The madman had carved gaping wounds on his body while he moaned and shook in agony. And now the man grasped the bandaged stump where his right hand had been and dragged it up, so he could see it. “To honor your Iranian customs, I took your right hand. Today I will take your left foot and you will not only witness my surgery, you will experience each cut of my knife and saw in excruciating detail. After that, I will wrap your wounds and return you to Iran in shame.”
Breathing in labored, heaving gasps, he twisted his head weakly back and forth. “No, oh no, please don’t.” Tears he couldn’t stop poured from his eyes, running down his cheeks and into his ears. Whimpering, he pleaded with his torturer. “Please, please, I can’t tell you.” When he closed his eyes, Rowan’s smiling face swam before him and he heard the affectionate voice. This is nice, Sa-id, thanks for the invite. I didn’t have any plans…
Light slaps on both cheeks had his eyelids fluttering open. The mad face turned greedy. “Give me the name of your associate, Sa-id, and I will give you a martyr’s death.”
How had it come to this? Sobbing, his heart breaking, he knew it was time – to give the man the name he so desperately desired and then to die. He took a shuddering breath and murmured softly, “Rowan Milani.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks again and a keening moan escaped his lips at the horror of what he’d done. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. Forgive me, please.” Victory shone in the eyes above him and a smile creased the hellish face. The knife sliced across his throat, brutal yet mercifully quick. Darkness claimed him, and his suffering ended.
* * *
First Week in February
The president had been explicit. Eliminate the threat and send a strong message. Rowan slid into his first class seat on the US Air flight from Phoenix to Denver with a sense of weary satisfaction. The president’s objectives had been achieved expeditiously, as usual. Settling into the soft leather, he thought about the month he’d invested with the two jihadists in Mexico. Holed up in a grimy, bug and rodent infested hotel on the edge of Puerto Penasco, he’d patiently deceived the two men until they trusted him. Until they were convinced he could take them and their precious cargo – four pounds of anthrax – across the porous southern border of the United States and all the way to the nation’s capitol.
One of the men who’d bought into his carefully crafted deception was a chubby Columbian named Laszio, a small-time drug lord turned terror thug wannabe. The other, a lanky Arab named Bashir, had come straight from a training camp in Pakistan. Hardcore al Qaeda, the jihadist wore the trademark tennis shoes the operatives prized, and lectured him nonstop about his beloved Koran for the entire month. Remembering the fanaticism in the young terrorist’s eyes, Rowan shook his head. Bashir couldn’t wait to slice through the belly of the Beast and wreak havoc.
The previous moonless evening, he’d persuaded the two men that the time was right to cross the border with the anthrax. The holy warriors had chuckled in good humor while he screwed the suppressor on his Glock 36. In case a wandering gringo border agent crossed their path, he told them with a wink and a smirk. After bouncing along in nearly total blackness on a rutted, sandy road that ran parallel to the border, he motioned Bashir to stop. Turning to the back seat, he shot Laszio point blank, grateful as always for the sub-compact forty-five caliber pistol that placed a respectable hole through the man’s left eye and plastered most of the rest of his head against the back window.
The obliteration of the tubby Columbian momentarily stunned Bashir, but by the time he pulled his knife, the skinny Arab was scrabbling in the dark for the door handle, like the rat he was. Irritated by the martyr turned coward, he grabbed the frightened man by the hair, wrenched his head back and yanked the knife across his throat. He could just as easily have shot Bashir, but it was a matter of principle. Since beheading was al Qaeda’s preferred method of execution, it was only appropriate. Besides, he’d been asked to deliver a strong message and he thought the knife, more than the pistol, accomplished that.
Leaving the two men slumped over in the blood splattered, rusted Chevy Malibu, Rowan took the anthrax loaded suitcase and slid across the border. The other members of the black ops team relieved him of the lethal package for delivery to Washington, D.C. Kuwaiti professor Abdallah Nafisi had suggested during a speech widely publicized on the internet that one person with courage could bring anthrax across the border, spreading the confetti as he called it, easily killing upwards of 300,000 Americans. The vaunted professor had encouraged a finale on the lawn of the White House. He’d love to be a fly on the wall when the despicable man discovered that his four precious pounds of anthrax had indeed been delivered to Washington, but with different results than he’d intended and financed.
