by Tom Clancy
“Roger that, bro,” Brian agreed. His conversion was complete. Anas Ali Atef was just a face to him now, and an ass to be stuck with his magic pen. Beyond that, he was someone for God to talk to in due course, a jurisdiction that didn’t directly concern either of them at the moment.
“If this was a Bureau op, we’d have a team in the apartment right now, at least to toss his computer.”
Brian conceded the point. “Now what?”
“We see if he goes to church, and, if he does, we see how easy it might be to pop him on the way in or out.”
“Does it strike you that this is going a little fast?” Brian wondered aloud.
“I suppose we could sit in the hotel room and jerk off, but that’s hard on the wrist, y’know?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Finishing breakfast, they left cash on the table but not a large tip. That would too surely mark them as Americans.
THE STREETCAR wasn’t as comfortable as his car, but it was ultimately more convenient because of the necessity of finding a parking place. European cities had not been designed with automobiles in mind. Neither had Cairo, of course, and the traffic jams there could be incredible—even worse than they were here—but at least in Germany they had reliable mass transportation. The trains were glorious. The quality of the lines impressed the man who’d had engineering training a few—was it really just a few? he asked himself; it seemed like a complete lifetime—years before. The Germans were a curious people. Standoffish and formal, and oh so superior, they thought, to all the other races. They looked down on Arabs—and, indeed, on most other Europeans as well—and opened their doors to foreigners only because their internal laws—imposed upon them sixty years earlier by Americans after World War II—said that they must. But because they were compelled to do so, they did, mostly without open complaint, because these mad people obeyed the law as though it had been delivered to them by God’s own hand. They were the most docile people he’d ever encountered, but underneath that docility was the capacity for violence—organized violence—such as the world hardly knew. Within living memory, they’d risen up to slaughter the Jews. They’d even converted their death camps into museums, but museums in which the pieces and machines undoubtedly still worked, as though standing ready. What a pity they could not summon the political will to make it so.
The Jews had humiliated his country four separate times, in the process killing his eldest brother, Ibrahim, in the Sinai while he’d been driving a Soviet T-62 tank. He didn’t remember Ibrahim. He’d been far too young then, and only had photographs to give him an idea of what he’d looked like, though his mother still wept for his memory. He’d died trying to finish the job these Germans had started, only to fail, killed by a cannon shot from an American M60A1 main battle tank at the battle of the Chinese farm. It was the Americans who protected the Jews. America was ruled by its Jews. That was why they supplied his enemies with weapons, fed them with intelligence information, and loved killing Arabs.
But the Germans’ failure at their task hadn’t tamed their arrogance. Just redirected it. He could see it on the streetcar, the brief sideways looks, the way old women scuttled a few steps away from where he stood. Someone would probably wipe down the overhead bar with disinfectant after he got off, Anas grumbled to himself. By the Prophet, these were unpleasant people.
The ride took another seven minutes exactly, and it was time to get off, at Dom Strasse. From there, it was a one-block walk. Along the way, he saw more of the glances, the hostility in the eyes, or, even worse, the eyes that took note of his presence and just passed on, as though having seen a stray dog. It would have been satisfying to take some action here in Germany—right here in Munich!—but his orders were specific.
His destination was a coffee shop. Fa’ad Rahman Yasin was already there, dressed casually, like a working man. There were many like him in this café.
“Salaam aleikum,” Atef said in greeting. Peace be unto you.
“Aleikum salaam,” Fa’ad said in return. “The pastry here is excellent.”
“Yes,” Atef agreed, speaking softly in Arabic. “So, what is new, my friend?”
“Our people are pleased with last week. We have shaken the Americans badly,” Fa’ad said.
“Not enough for them to disown the Israelis. They love the Jews more than their own children. Mark my words on this. And they will lash out at us.”
“How?” Fa’ad demanded. “Lash out, yes, at whomever their spy agencies know about, but that will only inflame the faithful and drive more to our cause. No, our organization they do not know about. They do not even know our name.” This was because their organization did not really have a name. “Organization” was merely a descriptive word for their association of the Faithful.
“I hope you are correct. So, do I have more orders?”
“You have done well—three of the men you recruited chose martyrdom in America.”
“Three?” Atef was agreeably surprised. “They died well, I trust?”
“They died in Allah’s Holy Name. That should be good enough. So, do you have any more recruits ready for us?”
Atef sipped his coffee. “Not quite, but I have two leaning in our direction. This is not easy, as you know. Even the most faithful wish to enjoy the fruits of a good life.” As he was doing himself, of course.
“You have done well for us, Anas. Better to be sure than to be overly demanding of them. Take your time. We can be patient.”
“How patient?” Atef wanted to know.
“We have additional plans for America, to sting them worse. This time we killed hundreds. The next time, we shall kill thousands,” Fa’ad promised, with a sparkle in his eye.
“How, exactly?” Atef asked immediately. He could have been—should have been—a plans officer. His engineering education made him ideal for such things. Didn’t they know that? There were people in the organization who thought with their balls instead of their brains.
“That I am not at liberty to say, my friend.” Because he didn’t know, Fa’ad Rahman Yasin did not say. He wasn’t sufficiently trusted by those higher in the organization, which would have outraged him had he known it.
