by Isaac Hooke
"But we had a solid plan," Bretta said. "We'd thought every scenario through. Or so we believed."
Ethan nodded sagely. "In most missions, as soon as the op begins, the well-thought out and detailed plans go out the window. Situations are constantly changing. That's why the best plans are often the simplest."
"Our plan was simple." Bretta sighed. "But we should have had more security. We should—"
"Never second guess yourself," Ethan said. "If there's anything I've learned in this business, it's that. You'll drive yourself crazy if you do."
His portable sat-phone rang.
Ethan stared at Bretta a moment longer to make sure his point registered, then he picked up the phone.
It was Sam.
"Got some news on Qawha Aerospace," she said over the secure line. "We're negotiating with the royal family for permission to send in a raiding party not only to the company offices, but to the homes of its executive officers. We should have approval within the hour. That's the nice thing about the Saudis. We leave them alone, overlook their flagrant human rights violations, just as long as they pump out oil at good prices and hand over terrorists when we ask for them. It's worked out pretty well for both our nations. They'll even torture the terrorists for us first, if we want."
"Gotta love the Saudis," Ethan agreed sarcastically. "Of course, if they don't approve, and we decide to nab any executives and employees on our own, the Saudis will now know it was us."
"They will approve."
"So," Ethan said. "What do you want Bretta and me to do when we get to Riyadh? Help interrogate any suspects?"
"You're not going anymore," Sam returned. "I've already instructed the pilot to divert to Iceland."
That explained the banking Ethan had observed. "Iceland? What's in Iceland?"
"First of all, did I tell you we managed to plant Regin into the computer systems of Qawha Aerospace."
"That was quick," Ethan said.
"It was," Sam agreed. "We only deposited the decoy thumb drive on the premises this morning. I'm guessing the employees are bored."
"The ol' flash drive trick," Ethan said. "One of my favorites."
"Yes, and it still works amazingly well. Especially in the Middle East. Anyway, most of the documents we lifted from their networks so far are benign. However, while waiting for the Saudis to send over the full corporate records, we did discover an interesting tidbit. Specifically, one of the subsidiaries of Qawha Aerospace is a private limited company based out of Iceland: Aurora Research ehf. Through some friendly Icelandic back channels, I found out the company owns a remote parcel of land in the Southern Region Suðurland. We had a couple of our reconnaissance satellites grab IMINT"—image intel—"of the area but all we got were some pictures of abandoned buildings, which I'm sending you now. There's probably nothing at the outpost, but I don't want to leave any loose ends. If Al Sifr has a terrorist training camp out there, I want you to find it."
Ethan's cellphone buzzed. He fished it out with his free hand and examined the satellite photos she'd just sent.
"Don't suppose we could simply high level bomb the place?" Ethan was only half joking.
"I'm sure the Republic of Iceland would be very appreciative, especially when we have such little evidence."
Ethan tossed his cellphone to Bretta so she could have a look.
He rubbed his eyes and said into the sat-phone: "Tell me again why we're not sending the local police to check it out? And I'm not trying to be a pain here. I want to help you out. We're an expensive resource. I'd hate to see you waste your money."
"It's not a waste when I send you somewhere, trust me," Sam said. "Even when you return empty-handed. As for the local police, I might be able to convince them to dispatch a bird with a full unit. If I'm right, and it turns out to be nothing, the police will be fine. If I'm wrong, and there's a terrorist training camp of some sort out there, I could be sending those men to their deaths."
"You don't have much faith in local police, do you?"
"Look, I need experienced operatives in Iceland. People who can take care of themselves when the shit overflows from the gutter. People who won't hesitate to ask questions if any suspects are found, and people who'll use any means necessary to get those questions answered." Sam paused. "You've never doubted my orders before. Is there something you want to tell me?"