Blinking burning eyes and smothering a yawn with his fist, he sniffed as his nose started to run. The first yawn spawned a second and his eyes watered along with his nose. Wishing they’d close the aircraft door and get underway, he gazed with disinterest at the eclectic collection of people lugging their crap down the narrow aisle toward coach. As the last of the passengers trudged past his seat, he noticed with swiftly lit anger that the man seated across the aisle was watching him, wary pected terrorpicion in his eyes. With an aggravated scowl, Rowan turned away and pushed himself deeper into the seat, folded his arms across his chest and glared at the seatback in front of him.
The thing that angered – no the thing that enraged him, was that he served his country, helped keep it safe so people like the pudgy jerk staring at him could sleep at night. Yet he was cast as the suspicious character – and why? Well, he knew why. It was the same every time, but his choices had made it even worse this time. He’d been rushed, pulled on black jeans, a black sweater and unfortunately a black leather jacket. But none of that should matter. It wasn’t right that he had to take extra steps, be careful how he dressed and conducted himself because of his Iranian heritage.
No one needed to remind him of September 11, 2001. It held what could be called deep personal meaning. On that day, the monsters had destroyed everything that mattered to him – had annihilated the better part of him. That was why he risked his life on black ops whenever he wasn’t on assignment as an FBI special agent attached to an Anti-Terrorism Task Force. He lived to eliminate the Islamic terror masters. They had taken everything from him, extinguished his future, ambushed his dreams, and turned them into nightmares. It was only fair that he return the favor, as often as possible.
Casting a sideways glance at the man across the aisle, he reasoned angrily to himself that it wasn’t his fault his father had emigrated from Iran and married an American woman of Italian extraction, the two of them passing along their distinctive features to him, their only son. He was an American, born in the United States, and he used his appearance, along with his ability to speak Farsi and Arabic to serve his country in ways a lot of other people couldn’t – or didn’t have the balls to. Gazing out the window at the sun-baked concrete, watching a ramp worker dragging a set of chocks, he sighed. He was neither Arab nor a terrorist, but God forbid that the truth come between people and their preconceived judgments against him.
The door closed and the aircraft jerked into motion as the pushback from the gate began. Resolutely shoving the angry, frustrating thoughts aside, he yawned again and closed his eyes. He was anxious to reach Denver and watch for coverage of the early morning covert operation. News of the whole sordid affair should be breaking by the time he arrived.
As the edges of his mind turned foggy with sleep, he remembered an old song that reminded him of his life, something about dirty deeds being done dirt cheap. Well, except for the cheap part. He smiled as his mind began to drift. His expertise came with a hefty price tag, but he’d received no complaints, just regular, discreet deposits in two designated accounts. As he stretched through yet another yawn, he hoped the strong message he’d delivered and the prompt elimination of the threat would meet with the president’s approval.
The
twin jet engines rumbled as the plane lifted into the sky, minor turbulence making it a bumpy ride. Two sweet hours of sleep were his for the taking. After being awake and adrenaline-wired for the previous thirty-six, he didn’t want to waste a minute. Reclining the seat, he folded his hands in his lap and slept.
* * *
Looking out the window of Club Gascon, his favored London restaurant, Muusa Shemal sipped his tea and reflected over the meal he’d just enjoyed, bunching fingers to his lips in silent reverence. The foie gras was beyond compare. Rich, buttery and delicate, it was the specialty of the house. And the milk fed lamb with dates and baby carrots was delicious. The whole meal had been exquisite, and he must commend the chef before leaving.
A rare sunny afternoon, the day matched his mood for celebration. He’d been elated, expressing endless thanks to Allah since returning from the United States. The ghost agent, the jinn who slid in and out of countries like a wisp of smoke, leaving dead bodies and ruined operations, many foiled almost before they’d begun, had been identified. Someday, when he stood over Rowan Milani, teaching him about retribution, he would relate the story of Sa-id Harandi and his remarkable loyalty. The Iranian man had endured his ministrations for a week before betraying his friend.