The son of a whore probably doesn’t know himself, Atef thought at the same time.
“We approach the hour of prayer, my friend,” Anas Ali Atef said, checking his watch. “Come with me. My mosque is only ten minutes away.” It would soon be time for the Salat. It was a test for his colleague, to make sure that he was truly faithful.
“As you say.” Both rose and walked to the streetcar, which fifteen minutes later stopped a block from the mosque.
“HEADS UP, Aldo,” Dominic said. They’d been checking out the neighborhood, really just to get a feel for the area, but there was their friend, walking down the street with what had to be a friend of his own.
“Who’s wog number two, I wonder?” Brian said.
“Nobody we know, and we can’t freelance. You packin’?” Dominic asked.
“Bet your bippy, bro. You?”
“Hang a big roger on that,” Dominic answered. Their target was about thirty yards off, walking right at them, probably heading to the mosque, which was half a block behind them. “What do you think?”
“Wave off, better to bag him on the way out.”
“Okay.” And both turned right to look into the window of a hat shop. They heard—they damned near felt—him pass by. “How long you suppose it’ll take?”
“Damned if I know, man, I haven’t been to church myself in a couple of months.”
“Super,” Brian growled. “My own brother’s an apostate.”
Dominic stifled a laugh. “You always were the altar boy in the family.”
SURE ENOUGH, Atef and his friend walked in. It was time for daily prayers, the Salat, the second of Islam’s Five Pillars. They would bend and kneel, facing Mecca, whispering favored phrases from the Holy Koran, affirming their faith as they did so. On entering the building, they removed their sh
oes, and, to Yasin’s surprise, this mosque suffered from a German influence. There were individualized cubbyholes in the wall of the atrium for their shoes, all of them properly numbered, to prevent confusion . . . or theft. That was a rare offense indeed in any Muslim country, because the Islamic penalty for thievery was very harsh, and to do so in Allah’s Own House would have been a deliberate offense to God Himself. They then entered the mosque proper and made their obeisance to Allah.
It didn’t take long, and with it came a kind of refreshment for Atef’s soul, as he reaffirmed his religious beliefs. Then it was over. He and his friend made their way back to the atrium, collected their shoes, and walked outside.
They weren’t the first out the large doors, and the others had served to alert the two Americans. It was really a question of which way they’d go. Dominic was watching the street, looking for a police or intelligence officer, but didn’t see any. He was betting that their subject would head toward his apartment. Brian took the other direction. It looked as though forty or so people had gone in for prayers. Coming out, they scattered to the four winds, singly or in small groups. Two got into the fronts of taxicabs—presumably their own—and drove off to catch fares. That did not include any of their coreligionists, who were probably working-class schlubs who walked or took public transportation. It hardly made them seem villainous to the twins, both of whom closed in, but neither too fast nor two obviously. Then the subject and his pal came out.
They turned left, directly toward Dominic, thirty yards away.
From his perspective, Brian saw it all. Dominic removed the gold pen from the inside pocket of his not-quite-a-suit jacket, furtively twisting the tip to arm it, then holding it in his right hand like an ice pick. He was heading on a close reciprocal course to the subject...
It was, perversely, a thing of beauty to watch. Just six feet away, Dominic appeared to trip over something, and fell right into the Atef guy. Brian didn’t even see the stick. Atef went down with his brother, and that would have covered the discomfort of the stab. Atef’s pal helped both of them up. Dominic made his apology and headed on his way, with Brian following the target. He hadn’t seen Sali check out, and so this was interesting in a grim sort of way. The subject walked about fifty feet, then stopped in his tracks. He must have said something, because his friend turned as though to ask a question, just in time to see Atef fall down. One arm came up to protect his face from the fall, but then the entire body went limp.
The second man was clearly dumbfounded by what he saw. He bent down to see what was wrong, first in puzzlement, then in concern, and then in panic, rolling the body over and speaking loudly to his fallen friend. Brian passed them about then. Atef’s face was as composed and unmoving as a doll’s. The guy’s brain was active, but he couldn’t even open his eyes. Brian stood there for a minute, then wandered off, without looking back, but he gestured to a German passerby to provide assistance, which the German did, reaching into his coat and pulling out a cell phone. He’d probably call for an ambulance. Brian walked to the next intersection and turned to observe, checking his watch. The ambulance was there in six and a half minutes. The Germans really were well organized. The responding fireman/paramedic checked the pulse, looked up in surprise, and then with alarm. His coworker on command pulled a box from inside the vehicle, and, as Brian watched, Atef was intubated and bagged. The two firemen were well trained, clearly going through a process they’d practiced in the station and had probably used on the street many times. In their urgency, they did not move Atef into the ambulance, but instead treated him as best they could on the spot.
Ten minutes since he’d gone down, Brian saw by his watch. Atef was already brain-dead, and that was the name of that tune. The Marine officer turned left and walked to the next corner, where he caught a taxi, fumbling through the name of the hotel, but the driver figured it out. Dominic was in the lobby when he got there. Together they headed for the bar.