Ethan swallowed. The truth was, he was worried about his own performance. He thought back to Romania, when the explosion had hit. He'd locked up. Frozen. If Bretta hadn't been there to snap him out of it, Iqbal would have gotten away. Sure, he had done a little better in Hong Kong, but when that op was done, and he woke up to find Bretta restraining him for throwing punches in his sleep...
"No, I'm good," Ethan said. "We got this."
"Okay then. I should have another update for you before the G650 lands. The pilot tells me he has enough fuel to reach Iceland without stopping. Even so, you have another seven hours to go. Get some sleep."
"Sure thing." He hung up. To Bretta: "Looks like we're going to Iceland."
36
Dubai International Airport, United Arab Emirates
CAPTAIN GHAZWAN WALTZED into the pilot lounge like he owned the place. He felt important. He was a senior pilot at Emirates airline. A man with an enviable position and salary.
He recognized two crew members he had worked with previously, seated together. They greeted him as he passed. He nodded in return.
Yes, he was important.
He went to the computerized check-in system and punched in his code. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the destination airport: Domodedovo Moscow Airport. He steadied himself. That location had come up often enough. It didn't mean anything.
He glanced at the assigned first officer. As expected, he didn't recognize the name. Thousands of pilots worked at the airline. It was impossible to know the first officer and crew he would be paired with. Senior pilots could "buddy bid" for the same routes, increasing their chances of mutual assignation, but there were still no guarantees. Too bad his supposed accomplice, Rashid, was not a senior pilot.
He stuffed the printouts into his flight bag and, grabbing his other piece of luggage, which he intended to gate check, he took a seat away from everyone else. The printouts were one of the few papers he had to carry aboard these days: inside his flight bag was an iPad running EFB—electronic flight bag—software from Jeppesen, the Boeing subsidiary. It served as a backup to the EFB tablet built into the cockpit, which replaced the twenty-five pounds of aviation charts, calculators, and manuals commercial pilots used to have to lug around. The lighter bag reduced pilot fatigue, and saved the airline money in the long run: less weight meant saved fuel.
He activated Amn al-Mujahid—The Mujahid's Security—software on his phone, one of the few approved apps Al Sifr allowed for communication purposes. He sent an encrypted message.
I have DME today. But the wrong f/o.
DME was the airport code for the Domodedovo Moscow Airport, while f/o stood for first officer.
He put the phone away, not expecting a reply. He accessed the tablet computer attached to the table in front of him and began skimming the news.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Maybe it was his wife, sending him off.
No: he had received a notification from The Mujahid's Security. A new message awaited. Strange.
He unlocked the phone and decrypted the text. It read:
The time has come, brother. Strike today.
Ghazwan stared at the message, not entirely believing it at first. His heart raced. Perhaps the Caliph had misunderstood?
He sent another message.
But wrong f/o.
He dreaded the reply. Surely the Caliph realized Ghazwan's chances were far better when he had a first officer whose ideals were aligned with their own. When Al Sifr had given him the Zolpidem pills to incapacitate his assigned copilot, whoever that might be, Ghazwan had half believed the man was joking.
The next reply came:<
br />
Strike today.
Apparently, Al Sifr had been deadly serious.
Ghazwan swallowed hard and broke into a cold sweat. He was convinced that everyone was looking at him. When he glanced up, to his relief he realized no one was paying him a whit of attention.
He rubbed his face with his hands. With the receipt of that message, all his former confidence had vanished. An important man? No, he was a man sentenced to die.
He leaned back, resting his head against the couch. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He had hoped for more time. He wasn't ready to die. There were so many things he wanted to do.
The phone buzzed again.
You promised me that you would be able to do this, alone, when the time came. For our fallen brothers. Are you going to fail us now, in the end?
He stared at the phone until the screen went dark.
He texted back a single sentence:
I will not fail you, my caliph.
