by Isaac Hooke
Nearby, Suleman was reading the Quran softly while the emir listened. Abdullah made eye contact with Ethan and waved him over.
"Yes, emir?" Ethan said.
"Sit with us."
Ethan complied.
Abdullah nodded at Suleman to continue. He read a passage related to jihad. "Kill the infidels wherever you find them. Capture them. Besiege them. Waylay them in ambush."
That was the commonly quoted "sword verse" from the Quran used to justify violence against the infidel.
"But if they should repent," Ethan said, completing the verse. "Let them go on their way. Allah is forgiving, and merciful."
"Oh, but the West will not repent," Abdullah said. "It will not." Abdullah tapped his chin. "Life is one great jihad. We must all fight. We are all at war, if not with the kaffir, then ourselves."
Ethan nodded slowly. "I can agree with that."
Abdullah studied him. "You are not like the others. You don't have the same fire in your eyes. The same zeal."
Ethan remained silent. Was it so obvious what he was?
"I can see the conflict in you, Abu-Emad," Abdullah continued. "You are fighting a great battle with yourself. You want to be here, and yet you do not. You want to take up jihad, and yet you do not. But I tell you, be at peace with yourself, because you have done the right thing. It is your duty to defend Muslims wherever and whenever the kaffir assault them. Just as it is your duty to help establish the Caliphate. Someday, inshallah, you will come to understand that you have made the right choice."
"Thank you," Ethan said.
"But one thing I must warn you of." Abdullah's voice became stern. "If you ever let any of us down, or betray us in any way, I will kill you myself. Do you hear me, Abu-Emad?"
Beside him, Suleman's eyes burned with their fanatical fire, as if he yearned to see Ethan die by Abdullah's hand.
Ethan ignored that gaze and, mustering as much conviction into his voice as he could, he said, "I will not let you down, emir."
"Allah yusallmak," Abdullah dismissed him.
Covered in sweat, Ethan lay on top of his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, but repose did not come for many hours, even after lights out. The heat troubled him. As did Abdullah's words.
If you ever let any of us down, I will kill you myself.
He thought of Suleman's fierce gaze, and he knew that Abdullah wouldn't be the only one who'd want to kill Ethan should his identity ever become compromised.
Even so, he resolved that tomorrow he would become fully operational.
14
The next morning during breakfast Ethan excused himself, claiming he had to use the washroom. He abandoned the militants and rushed upstairs, but instead of heading to the toilet he made a beeline to room three-ten.
Ethan proceeded to rummage through the various belongings and backpacks of the company members. Whenever he found a passport, he set it down and snapped a picture of the photo page. Though the identities were of limited value, he wanted to start gathering at least some intel, and that was a good start.
Sometimes he found a militant's smartphone tucked away. On the Android models, all he had to do was pop the case and look behind the batteries to expose the serial number. He'd take a snapshot and then quickly replace the battery, closing up the phone. For the iPhone 4 model he found, he used one of his lockpicks to eject the SIM and then photographed the serial number engraved on the tray.
Those numbers would prove useful to any JSOC or DIA embeds in the country, who likely had Stingrays with them—devices that imitated the signature of cellphone repeaters. Basically laptops with GSM cards, the devices could trick phones into connecting and sending their serial number and geolocation. When actual network coverage was available, the Stingray could perform a man-in-the-middle attack, allowing the device to listen in on calls, texts and Internet packets while forwarding the data on to the real tower. Of course, with the encryption technology employed by jihadis today, most of that data was worthless, especially when Voice Over IP was used to send the encoded calls and texts. Even so, the geolocation data still allowed for tracking, as long as the serial number of the target was known.
Again, not super valuable intelligence, but a good beginning.
Ethan had just put away one of the phones and was about to replace the passport of the Tunisian who called himself Baghdadi when a voice arose from behind him.
"What are you doing, Abu-Emad?"