The one good thing about wasting a guy right out of church was that they could be reasonably certain that he wasn’t going to hell. At least, that was one less thing to trouble their consciences. The beer helped, too.
CHAPTER 20
THE SOUND OF HUNTING
MUNICH AT 14:26 in the afternoon translated into 8:26 A.M. Eastern Standard Time at The Campus. Sam Granger was in his office early, wondering if he’d see an e-mail. The twins were working fast. Not recklessly so, but they were certainly making use of the technology with which they’d been provided, and they were not wasting The Campus’s time or money along the way. He’d already set up Subject No. 3, of course, encrypted and ready to go out on the ’Net. Unlike with Sali in London, he could not expect any “official” notice about the death from the German intelligence service, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, which had taken scant notice of Anas Ali Atef. It would be, if anything, a matter for the city police in Munich, but more likely a case for the local coroner’s office—just one more fatal heart attack for a country in which too many citizens smoked and ate fatty foods.
The e-mail arrived at 8:43 from Dominic’s computer, reporting the successful hit in considerable detail, almost like an official investigative report to the FBI. The fact that Atef had had a friend close by was probably a bonus. That an enemy had witnessed the killing probably meant that no suspicion would be attached to the subject’s demise. The Campus would do its best to get the official report on Atef’s departure, however, just to make sure, though that would have its elements of difficulty.
DOWNSTAIRS, RYAN and Wills did not know anything about it, of course. Jack was going through his routine tasks of scanning message traffic within the American intelligence services—which took over an hour—and after that, a scan of Internet traffic to and from known or suspected terrorist addresses. The overwhelming majority of it was so routine it was like e-mails between a husband and wife over what to pick up at the Safeway on the way home from work. Some of those e-mails could easily be coded messages of significant import, but there was no telling that without a program or crib sheet. At least one terrorist had used “hot weather” to mean heavy security at a location of interest to his colleagues, but the message had been sent in July, when the weather was, indeed, warmer than was comfortable. And that message had been copied down by the FBI, and the Bureau hadn’t taken particular notice of it at first. But one new message positively leaped off the screen at him this morning.
“Hey, Tony, you want to look at this one, buddy.”
The addressee was their old friend 56MoHa@euro-com. net, and the content reconfirmed his identity as a nexus for bad-guy message traffic:
ATEF IS DEAD. HE DIED RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES HERE IN MUNICH. AN AMBULANCE WAS SUMMONED AND THEY TREATED HIM ON THE SIDEWALK BUT HE DIED IN THE HOSPITAL OF A HEART ATTACK. REQUIRE INSTRUCTIONS. FA’AD. And his address was [email protected], which was new to Jack’s computer index.
“Honeybear?” Wills observed with a chuckle. “This guy must surf for women on the ’Net.”
“So, he does cybersex, fine. Tony, if we just whacked a guy named Atef over in Germany, here’s confirmation of the event, plus a new target for us to track.” Ryan turned back to his workstation and used his mouse to check sources. “Here, NSA picked up on it, too. Maybe they think he’s a possible player.”
“You sure like making leaps of imagination,” Wills observed tersely.
“My ass!” Jack was actually angry for once. He was beginning to understand why his father had often been so pissed off at intelligence information that arrived in the Oval Office. “God damn it, Tony, how much clearer do things have to be?”
Wills took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as usual. “Settle down, Jack. This is single-source, a single report on something that might or might not have taken place. You don’t throw your hat over the barn about something until it’s confirmed by a known source. This Honeybear identity could be a lot of things, few of which we can certify as a good guy or a bad guy.”
For his part, Jack Jr. wonde
red if he was being tested—again!—by his training officer. “Okay, let’s walk through it. MoHa Fifty-six is a source that we’re highly confident is a player, probably an operations officer for the bad guys. We’ve been sweeping the ’Net for him since I’ve been here, okay? So, we sweep the ether and this letter turns up in his mailbox at the same time we believe we—us—have a kill team in the field. Unless you’re going to tell me that Uda bin Sali really did have a myocardial infarction while he was daydreaming about his favorite whore in downtown London. And that the Brit Security Service found the event highly interesting only because it’s not every day that a suspected terrorist banker drops dead on the street. Have I missed anything?”
Wills smiled. “Not a bad presentation. A little thin on the evidence, but your proposition was well organized. So, you think I should walk it upstairs?”
“No, Tony, I think you should run it upstairs,” Ryan said, easing back on the obvious anger. Take a deep breath and count to ten.
“Then I guess I’ll do it.”
FIVE MINUTES later, Wills walked into Rick Bell’s office. He handed over two sheets of paper.
“Rick, do we have a team at work in Germany?” Wills asked. The response was not the least bit surprising.
“Why do you ask?” Bell had a poker face that would have impressed a marble statue.
“Read,” Wills suggested.
“Damn,” the chief of analysis reacted. “Who pulled this fish out of the electronic ocean?”
“Take a guess,” Tony suggested.
“Not bad, for the kid.” Bell looked very closely at his guest. “How much does he suspect?”
“At Langley, he’d sure as hell be getting people nervous.”
“Like you are?”
“You might say that,” Wills replied. “He makes good leaps of imagination, Rick.”