by Brad Taylor
Yasir relaxed. He’d directed the team here precisely because this section of Zurich was a little bit of a free-fire zone, run amok with students who lived in the cheap apartments, but also frequented by tourists attracted to the history. Situated just across the Limmat River from the swanky Zurich shopping district, it was an eclectic mix of young and old. The students who lived in this area were more than willing to turn a blind eye to anyone staying here—because not doing so would be tantamount to racism in their eyes—and he leveraged that.
He ordered a beer and waited, looking at the entrance of a tunnel that led to the claustrophobic apartment he’d rented for his “friends.” Right above the archway was a sign reading ASS BAR. He chuckled. This place was so outside the caliphate his contacts fervently searched for that he wondered if their heads had exploded upon checking in.
He watched the tunnel, seeing young women and hipster men with goatees, students he was sure were begging someone to ask them what music they listened to or beer they drank so they could opine about their ironic taste. He wondered which of them was his contact.
Nobody approached the café. He checked his watch and saw eleven minutes had passed. He glanced left and right, then stood up to leave, anxious that he’d been led into a trap. Before he reached the square, two men exited the tunnel, funneling through the crowd. Both looked like damn terrorists.
One was thin as a rail, with a thick, coarse-spun Moroccan hooded jacket. Something out of a hippie commune in the 1960s, except it was real. The other was tall and brooding, with a shaggy neck beard and heavy eyebrows, wearing billowing linen pants cinched at the ankles and sandals that looked like they’d come from Disney’s Aladdin movie—or an ISIS recruiting video.
Is this a joke?
They crossed the plaza, and he held up a hand. The rail-thin man saw it, and they veered over. Yasir returned to his table.
He’d expected to be surprised when they arrived, with him not able to tell who they were until they introduced themselves, but that was not the case here. Which gave him no small amount of concern. If anyone had any indication of what was to occur, they would be found out in a heartbeat.
Thank heavens they’re going back to Syria, because that is the only place they will blend in.
The two sat down, looking uncomfortable. Finally, the thin man said, “I am Bashir. This is Sayid. Thank you for seeing us.”
Yasir said, “My name is Farouq, and it is you who deserves the thanks.”
Sayid said, “You have something to help us, yes?”
“I do, but first, how are you here in this country? How did you cross?”
Sayid said, “I have a passport from Egypt. Bashir’s is from Tunisia.”
“So no Syrian connection?”
“No. Is that an issue?”
“Yes, a little bit.” He passed across a thick envelope, a key rubberbanded to the top of it. “Here are your instructions. I’ve arranged for a boat to take you from Nice to the Syrian port of Tartus. Having a Syrian passport would help, but it’s not insurmountable.”
“The port with the Russian base? The country helping Assad? Why would we go there?”
“Because it’s the way I’ve developed to get you in. Don’t worry about it.”
Bashir spoke up, saying, “Why aren’t we going through Turkey?”
Yasir said, “Take that ridiculous hood off. You look like a jihadi.”
Bashir snapped his head back at the rebuke, but removed the hood.
Yasir said, “Look, you men are on an important mission. I don’t know what your command told you, but you can’t wander around here looking like bedouin tribesmen. Try to blend in.”
Sayid said, “We don’t bow to the whims of the kaffir just because we want to ‘blend in.’”
Yasir leaned forward and said, “You will here. Remember what the Prophet said, peace be upon him. You can act like an infidel in order to survive. That’s all I’m asking.”
Bashir nodded and said, “We’ll consider it. Khalousi says you are a man we can trust.”
“I am.”
Khalousi had been a lieutenant inside the Nusra Front before jumping ship to the Islamic State. Through all of that time, no matter how much terrain they took, Yasir had been his contact with the Assad government, and Khalousi had facilitated selling oil and other supplies to the administration in order to be left alone.
There was a reason that the regime focused all of its efforts against other rebel groups, and it was precisely because Assad preferred ISIS to live. Having them exist, chopping off heads on the world stage, gave Assad a legitimate reason to fight. Gave him the ability to pronounce that his war was all about terrorist brutality, not his own. The relationship was strangely symbiotic, because Assad’s neglect allowed ISIS to flourish even as it gave Assad the ability to say he was fighting terrorism, not a civil war. Through it all, Assad had bought fuel from the very terrorist group that had stolen the oil fields.
Eventually, the self-proclaimed caliphate of the Islamic State had collapsed, not at Assad’s hands, but at the fighting prowess of the Kurds and the firepower of the United States. Like many other roaches fleeing the light of the sun, Khalousi had run from the capital of Raqqa, and then had started a new group—the White Flags, comprised of Sunni resistance fighters. Yasir wasn’t sure what their agenda was—nationalism, freedom from persecution, or the usual desire to build a caliphate—but Khalousi had stated that he wanted to put the group on the world stage.
And Yasir was more than willing to facilitate that goal, because it would once again help the regime in the propaganda fight.
Bashir said, “What do you have for us?”
Yasir leaned forward, glanced left and right theatrically, and said, “Red Mercury.”