Ethan froze. He slowly returned the passport to the backpack, then retrieved his own cellphone from where he'd set it on the ground. He surreptitiously stuffed the device into his robe and turned around.
Thirteen-year-old Harb stood at the doorway, AK slung over one shoulder.
"Salaam, Abu-Harb," Ethan said.
"Why are you rummaging through Abu-Baghdadi's belongings?"
Ethan smiled sheepishly. "I saw him reading the Quran last night. I've misplaced my own, and I didn't think he'd mind if I checked a passage."
Harb frowned. "You don't have it on your phone?"
Ethan shook his head. "The search feature is broken."
The thirteen-year-old beckoned Ethan toward his spot in the room.
"You finished breakfast early?" Ethan said, trying to sound casual. "Or did Abdullah send you up to spy on me?"
"Neither. I forgot my phone and wanted to take a group picture." Harb retrieved his cell. "What passage do you want?"
Ethan told him and Harb opened his Quran app to the designated passage, the same one Abdullah and Suleman had been studying the night before.
Harb read the first line aloud. "Kill the infidels wherever you find them." He was quiet a moment, and his eyes seemed distant. "A righteous passage. I only hope that when my time comes, I will face my death as bravely as those who have gone before me."
"But this passage has nothing to do with martyrdom," Ethan declared.
Harb regarded him curiously "Doesn't it? When killing infidels, isn't it inevitable that some of us must die at their hands?"
Though he was only thirteen, sometimes the boy seemed far older.
Ethan pretended to read the whole passage, then returned to the cafeteria with Harb. When the unit was finished breakfast, Abdullah intercepted him on the way to the parking lot. He was carrying a Soviet-made Dragunov SVD sniper rifle in one hand.
"Look what arrived for you this morning." Abdullah tossed him the Dragunov.
Two-piece wooden handguard and skeletonized wooden thumbhole stock. Detachable cheek rest. Semi free-floating, spring-loaded, chrome-lined barrel. 4x magnification PSO-1 scope. Ten-round curved box magazine containing double-stacked 7.62x54mmR rimmed cartridges, each loaded with a 9.8g projectile tipped by a sharp steel penetrator.
Ethan would have preferred something like an M24 or TAC-338, but he'd take what he could get. It was a step up, anyway.
"May Allah guide your aim," the emir said, taking Ethan's AKM in exchange.
CHECKPOINT DUTY PASSED SWIFTLY that morning, and near noon Abdullah gathered the unit. "Who wants to buy lunch?"
Raheel and Ibrahim immediately volunteered.
"Let Abu-Emad go," Zarar said, grinning mischievously. "And do not give him money. The new recruit should pay for everyone as a gesture of goodwill and camaraderie. It is only right." The big Afghan playfully patted Ethan on the back. "Go on then."
"I have no money," Ethan claimed. "I haven't been paid, yet."
Zarar turned toward the others. "He has no money. What do you think of that?"
"I say we send him back to Saudi Arabia," Fida'a joked. "He comes from an oil-rich country like that, and he has no money? Who does he think he is?"
"We don't need money," Suleman said, entirely serious. "This is our town. We take what we please."
"Now now," Abdullah came over, handing Ethan some Syrian pounds. "We are good Muslims. We pay for what we take. Ibrahim, go with him."
Ethan and Ibrahim made their way down the street, searching for a bakery. Since the location of the checkpoints cha
nged daily, Ethan had to pull out his smartphone and activate the offline map app to orient himself. He searched the nearby points of interest, and realized the nearest bakery was the same one Kaleem had taken him to yesterday. That afforded him an opportunity...
"I'll meet you there," Ethan told Ibrahim, who had his own mapping app running. "I have to use the washroom." He passed the money to the teen.
"Wait, where's the bakery?"
Ethan pointed it out on the map.
"What if it's not open?" Ibrahim said.
"Then we'll find another one," Ethan said over his shoulder as he detoured down a side street.
