True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “Just trying to learn as much as I could about counterinsurgency and your country’s history and culture. If you think I read a lot, you should see Freddy’s book stack.”

  “I just look at the pictures,” Freddy interjected.

  Mo turned the conversation back to the issue at hand. “So, what do you want me to find out from Landry? He’s almost ready to break.”

  “The big question is, who is he working for and why, but more who than why, if that makes sense,” Freddy responded.

  “And how many other agents and teams he’s running,” Reece chimed in. “We know he was handling at least two parallel teams: yours and the STU from your old unit who hit us in North Africa. If he was also behind the Christmas market attack in London, that would bring us up to three at a minimum. There could very well be more we don’t know about.”

  Mo scribbled some notes in a small spiral-bound book.

  Reece leaned forward, his mind working the problem. “And we need to know how he knew to attack us in XXXXXX. No one outside of the Agency should have had that info. It’s not like we got hit by some local militia group who found out there were some random Americans living down the road. That team was brought in specifically to target us. We’ve obviously got ourselves a leak and, Mo, your future depends on us finding out where that leak is.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  September

  OLIVER GREY HATED DULLES airport. Its architecture was, to him, a glaring symbol of Cold War dominance, an obnoxious vision of America’s arrogance during a period when so many in the world were rebuilding and suffering. He had a more practical reason to hate it as well: one never knew whether the Transportation Security Administration line would take five minutes or two hours. He found some ironic amusement in the fact that he used the Pre-Check lane, though; with the number of regular travelers in the D.C. area, it was barely faster than the normal security line.

  The CIA analyst ordered a large Dunkin’ coffee and picked up the latest Brad Thor novel while he waited impatiently for it to cool. Spymaster, he said silently to himself, already imagining himself in the lead role.

  Surely, he’d be able to secure a good roast in St. Petersburg, but he assumed that there would be very few afternoons spent at his beloved sidewalk cafés in the immediate future due to the weather. It maddened Grey that he would have to transfer in Newark, in a middle seat no less, in order to make his connection to Europe, but it was a minor inconvenience on his way to his new life, a life of meaning. After this mission was complete, he would be the brains behind the rise of a new Russia. Andrenov appreciated his talents in a way the CIA never could.

  The short flight was relatively painless but for the giant man and his filthy dog seated next to him. The figure was bearded and muscular, every inch of his arms covered in a web of tattoos. He had the military look so common these days, his “service” animal undoubtedly part of some silly veteran counseling program. Grey spent the flight leaning toward the old woman in the window seat who reminded him of his maternal grandmother with her knitting and constant jabbering.

  Grey relaxed when he saw the Atlantic from the window seat of the United Airlines 757; there was no sadness even as he left the country of his birth for the last time. Thankfully, the middle seat next to him was empty, which allowed him to stretch out just a bit. He ordered a vodka soda from a middle-aged flight attendant who had the cheerful demeanor of someone working in a prison cafeteria. It wasn’t very Russian of him to add the soda, or the ice for that matter, but at least he was making an effort. After two more drinks and a terrible movie, the cabin lights were extinguished. He put on his eyeshades and drifted off.

  He slept surprisingly well for being in coach. The relief of finally slipping the bonds of his cover life had helped him relax. An announcement from the cockpit roused him, and he motioned to the annoyed-looking woman in the aisle seat that he needed to use the restroom. Forty minutes later, he was shuffling impatiently through the crowded aisle of passengers anxious to deplane after the overnight flight. The pale Portuguese customs officer eyed him with boredom and stamped his worn United States passport, a document he was using for the last time. The morning air was cold when he walked out onto the sidewalk in front of Humberto Delgado Airport but the sun was shining and the sky was pure blue. Grey had never felt so alive.

  CHAPTER 59

  Eastern Turkey

  September

  THEY WERE MORE LIKE artillery than small arms. The rifles weighed nearly thirty pounds each, even without the massive telescope-like optics. Both weapons had been waiting for them in the farmhouse, packed carefully in crates hidden under blankets. They didn’t look like any rifles that Nizar had seen before. Tasho must have requested them. The stock looked almost skeletal, and the bipod mounted oddly above the long, thick barrel. The scope was as large as his forearm and would look right at home on the enormous rifle. Nizar spoke some English and was amused by the name of the scope, the “B.E.A.S.T.”

  After his assassination of President Hadad in Syria, Nizar had received his next assignment from General Yedid. That assignment had brought him to this remote land in eastern Turkey to prepare for a long-range shot, the longest Nizar had ever attempted.

  The two men painstakingly mounted the U.S.-made optics, using machinist’s levels to ensure that there was absolutely no cant to the reticle before torquing down the screws. The scope mount itself had a small bubble level attached so that the shooter didn’t inadvertently cant the rifle while making a shot, something that could cause serious problems at extreme distances.

  Packed with each rifle was a large amount of ammunition, hundreds of rounds, from the looks of it. Nizar removed one of the cartridges from its white cardboard box and examined it. He had never seen a rifle cartridge so large; it looked like something an antiaircraft gun would use.