Bashir’s eyes went wide, and Sayid said, “You have the real Red Mercury?”
Yasir removed his backpack, opened a latch, and showed them the two thermos-like containers. He said, “Yes. From North Korea.”
Both of their eyes glistened, like cocaine addicts seeing a mountain of white. Making Yasir wonder how on earth such men were created. It was just like the interrogators he’d commanded in his prison. Some short circuit that allowed—no, encouraged—a savagery he didn’t understand. He did what he did out of survival. The men in front of him did it out of pleasure.
Sayid reached for the backpack, and Yasir pulled it away, saying, “First, there are conditions.”
Bashir said, “We know. Only use it inside Syria.”
“Yes. You must use it against a US Special Forces outpost. Can you do that?”
“Of course. We have one pinpointed in Manbij, at their base. The one that the Turks are threatening to destroy. The French have shown up, and they do joint patrols.”
Yasir thought, Talk about a mess. There are more factions fighting than there are sides. He said, “That would be perfect. Kill both the French and the Americans. If you kill some Turks as well, it would be even better. Good target.”
He passed the backpack across, saying, “It’s two self-contained units, with an aerosol propulsion system. You press the switch, and it starts spraying like a fumigation can for insects.”
“So we press the button and it starts killing?”
“Yes.”
Bashir looked at Sayid, then said, “How will we initiate and get away?”
Yasir smiled and said, “That’s up to you. But I suspect you won’t be getting away.”
35
I handed my company credit card to the guy at the desk, letting him run it. I turned to Knuckles and said, “Me paying for all of this shit is getting old.”
He laughed and said, “Maybe you need to fire a few of us. Make it cheaper.”
I started to reply when Brett tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Turn back around. Now.”
I did so, hiding my face, and said, “What’s u
p?”
He ducked his head as well, saying, “The North Koreans just entered the hotel. The targets from Monaco.”
What?
“Are they checking in?”
“Don’t know.”
We were at the Park Hyatt in Zurich, attempting to locate the second phone from our original theft of data—after wasting precious time in Geneva. We’d hooked Amena’s iPhone to our computer, and the reach-back hacking cell had drained it of everything it could, and, deep in the BIOS, had found instructions for a meeting that had occurred at an archaeological site in the basement of a church two days ago.
That told me all I needed to know. The Syrian owned both phones. It wasn’t two people, it was one, and Amena had interrupted whatever had been planned by stealing the first phone. We’d searched the men who’d attacked her, finding absolutely nothing. They were completely sterile, but I had no doubt why they were chasing her. They were trying to protect the Syrian.
We’d managed to stop that, and had to wait an agonizing amount of time to continue. Truthfully, after what I’d executed, I was a little amazed that the Council let us go forward at all. Kurt had thought I was joking when I’d told him about the interdiction and rescue. Right up until I put Amena in front of the computer. Then he’d become apoplectic.
I’d had Jennifer take Amena out of the room, and he’d shouted, “I promised the president you wouldn’t do anything stupid!”
Calm as ever, I’d said, “Sir, they were going to kill her. And she had the first-target handset. I had to intervene. It’s in the Taskforce charter—the right to protect. I couldn’t let her die.”
He’d rubbed his face with his hands, clearly not wanting to hear what I was saying—but he knew I was right. He said, “Tell me she can give us something. Some reason for saving her other than that phone.”
A little miffed, I said, “You mean other than her damn life?”
Curtly, he said, “Yes. You know the drill. Anything would be nice when I brief the Council.”
And I did know the drill. He was going to need everything he could get to continue operations, and he would spin anything I gave him in our favor. I said, “She knows the Syrian on sight. She stole the phone from him.”
“We have a picture of him from Johnny’s team. Why is that a help? Is she going to describe him better than a photo? Does she know something the picture doesn’t show?”
“No, sir, but that photograph is a half-profile shot from a distance. It’s a good start to locating this guy, but she’s a sure thing. Tell the Council that.”
He nodded, and then what I’d said sank in. “Are you implying you’re taking her on the operation if I get approval?”
“Well, of course. She’s just an asset at this point. Same as we use in other operations.”
Up went the hands again, rubbing his forehead. He should buy stock in aspirin, because I was pretty sure I was giving him a monster headache. He said, “Pike, Pike, there is no way I can sell that. I’m going to have a hard enough time getting approval just for continued Alpha in Zurich. I can’t tell the Council that you’re now using an uncleared child as an asset on an operation.”
I said, “Look, sir, you know how to spin this. Don’t mention an age. You wouldn’t if she were an adult, so why do it here. You wouldn’t go in and say, ‘Pike was forced to interdict, saving a thirty-two-year-old male.’ You’d just say, ‘Pike interdicted under the R2P protocol of the charter, saving a male.’ Do the same here.”
“That’s tantamount to lying.”
I said, “No it’s not. You’re telling them everything except her age. Is there some age restriction in the charter for assets we use?”
He leaned back and said, “I’m pretty sure there damn well should be.”
