Dark Return

by DV Berkom

  “This is for Paul Miller at Tripoli Station,” he said, his tone urgent. “This is my last message. They’re getting close. I saw them yesterday, and I think they know. This video and the files contained on my phone should be enough to stop them. I—” He turned his head sharply, alerted to a sound the phone didn’t record. When he faced the camera again, he looked more nervous than before. “I have to go. I’ll try to send the files before I get to the safe house. The internet is too slow here, so I’m going to the tea shop near the medina and will send them from there. Please don’t try to contact me again. I’m through. It’s too dangerous.”

  A few seconds of dead space followed before the video changed to an image of a smaller room with low ceilings. A plush tan carpet covered the floor. A nondescript table with a child’s pink backpack on top was in the background, with a floor lamp the main illumination. Someone spoke off camera, but Leine couldn’t make out what they said. The camera angle wasn’t level, and the picture was surrounded by an uneven frame, as though the video was being shot through a hole in a shirt pocket or a case.

  A woman walked into the picture leading a young girl by the hand. Leine froze. It was La Pointe. Her hair was different, and the picture was grainy from the low light, but it was still unmistakably the director from the camp. Riveted, she watched as La Pointe picked up the backpack and handed it to the girl. She looked younger than Jinn, but somewhere in the eight- to ten-year age range.

  “Is this mine?” the girl asked, a hopeful smile on her face.

  “Yes, it is. Do you like it?” La Pointe asked.

  The girl nodded enthusiastically.

  “Why don’t you look inside?”

  The girl unzipped the pack and a huge grin split her face. She pulled out a doll with the same color hair as hers and hugged it tightly.

  “That’s yours, too, if you want it.”

  Leine studied La Pointe’s expression. She smiled, but her eyes resembled that of a hawk or a falcon—alert and watchful.

  “Oh, yes, please. May I play with her?”

  La Pointe nodded. “Of course.”

  Clutching the doll, the little girl ran off screen. La Pointe leaned against the table and crossed her arms as she watched her go. Nodding after the little girl she said, “We’ll do a test run next week.”

  Off camera, a male voice asked, “Where?”

  “The airport.”

  “Who do you want to use as her handler?” The camera moved slightly, as though the person filming had shifted their position.

  La Pointe shrugged. “I will assign someone to take her to her new family.”

  “What if the person you assign balks at the mission?”

  “They won’t.”

  “The only way that will happen is if you keep certain aspects of the plan a secret.” He paused a moment. La Pointe raised an eyebrow with a look that confirmed what he’d just said. “Ah. I get it now. You aren’t going to tell them what the ultimate sacrifice will be.”

  La Pointe narrowed her eyes. “Does that offend your sensibilities?” she asked him in a mocking tone.

  “I still think we need someone to monitor the handlers to make certain the plan succeeds.”

  “I have already thought of that.” She waved the speaker’s concerns away. “You worry too much.”

  “How many more do you intend to use?”

  “The plan calls for twenty.”

  “But where will you get the rest? There haven’t been any since the last time we visited the camp. I thought you wanted to carry this out at the time of the Christian holiday?”

  “You ask too many questions.” La Pointe pushed herself off the table and walked out of camera range.

  The video went blank. Heart racing, Leine checked the date on the file. Six days ago.

  Stunned, Leine didn’t move for a moment as the rest fell into place. La Pointe was going to use children to deliver the bombs.

  37

  LEINE RETURNED TO her SUV. It was time to let Lou in on the operation. And Scott Henderson—her old boss at the agency. She’d never be able to stop a terrorist attack with this kind of scope alone. Worry for Jinn fluttered through her, but she shoved it deep. This was bigger than both of them. She hoped the kid hadn’t succeeded in using herself as bait.

  She dialed Lou and waited for him to pick up. It was seven in the morning in Los Angeles.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Lou answered, his voice transmitting all kinds of anger.

  “Calm down, Lou, and listen. I know you’re pissed off at me. I don’t blame you. I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to contact Scott Henderson and let him know I’m sending him time-sensitive files that he needs to look at yesterday. I’ll CC you on the message. Then I need you to call in a favor or three and find out who’s at the end of two phone numbers I’m going to give you. I’m not expecting much—I assume they’re burners—but if you can tag anyone to either of these numbers, especially if the name is Paul Miller, it will go a long way toward stopping an imminent terrorist attack.”

  There was a brief pause before Lou answered. “This has to do with the kids, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “I’ll do what you ask, but I need you to promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You never go rogue on me like that again. If you have a beef, you bring it directly to me. None of this horseshit, ‘I can do this myself,’ Basso. I’ve been fielding calls left and right from security services from Tripoli to Paris, asking me if I know anything about the river of bodies turning up in their cities.”

  “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  “Fuck no. Why would you even ask me that?”

  The frustration in his voice was palpable. She’d never heard Lou drop an f-bomb before.

  “I’m sorry, Lou, I—”

  “You are goddamned right you’re sorry, Basso. Don’t you ever do that again.”

  She could hear him seething on the other end of the line. This wasn’t the first time she’d pissed him off, but it was right up there with the worst.