  Tasho appeared to be familiar with the equipment and worked quickly and efficiently. When he was done mounting his optic, he made sure that Nizar’s was set up correctly as well. The scopes were secured using ERA-TAC adjustable mounts so that they didn’t run out of vertical adjustment. Nizar didn’t know who their target was, but from the looks of the sniper weapon systems, the shot was going to be a long one.

  Nizar didn’t care for the Shishani, as Tasho was nicknamed, despite his reputation. He was too cold, too solitary, too serious, but more than that, Tasho made him uneasy. He looked younger than Nizar had expected for someone with such a storied past. A pale face and red beard had become part of his calling card. When conventional forces in the Eastern world heard rumors of sightings of a sniper with red facial hair, they all prayed it was not the Shishani.

  Nizar was not naïve enough to believe everything he had heard about the man with whom he now worked; not all of it could possibly be true. But if a fraction of it was . . . Still, he decided not to ask too many personal questions. Though he called him only by his first name, to Nizar he was still “the Shishani” as per his legend.

  It was said that Tasho had begged his father to let him fight the Russians in the First Battle for Grozny. Though he was old enough to fight at age fifteen, his father would hear none of it, leaving him at home to care for his mother and two younger brothers. Tasho’s father did not return that New Year’s Day 1995, nor any day after. He was killed by the Russians early in the fighting, inadvertently causing exactly what he had attempted to prevent: Tasho now knew his life’s calling, to kill Russians.

  Choosing service in the Georgian army over life as a sheepherder, Tasho proved himself adept at shooting and stalking. Showing such promise as a tactical leader, he was recruited by the Georgian Special Reconnaissance Group, distinguishing himself in the Second Battle of Grozny in 1999. He killed fifty Russian soldiers in a single week. To Tasho, each was the Russian who had killed his father. The war also taught him his first practical lesson in asymmetrical warfare, guerrilla tactics being the order of the day: IEDs, suicide bombings, urban warfare, a war of the rats.


  His youngest brother’s death at the hands of the enemy in what became known as the Novye Aldi Massacre only sealed Tasho’s resolve. When he buried his mother after the official end to hostilities, his last ties to his hometown of Shali were severed. Arrested for selling weapons to Chechen rebels, he served close to two years in prison. Identified as a prime target for recruitment and radicalization, he emerged as a full-fledged jihadi committed to the cause.

  From 2004 to 2011 the cause was Iraq, where he plied his deadly skills against the infidels. He worked primarily in Ramadi, Fallujah, and Mosul, targeting coalition troops and civilians as the insurgency reached its deadly climax. As his reputation grew, so did his responsibilities in the organization known as al-Qaeda in Iraq, or AQI. One of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi’s most respected fighters, he led cells of insurgents against the occupiers. With AQI’s transformation into ISIS following the expulsion of U.S. forces, the Shishani turned his attention to Syria, where he fought Assad’s forces under the new black flag. The battle for Aleppo in 2012 cemented his status as one of the most respected jihadist warriors in the Eastern world.

  What his masters leading ISIS couldn’t know was that Tasho’s allegiance was to something other than Islam. Every time he pressed the trigger, regardless of the target, he was killing Russians.

  Captured by Assad’s special security forces in a raid in 2016, he was interrogated by the one man who had studied him enough to figure him out. He still remembered General Yedid’s offer as he lay strapped to a metal mattress, car battery, cables, and water at the ready.

  “How would you like to work for me?” the general had asked politely. “Come work for me, and I’ll give you a chance to kill Russians.”

  • • •

  Nizar couldn’t care less about politics or revenge; to him this was just a job. He had joined the Syrian Army to appease his father and found success in the ranks. He was recruited by the Interior Ministry thanks to his intellect and physical stamina, and had been trained as a sniper.

  As the political uprisings in his country escalated into all-out civil war, Nizar played a key role in suppressing the insurgents by actively targeting their leadership. He preferred head shots, as they had a devastating effect on the enemy’s morale; there’s nothing quite like having your commander’s brains splattered on your face to suppress your will to fight. He felt neither joy nor sadness in taking the lives of his targets, only the satisfaction of a successful hit.

  As established media outlets fled the war-torn nation, freelance journalists from the “new media” tried to document the fighting using their own video cameras and smartphones. They became his targets of choice. He racked up an impressive record of one-shot kills at increasingly greater ranges. Syrian arms and training were relatively crude compared to first-world armies, but what he lacked in technical training and equipment he made up for in real-world experience and predatory instinct.

  Nizar’s skills caught the attention of General Yedid as he built his network of mercenaries to operate outside Syria. With the money that he would receive from this off-the-books job, Nizar could walk away from Syria before his luck ran out and make his way into Europe, where opportunity awaited.

  That Nizar and Tasho had fought on opposite sides of the Syrian Civil War didn’t seem to bother either of them. They were snipers and they had a job to do.

  • • •

  Nizar had painted the steel target with orange spray paint and driven back to the farmhouse in the small pickup truck. These trips were getting longer as he moved the heavy steel plate increasingly farther across the open field. They had begun at five hundred meters, which Nizar had protested was too easy a shot, and had steadily increased the range as they’d learned to release their rounds simultaneously. He climbed onto the flat roof of the house and found Tasho lying prone, already staring through his scope toward the target.