He acted aggravated, but he’d known I’d given him his only out, and he’d taken it. The Oversight Council had wrung their hands, fearful there would be blowback from our actions in Montreux. It made me impatient, but, given what we’d done, I understood. We’d managed to get out of Montreux clean, but leaving dead bodies around was never a good idea.
After a day and a half, they’d agreed to let us continue with Alpha in Zurich, where the second handset had been located. We’d pinpointed it to the Park Hyatt, and we’d arrived attempting to neck it down. I’d wanted to ask Kurt if he’d told them we were taking along a prepubescent teenager as our asset, but figured that was probably poking the bear. With the arrival of the Koreans, I was pretty sure this second phone would be tied to our target.
Thankfully, the lobby of the Park Hyatt was a little chopped up. You entered a foyer, then had the choice of left to reception, right to the elevators, or straight ahead into a restaurant. If they were already booked, they’d pass by us.
But they’d run into Jennifer.
She’d taken Amena to the bathroom while I checked in, and that was located near the elevators. It would be just my luck Jennifer would pop out, right in view of the Korean whose ass she’d kicked.
None of us were wired for sound, because all we were doing was checking into a hotel, forcing me to hastily pull out my cell phone and call her. I told Veep and Knuckles to handle the rest of the check-in, then Brett and I scurried to an alcove while I gave Jennifer the threat information. She acknowledged, saying Amena was wondering why they had to stay in the bathroom.
Because people want to kill you.
We remained in place for a few excruciating seconds, then I felt my phone vibrate with a text from Knuckles. Clear. They went straight to the elevators.
Which made our life significantly more difficult. If they were staying here, we stood a good chance of being compromised, but it also told me that we were in the right place.
We returned to the front desk, finding Jennifer holding Amena’s hand, the girl looking at me like she wanted to say something.
I said, “What?”
She said, “What, what? I’m just standing here.”
I said, “Oh. I thought you were going to ask me for ice cream or something.”
She looked up at Jennifer and said, “You’re right. He is sort of an asshole.”
Jennifer put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile, then leaned over the girl, whispering in her ear.
Knuckles started handing out key cards and I gritted my teeth, saying, “Jennifer, take our stuff to the room. Knuckles and Veep, start your magic on the elevators. Brett, you and I are going to recce this place for other exits.”
Amena said, “Do I get a key?”
Jennifer said, “No. You’re in our room.”
She looked concerned, and I said, “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”
She said, “I know. Do I get a bed?” And the comment brought a smile. “Yes, little Jedi, you’ll get a bed.”
She grinned, and it truly affected me. She was willing to finger the Syrian, knowing it put her life at risk, and all the payment she wanted was a bed. I ruffled her hair and said, “Help Jennifer with the bags. Since you don’t have any.”
She said, “Yeah. We need to talk about that. I figure helping you might be worth some clothes.”
I smiled at her words. She was sharp, and she was going to bleed me for all I was worth. I said, “Just take the bags. You have to earn the new wardrobe.”
She slitted her eyes, and I said, “Everyone meet in our room in one hour. By then, I want to be operational.”
36
Yasir exited his cab in front of the Park Hyatt, walking through the lobby with his head on a swivel, surveying the room in a practiced manner. He saw nothing to cause concern. But he was experienced enough to realize that anybody worth their skill wouldn’t raise a signature.
He went rapidly through the reception area, entered the elevator, and touched his key card to the small knob that allowed the elevator to work. It flashed a green light, and he hit the ninth floor. He rode up in silence.
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The door opened, and he glided down the hall, happy at how the mission had proceeded. He’d passed the Red Mercury, alleviating any repercussions from the North Koreans, and now all he needed to do was get the final payment from the Americans. From that ass Periwinkle. He wondered what would happen to that guy once the attack happened, and the subsequent investigation revealed his complicity. But he didn’t really care. By that time, he expected to be in a whole new life, his past behind him, experiencing the real-world promise of the Quran. Seventy-two virgins and a daiquiri.
He grinned at the thought.
He reached his door, keyed it for entrance, and pushed it open. The first thing he saw was the same Korean security man who’d given him the second phone, now sitting in a chair, facing the door. He had bruises on his face, like someone had used it for punching practice. And he wasn’t pleased.
Yasir entered, let the door close, and said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
A voice from inside the room said, “Come in.”
He did, seeing Song Hae-gook, the same Korean “investor” from Monaco. He immediately whirled around, looking for the killers who had passed him the information in Geneva, convinced he was about to be gutted.
Song smiled and said, “Stop it. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have sat here in your room. You’d have died in the elevator.”
Yasir looked at him warily and said, “How did you get in?”
“We have our ways.”
Yasir nodded, then said, “Okay. So what brings you here?”
“There has been some trouble with your transfer. We just want to make sure the passing went satisfactorily.”
“Trouble? How?”
“Did you really destroy your phone by accidentally dropping it in a toilet?”
Yasir felt the sweat break out on his forehead, but used his training, keeping his face stoic. “Yes. Of course. Do you think I gave it away or something?”