Threat Level

by William Christie

  “Spoken like a good Muslim wife,” said Abdallah Karim Nimri. Yasmin tried to shut the door; his left hand held it. When Nimri turned sideways his jacket opened and revealed the right hand holding the pistol. “Please do me two favors, sister Yasmin. Do not be afraid, and do not make any noise.”

  Yasmin took a step back. Her legs were shaking so hard she almost fell over. Nimri entered the house. Behind him Omar paused in the doorway and nodded at the car parked across the street.

  “What do you want?” said Yasmin, her voice shaking like her legs. She felt stupid as soon as it left her lips. She knew what they wanted—only the particulars were a mystery. But it was as if her mouth was giving voice to all her terrors.

  “To speak to your husband,” Nimri replied pleasantly. “To stay with you for a day or two. Then we will leave you in peace.”

  Yasmin wore her skepticism across her face.

  “You have my promise,” said Nimri.

  Yasmin’s face also made plain what she thought of that.

  From the top of the stairs, “Mom?”

  “Ah, Steven,” Nimri said in English. “Come down and join us.”

  No response. Nimri turned to Yasmin with a look that chilled her. “Steven!” she shouted. “Come down right now!”

  A dark-haired boy came down the stairs slowly.

  “It’s good to meet you, Steven,” said Nimri. “Your uncle was my friend.”

  “Then why do you have a gun?”

  The boy was so calm and self-possessed he made Nimri uneasy. Perhaps he was retarded. “How old are you, boy?”

  “Twelve.”

  Nimri moved closer to him. “Steven, this is serious. You cannot leave this house without my permission. You cannot contact anyone outside this house without my permission. If you do any of these things, your mother will die. Do you understand?”

  Nimri expected the boy to cry. Or beg. The boy did none of these things. Steven merely stared up at him and said, “It is written that he who kills a believer by design shall burn in hell forever.”

  Nimri had not expected to have the Holy Koran thrown in his face by a child. He felt like hitting the boy with his pistol, but held himself in. “Such are God’s words to the Prophet, peace be upon him. It is also written that if a believer commits aggression, it is permissible to fight against the aggressors until they submit to God’s judgment. To refuse to support jihad is to commit aggression upon the faithful.”

  “So you say what is written,” Steven shot back. “It is also written: fear Me, and do not sell My revelations for a paltry end.”

  “I will not debate the word of God with you, boy. God the Merciful and Compassionate will judge us all. Listen to me and know that what I say I will do, I will do. Now, do you own a mobile phone? Do not lie to me.”

  “I don’t own a cell phone,” said Steven.

  “Then go upstairs with this man. Unplug all the phones and bring them down. Any computers also.” Nimri nodded to Omar. Then to Steven, “Remember your mother.”

  When they went up the stairs Nimri turned to Yasmin. “Sister, if you do what I say you and your family will come to no harm.” He repeated his warning to Steven, but this time made him the object. “Do you understand?”

  She at least did not argue with him.

  Al-Sharif and Dawood came in the front door. “Bring in the bags?” asked al-Sharif.

  “Wait until dark,” said Nimri.

  Steven and Omar came down the stairs, Steven carrying telephones and Omar a computer tower.

  “Sister Yasmin,” said Nimri, “now that Steven has returned to us, perhaps you should make some tea. After you give me your mobile phone.”

  Yasmin handed it to him and went into the kitchen.

  Commuting in northern Virginia had been known to literally drive people crazy. Joseph Oan never minded it. He spent all day in traffic anyway, and he knew all the back roads between his work in Springfield and his home in Manassas. He was singing along with the car radio, and his hair was wet. He always showered before leaving work—his wife hated the smell of gasoline.

  After parking in the driveway, Oan walked back out to the street to roll the empty trash container back to the garage. Steven should have done that, but getting a boy to remember anything to do with work was an impossibility.

  Closing the garage door, Oan went through the gate in the wooden fence that bounded his backyard. Steven was usually kicking his football against the garage when he came home. He must have had extra homework.

