by Isaac Hooke
Ahmed fled through the rear exit of the safehouse and sent a message on his burner smartphone using the encryption app The Mujahid's Security:
Prhaang has been compromised.
Prhaang was the name of his cell. It meant tiger, in Pashto.
The contact responded some hours later. After decryption, the message read: I will alert Al Sifr.
A few hours later he received another message. Go to Bucharest. Tell no one where you are.
He obeyed. When he arrived, he checked into the Capitol Hotel and received another message.
Al-Shab Saqr is coming. What is your location?
Ahmed sent the location. He was relieved, yet apprehensive at the same time. He had fought with Al-Shab Saqr in Afghanistan, first against the Soviets, and later the Americans. He considered him his friend. If anyone could help Ahmed flee the country, it was he.
And yet it was well known that Al-Shab Saqr was one of Al Sifr's greatest assassins. The name meant "Young Falcon" and it suited him all too well. Like the bird of prey, he struck at his enemies when they least expected it, with a dagger in the back or a bullet to the head.
Be in your room at eight o'clock tonight, the return message came.
Eight o'clock had come and gone. Then nine o'clock. It was currently nine thirty.
Ahmed poured himself a vodka from the samplers the hotel supplied in the fridge. He was a strict Muslim, for the most part, except when it came to alcohol. He was probably going to hell anyway for all the people he had killed, so it didn't really matter if he indulged in a little drink now and again.
He had only taken one sip when a knock came at the door. He jumped, spilling half the vodka over his hand.
"A moment!" he shouted. He hurried to the sink and dumped out the vodka, then meticulously scrubbed his hands under the tap and rinsed out his mouth, hoping all traces of the scent were gone.
He hastened to the door and gazed into the peephole.
He recognized the Iranian. Despite his nom de guerre, he was not so young, though he dressed like it. He wore black dress pants and a blazer over a pink plaid shirt that hid his wide shoulders. His beard was cropped short, as was his hair, the latter spiked into a fashionable faux hawk. Both beard and hair were dyed jet black. Aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. He would have fit right in on the streets of any European city.
"Young Falcon, my good friend," Ahmed said, opening the door. He stepped outside and hugged the visitor. "It is good to see you!" He couldn't conceal the tremor in his voice.
"And you as well," Young Falcon said emotionlessly. "May I come in?"
"Of course," Ahmed said, but Young Falcon had already stepped inside.
Ahmed shut the door behind him. "Would you like some water? Juice?"
Young Falcon shook his head. "I am fasting."
"But the sun has set," Ahmed said.
Young Falcon sat on the bed and removed his sunglasses. He stared at Ahmed with steely gray eyes. "I am fasting." He beckoned to the chair at the foot of the bed. "Have a seat."
Ahmed hesitantly lowered himself into the seat.
"What happened in Râmnicu Vâlcea?" Young Falcon said.
"I was making a diamond drop when Iqbal, my partner in Râmnicu Vâlcea, sent me a message. He said he was leaving the apartment to terminate a compromised asset. He sent me another message a short while later, while driving. He said he was being chased."
Ahmed explained how he had hurried back to the city, hid in the safehouse, and eventually fled when the undercover police arrived.
"Does anyone else know you are here in Bucharest?"
"No," Ahmed said. "I haven't contacted relatives, friends, anyone. As instructed."
"Good." Young Falcon removed a concealed pistol from his jacket.
Ahmed smiled faintly. So this is how it ends.
He turned away, hoping Young Falcon wouldn't be able to shoot him in the back.
"Do you remember that day," Ahmed said. "When I saved your life?"
"How could I forget?" Young Falcon replied.
"The Soviet ground forces spotted us. We retreated into the trees. You were hit. I scooped you up over one shoulder and ran without looking back. More bullets came in. I was struck in the shoulder but didn't stop. I kept running. Resistance fighters deeper in the forest lay down suppressive fire. We escaped, found a village. Holed up. With the help of the locals I nursed you back to health. We returned after eight months and resumed the fight."
"I remember," the Iranian said. "Look at me, Ahmed."
"No."
"Look at me."
"But you are going to shoot me."
