True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “I don’t know, Freddy. Landry isn’t bright enough to mastermind anything. He’s not a thinker. Whatever he’s doing, he’s in it for the money or the rush.”

  “I’ll pass all that to CIA and have them keep digging on Landry. Past associates, bank accounts, aliases. We’ll catch a break eventually. Does Mo know where Nawaz is hiding?”

  “He said he moves constantly but that he can lead us to him.”

  “Wait, he agreed? Just like that?” Freddy asked dubiously.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, Reece?”

  “He’ll lead us to Nawaz, but only if we give him a shot at Landry.”

  “A shot, like to kill him?”

  “I’m sure he’d like to, but he wants answers.”

  “I would, too. Okay, let me talk to the bosses, but even if they agree, we are going to have to bring Mo in. We don’t have a choice, Reece. He’s a terrorist whether he was being run by a rogue CIA agent or not.”

  “I have another idea. Just hear me out on this. You ever hear of the Selous Scouts?”

  “The Rhodesian guys with the FALs and the nut-hugger shorts? Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Did you spend too much time in Mozambique? What in the hell do they have to do with this?”

  Reece detailed his plan, and Freddy gave it the critical review that his position demanded. In the end, Reece was able to counter each of his friend’s well-directed arguments. Now it was a matter of selling it to the decision makers back at Langley.

  CHAPTER 46

  Burgas, Bulgaria

  September

  ANDRENOV HAD ARRANGED A French passport for Landry, which made sense given his heritage and reasonably good, though accented, command of the language. He couldn’t pass for French in France, but he had no intention of going there. He didn’t stay anywhere too long these days but he needed to be within reasonable proximity of his asset, so southern Bulgaria was ideal.

  The Grand Hotel was nice, cheap, and right on the Black Sea coast. Landry spent most of his days working out in the hotel gym to maintain his bodybuilder’s physique and to sweat out the sins of the previous evening. While most operators had adopted more functional fitness regimes over the past decade, Landry’s vanity kept him focused on training individual muscle groups in isolation. Those workouts, and a healthy supply of anabolic steroids, kept him looking like a heavily tattooed version of a 1980s action movie hero. Too bad it was too cold to lie out by the pool. Landry loved the looks that the wives of the potbellied rich men gave him as he strolled the deck in nothing but a small swimsuit. He’d bedded more than a few when they went upstairs to “freshen up” while their husbands lazed drunkenly in their lawn chairs.

  There were no such treats available this evening, as it was the slow season. There wasn’t much to do here but work out and drink in the clubs, but lately, the booze hadn’t been enough. The bartender had a source and soon Landry was adding cocaine to the mix. It took sleeping pills, Xanax, or opiates to come down from the blow in the early morning hours, sometimes all three, and marijuana to take the edge off when the new day came. Jules Landry had found himself in a cycle of stimulants, depressants, benzodiazepines, and sedatives, catalyzed by excessive testosterone levels and a level of alcohol consumption that would have been a problem all by itself. He may have looked like an inked Adonis to the women on the pool deck, but inside, he was a mess.

  The post-dinner hour found Landry drinking in the hotel bar. He’d done a bump of coke after a shower and was three vodkas deep, which meant that he was at the peak of his chemically assisted relative normalcy. He’d done arms today and his biceps were pumped with blood; his black T-shirt clung tightly to them. He rolled his right wrist over and admired the vascularity of his forearm before doing the same on his left side. He looked good. He felt good. There was only one thing missing and he was certain the bartender could arrange it.

  She arrived an hour later. She was cute; hot, actually. She had long, straight, jet-black hair that hung down to her midback, a decent face, and a body that looked to be flawless. She reminded him a little bit of a girl back home. Her long legs looked great in tight black leather pants and, when she removed her faux-fur coat, her glittery gold halter top rode up and exposed a six-pack of abdominal muscles. Her breasts were obviously enhanced, but she hadn’t made the mistake of going too big with them. Yeah, she would do for sure.