  Oan couldn’t resist touring his garden. He was going to have to prune his roses back before it got any colder. Maybe this weekend. The grass needed to be mown again, but in a week or two he wouldn’t have to worry about that until spring.

  The back door was open. Trying to get his wife to lock doors was like trying to get his son to do his chores.

  “I’m home,” he called out. No answer. Oan’s stomach tightened slightly, registering his alarm. His family was always home when he returned from work. His wife’s car was in the driveway. Could something have happened that they had to call an ambulance? “Is anyone home?” he called out again.

  Oan moved faster through the kitchen and into the living room. At the sight of his wife and son on the couch he stopped, relief flooding through him. Then he followed his wife’s eyes and his gaze found the two Arabs sitting off to the side. His stomach contracted again. A noise behind him made him turn about. Two more appeared, cutting off his retreat.

  “Greetings, Youssif al-Oan,” said Abdallah Karim Nimri.

  Oan’s chest felt numb. He could not move his legs. It was as if, wide awake, he had walked into the exact same nightmare he had in his sleep once a month. “Who are you?” he said, and just like his wife felt like an idiot for saying it.

  “Friends of your brother, Rashid,” said Nimri.

  Oan did not ask them what they wanted. He knew exactly what they wanted. He looked over helplessly at his wife.

  Even though he didn’t ask, Nimri told him anyway. “We require your hospitality,” he said.

  21

  “Sweet,” said Lee Troy. “Welcome home. Great job. Thanks for uncovering the plot. Thanks for saving the fucking day. Take a slap on the ass out of petty cash—now go out and play with the FBI.”

  “You’re sounding a little bitter,” said Ed Storey. “Were you expecting a cash bonus and tickets to Maui? You’ll get over it, eventually.”

  They were down in the basement of their office building headquarters, in the equipment lockers. Each operator had a gear locker the size of a single-car garage. Parachutes, diving gear, mountaineering equipment. Two of every kind of weapon, from the mini Glock pistol to the brand-new 7.62mm MK 48 machine gun. One to train with and shoot to pieces, the other—pristine—to take on operations.

  Storey was stripped to the waist, removing his shoulder holster. He rummaged along a shelf until he found a padded leather holster with two short bands. He wrapped it around his left ankle, cinching the two Velcro-covered bands tight.

  “Okay,” said Troy. “So the Glock’ll be backup.” He slipped his SEAL standard SIG-Sauer P-226 9mm into the waistband holster just behind his right hip.

  Storey did the same with his Delta Force Model 1911A1 .45 automatic.

  “Don’t you get tired of those seven-round magazines in that dinosaur pistol?” said Troy.

  “You need your twenty-round mag,” Storey replied. “Once you start peppering the bad guys with those little nine millimeters, they might get mad at you.”

  “Okay,” said Troy, enjoying the eternal pistol caliber controversy. “What about long guns?”

  “I’m worried about vehicles.”

  “I suppose the FBI would get a little twitchy about me packing an MK 48 in D.C.”

  “I think you can count on it,” said Storey, removing the SOPMOD M-14 from his rifle rack. A new version of the 1960s-era M-14, commissioned by the SEALs, who in Afghanistan had become discouraged by how many times you needed to shoot someone wit
h an M-4 carbine before they went down. The Special Operations Peculiar Modification was an M-14 with a sliding metal stock, a pistol grip, rail mountings for sights and lights, and the barrel cut back to the forward hand guards. A special muzzle brake handled the recoil. Troy mounted a four-power Trijicon Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight telescopic sight on his. Storey stuck with the Aimpoint red dot.

  “Better load up some hollow-point along with the armor-piercing,” said Troy, rooting around in his magazine boxes for some M-14 twenty-rounders. “We don’t want to get in close quarters and have rounds going through three different walls.”

  “Just don’t mix them up,” Storey advised. “You know, you’d better bring a McMillan, too. We might need to take along shot.”

  “Which one?” said Troy. “The .300 Winchester Magnum or the .50 caliber?”