"Wouldn't you rather see it coming?" Young Falcon said.
Ahmed sighed. "I have done nothing wrong."
Young Falcon's hand rested on his shoulder and he flinched.
"Look at me," Young Falcon repeated.
"I refuse to make it easy for you."
"The Caliph and I appreciate all you have done for us over the years," Young Falcon said. "But it is time for you to leave our service."
Ahmed shut his eyes. Let it be quick, he thought.
He heard a thud on the nightstand beside him. Opening his eyes, he saw that Young Falcon had set the pistol on the table.
"You're not going to kill me?" Ahmed said, somewhat surprised.
"We do not kill those who have rendered such invaluable service to us," Young Falcon said. "This is for you. A parting gift, in remembrance of all you have done."
Ahmed retrieved the pistol in wonder. Not a pistol, but a revolver. Ahmed recognized it as the antique Colt M1892 that had been given to Young Falcon as a present from the CIA all those years ago.
"I have arranged passage for you back to Afghanistan," Young Falcon said. "You are going home, my friend."
Ahmed felt the tears welling and he could not speak.
Young Falcon went to the entrance and opened the door. Two more men entered. They were dressed in T-shirts and jeans like the locals, but their square noses and thick brows betrayed their Afghan origins.
"Abu Mohammed and Abu Maqadar will help smuggle you back to your village in Afghanistan," Young Falcon said. "All I ask is that once you arrive, you send us some of your sons, and the sons of your friends and neighbors. Tell them of our plan to free the Middle East. Tell them of the great future we have in store for our countrymen."
Ahmed was still speechless, and before he could find the words to thank him, Young Falcon was gone.
He slumped over the nightstand, the tears flowing freely.
He was alive. Alive. Thanks to the mercy of Young Falcon.
His fingers tightened around the revolver. A priceless gift. He swore in that moment to gather every last capable man and boy in his village, including all of his sons, and he would bring them to serve Al Sifr and Young Falcon himself.
15
Oslofjord Inlet, Skagerrak Strait
5km South of Oslo, Norway
AL SIFR WAITED in the master suite of his yacht for the pilot to arrive.
The waters of the North Sea were choppy today, whipped into a frothing frenzy by the heavy winds, and the boat rocked to and fro. At least one deckhand had already vomited his lunch over the rail. With the churning he felt in his own stomach, Al Sifr wondered if he would be next.
He sat back on the cushions and glanced at the laptop on the floor beside him. A cord ran from the computer into the ceiling, where it was connected to a satellite antenna outside. Satellite Internet. What would he do without it?
His laptop issued an alert.
He maximized the I2P Messenger application and read the message.
It is done.
Al Sifr felt a moment of remorse. He had wanted to keep Ahmed in his employ. The two of them went way back, and it was a pity to send him home. As the emir of the Romanian southeast, Ahmed knew precisely how to run the operation there, from recruitment to fund collection to payroll. Unfortunately, that knowledge was also what made him dangerous. Ahmed had to go.
Al
Sifr had decided to permanently shutter the Romanian division—he no longer needed the money. In fact, he was slowly winding up operations worldwide. The time of reckoning was nearly at hand. The United States and Russia would pay dearly for what they had done to his adopted homeland and his family.
Still, he wondered if Young Falcon had followed his instructions. The man was a wildcard. He was just as likely to kill Ahmed as set him free. Al Sifr wanted Ahmed to return to Afghanistan, so he could recruit others to the cause: Al Sifr was always in need of good fighting men. But Young Falcon might ruin all that. Al Sifr had often wondered if he should rid himself of Young Falcon and find someone else, but there was a Bedouin saying: "He who doesn't know the raptor roasts it." Young Falcon was indeed a raptor. A very valuable one.
Young Falcon was Iranian, yet he was not Shia. In fact, he followed no religion. He hadn't since The Incident. Young Falcon had been a young, elite soldier of the Quds Force in the 80s. Because he spoke Russian, Iran's Revolutionary Guards had assigned him to infiltrate the occupying Soviets in support of the Shia mujahadeen in the west of the country; his modus operandi was to embed in a Soviet-occupied city, obtain some sort of administrative job in the puppet government, usually as a translator, and leak intelligence to his Iranian handlers. Young Falcon soon realized that the Iranians were doing nothing with the intel he provided, but he continued his mission nonetheless, dutifully sending missives to his handlers, until one day he fell in love with a local Afghan woman. A Sunni.
