by Carr, Jack
What allied intelligence services did not know was that the human and signals intelligence provided by the United States would be intentionally misleading and that the biometric data—facial recognition, fingerprint and voice recognition—did not match Farooq’s.
Within hours, Mo was the most wanted man in the world. He had instant “cover for status” with any Islamic terrorist organization on the globe.
CHAPTER 71
Odessa, Ukraine
October
ONE OF ANDRENOV’S SECURITY detail could certainly have completed the task, but Grey insisted upon doing it himself. He’d been kept mostly behind a desk for his entire career and would suffer that fate no longer; he would be out in the field where the action was. He would prove himself to his Russian master.
Andrenov’s contact had arranged the safe house, which was a simple but clean apartment on Hretska Street. Its location put him near the Philharmonic Society and the Museum of Art in addition to numerous bars and restaurants. Nearly everyone here spoke Russian, in addition to the national language, which gave him ample opportunity to improve his latent skills.
It didn’t take much cash to get him access to the docks, euros being the local preference. Andrenov had provided him with enough currency to bribe half of Ukraine, which made the tiny favor of parking a certain ship at a specific berth quite simple. He was shown where the ship would be tied, and he walked down to the exact site to inspect it himself.
It took a few minutes for the GPS unit to locate a sufficient number of satellites to obtain the accuracy that this mission required. This was not a consumer handheld GPS, but a large dual-frequency OmniSTAR-capable commercial unit designed for mapping and surveying. While a consumer GPS was accurate to within a few meters, this system provided both horizontal and elevation information within five to ten centimeters. So long as the ship was moored as directed and the container placed in the proper position, the assassins would be within range of their target.
That evening Grey carefully recorded the distance and elevation information onto a spreadsheet and printed it along with digital photographs that he’d taken from various vantage points at both the firing and target positions. Everything was checked and triple-checked before he sealed the documents into a DHL Express envelope. He was not going to let this operation be compromised by electronic communications. The information would be in Turkey in two days, and his contact there would deliver it personally to the farmhouse. Grey was about to change the world.
CHAPTER 72
Washington, D.C.
October
ALL REECE AND FREDDY could do now was wait—wait for the CIA analysts to build a target package on General Qusim Yedid and wait for Rodriguez to get approvals to detain him.
Freddy rented a car and made the eight-hour drive to Beaufort, South Carolina, to spend a day with his family. It was Sam’s birthday and he had missed too many of them already.
Reece had turned on the TV as he got ready for a workout when he heard a familiar voice. Turning his attention to the screen, he saw Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Katie Buranek on Fox News Sunday talking about unwarranted surveillance. She is right down the street!
After his last disastrous attempt, he’d decided that now was not the time to surprise her with the news that he was alive over the phone. But, knowing she was just a few miles down the road at Fox’s D.C. bureau, he was having second thoughts. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and stared at the display.
Should I try this again?
What do I even say? Hi, Katie, it’s Reece. I’m not dead and I knew that detonator wasn’t going to blow your head off last time I saw you. Want to meet up for dinner?
Shit!
He tossed the phone on the bed, trying to focus on what she was saying in the interview.
Should I surprise her at the station? He could be there in minutes.
Reece looked at his RESCO watch.
Yes, that’s it. In person would be way better than a phone call.
He quickly changed back into his best clothes and headed for the lobby.
• • •
Reece had his taxi drop him off at a Starbucks catty-corner to the Fox News D.C. bureau, located just north of the Capitol and surrounded by America’s traditional institutions of power. Reece had always liked D.C., even though he wasn’t a city guy by any means. D.C. was different. There was an energy in the air. There was a sense that no matter how bad things were, this was still the United States. This constitutional republic had weathered storms that would have destroyed most nations, and had prevailed. As Reece ordered a Venti Blonde Roast and asked that the barista leave room for honey and cream, he couldn’t help but think that not long ago, all these instruments of federal power had been focused on finding and killing him.
He exited onto E Street NW and found his way to North Capitol NW. Reece strolled toward the parking lot across the street from the cable news giant, pretending to look at his phone while he observed the front of the building.
Fox News Sunday should be finishing up any minute. Wonder how long she stays after taping?
What are you doing, Reece? You are going to scare the living daylights out of her if you surprise her. What if she doesn’t want to see you? What if she leaves by a different door? Is this going to creep her out?
You are overthinking this, Reece.
His thoughts were broken by the sight of Katie’s blonde ponytail swinging behind her as she exited the building and walked toward the parking lot where Reece waited. There was no mistaking her, even at two hundred yards.
As he stepped toward her, he felt his phone vibrate. Not many people had this number, so he resisted the urge not to answer it. A number with the local 703 area code was displayed on the LCD screen and he swiped the icon to answer the call.
“Yeah.”
“Reece, it’s Vic. Where are you now?”
“Uh, I’m in D.C. Getting a cup of coffee.”
“The hotel coffee not good enough?”