  “I was thinking the .50 cal.,” said Storey. “What do you think?”

  “The fifty,” Troy replied. “It can stop a car or a man.” The bolt-action sniper rifle was already in its case. “I’ll go to the ammo locker.” Troy volunteered because he knew Storey would send him anyway.

  “Don’t forget a breaching kit,” said Storey. Then something popped into his head. “Oh, and stop by the tech locker and grab that prototype jammer.”

  “The Warlock?” said Troy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Support’s going to be pissed,” said Troy. “They’re still giving that thing the once-over.”

  “They’re not here—let ’em bitch. You know, I’d like to take a couple of LAAWs, too,” Storey said, referring to the 66mm one-shot antitank rocket launcher, “but the FBI really would shit.”

  “Running ops in the U.S. makes me nervous,” said Troy. “If FBI agents end up in court, you just know our asses are going to get blamed for anything that happens. I don’t want to go up in front of any grand jury.”

  The Posse Comitatus Act of 1878 made it unlawful for military personnel to act in a law enforcement capacity in the United States. But the president could suspend the act in the interest of national public safety. In that case the attorney general had to issue a finding determining if the specific circumstance warranted an exemption.

  On May 3, 1994, President Bill Clinton signed Presidential Decision Directive 25, whose classified contents have never been released. A particular favorite of conspiracy theorists, who believed it outlined a plan for world government under the United Nations. Actually, PDD-25 was in response to the U.S. intervention in Kosovo, in the former Yugoslavia. It specified the lines of command and control for U.S forces participating in multinational peacekeeping operations. But another part of PDD-25 exempted Joint Special Operations Command—Delta Force/Combat Applications Group, SEAL Team Six/Naval Special Warfare Development Group, and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—from the Posse Comitatus Act. So, by the direction of the president, they could be used to enforce U.S. law without the attorney general issuing a specific exemption. The nice thing about making such a directive classified, from the government’s point of view, was that then no one had to worry about any legal challenges.

  “Probably,” said Storey, conceding Troy’s point. “So, as always, the best course of action is not to screw up. Oh, when you’re in the ammo locker, just flash-bangs, okay?”

  Troy had to chuckle. “If we tossed a frag in the U.S., they really would lock us up and throw away the key.”

  The FBI National Academy is located on the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia. Twenty years ago marine second lieutenants from the nearby Basic School used to jog through the grounds. But in the age of terrorism the FBI Academy and the adjacent Drug Enforcement Administration Academy were walled in, tightly guarded, high-security areas. The only way for the average citizen to see it was to rent the movie The Silence of the Lambs, which was filmed on location. In addition to training new agents, the academy grounds also housed various technical units, a high-speed command center, the Hostage Rescue Team and its aviation component, and the Counterterrorism Division.

  “Let me have your attention, please,” Benjamin Timmins said to the roomful of agents.

  That only cut down on the noise. It didn’t stop it.

  “Listen up,” Timmins said, much louder. The room quieted. “Settle down.” He tapped on the laptop mounted on the podium, and a PowerPoint presentation came up on the screen behind him.

  They could live without food and water, but not PowerPoint, Beth Royale thought. As far as she was concerned, PowerPoint was the explanation for everything. Because no idea too complex to be turned into a bullet that could fit on a slide could be permitted.

  “According to the best analysis of the stolen vehicle reports,” said Timmins, “we believe there’s a ninety percent probability that the terrorist cell’s destination is Washington. However, they’ve used deceptive measures before, so we have to concede the possibility of an attack elsewhere. Or that one or more additional cells is out there, preparing a coordinated attack or a series of attacks.”

  Well, that about covered every possible contingency, Beth thought. No one could ever accuse Timmins of not hedging his bets.

  “The FAA’s been notified,” said Timmins. “There was no trace of nuclear material on the boat that went to Canada, but the Nuclear Emergency Search Teams have still been alerted. We have APBs out for the murder of the Ohio trooper. We’re sure this Abdallah Karim Nimri was in the van, but we didn’t get his face on the trooper’s video. We do have makes on the other three, though. Even though we’re treating it like nothing more than a traffic stop cop-killing, the media is starting to sniff around the terrorism aspect and I’d better not hear anything along those lines coming out of this office.”