  She spoke no French and only a little English; they weren’t going to do much talking anyway.

  “I am Darina,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Jules,” he responded, amused by the formality of the introduction.

  The bartender brought her some type of vodka drink in a tall glass and Landry reached out his hand with two pills in the palm.

  “What is?” she questioned.

  “Ecstasy.”

  “What?”

  “Ecstasy, you know, ecstasy,” Landry said as he feigned dance moves with his fists up.

  “Ahh, yes.” She took a tablet from Landry’s hand and popped it onto her tongue, washing it down with her drink. Landry swallowed the other pill. By the time the MDMA kicked in, both had downed two more drinks, and Landry motioned to her to follow him upstairs. She asked for the money as soon as they entered the large suite, and Landry handed her a stack of hundred-euro notes. Darina excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom to get herself ready. Jules made them each a drink from the bottle he’d brought from the bar and snorted a fat line of cocaine. He heard the toilet flush and then the click of the bathroom door opening. He pulled off his shirt and sat on the bed, holding his drink and waiting anxiously for what would come next.

  Darina walked seductively into the room wearing only her black thong panties and high heels. Her body was even better than he thought it would be. He motioned to the nightstand, where her drink sat next to several more lines of cocaine; she skipped the drink and went for the powder. She climbed onto the bed and straddled the muscle-bound man who owned her for the next few hours. Minutes later they were both naked and he was doing another line of blow, this time off the small of her back. Landry was in heaven.

  • • •

  Landry’s head pounded. The sun was beating through the windows. He’d forgotten to close the curtains in all of last night’s excitement.

  What time was it?

  He rolled over and pulled a second pillow over his head, trying to go back to sleep. His foot slid to the right and he felt something solid on the other side of the sheet.

  Is she still here?

  He took the pillow from his head and rolled over far enough to see a nude female lying facedown, her head toward the footboard of the bed. Something about her didn’t look right. Landry kicked her in the thigh in the hopes she would wake up, gather her things, and head out.

  Nothing.

  He kicked her again a little harder.

  “Get . . . the . . . fuck . . . out,” he said, kicking her a bit harder with each word.

  Instead of responding, she slowly slid off the bed and slumped onto the floor.

  Landry squeezed his eyes together in an attempt to quiet his pounding head. He reached down and touched her arm. Her pale body was unnaturally cool. He rolled her over and brushed her tangled mess of dark hair out of the way, exposing a large bruise on her cheek. Her eyes were wide open and lifeless. A path of dried blood led from her nose to her upper lip. He leaned in closer and saw that she had swollen purple marks on her fragile throat.

  Instead of revulsion or horror, Landry looked at her in curiosity, trying to remember the events of the previous evening. He’d hit her, but it was just with an open hand. And he’d choked her, he recalled that. Her bulging eyes had filled with fear as he continued to fuck her. He liked that; being inside a prostitute as he took her life. Luckily, shithole countries the world over were filled with young girls for him to punish. He was upset with himself, though, not that he’d killed an innocent woman, but that he couldn’t remember how he’d killed her. He’d cheated himse
lf out of that pleasure.

  Landry took a moment to admire what he could see of her breasts and abs before leaning over the nightstand to do the last line of cocaine. Then he grabbed her under the arms and positioned her on the bed for one last dance with the devil.

  CHAPTER 47

  CIA Station

  Istanbul, Turkey

  September

  FREDDY AND REECE WENT over the pitch several times to ensure that they’d covered all the angles. Freddy knew the internal politics of the Agency well enough to realize that their concept had a better chance of gaining approval coming from him rather than Reece. To many back at Langley, Reece was a murderous loose cannon whose only use was his relationship with Mo. This needed to be about the operation.