“Well, they didn’t have honey,” Reece said, frozen in his tracks, watching Katie take a left on Capitol and walk north away from the parking lot.
“Okay, well, I need you on a plane ASAP. We have actionable intel, we have approvals, and we are moving resources to respond. Can you be at Dulles in thirty minutes?”
“I’ll be there,” Reece said without hesitation.
“Better yet, I’ll have an Agency car pick you up at the hotel. Get back there, grab your stuff, and meet the car out front.”
Reece ended the call. Shit. He took one last look at Katie as she walked away before jogging toward the street to flag down a ride.
CHAPTER 73
Virginia Beach, Virginia
October
THE PAGERS HAD GONE off at 11:42 a.m. on Sunday, catching what appeared to be ordinary families in the middle of the most mundane of Sunday morning tasks: church services, mowing the lawn, playing with kids. Many of those without wives and children, and a few with, were nursing hangovers from a late night out in a series of Virginia Beach bars. To the untrained eye this group could be mistaken for a rugby team. Upon closer examination, a few dead giveaways betrayed them as anything but normal, least of which were the odd-looking cigarette-pack-sized pagers that were never more than an arm’s length away. Though most people had turned in their pagers for mobile phones in the mid-1990s, a few elite special operations units still used them as a secure way to connect via satellite with a very select group of lethal men, always on standby for an emergency just such as this.
Forty-five minutes later they had assembled in the team room of the most exclusive club on earth. There would be no more contact with families, friends, or loved ones; the sole focus was now the mission. The families whose lives had once again been interrupted by the now-familiar buzz of the Iridium pagers were acutely aware that this might be the last time they saw their husbands and fathers off to work. They shared them with a larger and oftentimes more demanding family, that of t
he Naval Special Warfare Development Group.
“Team leaders, do we have everyone?” called out Master Chief Pete Millman in a commanding tone to silence the small talk.
“One’s up.”
“Two’s up.”
“Three’s up.”
“Four’s up.”
“Roger. Okay, guys,” Pete continued, looking around the huge table, flanked on either side by individual desks adorned with computers connected to a net even more secretive and secure than the SIPR computers usually found in military briefing rooms.
Pete was all business and he suppressed an urge to smile looking out at the assaulters and Team leaders XXX XXX XXXXX XXXXXXXX. This was likely to be one of his last times briefing the guys as their troop chief. He’d been around for a long time, graduating the XXX XXX XXXXXXX in the first post-9/11 class, and he’d been deploying ever since. His body had taken more abuse than an NFL lineman over the years, and though he hated the thought, he had a GS position in the operations shop that would start up next year. His first marriage had ended in disaster, before kids had entered the picture. His second marriage was to the Command, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to separate from her even after twenty-three years in the Navy.
“Quick turnaround on this one, gentlemen. The NSC just green-lighted the XXX package to capture a Syrian general . . . one Qusim Yedid, on a yacht in the Med between Libya and Malta. He’s not someone on our HVI or war-criminal top ten, but he just moved up to the number one spot. The Agency has him pegged as a key player in a plan that’s already in motion and a direct threat to the United States. This is time sensitive and has visibility at the highest levels. Yeah, Smitty,” Pete said, acknowledging his newest Team Leader.
“Direct threat? As in we need to exploit him for additional information?”
“That’s right. This is a capture/kill mission, not a kill/capture. It was stressed to me in no uncertain terms that we need to take Yedid alive. The intel folks are putting the final touches on the target package, which will include a list of questions to which we need specific answers. Everyone will have a photo of the target and the list of questions.”
“How rough can we get with this guy, Master Chief?”
“Don’t get excited, Smitty, we are also jumping in an interrogator from Langley, Dr. Rob Belanger, who will take care of that part. He’s flying down from D.C. now. If something happens to him, then we take over. BIT guys,” Pete said, using the acronym for Battlefield Interrogation Team, “you’ll have it from there. Just be aware that this is not some hovel in Afghanistan. This will have a lot more eyeballs on it, so act accordingly.”
“I think it’s called TQ now.” Smitty smiled. “That’s tactical questioning, for you older guys.”
“Ah, yes. I keep forgetting. Much more PC.”
“What’s the general’s background?” asked a SEAL who looked more like an endurance athlete than one of America’s top frogmen.
“Interesting cat,” Pete continued. “He was a general in Assad’s regime. Earned his stripes carrying out chemical weapon attacks against the populace not supportive of Assad’s policies. Somewhere along the line he was connected to Al-Furat, Syria’s main oil producer. At least it looks like that’s where his money comes from. He’s listed as one of their security consultants, but that’s just to muddy the waters. The CIA has him as essentially a broker of talent.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Smitty asked.
“Well, Syrian forces have received training from Russian advisors, and they’ve gotten a lot of experience exercising that training in putting down rebellions. Remember, Syria is one of the only countries to escape the Arab Spring.”
“Yeah, and look how well that worked out for everyone.”
