Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  The president-elect returned to her chair. “So what’s it going to be, Jack? Do you have what it takes to be my DNI?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She studied him again and noted that he met her gaze without hesitation. He would do nicely. Far better than that snake the party wanted her to appoint for Secretary of Defense.

  “Good. Then let’s have a real conversation, shall we? Let’s start with this report.” She picked it up and let it fall to the table with a slap. “What’s the moral of the story?”

  “Application of force, ma’am,” the admiral replied. “We tried to do this op with the bare minimum of assets, relying on the element of surprise.”

  “So what would you have recommended, Jack?”

  “Overwhelming force. JSOC, air assault, recon teams in place prior, the full monty. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing it all the way, no pussyfooting around.”

  She nodded. “I agree. What about this al-Shabab situation? Where’s the largest Somali population in this country?”

  “Minneapolis, ma’am.” He hesitated. “That was also the site of the failed terrorist bombing in September, if you recall.”

  Recall? How could she forget? A nuclear weapon on US soil. If that bomb had gone off, she probably wouldn’t be sitting in this chair right now. Thank God that never made the news cycle.

  “Alright, Minneapolis and al-Shabab is as good a place as any to start.” She glanced at her watch. “You’ve got another ten minutes. Tell me what you want to do in the great American Midwest.”

  Chapter 3

  Shaafici Mosque, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  24 November 2016 – 1700 local

  Most of Aya’s friends stayed after sunset prayers this evening. Her true friends, anyway. She knew that a few of them had families that actually celebrated the American holiday of Thanksgiving. A few even prepared turkeys.

  Not her parents. They observed the Muslim holy days exclusively. The rest of the holidays were for infidels.

  Although she would never admit it, Aya secretly wished her parents would try to fit in more, try to be more American. Her father rambled on about the good old days in Mogadishu, but he was never going back. He could barely finish a shift in his taxi without Zacharia taking over—his back was that bad. To make ends meet, her mother ran a small coffee shop in the Karmel Mall, the local marketplace for the Somali community. She pretended the earnings from the shop were actually her husband’s wages from driving the taxi. They all pretended, for her father’s sake.

  “Aya, how’s Zacharia doing?” asked her friend, Caaliyah. “How is he handling Hamza’s death?”

  They all wanted to know about her handsome brother, but no one asked about her. Inside she still seethed from that night.

  “Death?” she spat back. “You mean Hamza’s murder? When Imaan took me away I was on the verge of being arrested—” She stopped when she saw the other girls exchange glances. They didn’t believe that she’d actually met Imaan. After a few days, even Aya had started to doubt her own memory of that evening.

  Caaliyah looked toward the door and gasped.

  “It’s good to see you again, Ayana.” Imaan herself entered the women’s prayer room and strode straight up to Aya. The singer kissed the girl on both cheeks. Not a stiff embrace, but a warm hug, like between friends. Her hand lingered protectively on Aya’s shoulder.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow for Europe, but I wanted to see how you were doing before I left.” Imaan’s voice was rich and warm, making Aya blush. Her friends gaped at the international superstar—and Aya’s friend. Imaan’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Maybe you could introduce me to your friends?”

  “This is Caaliyah, Yasmin, and Leylo,” Aya said. “The rest of them went home for the American holiday.”

  “But you all keep the old ways,” Imaan said, her eyes connecting with each girl. Every movement Imaan made seemed deliberate, elegant. “That is good. The Americans claim to separate politics and religion, but can you believe a country that puts ‘in God we trust’ on their money? Their Christian God is not ours, my Muslim sisters.”

  The girls exchanged glances. A few even looked around to make sure Imam Nabil wasn’t listening. No one talked like that in this mosque. Aya felt a thrill of danger run up her spine.

  “May I speak with you, Aya?” Imaan asked with a sidelong glance at the rest of the girls. “Privately?”

  Aya’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest. “Of course, Imaan!”

  The older woman raised her eyebrow. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s close by? Maybe a little more comfortable?”

  “My mother runs a coffee shop. It’s only two blocks away . . .” Aya let her voice trail off.

  “That sounds perfect.” She slid her arm into Aya’s. “Shall we, sister? It was a pleasure meeting you all.” Her voice left no doubt that they were not invited.