Now, if it pleased Allah – the FBI agent in Denver would agree to detain Rowan Milani, and he could put the next phase of his plan into motion. If not, he would send the CIA operatives in his hire to the elusive man’s next destination. A feral smile rippled across his face. Allah decreed that he bring the jinn to Egypt, where the Brotherhood waited to exact revenge. The CIA’s adage played over and over in his mind. If you want someone to disappear – never to see them again, you send them to Egypt.
Spearing an errant piece of lamb with his fork, he chewed thoughtfully, considering the fools in America’s Intelligence organizations, so easily beguiled. They were swine, greedy, and blinded by the dollars he’d waved in their faces. That they accepted his lies about Rowan Milani’s allegiance and would secretly deliver one of their own into his hands was testament to the moral rot of the entire kafir nation. They were useful idiots, but they had no honor, and that sickened him.
* * *
Rowan woke as the aircraft touched down, grimacing at the scene outside the window. An overcast sky dispensed snow that swept across the tarmac in waves as the jet roared slowly to its designated gate. First stretching and then shivering, he realized that his bare feet inside the battered, old slip-on shoes were freezing. Being from California, wearing socks was something he didn’t do, unless absolutely necessary.
With any luck his connecting flight to Sioux Falls, South Dakota would be on time. He must be a fool for taking an assignment there in February. It was right up his alley, though. Something was happening, and he feared a new chapter in the war on terror was commencing. Reams of intelligence, along with intensifying internet chatter pointed to a major event somewhere in the vast heartland of the country. Groups of special agents, coordinating with local Law Enforcement and Homeland Security had been assigned in varying locales to address what they all thought was an incipient threat.
He’d been asked to join the operation in Sioux Falls by his boss, Ralph Johnston. A longtime friend and colleague, Ralph treated him more like a son than a subordinate. Special agent Chad Cantor, his only friend in the Bureau besides Ralph, was also assigned to Sioux Falls. Chad was one of precious few people who had never looked at him with suspicion or questioned his allegiance to his country because of his Iranian heritage. They’d become good friends over the years, and he looked forward to working with Chad, who’d grown up in South Dakota and was staying at his father’s home in Sioux Falls for the duration of the assignment.
While tasked with his duties in South Dakota, he intended to pursue what he and the president had discussed in general over the last several years and in detail during their last meeting. He’d expressed his disagreement with conventional wisdom, which said that the most devastating attack to the nation would occur in a single, spectacular event. It wasn’t that he didn’t think an attack like that would happen. But as he’d explained to the president, he thought the more pernicious threat stemmed from the virulent message of domination by the Islamists and submission of the infidels to the ultimate caliphate they wanted to establish in America.
He’d read the fatwas and shared long conversations with terrorists around the globe about the secret jihad Islamists waged in mosques around the United States. Hell, he’d seen the fourteen page plan they called The Project, netted in a raid carried out by Swiss authorities on Youssef Nada, a long-time member of the Muslim Brotherhood in Switzerland, after 9-11. The Project detailed the Brotherhood’s twelve-point strategy, in essence a long-term plan to infiltrate and destroy Western culture.
The FBI’s investigation and indictment of the Holy Land Foundation several years later uncovered the Brotherhood memorandum describing a major jihad to destroy Western civilization from within. These people were dead serious about lowering the Stars and Stripes and running the star and crescent of Islam up the pole in its place. And they didn’t care how long it took them.
The leader, the man assigned by the Muslim Brotherhood to spearhead the sabotage of the United States had evaded identification, flying below the radar for years, teaching the faithful how to devastate the infidel nation from within. If he could infiltrate a mosque and get close to the principal players, he knew he could identify this particular leader and eliminate him. Dealing a blow like that to the Brotherhood might make them think twice about their beloved Project. At the very least, it would slow their progress.
