PRIMAL Origin

by Jack Silkstone

  Vance stared at him in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. We’re right, aren’t we? Your father, Hussein Ahmed, is a goddamn terrorist.”

  Tariq responded carefully. “I have always known that my father harbored animosity towards the Western world. It is only recently that I have become aware of his extra activities.”

  “Jesus! Your father is a billionaire with access to the ear of one of the most powerful Arabs in the world. He makes Bin Laden look like a pauper.”

  “Yes. Now can you understand why we must be so careful. If we are to defeat him we must––”

  “Hang on a second,” said Ice. “We? I thought ‘we’ weren’t invited to this little party of yours.”

  “Not at all. I extended your organization an invitation from the start.”

  “You sneaky bastard,” said Vance. “The initial tip off on the terrorist cell. The link to the immigrant workers. That was you!”

  Tariq nodded. “I needed external support.”

  “And the meeting in the stairwell. You knew I wasn’t gonna fly home. You knew I’d go after them!”

  Tariq smiled. “I needed you. I am not sure how deep the infiltration into my own organization goes but many of my men are loyal to my father. He continues to surround me with his followers.”

  “How did you know the CIA would send me?” Vance asked.

  “That, my friend, was Allah’s will, or perhaps it was because I asked for you personally. It depends what you believe.”

  “So what are we going to do now?” queried Ice. “Do we take this to Langley?”

  “And what will they do?” Tariq asked in return. “Do you think the CIA will approve his assassination? You are either a fool or naïve, Mr Ice. Your masters are more than aware of my father’s ties and they would not dare risk killing him. Hussein and the Emir are like brothers, and men like Wilbur Beecroft will not jeopardize the flow of oil.”

  “Fuck Beecroft and fuck the CIA,” said Vance, giving Ice a glance.

  The big man nodded.

  Vance continued. “No doubt you have plans of your own, Tariq?”

  There was silence at the table as Tariq made his decision. “As you know, my father is the sole owner of Lascar Logistics. The company is legitimate, worth over 1.2 billion dollars and has over 400 aircraft across the globe.” Tariq waved over the waiter and ordered another coffee before continuing. “I have recently become aware that within the structure of my father’s company is a small department called Priority Movements and Airlift. What is interesting about this department is it consumes capital but doesn’t create revenue.” Tariq paused as the waiter brought out his coffee. “What is also interesting is that despite having five aircraft on paper, the department actually has no physical fleet.”

  Vance interrupted. “It’s a front.”

  “Correct. It is how my father channels funds into his many terrorism ventures.”

  Tariq took a sip from his coffee. “Eventually, when I inherit my father’s fortune, I intend to use this funding to finance an independent counter-terrorism capability.” He stretched out his hands. “Turn the tables, if you will.”

  “Your own private army to track down Al Qaeda?” asked Ice.

  “No. An independent organization to target evil and bring those who perpetrate it to justice, regardless of religion or politics. Men like my father cannot be allowed to bring misery to the world and go unchecked.”

  Vance could see where this was going. Tariq was offering them a job, a unique opportunity to start a new organization. There was only one obstacle. “No love lost between you and your father?”

  A look of rage passed over Tariq’s face. “I watched my father beat my mother till she could no longer stand. Why? Because she dared to look him in the eye. When she died, my loyalty to my family died with her. My father and I share a very different view of the world and I owe him nothing.”

  “And now you want him dead,” Vance said.

  “Correct.”

  Vance looked across at his partner. Ice nodded.

  “Leave that to us.”

  ***

  When Vance and Ice had returned to the terrorist safe house, it reeked of death. Death mixed with the stench of high explosives. They had piled the bodies in one corner of the hangar, covering them with a plastic sheet. Fortunately the workshop was air-conditioned; in the heat of Abu Dhabi the corpses would have decomposed quickly.

  Now they were focused on the job at hand, Vance working on a laptop in the office while Ice chatted to a third man, an associate they had hired at the last minute, a man that possessed a set of skills that neither he nor Vance had.