  Reece excused himself from the room when the time arrived for Freddy’s video teleconference with his superiors back in Northern Virginia. Victor Rodriguez, a former Army Special Forces officer and current head of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Special Operations Group, appeared on the screen, joined by the Agency’s deputy director of the National Clandestine Service, Janice Motley. The tailored blue suits worn by both Rodriguez and Motley and the frosted-glass interior of the Langley SCIF were in sharp contrast to the shaggy-haired and polo-clad SEAL in the spartan conference room in Istanbul. At least he’d taken off his ball cap.

  Despite climbing the ranks at the Agency, Rodriguez hadn’t forgotten where he’d come from and could be counted on to watch the backs of his men in the field. Motley was an unknown quantity among the spies and trigger-pullers whom she oversaw in her new role. Her background as the lead staff attorney for the Senate Intelligence Committee didn’t exactly fill the operatives with hope when it came to her view of paramilitary work.

  “Mr. Strain, good to hear from you. Nice work in XXXXXX,” Rodriguez began. “Let me introduce you to Deputy Director Janice Motley.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I appreciate both of you making time on such short notice. We have some extremely time-sensitive intel that needs attention,” Freddy said, putting on his most charming smile as he transitioned from covert operator to salesman.

  “Please go on, Mr. Strain.” Motley clearly wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

  “Yes, ma’am. As you both know, we successfully recruited James Reece and brought him in to attempt to make contact with Mohammed Farooq, a former Iraqi special operations commander who worked with Commander Reece back during OIF.”

  “We are well aware of that, Mr. Strain, and you should know that decision was made over my objection,” Motley added.

  “Understood, ma’am. Earlier today, James Reece made contact with Farooq, who acknowledged his role in planning the attacks on the Colchester Garrison in England and the assassination of General Alexander in Brussels. He denied any role in the Christmas attack in Kingston but did say that Amin Nawaz operates multiple independent cells that do not have visibility of the others’ missions for operational security purposes.”

  “Did Reece make any arrangements with him relative to Nawaz?” Rodriguez interjected.

  “No, sir, there was an unforeseen twist in Mohammed’s story. He claims to have been directed to carry out these attacks by a former Agency contractor named Jules Landry, who has been running Mohammed under the auspices of a legitimate CIA operation. Landry has been missing since 2013 and we have recently discovered that he may have entered the Agency’s employ under fraudulent circumstances.”

  “Is Farooq’s story credible?” Motley asked.

  “We believe it is.”

  “So, you’re saying that we have a green-badger who has gone rogue and is running terrorist networks under the guise of an official United States government paramilitary operation?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that is our assessment.”

  “To what end?”

  “We don’t know at this point. As I said, we just became aware of this a few hours ago. My gut instinct is that Landry is running Mohammed at the behest of another entity, either a rogue state, terrorist organization, or what’s termed a super-empowered individual or entity.”

  “I’m not interested in what your gut tells you, Mr. Strain, and I know the term.”

  “What I believe Mr. Strain is trying to say, Janice, is that there isn’t evidence that Landry’s defection was ideologically driven,” Rodriguez interjected.

  “So, what are you proposing we do with this information?” Motley continued without addressing Victor’s comment.

  Strain exhaled before responding, “Ma’am, are you familiar with the pseudoterrorist operations carried out by the Rhodesian Selous Scouts in the 1970s?”

  Strain could see his boss’s eyes widen at the mention of Rhodesia; Motley was African American and the racial implications of the Bush War made Rodriguez immediately uncomfortable.

  Motley showed no reaction. “I am not, Mr. Strain.”

  “Well, they were arguably the most effective counterinsurgency unit in history. They used ‘pseudoterrorists’ who were either undercover Rhodesian soldiers or actual former insurgents to infiltrate enemy networks so that they could be targeted by conventional forces. We feel that we have a unique opportunity to utilize Mohammed Farooq in a similar role and not only take out Amin Nawaz but also infiltrate additional networks to include ISIS.”

  “You are proposing that, instead of incarcerating Mohammed Farooq for planning the murder of a U.S. general as well as killing and maiming numerous allied troops, we bring him in to work for us?”