He opened up his small flight bag and double-checked that the pills Al Sifr had given him were present. Yes, the plastic bottle was there, stowed beside the iPad and a magazine he'd purchased at the airport. Though he told himself the Caliph had been joking, he always brought them along, just in case. Good thing, too, because without them he didn't know how he would accomplish his task. Ghazwan had replaced the label using the method Al Sifr had taught, but airport security rarely bothered to look at the pills, let alone inside the bag.
He navigated to the ordinary messenger app on his phone and sent a message to his wife. There was no need for The Mujahid's Security, not for what he intended. She didn't know how to use that, anyway.
I love you, he sent.
He smiled wanly, wondering if she would reply in a timely fashion. It was a small consolation that she would live on in the New Caliphate with the four sons he had sired. She was Al Sifr's cousin—her bloodline ensured their sons would be given positions of honor in the upcoming age.
His phone buzzed. He had received a reply from his wife.
And I you, my love. To what circumstance do I owe this unexpected message?
His eyes moistened. He couldn't tell her the truth. He only hoped Al Sifr would someday reveal his fate to her, and the part he had played in changing the world.
Nothing, he sent back. I was thinking of you. That's all.
You are always in my thoughts, dearest one, she returned.
And you mine.
He stared at the display, waiting for a response. Hoping for one. He promised himself if she returned something, anything, he would leave the airport and call in sick.
But she didn't reply.
Crestfallen, he made his way to the boarding gate like a zombie. He couldn't believe that he was actually going to do this. The culmination of years of plotting and planning were at hand. The terminal phase was about to begin.
Ghazwan never thought it would get that far.
He couldn't turn back, not anymore.
He would play his part.
The fate of the entire Middle East rested upon his shoulders.
He only hoped his wife would forgive him.
37
G650 On Final Approach, Iceland
A GENTLE RAP on the seat roused Ethan.
The flight attendant peered down at him. "You told me to wake you half an hour before landing,"
"Yeah, thanks." Ethan rubbed his eyes. He realized Bretta was no longer lying on the couch opposite him. Again he hadn't awakened when she had.
Definitely losing my edge.
He slid his legs over the side of the couch and sat up. He had reposed surprisingly well, with a sleep mercifully free of nightmares. Always a good way to start one's day. That was the nice thing about flying private: the sleeping areas.
Still, it would have been nice if the couch had been located within a separate suite for privacy. Some G650 owners opted for completely secluded bedrooms with full-size mattresses. What Ethan had here was similar to the flat bed seats some long-haul commercial operators offered. A few commercial airlines even provided fully enclosed suites: one of his favorites was Emirates. In First Class, you switched from seat to bed with the push of a button, and an automated barrier sealed off the alcove from the rest of the plane. Ethan had fond memories of joining the mile high club with an oil baron's daughter on an Emirates flight.
He made his way to the main seating area and accepted a cup of coffee. Tasted like java—strong, black, and sweet.
He observed the blue sea outside the window. A green blotch momentarily interrupted that blue, slowly becoming a series of jagged, moss-covered lava fields and volcanic craters.
"Welcome to Iceland." Bretta sat down opposite him. "Land of Fire and Ice. A country formed by the hardened rock belched up by underwater volcanoes. Sixty percent mountainous lava field deserts, thirty percent grazing land, nine percent glaciers, with small patches of birch making up the final percent."
"Wouldn't be the first place I'd look for terrorists," Ethan said.
"Why not?" Bretta refused the steaming cup of java the flight attendant offered. "It's kind of the perfect place for a terrorist to set up shop. Underpopulated. Isolated. Definitely not on our radar."
Ethan sipped his coffee. "Maybe. How was your sleep?"
"Divine. Sure beats jet lag."
"I have an anti-jet lag cocktail you should try sometime," Ethan said. "A Red Bull, a Gatorade, two 30mg pycnogenol pills, and a 25mg cortisone acetate tablet. Hydrates you, wakes you up, gives you a buzz, and synchronizes your internal clock."
"I stopped listening at Red Bull."