  A chill November wind met them at the door of the mosque, but Aya didn’t mind—the cold made Imaan huddle closer to her as they walked. A bell tinkled overhead when they entered her mother’s coffee shop. Aya’s mother rushed from behind the counter to greet her important guest, her face flushed and sweaty under her hijab. Next to Imaan, her mother seemed old and dowdy, a peasant next to a royal. But Imaan seemed not to notice, greeting the older woman with a warm kiss on each cheek.

  The shop was mostly empty and they settled into armchairs next to the gas fireplace. Aya’s mother bustled out with two cups of kahawa, her mother’s specialty coffee made with cardamom and ginger. Imaan smiled at her and thanked her in Somali.

  “Your mother’s lovely,” Imaan said after a tiny sip of her drink.

  “No, she’s not. She’s old and stuck in her ways—she supports our family mostly. My father often can’t work.” It was so easy to talk to this woman. Aya found herself telling Imaan all kinds of family details that even her closest friends didn’t know about her.

  “You’re a brave spirit, Ayana. I saw the way you stood up to those FBI agents when your brother was arrested.”

  Aya blushed. “I—I just felt such a rage at everything. Hamza—that’s my cousin, the one they killed—was a good boy, a good man. And then they put handcuffs on Zacharia . . . I just—”

  “It’s okay.” Imaan slipped her elegant hand over Aya’s. Jeweled rings glinted on her fingers and her long nails were painted a dark red. “It’s not your fault. Your parents brought you to this country, but America failed you. They call this the land of opportunity, but only if you’re white and Christian. If you’re brown and Muslim, there’s nothing here for you. Only lies.” Her voice still held its warmth, but it was now edged with a tone of insistence.

  “I know you see this, Aya. I travel the world and every time I come to America, I see it more and more.”

  “But what can we do?” Without thinking, Aya slipped her fingers into Imaan’s and received a reassuring grip in return.

  Imaan inclined her head toward the counter where Aya’s mother was fixing another cup of coffee. “You just told me your mother provides for your family, right?”

  Aya nodded.

  “Does she take credit for that act of generosity?” Imaan paused, her gaze intent on Aya. “No, she does not. Yet without her intervention, your family would starve.”

  She raised Aya’s fingers to her lips and kissed them gently. “Sometimes women are called to take action, to sacrifice for the good of their family, their culture, their religious beliefs. I think you, Ayana Ismail, are one of those women.”

  Aya’s heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could barely hear her own response. “I am, Imaan, I am. What do you want me to do?”

  Imaan smiled at her, a radiant baring of beautiful white teeth, a smile full of promise, just like on the cover of her last album.

  “Gather friends of like mind and study the words of Allah. I’ll be back in a few weeks.” Imaan stood, and her expensive clothes seemed to flow over her lithe figure. Every movement dripped with grace and ease.


  “I have high hopes for you, Ayana.”

  Chapter 4

  FBI Field Office, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota

  28 November 2016 – 1030 local

  If Liz had learned anything as a US Marine, it was that you faced trouble head-on. And while you were at it, make sure you look good.

  As per department policy, she’d been placed on administrative leave following the death of Hamza Abdul. The internal review should have taken a full week, possibly two, but the week after the Hamza incident was shortened due to the Thanksgiving holiday. Liz was surprised when Trask sent her an email on the Friday after Thanksgiving.

  Pls come see me on Monday at 1030 in my office.

  Typically Trask in its bluntness, the single line gave her pause. It was unlikely that the FBI had managed to conduct the full review of Hamza’s death in just three workdays, so was there a problem? Liz put aside the piece of pumpkin pie she had been eating and studied the neatly laid-out papers that covered her dining room table. She’d managed to get a copy of every scrap of evidence from the Hamza takedown and done her own review of the situation. She was in the clear—unless there was something she didn’t know about.

  She shook her head. Not possible. It was a clean bust. She’d been aggressive in the chase, but she hadn’t even fired her weapon.

  Liz looked at the email again. Yet Trask wanted to see her at least a week ahead of schedule. Something was not right. She toyed with the idea of calling Trask, but dismissed it. He’d said what he wanted to say.

  She took another bite of pie, then threw the rest in the trash.

  Liz clutched the thick file in one hand and knocked on the doorjamb with the other. Special Agent in Charge Tom Trask, head of the FBI Field Office, looked up. He smiled.

  “C’mon in, Liz.”

  She held the file folder in front of her like a shield as she tried to read his expression.

