Not wanting to expose themselves, the two Americans weaved between the cars, following the sound of gunfire until they were even with the Mercedes. On his belly, Storey peeked underneath the car he’d been hiding behind. Two men were shooting from behind the Mercedes, one was loading another rocket into the tube of his RPG. A fourth was leaning against a wheel, hit either by a lucky shot or grenade fragments. They were laughing, still firing at the Cherokee. Too much target focus could be fatal.
He looked over at Troy. Troy nodded that he was ready. Storey mouthed silently, one . . . two . . . three. They both popped up over the car, firing. Storey centered his front sight post on one and slapped the trigger twice, watching his man fall. He was shooting with both eyes open, one to aim and the other watching. As he shifted to the next target he saw two more go down. Damn, but Troy was fast. Storey shot the fourth, but those little 5.56mm bullets didn’t always guarantee a kill. Three rounds and the wounded man still managed to spin around the vehicle and get behind the trunk.
Storey saw Troy moving in his peripheral vision, so he kept firing to keep the man fixed in position.
Troy darted over to the cover of the next car in line, shifting left until he was looking straight at the front grill of the Mercedes. He dropped belly-down onto the road in a good prone firing position, but had to pause and wipe the blood from his eyes once again. Looking directly under the Mercedes, he had a clear view of two legs from the knees down.
Troy settled the floating Aimpoint red dot on one ankle and fired. The whole side of a body fell into view, and Troy emptied the rest of his magazine into it. He pulled another from his vest, slapping it into the well and letting the bolt ride home.
Now Storey was advancing on the Mercedes, firing into each body as he came up. Two in the chest, two in the head. He didn’t stop but passed completely around the vehicle, making sure of the one Troy had just shot.
Troy met him on the other side of the Mercedes. “Cover,” said Storey. While Troy kept an eye on the surrounding area, Storey gave each body a frisk, removing the Pakistani identity cards he knew were fake. He took a picture of each face with the camera in his Personal Digital Assistant. Then from a vest, a fingerprint card for each man, special paper that needed no ink, only pressure.
The Cherokee was still burning. “Let’s clear the area,” he said to Troy.
“We jackin’?” Troy asked.
Storey nodded.
They jogged up the line of stopped cars. Now that the firing had stopped, many were moving, popping U-turns in the road and speeding back to Karachi.
A quarter mile down the road was the reason for the traffic tie-up, a three-car and one-truck accident that had both lanes blocked and no way to go around. As usual, there was a great crowd of onlookers enjoying the diversion and offering advice. And everyone just stared in amazement as a white man and a black man carrying rifles ran right by them and disappeared down the road. As usual when someone or something was running, there was an urge to give chase. A few men gave in to that until Storey tossed a flash-bang over his shoulder and changed their minds.
Now that they were clear of the obstruction, Storey chose the first car that looked like it was in good running condition and didn’t have an entire family inside. A compact Toyota with just one man in his early twenties behind the wheel.
And the young man’s eyes tripled in size at the sight of Storey charging up with his rifle leveled.
“Get out!” Storey ordered.
The man just sat there, frozen.
Storey yanked open the door, grabbed him by the neck, and dragged him out, passing him to Troy, who threw him into the backseat. Troy got in beside him, making sure he himself was behind Storey in case the Pakistani spazzed out.
Storey shifted into drive, pulled out into the empty lane, and gave the car the gas.
The Pakistani was trembling uncontrollably. Troy didn’t realize that part of the reason was several lacerations that had left his face covered with oozing blood.
“You speak English?” Troy demanded.
“Y . . . y . . . yes, sir,” the man stuttered through the shakes. “Please do not kill me.”
“Relax,” said Troy. “We’re not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”
“Bilal, sir.”
“Okay, Bilal. You’re not going to come to any harm, and neither is your car. We just need a lift to our destination. Once we get there, we’ll compensate you for your time and trouble, and you’ll be free to go on your way.”