  Mitch Freeman was a qualified aeronautical engineer and a weapons technician. The ultimate geek, he could build almost anything and modify everything else. He was a spanner for hire; a contractor who’d left his British homeland seeking thrills and adventure. Ice had used him previously on a number of sensitive missions.

  “Those bastards would’ve blown up half the bloody town,” Mitch exclaimed as he looked over the contents of the van with Ice. “There’s three quarters of a ton of bang in here.”

  “Yep,” said Ice.

  “You’re a pair of lucky fuckers, that’s for sure.” Mitch gave Ice a solid thump on the shoulder. Despite being a geek, the engineer sported a powerful frame, the result of hours lifting Olympic weights. It was his second great love after gadgets.

  “I think we’ve got more than enough for two bombs,” declared Ice.

  “I think you might be right,” Mitch agreed. “So that’s the plan, yeah, two bombs. One in the van and one in the Landcruiser?”

  Vance walked out of the office and joined them. “There gonna be a problem, Mitch?”

  “Nah, dead easy, mate. How much time do I have?”

  “Ah, that’s the hard bit,” said Vance. “Tariq just emailed me Hussein’s movements for the next few days. We’ve got a small window tomorrow. That means you’ve got just under 24 hours to make all the mods.”

  “Not a problem, my good man. Not a problem at all.”

  ***

  Chapter 6

  The three armored Mercedes swept out of the Presidential Palace at precisely 0700 hours. They left the Al Ras Akhdar peninsula with a police escort, flashing past the Emirates Palace hotel and the expensive foreshore developments. Their escort cleared the morning traffic with wailing sirens and flashing lights.

  Tariq’s father, Hussein Ahmed, was in the first limousine. As security adviser to the Emir, he always travelled with a police escort.

  Hussein sat upright, watching the modern buildings flash past. His features were emotionless, resembling an ancient statue battered and worn by the windswept desert. The white robes and keffiyah added to the likeness.

  On the seat opposite, facing the rear of the car, was Hussein’s head of security; the man responsible for turning his evil intentions into outcomes.

  “Have you heard from Yussuf?” asked Hussein.

  “No. He will contact me once it is done. I gave him strict orders to remain undercover until it is complete. He has never failed us before.” The man checked his watch. “The bomb will go off today as planned.”

  “The Americans are still at the clinic? Even after my son chose to warn them?”

  “Yes. I thought they might all flee, but two chose to remain.”

  Hussein continued to look out the window, idly watching the palm trees flash past. “These two are CIA?”

  “Yes, this is what my sources inform me. These Americans are arrogant; they think they can find us. It will prove to be their downfall.”

  “Hmmm.” Hussein returned his attention to the scenery outside the limousine as the convoy crossed the Mussafaha Bridge. From the top of the span he could just make out the industrial sector, five kilometers away.

  He almost missed the distant flash and the angry black cloud that rolled up into the clear morning sky.

  “AllahuAkbah,” he whispered.

  A few seconds later the Mercedes shudd
ered as the shockwave of the blast washed over it.

  Hussein's man snapped his eyes to the window, a look of concern on his face. It took him a second to realize what had occurred.

  “Impeccable timing,” Hussein said with a cruel smile. His subordinate turned back to face him, eyes shining with excitement.

  “Two less of Satan’s puppets.”

  They were interrupted by the whine of an electric motor. The soundproof divider that separated them from the driver of the vehicle lowered. “Sir, there has been an explosion in the Mussafaha Industrial estate. Our escort is recommending we return to the palace for our own safety.”

  The security head looked to his boss, who just shook his head, smirking.

  “We will continue to the airport as planned.”

  Hussein waited for the divider to slot back in place before speaking. “I think the time has come to deal with my son.”

  “It is sad that Tariq does not join his father in Jihad.”

  “He has been corrupted by the infidels and become one of them. We have watched him for long enough. Make the necessary arrangements.”