“As far as we’ve been able to tell, he has a line on military talent and parlays it out to governments, rogue regimes, terrorist organizations, as long as their interests are in line with those of Syria, and, you guessed it, Mother Russia. Need an explosives expert, a sniper, an assault team, a chemical weapons specialist? General Yedid will set you up.”
“I thought Russia had a moderate in power right now.”
“They do, Smitty, but some of the policies from the old president are still in place, as are leaders of powerful institutions, both private and the government agency type, that don’t agree with their current president’s more progressive stance.”
“Like the FSB and SVR?”
“Exactly like that. Russia’s reincarnation of the KGB and GRU.”
“What’s security on the yacht look like, Pete?” another Team leader asked.
“It’s a 135-foot superyacht called the Shore Thing. I know, I know, it’s an awful name. It looks like a damn spaceship and rents for $175,000 a week. Specs are for eight crew and ten guests. CIA estimates there are four to six Syrian bodyguards on board with the general and probably a couple of guests. Apparently the general doesn’t like to party alone. CIA doesn’t have eyes on board, so this is all a best guess. He’s rented it before. Sometimes he brings friends. It’s the usual fare: girls, vodka, and your drug of choice. Agency managed to get a prostitute in the mix last year, which is why they have a good idea of his PSD and profile.”
“Are the hookers included in that $175,000?” Smitty asked. “Seems a bit high.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “I think they’re extra. Let’s finish this up and get to the bird. It’s waiting on us at Oceana. So, let’s review: bad-guy general contracts out Syrian military specialists to those willing to pay and those that advance Assad’s agenda. We need information about one of those specialists. In this case, we need information on a sniper.”
• • •
Fifty-two minutes later they were wheels-up over Virginia in two C-17s on standby for just such a contingency. It had been ninety-seven minutes since the first pagers started beeping.
CHAPTER 74
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
October
SMITTY WATCHED HIS TROOP chief huddled in conference with their squadron commander. The squadron commander was new to XXX but he seemed like a good-enough guy. Smitty could tell that his troop chief was mentoring the cake-eater into his new role. Officers just rented lockers at this command; enlisted assaulters ran the show.
As leader of one of the four assault teams split between two aircraft and four boats that would jump in to take control of the motor vessel Shore Thing to capture/kill Syrian general Qusim Yedid, Smitty took a breath and thought through the contingencies for the next phases of the operation. He had done more than a few ship-boarding operations in the Northern Arabian Gulf to enforce the UN embargo on Iraq just prior to the U.S. invasion in 2003, but this was the first time he would do it as part of his current command. What if a boat burned in? Aside from being a multimillion-dollar loss, it would not be the end of the mission. They could lose two boats and still accomplish their task. What if, God forbid, an operator burned in? Two boats would stay to recover the body with minimal assaulters while the other two moved to the target vessel. They would still get it done. They would owe that to their fallen brother. His troops carried an assortment of HK 416s and MP7s. The breachers had torches and saws but those heavier tools would stay on the assault craft; intel suggested that Benelli shotguns set up to breach should be able to get them through any doors on the expensive yacht.
XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX X XXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXX XX XXXX XX XX XXXXXX XXXX XX XXX XXXX X XXXXXXXX.
XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX X XXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX.
Underway Maritime Interd
iction Operations were a prime mission set for this elite unit. If there was an opposed boarding that needed to be done to protect the national security of the United States, Naval Special Warfare Development Group got the call. The warriors in its esteemed ranks were the most highly trained in the U.S. arsenal, and though most of their missions since the towers fell had been against land-based targets, they kept their ship-boarding skills sharp.
• • •
It had been years since Dr. Rob Belanger had fired a weapon and he didn’t have so much as a handgun on him tonight. He didn’t know much about boats, nor had he ever jumped out of a plane, certainly not at night into the ocean. Tipping the scales at 140 pounds with a thick mane of graying unkempt hair and a smile that kept those around him wondering what he was thinking, he had established himself as one of the CIA’s best interrogators. The U.S. Air Force had paid for his medical school along with follow-on training in neuroscience. Rob had started working his way up the military medical corps chain when the world changed forever on a sunny Tuesday morning.
With the country’s appetite for retribution at a peak after the brazen attack on the homeland, administration lawyers issued a classified memo giving the CIA authority to research, test, and evaluate interrogation techniques that went beyond those labeled “enhanced.” Those techniques would be the subject of scrutiny in Op-Eds, debated on panels, and argued on the political and legal fronts for years to come. At the recommendation of the head of neurosurgery for the Air Force, Rob found himself detailed to a covert CIA research facility buried four stories underground in the arid mountains outside Monterrey, Mexico. While pundits, politicians, activists, and talking heads were focused on sleep deprivation and stress positions of detainees held at the detention facility in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, Rob and his team of doctors were experimenting, studying, refining, and documenting the most effective and efficient ways to extract information from the most senior and hardened al-Qaeda prisoners.