“I hate to interrupt this,” said Storey, “but is your radio working?”
Troy checked. “That’s affirm.”
“Then don’t waste a lot of time with a situation report. Have them call the air base and make sure we’re met. I don’t want to be standing outside the front gate with our shit hanging in the breeze while the guard calls for instructions.”
Troy did just that, brushing off a million questions from Al, who’d been monitoring Pakistani police radio reports of a major shoot-out on the road.
Bilal was now beginning to believe that he wasn’t going to be shot and dumped into a ditch while his car continued on some journey without him. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but are you American?”
Storey let out a warning grunt for Troy’s benefit.
“Let’s just say we’re foreigners who’ve had a little trouble on the road,” said Troy, enjoying it. “And who really appreciate your assistance and hospitality.”
Bilal took in a full view of the black man wearing sunglasses and shooting gloves, the strange rifle resting across his lap, the vest bulging with ordnance, and the thin radio microphone snaking from the earpiece to his mouth. “A little trouble? Yes, sir, I am sure you have had only a little trouble.”
That tickled Troy’s funny bone. He gave Bilal an appreciative smack across his very thin shoulders.
Storey took the turnoff to the air base. Troy was rummaging around in his vest and pockets. “Kick in,” he said to Storey. “We got to hook our boy here up.”
Storey passed a wad of bills over his shoulder. Troy added his own to it.
They pulled up to the air base gate. The guards eyed the car suspiciously, then raised their German G-3 rifles when Troy and Storey emerged.
Storey raised his hands to reassure them. And Bilal, trying to be helpful, stuck his head out the window and shouted in Sindi, another of the languages of southern Pakistan, that they were friendly.
It was help they really didn’t need, so Troy slapped the bills into his hand, saying, “Thanks a lot, Bilal. Hope we didn’t shake you up too bad.” And then in his ear, “Better not tell too many people about this. There’s some that would blame you for helping us, if you know what I mean.”
Bilal nodded solemnly, then for the first time looked at the money in his hand. All green United States hundred-dollar bills, more and more as he kept unfolding them. Five thousand dollars total, a princely sum to the average Pakistani, not even considering the black market exchange rate into rupees.
Bilal ran after Troy and Storey, insisting on embracing them even as the gate guards drew down on them all. “Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. God protect you both.”
Then, the reality of the situation sinking in, he jumped back into his car. Before disappearing in a cloud of exhaust, he stuck his head out the window and shouted, “God bless America.”
“Amen, brother,” said Troy.
“Changing the world’s minds,” Storey said dryly. “Five grand at a time.”
As they walked toward the gate with hands raised, two jeeps filled with military police sped up. A little shouting back and forth with the guards, then the MP lieutenant waving at Troy and Storey, saying, “Come, come.”
They were driven right onto the airstrip, past French Mirage fighter jets and Chinese-manufactured MiG-21s wearing the white crescent and star on the green background. Right up to a gray Gulfstream in U.S. Air Force markings. Kasim al-Hariq was already inside.
The CIA man who’d driven him look
ed Troy and Storey over, and asked, “Nice drive?”
“Yeah, great,” said Troy, removing his sunglasses to wipe the blood from his eyes again. “You?”
“Took the back roads. No problem.”
Storey and Troy unloaded and cleared their weapons. When they stripped off their vests a dark, soaking wet outline remained on their shirts. They settled in as a crewman brought the air stairs up.
There was an air force doctor on the flight, standard on important prisoner transfers. He took a close look at Troy’s head. “Let’s go in the bathroom and wash this up, and I’ll look for glass shards.”
The jet was already airborne when they returned from the bathroom. Troy had his head dressed, and was walking all hunched over. “His muscles are stiffening up from your car crash,” the doctor told Storey as he dug in his bag for a muscle relaxant. “How are you feeling?”
“Not as bad as him,” Storey replied. And then to Troy, “I’ve been meaning to ask you how you got out of the Cherokee so fast.”
