by Brad Taylor
Jalal said, “Give me the pistol.”
“What are you going to do?”
“If he comes to our door, he will have to die. We’ll flee straight out. Get ready, because if I’m right, they’ll be coming in. Who’s leading through the game room?”
Tanan raised his hand and said, “I know the way. I can get us to the cars.” Everyone except Jalal showed fear. The commitment was coming home much sooner than they’d expected.
Jalal returned to the computer. The boy kept coming, walking slowly and checking each door. He reached theirs, standing under the naked bulb, reading the address stuck in the tile next to the metal of the handle.
Jalal said, “That’s it. Put on your backpacks. It’s time to run.”
The men began scrambling, and Jalal saw the child raise his hand, the first door he’d bothered to knock on after checking all of them. Jalal knew he was right.
He leapt across the room and ripped open the door. He saw the child’s expression, shocked that someone had answered before he’d even knocked. The child said, “My mistake, sir.”
Jalal raised the pistol, put it between the boy’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.
—
On the street, Johan saw Fonzie raise his hand, then the door opened. The child was frozen in place, and Johan saw a pistol emerge. The man placed it right between Fonzie’s eyes, and the world went into slow motion. Johan screamed, startling the people around him. He sprinted toward the tunnel. In the harsh glare of the naked bulb he saw the pistol cycle, the casing eject, the head explode backward. And the fall of the body.
He felt unbridled rage and lost control. He ran into the tunnel, seeing men spilling out of the far doorway armed with Kalashnikovs. They began filling the tunnel with fire. He dove to the ground, squeezing his own trigger to suppress their aim.
The rounds snapped the air around him, smacking into the walls and spackling him with spall. He scrambled back to the entrance, diving out and rolling up against the wall. He peeked around the corner and saw four men run toward the video game center, all wearing rucksacks. He screamed again in frustration, seeing the children from the gaming center begin fleeing toward him. They burst out of the entrance, running in all directions. The teenager who manned the center took one step out of the alley and was hit in the back with multiple rounds. He spilled forward, his eyes wide, and Johan knew he was dead.
He rolled into the entrance in the prone, seeing the first of the men turn into the cave of the gaming room. Three made it into the cover, and Johan emptied a magazine at the fourth, seeing the bullets find their mark. The man dropped, and Johan changed magazines, running forward.
He cleared the small alcove of the gaming center, seeing it empty, then skipped over the downed man, kicking his AK to the side before rushing to Fonzie. He took one look at the shattered skull and felt another explosion of fury. He ran back to the man on the ground, seeing his body writhing in pain. He leaned forward, snarling, grabbing the man by his hair. The man said something in Arabic, and Johan put the gun to his forehead. The man’s eyes finally focused, and he began begging.
Johan squeezed the trigger.
He turned to the gaming establishment, seeing a torn-open plywood wall. He started to follow when he heard the rushing of feet coming down the hall. He turned, ready to kill anyone who entered, innocent or not.
58
I drew my Glock as I ran, hearing what sounded like the Battle of Fallujah just ahead. People were fleeing the scene in all directions, a kaleidoscope of humanity all trying to escape whatever was happening. I heard multiple shots from an alley directly ahead of me and saw a Caucasian man on the ground, blond hair rippling in the afternoon breeze, firing crazily into the alley. I drew down on him, preparing to break the trigger, and he leapt up, sprinting down the alley, screaming like a maniac.
I ran to the right side of the alley, sliding into the wall. Knuckles took the left, Ahmed sliding in behind him. I heard two more shots, and Knuckles looked at me for a decision. I knew why. Hallways like this were notoriously hard to clear without the element of surprise, as there was no cover. A ready enemy could pick us off like the proverbial fish in a barrel. I wished we had flashbangs or some other diversion. Before I could assess the situation, Ahmed leapt up, rushing around Knuckles and into the tunnel. I saw Knuckles’s eyes go wide, knowing we were now committed.
We both followed, racing into the funnel of death. The Caucasian saw us coming and got out two rounds. The first hit the wall, clanging away with a whine. The second hit Ahmed. I saw the round slap into his arm, and he screamed, dropping his own pistol. Knuckles raised his weapon, and I shouted, “Don’t kill him!”
I closed the distance in the span of a single heartbeat, seeing him try to redirect to me. He was nowhere near quick enough.