  “Lou? Talk to me. We have to move on this. Now.”

  A moment later he answered her in a deceptively calm voice. “Give me the telephone numbers.”

  ALIYA TOOK HER CHAPERONE’S hand as they walked inside the busy airport and up to the desk at the airline. There were so many people rushing by, and she didn’t want to lose her friend. Her grip tightened on the backpack the nice lady had given her. The doll inside was the first one she’d had since her mother and father were killed in the war.

  The woman behind the counter gave her a warm smile.

  “And who have we here?” the woman asked.

  Aliya decided she was very pretty. Her bright red jacket made her smile.

  Her chaperone, Salma, stepped closer so the woman could hear her above the din of the crowd. “Her name is Aliya Nazari and she’s going to meet her new family in France. Say hello to the nice lady, Aliya.”

  “Hello nice lady,” Aliya said, shyly. The woman behind the counter laughed and asked for her passport and ticket. Salma handed the documents to her and they chatted amiably.

  Aliya turned to survey the cavernous building. She’d never seen so many people in one place rushing to go somewhere else. She unzipped her pack and lifted her doll partway out so she could see everything.

  “Look at all these people, Kamaria,” she said to the doll. “Have you ever seen so many people walking so fast?” She and the doll watched the hive-like activity for a few more minutes before Salma stuffed her passport and documents inside the pack.

  “Time to go,” Salma said brightly.

  Aliya zipped Kamaria back inside and followed Salma to the security gate. A long line of travelers stretched for what seemed like kilometers. They walked into the maze of temporary barriers and stopped at the end of the line. Soon there were several people behind them, queuing up for the security check. She looked up at Salma.

  “I have to
go to the bathroom,” she whispered, crossing her legs to show her chaperone how much of an emergency it was.

  Salma frowned and scanned the large hall. She pointed toward an open doorway across from them with a sign that said Women’s Restroom. “You’ll have to go by yourself, okay? I don’t want to lose our place in line.”

  “But I’m scared.”

  Salma gave her a bright smile. “Don’t be afraid. You’re going on an airplane all by yourself. Surely you can go to the bathroom alone.” She held out her hand. “Here. I’ll take your backpack and make sure that Kamaria is safe, all right? That way, you won’t have to worry about her and can get back here quickly.”

  Still unsure, Aliya handed her the pack. “Okay.”

  “Just don’t talk to anyone and you’ll be safe. Make sure you wash your hands before you come back, all right?”

  “All right.” Aliya slipped under the temporary barrier and scurried off to the bathroom. She stopped to pet the big German Shephard that was walking down the line sniffing people’s bags, but the man holding its leash shook his head and said in a stern voice, “Please don’t pet the dog.” Embarrassed, Aliya yanked her hand back and hurried the rest of the way to the bathroom.

  SALMA WATCHED ALIYA scamper away from the large black- and tan-colored dog. The man holding its leash was dressed in a security uniform and was walking the dog up and down the rows of travelers waiting in line, letting it sniff each piece of luggage. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, telling her she was being watched. She scanned the crowd. No one was looking at her.

  You’re being silly, Salma. No one here cares who you are.

  When she’d answered the ad in the back of the weekly newspaper, the man on the phone had explained that she was to escort Aliya through security and make sure that she boarded the flight to Paris. He assured her that there would be someone at the other end of the flight to pick Aliya up. The pay was quite good, so Salma happily accepted the job. It would only take a few hours out of her day. The little girl didn’t have much in her pack other than some underwear, her passport, and the doll. Salma hoped she was going to meet a good family with lots of money so she could grow up wealthy.

  She turned her attention back to the restroom to look for Aliya and happened to look up at the second-floor landing. An attractive, dark-haired man holding a cell phone looked away, trying to appear disinterested. Salma smiled to herself. Men were always interested in her. She smoothed a stray lock of hair away from her face and glanced back up at him, but he was gone.

  Disappointed, she looked away and noticed the dog was drawing closer to where she was standing. It had a beautiful fur coat, and its big brown eyes seemed friendly. After the way Aliya had reacted to what the man said, she knew better than to try to interact with it.

  The line was moving quickly. She was almost to the security screener. Annoyed with how long Aliya was taking, Salma turned to see if she was coming. Instead, her gaze wandered to the second floor above her. She spotted the attractive man, although now he was much farther away. This time, he appeared to be looking straight at her. She gave him her thousand-watt smile, hoping it would show him she was interested, and noticed at the same time that the German Shephard was sniffing at the person’s luggage standing behind her in line.

  The attractive man straightened and looked down at his cell phone. Something beeped inside the pack. The dog sniffed Aliya’s backpack and barked. Then it lay down on the spot and whined.

  Confused, Salma locked eyes with the dog’s handler, just before the bomb went off.

  38

  LOU RETURNED LEINE’S call in under an hour.

  “The number with the Benghazi exchange belongs to a CIA field officer named Paul Miller who’s been working out of Tripoli Station. You’ve got a meeting with him near the entrance to the Red Castle in thirty minutes.”

  Leine’s heart beat faster. “That’s good news, Lou. Thanks.” The Red Castle Museum was located in Martyrs’ Square, which wasn’t far from where she’d parked.

