by Al Pessin
“Let’s be sure we find them all.”
“Yes, sir. Finding the man himself may be more difficult, but he has expensive tastes, which should narrow it down. Unclear whether he’s a messenger or a real player.”
“And he works for some of our so-called friends?”
“It seems that way.”
“That’s another thing that’s astounding when it’s staring you in the face, even though we sort of knew it already. Well, keep at it. I want to shut these guys down for good.”
“We will, sir.”
Martelli turned to Hadley. “General, my congratulations to Task Force Epsilon. Please wish Ms. Davenport a speedy recovery for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s arrange a call when she’s feeling up to it.”
“I’m sure she would appreciate that very much, Mr. President.”
Martelli pushed out his chair, and they all stood. He offered a hand to Hadley. “And your man, the young lieutenant, he did an unbelievable job . . . again, I should say.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Killed their top guy and several others, reported the plan, exposed their financier. That’s the kind of Blowback I’m talking about.”
Chapter Fifty-three
A week later, Faraz sat in the back seat of a black sedan idling in front of a nondescript brownstone apartment building a few minutes before one o’clock in the morning.
Faraz leaned forward and craned his neck to see the fourth-floor window. “You sure your men can handle this?” he asked.
Sitting next to him, Carter said, “Our last mission was to pull you out of a terrorist base in the middle of the Syrian desert. I think we can handle one man sleeping in an apartment in London.”
“Right.” The bandage on Faraz’s head, which once resembled an Afghan turban, was now a couple of square inches of gauze held on by two strips of white tape. It was covered by a black wool cap. He also wore black jeans and a black jacket. Under his T-shirt, his ribs were still wrapped, but the pain was tolerable thanks to some good meds, which also had his injured shoulder under control. He had three scabs on his left cheek from al-Souri’s fingernails. Faraz looked like a boxer, a bad one, who had a jihadi beard and needed a haircut.
“And we won’t be bothered by local law enforcement?”
“Oh, no, sir. Our Spotlight team here is first rate and fully coordinated with the bobbies. We do what the locals can’t and the U.S. military won’t. It’s all in a day’s work, except that you’re here.”
“Yeah, well, this one’s mine.”
“Understood.”
“Zero one hundred, sir,” the driver reported. His British accent made him sound incongruously genteel for the task at hand. “Are we a Go?”
“It’s up to the lieutenant,” Carter said.
Faraz looked up at the window one more time. From what he could see, there was no light on behind the closed curtains. “Yes. Let’s do this.”
The driver touched his earpiece and said, “Initiate.”
Carter’s men, Barrett and Lesher, also dressed in black, emerged from a van parked a few meters ahead. They went up the five steps outside the building and through the unlocked outer door.
Faraz and Carter followed.
* * *
At the same time, eight Turkish military vehicles used no stealth whatsoever as they covered the last few hundred meters to the farmhouse. The surveillance cameras detected their arrival and set off an alarm.
Trevor and Melissa bolted out of bed and ran in different directions, as they had practiced. They didn’t say a word or spare a glance.
Wearing only boxer shorts, Trevor went down the hall and opened the front door. By then, the soldiers were pointing automatic weapons at him.
Trevor raised his arms. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted, buying a few extra seconds for Melissa to key in the code on the digital lock and take the detonator out of the safe. He wished they’d said good-bye.
Two soldiers mounted the steps.
“Melissa!” Trevor shouted over his shoulder. “Jig’s up, love. Allahu akbar.”
He heard her repeat the blessing. A moment later, a rapid series of explosions destroyed the house and killed them both, along with several of the Turkish soldiers.
* * *
As Faraz went up the steps, he saw Barrett and Lesher break the lock on the inner door with a small battering ram. He and Carter went past them into the building’s ground floor hallway, drew their weapons, and waited.
No one responded to the noise.
Two more men came up behind them to guard the entrance while Faraz, Carter, and the others went up the stairs.
At the apartment door, they listened. There was no sound, and no light came through the space at the bottom of the door.
* * *
The Turkish civilian police were busy that night, too. Faraz’s description had confirmed their suspicions from long-term surveillance of the mosque in Diyarbakir.
A SWAT team crashed through the door of the young man’s father’s house and tossed in a stun grenade. The old man shouted in protest and staggered toward them in a nightshirt, his gray hair in disarray, his hands up.
“On the floor,” the team leader ordered.
“No, please,” the man pleaded, falling to his knees.
There was a burst of gunfire from the backyard.
“Murderers!” the man screamed. Tears welled in his eyes, and he crumpled to the floor and said the Shahada.
“Take him,” the commander ordered.
As his men took hold of the old man, the commander moved along the hallway. The man’s wife jumped him from the bedroom doorway, digging her nails into his neck. The officer threw her off. She hit the floor and collapsed in tears. One of the policemen pointed his weapon at her.
The team leader wiped his neck and went out the back door.
The couple’s son lay facedown on the ground in a growing pool of blood, surrounded by members of the team.