“Think I got thrown out,” said Troy. “We crashed—I was in the ditch. Exactly how that happened, I don’t know.”
“We’ll get you some X-rays as soon as we land,” said the doctor, checking both their eyes for signs of concussion, and ears and noses for traces of blood.
Storey glanced out the window at the Indian Ocean, then back to the CIA man. “We’re not going to Bagram?”
“Not for this guy. Diego Garcia.”
A small island in the Chagos Archipelago south of India. A British possession, but a major U.S. logistics base, including port and air facility. Very isolated. There was a small interrogation center there for the most important terrorist catches, staffed by the best interrogators.
“Hot shit,” said Troy, who hadn’t been looking forward to a trip to Afghanistan. “You ever been to Diego?” he asked Storey.
“Just to refuel once. Never got off the plane.”
“Best chow hall in the military,” said Troy. “A dip in the pool, a few San Miguels at the club before we fly back home. This trip is looking up.”
Now it was Storey’s turn to shake his head.
9
The FBI agents were observing the interrogation room through the one-way mirror. Jabir al-Banri was handcuffed to a bar running along the table.
“You sure you want to go in solo?” Supervisory Special Agent Benjamin Timmins asked.
“Positive,” said Beth Royale. “Otherwise, he’ll just gravitate to the man.”
“And you think a woman’s touch is going to be the key here?” Timmins said, a little sarcastically.
“These guys grow up watching their fathers boss their mothers around,” Beth replied. “Then they boss their wives and daughters around. They can’t deal with women any other way.”
“He won’t talk to you,” said Special Agent Ron Graham. “He won’t even look at you.”
“At first,” said Beth. “Then he’ll talk.”
“For how much?” said Graham.
“Lunch of my choice?” said Beth.
“No way, that cost me fifty bucks last time, and all I ate was bread and water.”
“You can’t blame me because you never learn, Ronny. How about a new pair of shoes?”
“Christ, no. Ten bucks.”
“Ten it is.” Then to Timmins, “I want to run tape on this.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“I know, Ben, but I still want to do it.”
The usual refrain, “All right, all right.”
Beth videotaped all her interrogations. The FBI never did that, feeling that an agent’s word in court was paramount. But there had been enough scandals over the years that an agent’s testimony from interrogation notes wasn’t as unshakable as it had been. Beth liked to show a tape in court, or at least have it available so defense counsel wouldn’t want to take her on.
She left. The rest stayed to watch.
Beth entered the interrogation room carrying a notebook computer, a legal pad, and some file folders under her arm. She didn’t enter alone, though. She said to the agent who followed her in, “Uncuff him.”
“You sure?” the agent said, just as she’d coached him.
“Go ahead,” said Beth. “I didn’t have any trouble getting them on him in the first place.”
The agent unlocked the cuff from Jabir’s wrist, and left.
Jabir sat glowering at her, rubbing his wrist. Beth totally ignored him, opening up her computer and arranging her papers.
When the door shut, Jabir spoke his first words. “Cover your head!”
Beth only laughed. “You’re dreaming if you think you can tell anyone what to do around here, little man.”
Furious, Jabir stood up, fists clenched.
Beth remained seated. “Go ahead. We’ll show the video of me kicking your ass at our next Christmas party.”
Jabir stayed standing for a few seconds to salvage his pride, then sat down as if he’d made his point. He turned his chair around so he faced the wall. “I will not speak to you. It is haram.” Forbidden.
“Keep it up,” said Beth. “Be stupid. Make my job easy. Make sure you spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Jabir’s head twitched ever so slightly.
“Oh yes,” said Beth. “He’s thinking to himself: I’m only under arrest for cigarette smuggling. And that’s only three years on each count. Say we can file on at least twenty-three counts. Sixty-nine years, you do a third, that’s twenty-three. And twenty-three isn’t life. But you know you’re not here for cigarette smuggling, don’t you? That’s just an easy twenty-three years to tack on the end of your life sentence.”