  The convoy continued to the airport, sirens wailing as it streaked down the highway. On either side, palm trees and bushes flashed past, occasional gaps in the greenery revealing glimpses of the encroaching desert.

  Six kilometers from the airport, they swept under the 16th Street overpass. The police escort failed to notice the battered Toyota Landcruiser accelerating down the ramp that joined the highway. It merged with the inside lane and continued to gather speed, gaining on the convoy.

  The security detail noticed the vehicle as it overtook traffic, edging towards the them, lane by lane. The rear most Mercedes broke formation, horn blaring, racing forward to position itself between the speeding four-wheel drive and Hussein's vehicle.

  In the back of his limousine, Hussein was thrown to one side as the driver reacted. The co-driver had the window down in a split second. The chatter of his submachine gun filled the interior of the car.

  Bullets shattered the windows of the Toyota; a figure at the wheel toppled sideways. Unaffected by the demise of the driver, the Landcruiser continued to gain speed, engine screaming, flames belching from the exhaust pipe. It danced around a slow moving truck, seemingly possessed.

  Hussein watched in horror as it swerved closer. “Faster! Faster!” he screamed as the co-driver emptied another magazine into the vehicle.

  The four-wheel drive hit the Mercedes with a crunch and detonated. 300 kilograms of military-grade explosives obliterated the Landcruiser and ripped into the limousine. The armor on the Mercedes was designed to stop bullets, not a car bomb. The blast shredded metal and flesh, spreading the remains of Hussein Ahmed and his men over an area the size of a football field. A single burning tire from the Landcruiser bounced down the road towards the airport.

  Five kilometers away in the business centre of the Etihad Airways First Class lounge, Mitch Freeman closed his laptop. He disconnected the mobile phone from its USB port and bundled the equipment into a leather carry satchel. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he walked back through the lounge, past the concierge and out into the main departure hall of the airport. He checked his ticket, identified the correct number and moved quickly to the corresponding gate. Ice and Vance were waiting there for him.

  “We all good?” asked Vance.

  “Tip top, mate. Now let’s get the hell out of here,” replied Mitch.

  The men handed their tickets to the waiting stewardess. She gave them a curious look before smiling. “You have a fantastic time in the Maldives, gentlemen.”

  ***

  Chapter 7

  The Maldives

  Two weeks later, Lascar Logistics flight WMX334 touched down at Malé International Airport. The luxury Gulfstream G500 pulled onto the hard standing reserved for private aircraft. A golf cart zoomed up to the jet as the door opened and the stairs lowered onto the runway.

  “Welcome to the Maldives, Mr. Ahmed,” a smiling official greeted Tariq at the cart. “Everything has been arranged.”

  “Thank you very much. Greatly appreciated.” Tariq shook the man’s hand and threw a canvas duffel bag into the cart. The debonair Arab was dressed in clothing that befitted the tropical climate: linen pants, a Hawaiian shirt, topped off by a white Panama hat.

  They raced across the tarmac, pausing for a few seconds at the airport door for another official to stamp Tariq’s passport. Then it was a short run through the terminal, across a road and down onto a covered boardwalk.

  A luxury cruiser was tied up against the wharf. Its sleek lines and the deep throb of the idling engines gave the impression it was very, very fast. Tariq grabbed his bag and jumped onto the rear deck, giving the captain on the fly bridge a wave. The Maldivian official cast off the lines and the big engines roared as the craft eased away from the dock.

  They cleared the breakwater within a few minutes, and once free of the marina speed limit, the captain opened the twin supercharged diesels up to full throttle. The sixty foot cruiser leapt out of the water, the props churning the clear blue waters. Tariq grabbed at the railing and his hat flipped off his head and into the sky. He smiled, the stresses of his father’s funeral and the takeover of Lascar Logistics disappearing behind him.

  The cruiser ate up the distance from Malé to the isolated island resort in under an hour. Tariq had chosen the hideaway as it matched his criteria perfectly: small enough to book out, equipped with all the required comforts, and within an hour of a reasonable-sized airstrip.