  “Did you have me in your sights?”

  The other man grinned in a rare signal of emotion. “Never miss an opportunity to train, Nizar,” the elder sniper offered. “I read that on social media in a post from one of the infidel military social media influencers.”

  Nizar looked quizzically at the legendary sniper with whom he now trained. Though they were both part of General Yedid’s network, Tasho was the lead. What he didn’t know was that General Yedid had entrusted Nizar with a follow-on mission known only to the two of them.

  “Never mind, Nizar. On my mark, at two thousand.”

  Nizar climbed behind his own rifle, identical to Tasho’s, and moved the towel that he’d used to cover his ammunition. At first, they’d blown primers as they fired, which was an indication of excessive chamber pressure. They’d discovered that keeping the loaded rounds in the sunlight during the heat of the day was getting the cartridges too hot and raising the pressure. Tasho was no fun to be around but he was a competent professional and had passed along the towel trick, which had eliminated the problem.

  Nizar found the tiny target in the scope as Tasho entered the range and environmental data into his handheld computer. The software accounted for everything from bullet drop to temperature, barometric pressure, wind, Coriolis effect, and even the spindrift caused by the barrel’s right-hand rifling. The rifles were zeroed precisely at one thousand meters, which was only halfway to their current target.

  “Come up thirteen MILS.”

  “Thirteen MILS up,” Nizar repeated as he made the elevation correction using the dial on top of the optic.

  “Hold three MILS right.”

  “Three MILS right.” Nizar placed the appropriate hash mark on the scope’s reticle at the target’s center to account for the wind call.

  “Ready.”

  “Ready.” Nizar began to exhale.

  “On my count: three . . . two . . . one.”

  Both rifles spoke in unison, sending a combined seven hundred grains of copper across the plowed field. Even with the long tubular sound suppressors attached, the rifles’ reports were still quite loud. It took the bullets nearly three seconds to reach the target and an additional six seconds for the sound of their impact to echo back to the shooters’ position. Two hits. A few more days’ training and they would be ready.

  CHAPTER 60

  Yazidi Strike Force Compound

  Kurdistan

  September

  LANDRY’S NERVES WERE COMPLETELY shot. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the exhaustion or the cold. The hunger was bad, but it didn’t compare to the lack of sleep and constant state of near hypothermia. He hadn’t eaten in days, and his metallic breath indicated that his body was in a state of ketosis, burning his fat stores to stay alive. As his body transitioned to fat as a fuel source, a blinding headache was added to his list of agonies.

  Keeping track of time had become impossible, but Landry estimated that it had been close to a week since his captivity began. He knew that the bitter cold and the sleep deprivation were part of a well-scripted interrogation regimen. He also knew that it was working; he simply didn’t have much will to resist at this point. Whatever it is they wanted to know, they would soon find out. Besides, he was in this for the money, not some ideology. His best plan would be to cut some kind of deal. At least they’d traded his wrist and ankle restraints for hand and leg cuffs that provided some level of circulation to his extremities; he’d been afraid that he would lose his hands and feet due to the lack of blood flow.

  The door opened and Landry heard the familiar sound of boots on the wet floor. They’d entered the room more than once a day to give him water and, as best he could tell, he was due again. The water was the only thing that he had to look forward to in this hellish cycle of cold and heat, and his dry lips pursed to accept his drink. To his surprise, instead of the liquid refreshment he’d been craving, he was jerked aloft by strong hands on both sides and found himself seated on the cold steel of a chair that had been carried into the room. Each leg was secured to the chair with restraints and the same was done with his hands. That he didn�
�t hear the multiple sets of boots enter the room was yet another sign that he was losing his grip on reality.

  The door slammed but Landry could tell that he was not alone. He could smell the food, some type of fresh meat with onions coupled with nicotine clinging to his captor’s clothing. The smell caused him to salivate. He sat in silence for what seemed like minutes before the tape that had covered his eyes since his capture was torn from his face. His skin was as soft as tissue paper from the constant cold water soaking and he was sure that he’d lost some skin as well as his eyebrows when the tape was removed. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. The room’s bright lights were blinding to his senses and he squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head to avoid the shocking LEDs that ringed the room like crown molding.

  “Look at me,” he heard the man say. He knew the voice instantly.

  Landry blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the floor, his naked body brutally exposed by the room’s illumination. Slowly, he turned his squinting gaze upward and took in the slim figure of Major Mohammed Farooq, formerly of the Iraqi Interior Ministry’s Special Tactics Unit. Farooq was dressed in winter clothes, toasty warm in a room that felt like a walk-in freezer. Landry had worked for years to trick Mo into working for his employer under the ruse of helping the American government, and now the shoe was on the other foot; Mo had Jules Landry by the balls. Landry had seen the calm, sophisticated Iraqi officer display serious brutality toward his enemies and knew that he would show no quarter. Now was the time to make a deal and preserve what was left of his physical self before Mo decided to cross the line from “enhanced interrogation” to downright torture.

  “Tell me about the girl that you raped, Jules.”

  “What? What girl? I didn’t rape any girl!” Why does he want to know about some stupid girl?