  “Wear something green. He’ll use the word ‘gallant’ in a sentence to let you know it’s him. You’re supposed to answer with something about Guinevere.”

  “Great.” The CIA loved their code words. “I’ve got a green headscarf I can wear.”

  “I took a peek at the video and the photos you sent to Henderson. The woman in the video—was that Blanche La Pointe?”

  “Yeah. Also known as Salome.”

  “The assassin? I thought she was taken out last year.”

  “So did I. Apparently she faked her death and was reborn as the head of We Care International.”

  Lou whistled. “I’ll keep working on things from my end. Keep me posted on what you learn in the meeting with Miller.”

  “Will do.” Leine ended the call, grabbed her bag, and exited the SUV. She locked the doors and covered her head with the green scarf before she made her way back through the souk to Martyrs’ Square.

  Originally built as a piazza by the Italians in the 1930s to capitalize on the commanding views of the Mediterranean, it was renamed Green Square during Gaddafi’s forty-plus year rule. The place earned its latest moniker after the Battle of Tripoli in 2011. Now one of the city’s main tourist attractions, the large outdoor space was lined with palm trees, myriad shops and cafés, and hosted its share of Libya’s pigeon population. It also served as a major gateway to the medina.

  Leine found a bench near the museum and sat down to wait for the CIA officer. Jinn popped back into her head, and she found herself worrying about the kid.

  She couldn’t afford the distraction. She needed to focus, to help Miller understand the gravity of the situation. He’d obviously been running the man in the white suit in the video as an asset for a while and would have more of the backstory than Leine did, so she hoped he wouldn’t need much convincing.

  Twenty targets in twenty different cities. The coordination alone would take massive cooperation between agencies and law enforcement. She assumed Interpol would be called in to coordinate, although the CIA would most likely want to act as point. The biggest unknown was when La Pointe had decided to stage the attacks. Would she try to pull them off one at a time or all at once? Either would be difficult to stop, but the former would give counterterrorism units more time to prepare.

  Leine assumed the latter. La Pointe wanted to make a statement, and having twenty bombs go off in twenty locations around Europe would definitely do that. What she didn’t know was La Pointe’s motivation. According to official reports regarding the assassin, Salome/La Pointe didn’t identify with any religion or even a political faction, preferring to make money and power her main considerations. Rumors circulating after the Russian deception marked her as ambitious and amoral, and one who wanted to make a name for herself in the terrorism community as the go-to for delivering a newsworthy event—the bigger and more ambitious the requirements, the better.

  For Leine, La Pointe represented a more dangerous foe than the usual jihadi. A terrorist motivated by their own cold logic was much harder to predict than one guided by passion.

  The shadows on the square lengthened as the sun set, leaving the sky a deep, dusky orange. How many different twilights had Leine experienced in how many different countries? Sunsets back in LA were usually lovely, due to the Pacific Ocean and the smog. The thought of her home stirred up memories of Santa and her daughter, April, which she quickly tamped down.

  Focus, Leine. Focus.

  A man with dark hair dressed in khakis and a white long-sleeve shirt walked toward her. Wary, she watched his approach, trying to determine if the man was Paul Miller or someone she needed to deflect.

  “You look in need of a gallant knight,” he said. His aviator sunglasses reflected the waning light in the square.

  “Guinevere’s missing out,” she answered.

  The man nodded, acknowledging the coded exchange. He sat down next to her and extended his hand. “Paul Miller, gallant knight at your service.”


  “Leine Basso,” she answered and shook his hand.

  Miller smiled and removed the glasses. His blue eyes stood out against his sun- and wind-burned skin. “I hear you’re in possession of one of my asset’s phones. May I see it?”

  “Of course.” Leine dug inside her bag, pulled out the phone, and handed it to him. “He left you a video message.” She pointed to the file.

  Miller glanced at her sharply. “He didn’t encrypt?”

  “No, he did. I used an app to check it.”

  “How did you come by this?” he asked as he accessed the video file.

  “A young girl I befriended.”

  “And how did she get it?”

  Leine shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s a street kid with sticky fingers. Come to your own conclusions. The woman in the video was working as the director at Camp Azziz. Her cover name was Blanche La Pointe. She’s no longer there—left a couple of days ago,”

  He watched the video once, and then hit replay. “He’s dead, you know.” His voice was flat, but Leine sensed the asset’s death hit him hard.

  “I assumed. I’m sorry.”

  He finished watching it a second time and then closed the file, moving on to the photographs.

  “How long did you run him?”

  “Over a year. He was working for a different guy than the woman in the video and would only pass me crumbs—smaller jobs carried out by Izz Al-Din. Just enough to keep me on the line for some extra dinars. Once she took control of his group, he started to cooperate more fully.” He shook his head. “She pissed off a lot of jihadis when the big kahuna in Izz Al-Din allowed her to take a leadership position. Most of Al-Mufti’s disciples believe that women are meant to follow, not lead. When she floated the idea of using children to bomb targets, that’s when my guy decided to talk. He was killed before he could get this information to me.”