In a few minutes he reached the lingerie shop he had visited with Kaleem the day before. He doubled-back, taking a quick surveillance detection route, and when he was certain neither Ibrahim nor anyone else had followed, he entered the shop.
The owner was the only one present that morning; he regarded Ethan uncertainly, his left eye seeming even lazier than usual, the lid barely open.
"Salaam," the man said cautiously. His dyed hair gleamed in the shop light.
"What is your name?"
"Mufid."
"Where is your son today?"
Mufid dropped his gaze. "He is not my son."
"The youth I saw hiding behind the counter? Don't lie to me. He has your features."
The shopkeeper swallowed. "He's only fifteen."
"He is a rebel," Ethan stated.
Mufid shook his head emphatically. "No he's not. He just writes a blog. That's all. He's not harming anyone."
"Blog?"
Mufid realized he had made a mistake. "I meant something else."
"What is the web address of this blog?"
"Please, I beg you," the shopkeeper fell to his knees theatrically and clasped his hands. "Please. Please. Take me, not my son."
Ethan sighed. "I'm not here to take you or your son."
The shopkeeper seemed uncertain. "You're not?"
"No." He helped Mufid to his feet.
"Thank you!" the shopkeeper gave him a hug.
"But there is something else you can do for me," Ethan said.
Mufid released him warily. "There is always a price."
"There is. I want you and your son to be my eyes and ears in this city."
The shopkeeper's expression became puzzled. "What is it you want us to do?"
"For starters, tag any municipal buildings with obvious ties to the Caliphate. I'm looking for government compounds, courthouses, repurposed schools, and the like. Be subtle while you're about it. Don't take pictures unless you're certain no one is watching you. Use wikimapia to look up the GPS coordinates. I'll come by in a week or so and retrieve the data. If you can put it on a memory stick, that would be perfect. Do you have something I can write on?"
Mufid seemed dazed, but he retrieved a pad from behind the desk. Ethan wrote down the username and password to one of his gmail aliases.
"We will use the draft folder of this account to communicate," Ethan said. "The messages must be encrypted. Do you have The Mujahid's Security?"
"No, but my son uses this."
"Good. He can teach you how it works. We'll exchange public keys in the draft folder eventually. Be aware of keyboard loggers when using the Internet cafes. Some of the computers might have screen recorders installed, too. Even The Mujahid's Security can't protect against those, which is why I don't want you sending me anything, not even your public key, until I hook you up with some anti-malware. Until then, if you must get in touch with me, use very vague generalizations."
Mufid stared at Ethan, not saying anything for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded incredulous: "You are a mujahid of the Caliphate. Surely you can acquire this knowledge on your own? Why do you need me and my son?"
Ethan shook his head. "I'm just a grunt to them. You and your son are in a far better position. You can talk to the residents, ferret out those who have seen Caliphate activity. I can't. If I ask questions, I draw attention to myself."
"Me and my son will draw attention to ourselves, too, if we're not careful," Mufid said. "The streets are full of locals paid to inform for the Islamic State."
"Then be careful."
Mufid crossed his arms. "What are you? MOIS? Al Mukhabarat Al A'amah?" The former was the Iranian intelligence agency, the latter Saudi Arabian.
"Let's just say I'm an interested party. And I will pay you for your help. Very, very well. In Euros, American Dollars, whatever currency you prefer."
"How much?"
"The equivalent of fifty thousand US dollars."
Mufid's eyes lit up, but he quickly hid his avarice and shook his head. "That is too low for what you ask. There is much risk involved. Now, five hundred thousand—"
"Fifty thousand," Ethan interrupted. "Take it or leave it."
"I could shut down my shop and leave town," Mufid said, the defiance thick in his tone. "You would never find me or my son again."
"You could, but you won't. You're not impressed with this so-called Caliphate. You want to see the jihadis pushed from Raqqa. As does your son. Which is why he publishes that blog you mentioned." And you want the money.
The shopkeeper seemed on the verge of some sharp retort but then he sighed instead. "All right. I will do this. For my son."