Keflavík International Airport resided forty-five minutes to the west of the capital, Reykjavík, but apparently the G650 was headed toward the less-trafficked Reykjavík Airport in the city center. As the G650 approached, Ethan saw quaint, Nordic-style white buildings with red roofs arranged in neat rows. The tallest building was the seventy-seven meter Smáratorg office building, followed close behind by the seventy-four meter Hallgrimskirkja, a Lutheran church. There were no skyscrapers.
Pronounced "ray k-ya vick," the name Reykjavík came from the Icelandic word for smoky, a reference to the steam from the many surrounding hot springs. With a population of a little over one hundred and twenty thousand—about one third of the entire population of Iceland—it was really more of a large settlement than a city. The coastline beside it was home to straits, coves, peninsulas, and islands. The smallish basalt and tuff-stone mountain ridge named Esja loomed over the city to the north. All in all a quiet, isolated locale. The biggest danger most of the inhabitants faced in their lifetimes was accidental marriage to a cousin.
The ground came up fast; the jet literally slammed into the runway. Ethan was jerked forward in his seat and instinctively raised his arms to protect himself, spilling some of his coffee on the table.
Ethan glanced at Bretta as the jet braked and the high-efficiency thrust reversers in the engine nacelles kicked in. She seemed shaken by the landing, though she masked it well.
"What?" she said.
"With all those flight hours of yours logged, you never landed on a carrier?" Naval aviators really liked to slam their planes down.
"Nope."
He grinned, wiping the spilled coffee from the table with a napkin. "Missing out."
"Apparently," she said.
After the G650 taxied to the Birk Flight Services FBO area, the captain came back to greet them.
"Welcome to Reykjavík, ladies and gentlemen, land of the midnight sun. Sunrise is at three thirty a.m. and sunset is fifteen minutes to midnight. The sky never really darkens, though. You get more of an extended twilight while the dusk gives way to dawn. Midnight golf, my friends. I highly recommend it." He glanced at his watch. "Anyway, local time is nine thirty a.m.; local temperature, a balmy nine degrees Celsius. A beautiful July day in Iceland. You might want to grab a sweater and windbreaker from the wardrobe closet."
"Good idea," Bretta said.
"Made a few carrier tra
ps in your day?" Ethan asked the captain.
"Indeed I have," he answered, a twinkle in his eye. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. But I have to say, I like a good, solid landing once in a while."
"As do I," the captain beamed. "Customs will be here shortly. Have your travel documents ready." He returned to the cockpit.
Ethan glanced at the deceptively sunny sky beyond the window and shook his head. "Nine degrees."
"That's about fifty Fahrenheit in American," Bretta told him, a hint of contempt in her voice.
He frowned. "I know the conversion."
The sat-phone abruptly rang. He picked it up.
"I promised you an update before you landed," Sam said over the secure line.
"And so you did," Ethan replied. He decided not to tell her that the G650 had already touched down.
"The Saudi police raided the Qawha Aerospace corporate office," Sam informed him. "The three employees we nabbed are all low-level data entry clerks. Apparently they mostly sit around using Facebook all day. The Saudi police also conducted simultaneous raids on the apartments and homes registered to the company executives. They found refugee families, mostly from Iraq, renting almost all of them. Four to five families per home. The other apartments were rented out to single men with no relation to the company or Al Sifr. More misdirection. I hate to say it, but you're probably not going to find anything in Iceland. I'm tempted to recall you."
"Just a sec. Customs." An officer with the Iceland Directorate of Customs had come aboard, dressed in an official-looking periwinkle blue dress shirt, black tie, and black trousers; Ethan gave the man his passport to stamp.
When the officer left the Gulfstream, Ethan continued the conversation. "You want to recall us, but you won't."
"No," she agreed. "We have no other leads to go on, currently."
There was a moment of silence on the line.
"You still there?" Ethan said.
"Yes," she answered.
"What's up?"
"Nothing, just..." She sighed audibly over the line. "We're seeing some ominous FININT over here." Financial Intelligence.