  One of the island’s hosts greeted him with a broad smile as the boat bumped up against the old tires lashed to the jetty. Tariq threw his duffel bag onto the weathered planks and followed the beaming Maldivian down the gangway and onto the sand.

  The island was only a few hundred feet across, with brilliant white sands, palm trees, and a small villa in the center. It was paradise.

  Tariq kicked off his loafers, enjoying the feel of the sand as he padded towards the villa. He ducked under some low hanging palms and emerged to an outdoor bar and restaurant. Three men were lounging around a table in similar attire to Tariq, an ice chest filled with beers nestled in the sand next to them.

  “Gentleman, I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” asked Tariq.

  The men stopped their conversation and turned to face the intruder. A broad smile appeared on Vance’s face as he realized who it was. “Tariq, good to see you, buddy.”

  Ice grabbed another chair, adding it to the table.

  The third man, a muscular-looking fellow sporting a bushy beard and a receding hairline, stood and offered Tariq a hand. “Mitch Freeman at your service.”

  Tariq grasped the British engineer’s hand firmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mitch Freeman. Vance tells me your skills were critical to our operation.”

  Mitch laughed. “Vance exaggerates, and the pleasure is all mine, Tariq, or should I say ours. Your choice of location for this meeting is impeccable.”

  The three men had been on the island since the day of the Abu Dhabi bombings. Tariq had needed them to disappear, and what better place than an isolated tropical Island, free from the preying eyes of Emirates investigators.

  “I apologize for the wait,” said Tariq, “but there have been many things for me to deal with.”

  Ice pulled a beer from the chest and popped the top on the edge of the table. “Oh, it’s been hard,” he said, smiling.

  “I say,” Mitch added, “you two,” he used his beer to point at the two former-CIA operatives, “have been drinking a shitload of beer. For a pair of dead chaps, that is.”

  All four men laughed as Tariq eased himself into his chair.

  Augmented by Mitch, the bomb that tore apart the medical clinic had disintegrated the dead bodies of three of the four terrorists. The only identifiable traces had been pieces of equipment, including the personal sidearms of two CIA agents. The Agency had declared them killed-in-action.

  “So what’s t
he low down on the attack, Tariq?” Vance asked.

  “Your plan worked perfectly. There were no traces of Mitch’s remote control kit, just pieces of the dead suicide bomber. The police have attributed the attack to extremists and my father has been given a state funeral.”

  “If only they knew the truth,” murmured Ice as he brought a beer to his lips.

  “And what about the rich fucker’s empire?” asked Vance.

  “It is now under my care,” answered Tariq.

  “Good stuff. I love it when a plan comes together,” said Vance, giving his best impression of Hannibal from the A-Team.

  Tariq laughed. “You look more like Mr T.” The joke prompted grins from the rest of the team.

  “So what now?” asked Ice seriously.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t stay for long, for there is much work to do.” He had everyone’s undivided attention now. “Your mission is to build an organization capable of dealing with men like my father—across the globe. Men who think they are above the law. Men who sow hatred and pain wherever they walk. Men who are evil.”

  Vance nodded.

  Tariq continued. “I want you to find these men and I want you to stop them.” He reached into his pocket and placed a USB drive on the table. “Vance, I mentioned that my father was running a division of Lascar Logistics as a front to channel funding to terrorists. It seems that I underestimated how much he had invested into Priority Movements and Airlift. I can assure you that it is sufficient for our needs. That stick has all the account details and access codes for what I am calling the PRIMAL fund.”

  “PRIMAL. I like that,” said Ice.

  “Yeah, it rings true with me,” added Mitch.

  “Let me get this straight,” asked Vance. “You want to fund us to run around the world whacking all those evil fuckers that the CIA never let us touch?”

  “Not how I would have described it, but yes, that is the crux of the concept.”

  There was silence at the table as the three men considered Tariq’s proposal.