"Thank you."
Mufid's face hardened. "But when do I get the money?"
"When you deliver the data."
ETHAN HURRIED TO THE BAKERY, which had a long queue of people as usual. He found Ibrahim in line near the middle.
"You don't have to wait like some commoner," Ethan scolded him. "Go to the front."
"But it doesn't feel right."
Ethan was fine with waiting, but he suspected Abdullah wouldn't share his sentiments, so he said, "Do it or we'll be here all day." Best to stay on the emir's good side.
Ibrahim obeyed, and while he went inside, Ethan lingered by the entrance.
He noticed a commotion across the street; a motorcade containing two Hyundai Tucsons and a Toyota Hilux stopped in front of an apartment building. AK-47s in hand, militants piled out of each vehicle, forming a defensive perimeter. Three of the mujahadeen went to the main door of the apartment and pressed a buzzer.
Ethan surreptitiously removed his phone from his cargo pocket and pointed the camera at the motorcade. He doubled-checked that the smartphone's sound was turned off and took some shots.
A moment later a Chinese man emerged from the lobby with two bodyguards, and the waiting militants enveloped them. He wore a white T-shirt and black slacks, with a blazer overtop. No headdress.
Ethan snapped a few more quick photos, keeping the phone close to his chest as the militants escorted the Chinese national to the closest SUV. A jihadi happened to look his way the moment Ethan lowered the phone, and the man waved. Ethan returned the gesture calmly, donning his best fake smile, and pocketed the phone at the same time.
Ibrahim joined him shortly afterward, carrying a pile of flatbread.
Ethan's heart was still racing in his chest as he grabbed half the bread and began the trip back to the checkpoint. If that jihadi from the motorcade had stopped him and made him reveal the contents of his phone, Ethan would have found himself in a slight bit of trouble.
There was nothing quite like intelligence gathering in the heart of enemy territory.
He loved his job.
15
Ethan sat before an old Dell system in the computer room of the barracks. The place felt ovenlike, the fans of the computers pumping hot air into the cramped environment. Every last terminal was occupied by foreign fighters eager to use the building's lone satellite Internet. The hum of the fans was punctuated by the tap of keyboards and the occasional hushed voice attempting to speak over VOIP. Young men stood in a queue outside the door, waiting their turn.
The militant immediately to his left was involved in a Skype call. Ethan heard a garbled, robotic voice come from the man's headset—audio artifacts induced by the high-lat
ency, shared connection. Ethan wondered how anyone could communicate like that. Indeed, for the most part, the fighter typed rather than spoke.
Ethan had plugged in his special USB stick, and was waiting for the anti-malware software to complete its cleanse. After several minutes the software reported that it had temporarily quarantined thirty-four threats, including a key logger, a screen tracker, and a sound recorder.
He ran the customized versions of notepad and Google chrome installed on the USB, then browsed to wikimapia and recorded the exact latitude and longitude of all the Islamic State buildings he could remember, and those he had marked on his phone. Also, using the pictures he had taken earlier, he typed up the serial numbers of the phones he'd compromised.
He logged into a shared gmail account he used to communicate with Sam and checked the draft folder. There were no messages. He loaded up The Mujahid's Security from the stick and encrypted all the text in the notepad instance. Creating a new draft message in gmail, he pasted the encrypted text.
He connected his phone to the computer via another USB port and uploaded the best photo he'd taken of the Chinese national. He encrypted it and attached it to the message, then saved the draft and logged out of gmail.
Next he installed the Regin malware. It would spread to all the other machines on the network, allowing the Agency to spy on everything the militants did in that room, and maybe elsewhere. He didn't have to worry about the DIA monitoring his own computer access when he came, because the anti-malware software he always ran at beginning of his sessions removed any local Regin instances. Not that it mattered if they monitored him—he had nothing to hide. Currently.
He restored the previously quarantined executables, returning the system to its earlier state, then wiped all the pictures from his phone and left.