  “Yes, ma’am. As horrible as it is to have a rogue CIA agent running an asset against our allies, it also gives us a unique opportunity. As much as I hate to say it, we can take over from Landry and have a highly placed, and legitimate, asset in a leadership position of a major terrorist organization. Not unsimilar to how the DEA infiltrates the cartels.”

  After a pregnant pause, Motley continued: “How exactly would this happen, Mr. Strain?”

  • • •

  “What did they say?” Reece asked, his impatience evident.

  “Well, they didn’t shoot it down. They said they need to think about it. Vic seemed on board. I’m just not sure how to read Motley.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “You had a long day of getting kidnapped, so I say we call it.”

  “And then?”

  “Let’s plan as if we’re going to get the go-ahead.”

  By noon the following day, the two operatives had come up with a basic concept of operations that involved a direct-action mission to capture/kill Amin Nawaz, and the apprehension and rendition of Jules Landry. Either one of these tasks would be tricky to accomplish individually, let alone simultaneously.

  With multiple unknowns this was a tough sell, and would be even harder to pull off once Murphy’s law inevitably came into play; they didn’t know the location of either Landry or Nawaz and wouldn’t be sure of the latter until hours before the operation had to be executed. The entire plan revolved around their absolute trust in Mo, something that both of them hoped was not a naïve sentiment. They had plenty of leverage to motivate him but it was possible, perhaps even likely, he might disappear. Mo had been used by what he now knew to be a rogue CIA operative and had committed atrocities for reasons yet unknown. Reece and Freddy were counting on him wanting to find out why. A military chain of command would never greenlight such a harebrained operation, but the Agency wasn’t the U.S. military.

  By the following morning, Freddy received word from Vic Rodriguez that the plan was tentatively approved on several conditions: that the hit look like it was done by another Islamic entity, that the United States Department of Justice would formally charge Mo with terror-related crimes both to cover asses in Washington and to bolster his bona fides as an international terrorist, and, finally, that Landry would not enter U.S. custody at any point during the operation so that his civil rights would not be violated by any U.S. agency or asset, well, any agency other than the CIA. With those boundaries in place, Reece and Freddy d
ug into the details of their tactical planning. They were going back to war.

  CHAPTER 48

  Tirana, Albania

  September

  THE TINY APARTMENT HAD been abandoned by its occupants, who took little more than the clothes on their backs and what they could fit into a few plastic shopping bags. After years of waiting, their application for asylum in the United Kingdom had been mysteriously granted on the condition that they make the trip within twenty-four hours. As one of six hundred families packed into the squalid conditions of this communist-era housing project with no running water, they didn’t have to be asked twice.

  Institut was arguably the worst neighborhood in Tirana, which was saying something. It smelled of trash, human waste, and terrible food cooked in cramped and poorly ventilated one-room apartments. The unpaved streets were strewn with refuse and the drab concrete buildings’ lone decorations came from the clothing that hung from nearly every window and balcony. The sights and smells reminded Reece of Sadr City and a hundred other places he’d fought in since 2001. The only things green were the weeds.

  Nestled between the Republic of Macedonia to the east and the Adriatic Sea to the west, Albania was struggling with its national identity. Now a market-based economy, member of NATO, and candidate for membership in the European Union, Albania continued to distance itself from its communist past. Montenegro and Kosovo to the north and Greece to the south allowed for ample trading of goods and services as the small Balkan nation worked to shed itself of its former status as North Korea’s lone satellite state.

  Albania’s majority Muslim population was not traditionally radical or even particularly devout and, though the country was well known for exporting criminals, it wasn’t a breeding ground for terrorism. That changed somewhat as a result of the killing and mass expulsion of Bosnian and Kosovar Muslims during the Balkans War in the 1990s. There is no better way to unite a people than to victimize them by identity; attempted genocide drew many Muslims in the region closer to their religion. As one of the Agency analysts put it during the pre-mission brief, “The Albanians became more radically Islamist during the 1990s the same way that the Irish became more radically Catholic during their conflict with the English in Northern Ireland.”