* * *
Faraz and Carter took positions on either side of the apartment door. Barrett and Lesher stood between them. Carter nodded. The two men broke through the door with one swing of the ram.
Carter went in first and scanned the living room and kitchen to the left. Faraz went the other way toward the bedroom. He was there inside of two seconds.
Faraz turned on the high-powered flashlight in his left hand as he raised a pistol fitted with a silencer.
Mahmoud was fumbling to grab a gun from his night table.
“La,” Faraz said. No. He blinded him with the light.
Mahmoud froze and closed his eyes, his hand inches from the weapon.
“Leave the gun,” Faraz said, switching to English. Then he added in Arabic, “Akhooee.” My brother.
Mahmoud withdrew his hand, and Faraz moved to the side of the bed and kicked the night table so the gun fell out of reach.
“Meen inta?” Mahmoud asked, blinking and shading his eyes with his left hand. Who are you?
“A friend,” Faraz answered. “Min Soorya.” From Syria. “Do you remember me?”
Faraz moved the light so Mahmoud could see his face.
“Yes!” Mahmoud’s voice brightened and he relaxed, as they wanted him to. “You came through here a couple of months ago. Karim, is it?”
“Right. Why have you not launched the operation?” They were pretty sure no one had been in touch with Mahmoud since al-Souri’s death, that he hadn’t received or passed on any commands. It was Faraz’s job to confirm it
“Do you have the orders?” Mahmoud asked. “With the new security in the United States, I thought the operation was canceled.”
“Have you not already been given the Go command?”
Mahmoud looked confused. “No, no, akhooee. Truly. I have sat by the phones every night, as always. Since the tragic martyrdom of our leader, Commander al-Souri, the phones have been silent. Please, look in the desk. You will find the codes.”
Faraz t
ook two steps to his right, keeping his gun pointed at Mahmoud. He opened a desk drawer and glanced down long enough to see half a dozen flip phones and a notebook exactly like the one al-Souri had been carrying.
“You see, my brother,” Mahmoud said, “there is no need for the weapon. I know my job.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do.” Faraz kept the gun pointed at Mahmoud. “You prepare the teams, provide the money, and convey the orders.”
Mahmoud smiled.
“You send naïve foreigners to die in the desert, and dispatch your teams to kill children.”
“It will be the most devastating attack in the history of jihad.”
“Against the children. Shame on you. Allah would not approve.”
“It is necessary, akhooee.”
“I am not your brother.” Faraz took a step toward Mahmoud.
“No!” Mahmoud held out his hands toward the gun.
Faraz’s finger tightened on the trigger. His hand shook a little, but he restrained himself. He raised his voice. “Come in here and take this guy.”
Carter’s men came into the room, wrestled Mahmoud off the bed, and forced him to kneel. Barrett put a gag on the prisoner. Lesher cuffed him. They stood him up and marched him into the living room.
“I guess we’re done, then,” Carter said from the bedroom doorway.
“Almost.” Faraz found Mahmoud’s backpack on the floor, took the phones and notebook from the desk, and stuffed them in. Then he turned and led the team out of the building.
* * *
One other security unit was active that night.
Members of an elite Jordanian paramilitary force with several American “observers” infiltrated a five-star Amman hotel one by one, convening in a room down the hall from their target. As the chief American’s digital watch turned over to 0300 local time, two hours ahead of London, he opened the door and let the Jordanians take the lead as they moved in single file along the hallway.
A colonel used an electronic passkey to unlock a door, then stepped aside as his men ran past, American M4 machine guns at the ready.
The colonel followed with the lead observer. There was no one in the suite’s large living room, only the remains of dinner for two, an overflowing ashtray, and some empty hard candy wrappers.
Two soldiers moved to the bedroom on the left, where they startled a young blonde who had been sleeping. She screamed and covered herself with the sheets, pushing up against the headboard away from the men.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” she begged in British-accented English. “I don’t speak Arabic.”
“Hands up!” the colonel shouted as he moved past his men.
The American watched from the doorway as the woman complied, dropping the sheet and exposing herself from the waist up. She was shaking. Her sequined red minidress and underwear lay on the floor. Her hair fell across her shoulders. There was a fresh bruise on her left cheek. The room smelled of expensive whiskey, cigars, and perfume.
“Where is he?” the colonel demanded.
The woman looked around. “I don’t know. I swear. He was here when I fell asleep. Please, sir.”
“A fat man? Balding?” the American asked.
“Yes.”
“He gave you that?” The American gestured toward her cheek.
The woman touched the bruise and winced. “Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“He didn’t tell me his name,” she said, seeming to relax a bit. “They never do.”
The colonel threw the sheet over her. “Watch her,” he ordered. He pushed past the American as he left the room.
The team searched the suite, but the woman was alone.
The American keyed his radio. “Negative acquisition. Repeat, negative acquisition. The target is not on-site.”
* * *
Back in the car in London, Faraz handed the backpack to Carter, took out his phone, and dialed the ops center. After reciting the codes, he said, “It’s done. No orders conveyed. Suspect in custody. Further intel material en route via our friends.”