That changed everything.
Young Falcon fled with the woman, whom he married, and joined the Sunni mujahadeen. In the months that followed, he became a rebel leader, a hero among the Afghans who knew where and when to strike the Soviets at their weakest. He fathered three sons, and retired from fighting after the Soviets left the country. When the Taliban took over, though he did not support them, he preached forbearance and cooperation. When the Americans invaded years later, at first he refused when his followers asked him to take up arms again. "My killing years are behind me," he told them. He probably even believed it. Until The Incident had broken Young Falcon.
Al Sifr had made his hegira from Saudi Arabia to fight the Soviets in the 80s. In Afghanistan, he was struck by the charisma of one particular young fighter whose ability to inspire men with words was matched only by his ferocity on the battlefield. Al Sifr and others began to follow this fighter, who they named Young Falcon. The rumors of his prowess spread, and others traveled across the country to join him, too, until Young Falcon was the emir of a veritable army. With his daring guerrilla tactics, he helped drive a stake through Soviet morale, and contributed to their departure from the country. Equipment from the Americans helped, too, but Al Sifr would never publicly acknowledge that. Not ever.
During that time Al Sifr, like Young Falcon, had taken an Afghan woman as wife. He brought her back to Saudi Arabia with him, along with the two sons she had borne him during the Soviet occupation.
In 2001, both of his sons, in their teens, made their hegira to Afghanistan after 9/11 to join the tribes of the United Front against the Taliban. They fought on the side of the Americans, and because they spoke English, they helped coordinate with the Green Berets the US-led forces had embedded in the tribes. Unsurprisingly, his youngest son fell under the spell of an Afghan woman, and when the major fighting ended, he announced his intention to marry.
Young Falcon had already sent word to Al Sifr that one of his own sons was to wed that year, so Al Sifr suggested they perform the ceremony on the same day. Young Falcon readily agreed. Eager to see his old friend again, and desiring to preside over the marriage of their sons, Al Sifr traveled to Afghanistan with his wife and joined the wedding party. He smuggled much gold across the border as part of the bride's mahr—the traditional wedding gift made on behalf of the groom to his bride.
For the sake of old times, the fathers of the two grooms rode together in the lead vehicle, along with the brother of the bride. The gold was in the back seat.
Then came The Incident.
For some reason, the Americans thought their convoy was Taliban. They launched a drone strike.
The lead vehicle was the only one that had survived.
Wives and sons and future daughters-in-law, all erased in the blink of an eye. And yet the oldest and least deserving had lived.
When he finally opened his eyes, Al Sifr found himself upside-down in the SUV, still buckled in. He saw the American special forces teams hurrying from the site into their helicopters. Young Falcon was unconscious beside him, in the driver's seat. Blood dripped from a wound on his head. Al Sifr freed himself, and dragged Young Falcon and the brother of the bride from the wreckage. In the back, all the gold was gone. The Americans had taken it.
When Young Falcon awoke from his coma many days later in the tiny village where Al Sifr had taken him, he remembered nothing of the incident. It was up to Al Sifr to explain that his wife and three sons were dead. Young Falcon didn't believe it. Wouldn't. He left that day, stealing a horse from the village elder. He must have followed the dirt road and found the remnants of the vehicles, and the graves Al Sifr had dug, because when he returned that night, he refused to speak a word to anyone. The next morning, the first thing he said was: "Retribution."
Al Sifr stared through the portal at the choppy sea. After all those years, he still dreamed of his wife and sons occasionally. They were not good dreams. He would see the bloodied and mangled form of his son in his arms. He would cry out to Allah, asking him why. Why.
A lone tear streaked down Al Sifr's cheek. He wiped it away briskly. He had no time for weakness. He had to appear as a pillar of strength to all his followers, especially the man he was to meet. Beyond the portal, Al Sifr could see the pilot's small boat approaching on the frothing waves.