The president had given tacit approval to his plan. Do whatever’s necessary to cut the head off the snake, Rowan, had been the president’s exact words. When he’d said they were dealing with a hydra, the president had smiled. Then make sure your knife is damn hot when you find this bastard.
The sound of the aircraft door opening, accompanied by a blast of cold air ended his introspection. Running a weary hand over his face, he caught the gaze of the plump passenger across the aisle. With a jerk of his head, he motioned the man to precede him off the aircraft, which he did like a scared rabbit. Fingers of snow lined the jetway, and an icy breeze hurried him along its sloping walkway. If it was this cold in Denver, he could only imagine the weather in South Dakota.
Breaking news of his nighttime endeavor played on CNN as he arrived in the boarding area for his United Airlines flight to Sioux Falls. Spotting an empty seat practically beneath the flat screen TV, he sat down to enjoy the spin. The Mexican government thought the brutal murder of two innocent Mexican citizens along the U.S. border highly suspicious. He snorted. They were calling those two innocent citizens? Clasping his hands together, he leaned forward to hear more. Mexican authorities could find no witnesses, but suspected illicit American involvement, which they didn’t appreciate. Hell, the Mexicans couldn’t police their own people, let alone the likes of Bashir and Laszio. They should be grateful for his help.
Walking to the gate podium to present his FBI credentials and the paperwork necessary for carrying his firearm onboard the aircraft, he noticed a few concerned stares. It had been too early, he hadn’t thought it through, but as he touched the stubble that darkened his jaws, conscious of the shaggy hair brushing the collar of his jacket, he wished he had. He’d clipped off the beard and hurriedly shaved, but that had been nearly twelve hours ago. A suit and tie would have helped, but it was too late now. The gate agent smiled, which was encouraging. “Special agent, we’re almost ready to board. Would you like to come with me and hand off the paperwork to the captain?”
Smiling neutrally, he did his best to affect a tame demeanor. “Yes ma’am, that sounds good.” She led him down the jetway to the captain who stood sipping coffee in the galley, looking annoyed at being disturbed. Great – he was one of those, impressed with his position and anxious for everyone to know he was in charge. The captain inspected his ID and detached a copy of th
e paperwork while he stood quietly next to him, trying not to shiver. “Mind if I take my seat now, sir?”
A good six inches shorter than he was at six feet, carrying excess weight that bulged over his belt and gave his face a round, petulant look, the captain grated on his tired mind. Struggling to control his temper, he clenched his jaws while the man considered, drank more coffee and then gestured with the Styrofoam cup. “Sure, go ahead.”
Sneering while he shoved his laptop and briefcase into the overhead bin, thinking Pillsbury Doughboy, he scooped up the pillow and blanket set out by the flight attendants and dropped into his first class seat. He tucked the pillow behind his head and huddled under the thin blanket. Almost as an afterthought he buckled the seat belt, then closed his eyes and dozed.
* * *
Fred Ralston, Special Agent in Charge of Denver’s FBI Field Office stared at his phone. Not sure how to handle the disturbing call he’d received a few hours earlier, he folded his hands on the cluttered desk and pondered his next move. The caller had insisted on anonymity, but claimed to know the identity of an American operative involved in a terror plot gone bad, resulting in the previous evening’s double murder along the U.S.-Mexico border. Anxiety tightened between his shoulders as he replayed the call.
You can retire, Mr. Ralston, if you apprehend this man. His name is Rowan Milani and he murdered two men in Mexico. We believe he is planning a terror incident. He’s at your airport, booked on a United Airlines flight to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Find a way to detain him. Your country will call you a hero and we will reward you generously.
Ralston put his hand on the receiver and stopped. Did he want to start this ball rolling? Did he want to mess around with another man’s life, especially a high profile, sometimes controversial agent like Rowan Milani – over an anonymous call? Twisting his shoulders to relieve the tension, he weighed his options. Milani gave heartburn to damn near everyone he interacted with at the Bureau. Arrogant and jerk were common adjectives often used in tandem to describe the special agent.
Consummate Betrayal Page 2