I knocked his weapon wide and hammered him with a straight punch, splitting his nose open. He absorbed the blow and tucked in, and I knew he could fight. But nowhere near as well as me.
We tore into each other for a minute, and I gained dominance, trying for a rear choke. He hammered me in the gut with both elbows, causing an explosion of air. Knuckles reached him, with me holding his arms.
Knuckles snarled and grabbed his hair, then drove a punch into his face that would have knocked out a bull.
The man sagged, and I laid him on the ground, saying, “Check Ahmed.”
I went into the cave of the game room, seeing the torn door and wondering what was going on. I came back out.
Knuckles had Ahmed up and moving, with a makeshift bandage on his arm. He said, “He’ll live. What the fuck just happened?”
I said, “I have no idea. Ahmed, can you get us out of here? Help us avoid any police interrogation? The team—whoever they are—are on the run, and we need to find them.”
Looking faint, his head rolling with sweat, he said, “I can. I can. But I can’t get you into their apartment. Go. Go check it before the locals arrive.”
I said, “You okay?”
He gave a wan grin and said, “Do I look okay?”
“No. You look like a terrorist.”
He barked out a laugh and I clicked the radio, saying, “Koko, Koko, I need immediate exfil. I need Veep and Retro prepared to take out two bodies, one ambulatory and one unconscious. Knuckles will be bringing them both. Alert the Taskforce and get me some medical here in Fez.”
Ahmed heard my call and said, “Where are you taking me?”
“To some first-class medical care. Don’t worry.”
The Taskforce, knowing that our work was dangerous, had planted medical doctors all over the world to treat injured members outside of the established medical system. I wasn’t actually authorized to do the same for a nonmember of the Taskforce, but I would here, for two reasons. One, I wanted Ahmed to get the best care, but more importantly, I didn’t want him entered into a system where I’d never get to talk to him again without an interrogation from the host nation.
He said, “I don’t want to go to some rendition prison for medical care. Leave me.”
I laughed and said, “You’re going to our hotel. Just act like a drunk Muslim when you show up. Stagger up to the room. I’ll talk to you then.”
He smiled and said, “I’m sorry they escaped. We should have done what you wanted.”
“That wasn’t your fault.” I kicked the Caucasian with my foot, saying, “He’s the one who busted it open. And I intend to figure out why.”
He leaned against the wall, his eyes still on me, and I said, “Give me two minutes in here. Can you do that? Keep me out of the police investigation?”
Ahmed pulled out his phone and nodded. Knuckles hoisted the Caucasian up into a fireman’s carry and began walking toward the exit while he dialed.
I first went to the dead man in the alley, seeing his brain matter on the ground. I searched him and found a passport from Saudi
Arabia but nothing else of interest. I shouldered his rucksack for later inspection, then sprinted to the apartment, ignoring the child lying prone out front, his face shattered by a bullet. He was clearly dead, and had nothing of interest for me. A sad statement that more than likely symbolized his entire life. I raised my weapon high and kicked the door open. I cleared the area, seeing a meal on the table, then a mattress tossed aside and a hole in the ground.
The place was austere, without the usual flotsam and jetsam of life. No pictures, personal mementos, or even trash. Nothing. I started to leave and saw a cheap netbook computer on a shelf, the screen showing the hallway outside. I slapped the lid closed and jerked out the power cord, shoving the whole thing into the knapsack.
When I entered the hallway, I saw the beginnings of a police response, and Knuckles jogging up to me. He said, “We need to go.”
I nodded, and we walked out of the tunnel, acting like we were petrified tourists, our hands in the air, leaving the mess behind us for the Moroccan police.
59
The Alitalia Boeing 737 closed its doors, and the flight attendant made the usual call to turn off any electronic components. Jalal relaxed for the first time. He leaned over to Tanan and said, “We’re good. We’re on the way.”
Tanan nodded, still showing fear. Jalal said, “Relax. You will only raise suspicion with that face.”
Tanan nodded again but didn’t become any more sanguine.
The trip from Fez had been one trial after another, starting with the death of Tanan and Wasim’s brother.
They’d broken out into the market on the far side of the alley, dumped their weapons, and raced out of the mellah to their vehicle, expecting to get arrested at any moment. Or die in a blazing shootout. None of that had happened.
Giddy with relief, Wasim had started the car, and for the first time, Tanan realized their brother was missing. He said, “Wait, where’s Mustafa?”