  No, of course not, thought Beth. Timmins was the little Dutch boy, sticking his finger in the dike by threatening them, while the FBI bosses had lunch with their favorite national correspondents every week.

  “The Hostage Rescue Team is on alert,” said Timmins. He nodded to the HRT special agent in charge, standing off to the side. “Unfortunately, most of the military units are fully committed overseas. But what isn’t is on alert.” He paused, looking down from the podium to the front row of chairs. “Now, as Beth was about to ask, what are we going to do?”

  Laughter. For a moment Beth wondered if her face had given her away. Then she gave Timmins the evil eye.

  “Okay, Beth,” Timmins said. “To answer the question, we’re going to do the only thing we can do. Check out every hotel, motel, rest area, and camping park in northern Virginia, Maryland, and D.C. Follow up on all our previous leads. Visit and reinterview everyone on our watch and surveillance lists. We’ve broken them down for you and will assign them geographically. The New York field office will be taking these exact same steps.

  “Now, we’ve got four suspects that we know of. So I’m not sending pairs of agents out on their own. We’ve getting everyone available from every federal enforcement agency. Secret Service is fully committed to the protection mission, but we have DEA, marshals, and . . . other agencies also. Let me welcome all of you here at this time, and thank you for your assistance. Every pair of FBI agents will be assigned two other officers.”

  Typical, Beth thought. The Bureau always had to be in control. Couldn’t send four DEA agents off on their own to work the case—someone else might get the credit.

  “I want to stress one thing,” said Timmins. “No four-agent team is going to try and take down these suspects on their own. You get any indication of them at all, even a hunch, you secure the area and call it in. We’ll get you backup and the Hostage Rescue Team. They used pistols on the Ohio trooper, but we don’t know what else they might have. They could be planning a suicide attack, wearing explosives on their bodies, and if so they certainly wouldn’t mind taking you with them.”

  “Doesn’t that take care of the threat, then?” came a voice from the back, to more laughter from the crowd.

  Beth knew Timmins hated being jocked around with while he was briefing. The a
gent who said it was going to end up checking the Washington sewer system.

  “It takes care of the threat,” Timmins said tightly. “If you can guarantee that no civilians get hurt or property gets damaged, feel free to encourage the suspects to blow you up.”

  His tone didn’t allow for much laughter, and there wasn’t any.

  “Any questions so far?” said Timmins. There were none. “All right, you’ll be given your team assignments and list of interviews. Stand by and we’ll have those for you momentarily.”

  Storey and Troy were in the back of the room. In jeans, running shoes, and long-sleeve shirts, they stood out, since everyone else was in a suit. Storey wasn’t going to try and move fast in a suit, no matter how professional it looked. Their jackets were off, revealing Storey’s .45 and Troy’s P-226, along with more extra magazines than any cop carried.

  Neither weapon was standard in the federal law enforcement community. It was inevitable that as soon as Timmins was done they’d attract some curious soul.

  “Who you guys with?”

  Storey ignored him.

  Troy said, “No one. We’re just hanging out.”

  “No, really. Who you with?”

  “Boy Scouts of America,” said Troy, hoping he’d get the hint.

  “Spooks, huh? Let me ask you something.”

  Troy sighed.

  The other guy didn’t even notice. “These people are all fanatic Muslims, right?” It must not have been a rhetorical question, because he didn’t give Troy a chance to answer. “They’re all willing to die, so death doesn’t scare them. But their religion says they can’t have anything to do with pork. So wouldn’t wrapping them in a pig skin or something make them talk, make ’em think they’re not going to heaven?”

  Troy could hardly believe his ears. He was tempted to just walk away, but the guy carried a badge and couldn’t be allowed to walk around thinking the way he did. “You mean pigs are to Muslims like garlic is to vampires?”

  The irony flew right over the head. “Well . . .”