He ended the call and turned to Carter. “Thanks for your help.”
“Our pleasure, Lieutenant. Really. Good working with you.”
“And you. Mind if I borrow your car?”
“Not at all. I’ll ride with the team.” Carter opened the car door. “See you again, I hope.”
“Me, too. And thanks again for the rescue.”
“That? That was the most fun I’ve had on the job in years.”
They shook hands. Carter got out of the car and walked toward the other vehicle. Faraz sat back in the seat and said one word to the driver.
“Heathrow.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Faraz peered through the window but couldn’t quite make out his old neighborhood as the big jet descended across the always-blue San Diego sky.
He had dumped his ops outfit at the airport and put on jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a cotton sweater he’d gotten at the hospital in Germany. He had a toothbrush, a razor, and some pain pills in his backpack, and little else.
His reflection in the airplane window showed a different man than he’d been for the last year and a half. A barber at Heathrow had taken off his beard and brought his hair under control. He had that feeling of seeing someone you might recognize but not quite remember—perhaps a long-lost acquaintance who looked older now.
He wondered whether his mother would recognize him. But that was silly. Of course she would. He was her son, Faraz Abdallah. Definitely not Karim Niazi or Hamed Anwali.
Faraz had spent much of the flight trying to figure out how to handle his homecoming. His mother thought he had died over a year ago. Should he just knock on her door? Davenport was right. That was probably not a good idea. A phone call? Also bad.
He thought maybe he’d go see his aunt, his mom’s sister. Then she and her husband could go to mom’s house with him. That was as close to a strategy as he had come up with. But he still wasn’t sure.
Bridget had called him after the London op and told him to meet her in D.C. She said they had to talk. There were things she had to tell him that she couldn’t say on the phone. She spoke of new threats and other “developments.” But Faraz was done taking orders from Bridget. He had hung up and thrown the phone away.
He had a brand-new military ID, a passport, a credit card, and some cash they’d given him for the London mission. He was going to use them to take advantage of this probably brief period of freedom.
After California, he would go back to his unit. Or maybe he’d leave the army. He needed some time to think about that. But first, he needed to see his mom. Ease her burden. And try not to give her a heart attack in the process.
* * *
The immigration officer said, “Welcome home, sir,” and gave Faraz a casual salute.
“Thanks,” he said.
By the time he came out through customs, he felt like he was on another planet. Even though he had spent five days at the hospital in Germany and forty-eight hours in London, the crowd, the noise, the gaudy advertisements hit Faraz hard. It had been a long time—more than a year and a half—since he’d been on his own in America. He felt at home in a terrorist camp, but here, a few miles from his actual home, he was an alien.
Outside the terminal, Faraz stood on the sidewalk, breathing the exhaust from the cars and buses, and didn’t know what to do. He got in the taxi line, still not sure what he’d say to the driver. But once in the cab, Faraz thought of a place he should go before doing anything else. It was the right thing to do, and it would give him more time to work on his homecoming plan.
He told the driver to take him to Oceanside. He didn’t know the exact address, but it was off El Camino Real, across the street from a church, oddly enough.
* * *
His memory served him well. As they approached, the red-roofed white buildings came into view, like an idyllic village opposite the stark landscape of scrubland and power lines. When they made the
turn, the church spire topped by a giant cross was on the left. A particularly tall pole with an American flag stood next to a parking lot on the right.
They went in past the flag, and Faraz told the driver to wait. He walked through the Eternal Hills Memorial Park to the Muslim section. He stopped at a freestanding gateway and took off his shoes. It was hot and getting hotter as the sun rose toward midday.
Walking among the graves was strangely comforting. He stopped at the marker over his cousin Johnny’s grave. That was where it had all started for Faraz—his decision to be a soldier, to honor Johnny’s memory. Johnny’s funeral was the first time Faraz had been to this cemetery. That was early 2002, and the family had visited at least once a year after that.
Faraz said a blessing for Johnny, then moved on, wiping the sweat off his face. Two rows over, he found what he was looking for.
“Oh, fahr,” he said out loud as he went down on one knee. He caressed the grass.
Faraz admired the flowing golden Arabic script at the top of the black marble slab, a verse from the Koran. Below it were his father’s name in English, the dates of his life, spanning only fifty-eight years, and the Koran translation. “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”
He knew the phrase well from the many martyr funerals he had attended.
After what seemed like a long time, but also too short, he stood. He looked around to get a sense of exactly where the grave was so he could remember for next time.
That’s when he realized what he was looking at. Next to his father’s grave was his own—the final resting place of the sandbag-filled casket that his parents had cried over last year. They had sat on folding chairs on the path where he stood now, surrounded by family and friends. He stepped back as if to watch.
The honor guard removed the flag from the coffin and folded it. The squad leader knelt and presented it to his mother. She sobbed, unable even to thank the young man.
Faraz got a chill. The misery he caused had played out right here. The guilt and shame returned.
He looked away.
His eyes fell on a fresh grave on the other side of his father’s, recently shoveled dirt matted down, with no grass yet growing on it, no granite marker yet installed.