Beth tapped at the keys of her notebook. “Turn around, see what I’ve got to show you. C’mon, it’s your life sentence—you might as well look.”
Jabir held out longer than Beth thought he could, but of course in the end he couldn’t stand it. He glanced over his shoulder as if to just sneer at her. Then the computer screen caught his eye, and he swiveled around, apparently without even thinking about it. When he got a good look his face fell down to his chest.
“That’s right,” said Beth. “We got all your records. And now we’ve got the money laundering. Membership in the organization. Material support. All those reconnaissance photos and reports on the federal buildings, malls, the Silverdome, Tiger Stadium. Conspiracy. Conspiracy to commit murder. That’s life right there.” She shook her head sadly. “You’re done, Jabir. There’s over a hundred counts. We don’t even have to win them all.”
Having laid the groundwork she wanted, Beth was through emphasizing prison. After all, Bin Laden told his people that they would end up either as martyrs or in U.S. prisons, and either one was equally pleasing to God. Which was probably why Jabir hadn’t screamed for a lawyer yet. She’d only done it to set up her next move.
“But you know the worst part?” she said. “You were very good. Very professional. You even chose your men right. Kalid, Feisal, Isam, Hamid.”
Jabir’s composure cracked a little more at the mention of the names.
“They were professional, too,” said Beth. “None of them betrayed you. Until now, that is,” she added, to give him something more to think about. “But that’s understandable, isn’t it? Given the weight of evidence?” She gestured toward the screen. “I’m sure you can understand. They’re young, and now they’re looking out for themselves.”
“You lie!” Jabir shouted.
“You wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t know it was true,” Beth pointed out reasonably. “But like I told you, it’s not your fault. We never would have found you all if we hadn’t found your controller first.”
Jabir didn’t realize it, but his face wouldn’t have been twitching more if Beth had been giving him electric shocks.
“Did that bother you?” Beth wondered. “To have someone less competent put over you? I know that would bother me. But what am I saying, ‘less competent’? Totally incompetent would be more like it.
We couldn’t have caught him any easier if he’d been wearing a T-shirt that said Controller of Jabir’s Cell.”
Beth sensed that the play to Jabir’s vanity was a winner. Everyone thought they were smarter than their boss. “And you know the worst part? Here you are, behaving like a soldier, keeping silence. And there he was, in this very room, in your chair. And he couldn’t wait to tell us everything. He gave you up. He gave up all the other cells. He gave up the networks, the communications. He gave up everything.”
Jabir also didn’t realize that his lips were moving in time with what he was thinking.
“How could we have caught you otherwise?” Beth asked. “Your tradecraft was immaculate. And you came in prepared to die before betraying him, while he had already betrayed you.”
Beth sighed. “It will all fall apart now. Because we’re going to have to charge your wife, Rubina, as an accessory. We’ve been told how you took her along on your reconnaissance jobs as cover. She took the video while you drove.”
Jabir started again. Beth’s interrogation of the wife had paid off.
“And when she goes to prison?” said Beth. “Well, the government will not allow us to send your son to the family of a terrorist. And your mosque will now be under suspicion. Your son will have to go into a foster home. All we can do is try to find a good Christian family to raise him.”
“No!” Jabir shouted.
“My hands are tied,” Beth said regretfully. “And since your controller is already cooperating, we have all the information we need. Why do you think your friends are talking to us?” She let silence do its work for a while, then slapped her hand on her legal pad, making Jabir jump. “Maybe if you confirm the information we already have, and you’re truthful, maybe I can persuade my superiors not to charge your wife. That means she could go free and raise your son with your family. To be honest, my conscience would feel better if I could do that.”
There was a make-or-break moment in every interrogation, and this was it. Beth knew not to press. She sat back in her chair and let Jabir make up his mind.
“The pig,” Jabir muttered. “The dirty pig.”
“Who?” Beth asked, as if she weren’t really interested.
Threat Level Page 10