In the past, he would have met the man in the city, perhaps even at the airport. But these days Al Sifr avoided cities and airports. Too many security cameras running biometrics and facial recognition software.
If only he had been more careful two years ago. He had stupidly allowed that she-bitch to unmask his identity. He rubbed the stump of his left hand, the consequence of that carelessness. If it weren't for Young Falcon, he would be rotting at the bottom of some CIA dungeon right now.
The she-bitch had taken his photo. His face was probably in every major intelligence database out there. Interpol, CIA, Mossad. They were waiting for him to make another mistake.
They would wait a very long time.
Still, the shuttering of his Romanian operation was troubling. He had taken so many precautions to secure his enterprise, but no matter how many safeguards one made, human ingenuity always found some overlooked backdoor. Al Sifr wasn't going to allow himself the luxury of overconfidence. A few errant threads yanked here and there and the entire operation would unravel. He couldn't afford to wait much longer to launch the attack.
Al Sifr watched the incoming skiff moor with the yacht; a crew member helped the pilot aboard.
Al Sifr sat back in his cushions and waited. He hid his stump of a hand behind him.
No weaknesses.
The pilot entered.
He was a tall Afghani, one of the tallest Al Sifr had ever known. His hair was cut short, and a thin beard framed his round, petulant face. His brows were unusually thin and effeminate, as if he plucked or waxed them. He was slightly overweight, as could be expected of an individual who spent the majority of his working life sitting down.
Ghazwan was the third and final survivor of the drone strike that day. The brother of Young Falcon's bride. His name meant warrior.
Al Sifr had taken him in and specifically groomed him for the task at hand. Al Sifr had planted him seven years ago, the leader of a sleeper cell very important to his plans. He needed to ensure that the man would be ready when the time came.
"You look well, Abu Ghazwan," Al Sifr said.
"As do you, my caliph," Ghazwan said.
"How is the family?" Al Sifr had arran
ged for Ghazwan to marry one of his cousins. However, a man would never say the name of another man's wife or daughters outright. Inquiring about the 'family' was the discreet way of asking after the spouse.
"Excellent," Ghazwan said, a little quickly. "Couldn't be better."
Al Sifr raised an eyebrow. "You seem nervous. Don't be. You are in the company of kin."
"I'm sorry," Ghazwan said. "It's the waves. I don't function well at sea."
Al Sifr thought he was lying, but let it pass.
A male servant came inside, carrying a tray of dates and a traditional dallah coffee pot. The delectable scents of cardamom and precisely brewed beans wafted through the suite.
"Qawha?" Al Sifr asked, beckoning toward the servant. Saudi coffee.
"Thank you." Ghazwan took the small, handleless cup, and the servant poured just enough to cover the bottom with liquid. As the coffee was boiling hot, delivering any more than that would make it prohibitively difficult to drink. The servant stood nearby, waiting to refill the cup.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet me." Ghazwan swirled the tiny amount of coffee in the cup and drank it. He held the container to the side and the servant promptly poured a few more centiliters. Ghazwan used the opportunity to grab a date from the tray.
Al Sifr decided to dispense with the pleasantries. "You said you have concerns regarding the martyrdom operation?"
"Yes." Chewing the date, Ghazwan glanced nervously at the servant.
"Go," Al Sifr told the servant, who nodded and promptly left the suite. The servant was fully in his confidence, but it was obvious Ghazwan preferred to talk in private.
When the man was gone, Al Sifr said: "So, your concerns."
Ghazwan swallowed the chewed date. "Abu Rashid, the co-pilot, hasn't been promoted by the airline yet. He has been flying well, at least he says he has, but the competition for new pilots is immense. I think it will be another year, maybe two, before he is promoted to senior."
"Remind me why this is important?" Al Sifr said.
"He is still on reserve, meaning the airline computers can call him up at any hour, and assign him to a random flight. When he is senior, he can bid on his schedule. And then we have a greater chance of being booked together. Of course, we might be randomly paired at any time before then, but the odds of the computer choosing Domodedovo Airport as our destination are very very slim. And—"