  Her eyes swept over the framed photos of Trask in various stages of his career: Naval Academy midshipman, Marine second lieutenant graduating from The Basic School in Quantico, wife and three kids, FBI induction, and finally the newest picture of her, Brendan, and Don Riley all grouped with him at the White House when she’d received the FBI Medal of Valor from the president last month. There had been no press coverage at that ceremony—the public never even knew about the rogue nuclear weapon outside the Vikings stadium—but that didn’t diminish the moment for her.

  Brendan’s smiling face looked out at her from the photograph and Liz wished more than anything that he was here with her right now. She’d declined the invitation from his parents to spend Thanksgiving with them, preferring to work through the evidence in the Hamza investigation. She knew every detail backwards and forwards. Of that, she was confident. But this meeting . . . something was up.

  In between reviewing the Hamza evidence, she’d gotten a haircut, bought a new suit, and had her nails done. If things went sideways for some reason, at least she’d look good.

  “Everything okay, Liz?”

  She realized she’d been staring at the photo of her and Brendan. Her eyes slid to his desk where a closed folder lay. Even from this distance she could read her name on the tab.

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine.” She hefted her own folder a little higher on her chest.

  “Sit, please.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk, then sprang to his feet to shut the door to his office. “We’ve got a lot to talk about this morning, Liz.”

  He took his time reseating himself at his desk and folding his hands in front of him. His lips curled into a noncommittal smile that told her nothing about why he’d asked her to this meeting.

  “Let’s start with the elephant in the room, shall we?” he said finally. “You’ve been cleared of any responsibility in the death of Hamza Abdul.”

  Liz did her best to keep a passive expression, but she felt her shoulders sag a bit as she processed the welcome feeling of relief. She lowered the file folder to her lap. “Thank you, sir.”

  Trask laughed. “Don’t thank me. It was an open-and-shut case, a clean takedown. You never even discharged your weapon. Like I told you: when bad guys run, bad things happen. You knew that, right?”

  “Sure, of course. Thanks all the same.” Liz did her best to sit up straight in her chair, but with all the tension gone she felt like a rag doll.

  “That’s not why I asked to see you this morning.”

  “Oh?” The tension crept back into her frame. “There’s something else?”

  Trask was smiling again. “You could say that. Your work in this office has been exemplary by any standard, so I’m recommending you for an even bigger job. DC wants to get ahead of this Daesh recruiting problem that we have here in the Twin Cities. The incoming administration has asked me to form a new Joint Terrorism Task Force to focus on the situation. They were going to wait until after they took office in January, but this latest Hamza business has everyone in DC in a lather. They want to launch it now.”

  Liz nodded. “And you want me to be on the new JTTF?”

  “No, Liz, we want you to lead it.” Trask stood and extended his hand. “I’m here to tell you that you’ve been promoted to Supervisory Special Agent in Charge of the new JTTF on Homegrown Recruitment.”

  Liz stood and took his hand. “Sir, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but aren’t I a little junior for that job?” Leading a task force of this magnitude was a job for an agent with at least five more years’ experience than she—and there were three she knew of in the bull pen office right outside Trask’s door. And they were all men, too.

  Trask must have seen the look on her face. “Sit down, Liz.”

  She sank back into the comfort of the chair. This was happening way too fast for her to process. She’d come into Trask’s office prepared to fight for her job and ended up getting a promotion. Her head was still spinning.

  “Look, Tom, I’m sorry—”

  He held up his hand. “I’ve watched you since you came into this office, Liz. You’re a good agent—scratch that, you’re a great agent. I’ve seen you follow your instincts and stop a terrorist attack when no one else even believed the threat was real. You work harder, run faster, and shoot straighter than anybody in this office—and we’ve got some damn fine agents in this office.” He paused and laced his fingers together.

  “We have intel that says these al-Shabab characters are aligning themselves with Daesh. And this business with Hamza shows that they know how to get back into the US. That’s trouble with a capital T from where I’m sitting. When DC calls me and says they want my best agent on this, I gave them your name without a moment’s hesitation. So, I have only one question for you, Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush. Your country needs you—are you in or not?”

  Over Trask’s shoulder, Liz could see Brendan’s face in the photo.

  “I’m in, sir.”

  ***

  Jihadi Apprentice is available from all major booksellers in print, ebook, and audio.

  Amazon

  Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible