “You probably remember my father, Carlos Miranda.”
The name hit Kyle like a gut punch. His drew a breath. Yes, he remembered Carlos Miranda, the man who’d led the land grant protest in northern New Mexico. He’d been gunned down after he’d held his wife, Antonia, and his son, Carlito, hostage. He’d been killed by a sniper as he ran to the waiting helicopter he had demanded to end the hostage situation and whisk him away to Mexico. Carlito had been in the middle of it. He had seen his father’s head explode with a bullet from a sniper’s high-powered rifle.
“Carlito Miranda?” Kyle asked.
“Yes.”
“Why are you calling me?”
After a long pause, Carlito said, “I need you to relay a message to the government.”
“What are you talking about?” Kyle asked.
“If you want President Harris to remain alive, I advise you to cooperate.”
Kyle’s mind raced. “What are you saying? What do you mean, if I want President Harris to remain alive? Is this a joke?”
The phone line was silent for a moment. “Not at all,” Carlito said finally. “I am talking to you from the lodge at Vista Verde. I can see your cottage.”
A jolt pulsed though Kyle’s body as he realized where Carlito was. But Kyle wasn’t in the cottage anymore. The press, the aides, and all non-combatants had fled, scrambling up the forested slopes that surrounded the lodge, leaving a small army of agents and Atlas Global personnel surrounding lodge, but hidden in the trees and shadows. Carlito didn’t need to know that. “You’re with the jihadis who have the president?” Kyle asked.
“Yes.”
“How…?” Kyle stammered. “What are you…? Why?”
“I’m a Muslim now. I’ve accepted Islam to fight for justice for all who are oppressed by the Christian crusaders. This includes my own people in northern New Mexico.”
Kyle swallowed again as he found the situation incredulous. “Are you serious, Carlito?”
Carlito paused. “I don’t like the tone of your voice.”
“Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?” Kyle asked.
“If Allah desires, I will die here. It will be a martyr’s death. I will join my grandfather and my father who were murdered by the oppressors. I continue the struggle of my ancestors and my family.”
“This is not the way to do it, Carlito,” Kyle said. “You’re making a big mistake.”
Carlito was silent.
“So why are you calling me?” Kyle asked.
After another pause, Carlito said, “You once helped my father.”
“Yes, I remember. I was there when your father died.”
“I thought you might be able to help again.”
Kyle’s stomach soured as he was overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu. Carlito was duplicating the situation when Kyle had been with Carlito’s father. Then as now, Kyle had jumped at the chance for an in-depth, exclusive story. But the story and the land grant protest had ended tragically.
“You need me to help you?” Kyle asked, skeptically. But he thought again. Carlito was with the jihadis inside the lodge! It gave Kyle access—exclusive access! His mind reeled with the possibilities of what this could mean for him and the Washington Herald. Kyle drew a breath, his heart pounding. “It all depends, Carlito. You’ve got the president of the United States held hostage there, along with Senator Blount. I can’t be part of that.”
“You don’t need to be,” Carlito said. “You just need to pass along some information. After you give it to the government, you can share it with everyone.”
Kyle thought for a moment. “Okay, Carlito. On one condition. Everything is on the record. I can and will use it all in my stories.”
Carlito groaned. “That’s why I called you and not someone else. I never forgot how you tried to help my father.”
Guilt again gurgled up inside Kyle. I didn’t help your father! Sure, he’d stayed at the land grant protest camp for three days. The long hours of sitting and waiting had meant long conversations with Carlito’s father and the others, some of whom joined for no other reason than they had little else to do. They were friends and neighbors who survived by cutting and selling firewood, raising sheep, and working on their cars and trucks. Carlito’s father, Carlos, was the great grandson Lupe Miranda, the man who was part of the original 1830’s communal land grant that was now the Vista Verde Ranch. Carlito and his mother had been regulars at the protest camp, coming and going as they pleased, passing through the state police barricade with food and fresh water for the camp.
By the time Kyle had joined the camp, the protest had been going on for nearly two weeks. He’d gotten the story, in depth. But on the third day, Carlos became despondent and began to issue demands to the state police surrounding the camp. It was the beginning of the end. Kyle had gotten out of the camp alive, just barely. Shit! His stomach churned at the memories. Still, he couldn’t turn down this chance to have access to the jihadis. If he could help keep President Harris alive, he’d do it. Then he would write about it.
“Okay,” Kyle said finally. “What information do you have?”
“If the government wants President Harris returned alive, they must comply with our demands.”
Kyle opened a blank page on the laptop screen and began to type. “Okay,” he said. “What are they?” Listening intently, Kyle’s fingers flew across the keys, taking down Carlito’s every word.
Chapter 20
They worked methodically, Kyle reading back to Carlito each of the demands, word for word, getting it right. Kyle’s head pounded, his shoulders pinched with tension. The demands were what he expected from a group of jihadis on a suicide mission—except for the final one. It had nothing to do with Islam. Still, Kyle knew all about it because it had put Carlito’s father to the grave.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Kyle asked, making one final effort to dissuade Carlito. “Those people you are with don’t care about you. They will use anybody to further their aims. Once they’re done with you, they’ll throw you away like garbage.”
Carlito exhaled into the phone. “You’re wrong. You’re a non-believer and don’t understand. I have found my t
rue brothers. These men stand up for what they believe. And they are willing to die for it.”
“You got the dying part right, Carlito,” Kyle said. “These men will kill anyone and do anything to get what they want. They’re psychopaths. They use religion to get what they want, which is power and money. God and glory have nothing to do with it.”
Carlito exhaled noisily, sounding irritated at Kyle’s warning. “Just do what you agreed to do. Or we will never talk again.”
“Can I talk to Tariq, the leader of the group?”
“How do you know that?” Carlito asked, sounding anxious.
Kyle smiled. Raoul had briefed him after the Security Council meeting about the jihadis and what was being done to free President Harris, which was not much. “I know a lot about the people there with you.”
After a long pause, Carlito said, “You’ll be in contact with him soon enough.”
Kyle’s heart leapt at the thought. When Raoul told him the jihadis were led by Tariq, otherwise known as Jihadi John, Kyle felt nothing but hatred for the man. Tariq had murdered his photographer friend and colleague, Nate, and others in a spasm of blood and sadism. Kyle had spent a lifetime pushing his emotions to the background. But no more. He was officially on leave from his job as a staff member of the Herald and didn’t need to hold his emotions in check any more. He despised Tariq and people like him, and for a moment surprised himself at the smoldering anger that burned inside.
“Can I call you back on this number?” Kyle asked.
The line went dead. Kyle sat still for a moment, and clenching his jaw, took a breath and told himself to stay calm. Tariq needed to be taken out, granted his wish for martyrdom, before he did any more damage. How didn’t matter. But even if he were dead, it would not undo the death and destruction Tariq had already committed.
Enemy of the People Page 14