Wasim had opened his car door to go back, but Jalal had stopped him. Jalal had said, “It’s too late. I heard more firing as we were running. It wasn’t us. It was someone else. He is martyred.”
Jalal didn’t know if he was captured or killed but knew he was a threat. He couldn’t tell that to the cousins, though. Tanan demanded to go back. Jalal shut that down, saying the sacrifice was made and they needed to flee the country as soon as possible.
Wasim had fought him, saying that blood trumped any mission. Jalal had said, “Yes, blood is something real. Do you want to take his blood sacrifice and throw it away? Or use his sacrifice to continue?”
After a tense standoff, the cousins had relented, and they’d set out for Casablanca, four hours away. They’d parked their car in the airport lot and then settled into the Casablanca terminal for a three A.M. flight to Rome.
The cousins were ansty, clearly nervous. Jalal was morose. The mission shouldn’t have started like this. He had no idea who the Caucasian man had been outside of their apartment, or even how he’d found it, but he was worried that their plot had been discovered. He wondered how the shipment to Los Angeles was going and whether it had been found out as well.
He used the Wickr app to text Tariq, letting him know they were on the way and asking about the container to Los Angeles. All he got back was that it was delayed but on track. He wanted to call. To talk to the man and get some answers, but he knew he couldn’t. There were too many people listening to unencrypted cell phones.
They’d had two close scares when uniformed police had swept through the terminal, but both times, it was a false alarm.
Eventually, they’d boarded the plane, the three cousins looking exactly like a bunch of sweating terrorists out to take the aircraft down. He thanked God that they were flying out of Casablanca with a planeload of other Muslims. If they had been in Rome or New York, the entire crew would have been yanked off.
The plane began rolling to the taxiway and Jalal leaned over, saying, “We’ll be in Rome in a few hours. Then we’ll regroup.”
Tanan said, “I don’t think I can do this. I can give my life, but I can’t live under this pressure. They’re going to know.”
“It’s okay. Quit worrying. You’re going to make everyone on this aircraft nervous.”
Tanan nodded, letting out a small smile. He said, “That was a pretty good escape, right? That camera and my escape route was good, wasn’t it?”
Jalal patted him on the shoulder and said, “Yes. Yes, it was. Keep it up, because our next stop is Norfolk, Virginia.”
60
I walked into the room, seeing Jennifer acting like a nurse in a World War II movie, tending to Ahmed as if he were her own child. I said, “Really? How long are you going to pull this helpless act?”
Ahmed smiled and said, “I didn’t ask for the treatment. I think she feels guilty.”
Jennifer tossed a rag at me and said to Ahmed, “Don’t be fooled. He’s been where you are now, and I didn’t help him out of guilt.”
Ahmed said, “I have no doubt of that.” He turned to me, “What happened after we left? Did my calls work?”
“They did. Nobody on my team was arrested, but then again, none of the bad guys were either. They got away completely. It took the police time to build a coherent response.”
I saw he took that as an insult. He started to say something, and I held up a hand, saying, “Not your fault. Not Morocco’s fault. Your plan was good. We were short-circuited by a crazy man. I have no idea why he did what he did, but I will.”
I could see the skepticism in his face. I said, “You did what you should have. I don’t blame you.”
Ahmed sagged back into his pillow. “So you don’t believe I’m helping terrorists. That will be a first for you bigoted Americans.”
I said, “We have a problem here. There are killers headed to America. None of the names we gave were flagged, and we found a passport from Saudi Arabia on the dead guy. They’re gone.”
He said, “And?”
“And I could use your help. Because I trust you.”
Jennifer snapped her head to me, surprised, and Ahmed squinted his eyes. He said, “I’ve been played before by the United States.”
Jennifer said, “He doesn’t have that in him. If he says it, he means it.”
I said, “I do. I don’t know who you worked with before, but I give my trust sparingly, and I would never use it to gain advantage.”
He considered my words, then nodded, saying, “So, what’s the help?”
“First, I have the man who shot you. He’s in my control, but I need him. I can’t turn him over to you.”
Ahmed said, “You have lost your mind. He shot me. He is getting Moroccan justice. I don’t care if he’s American.”
“He’s not American. He’s South African, and he has intelligence on the attacks that are coming to America. I’m sorry. If I thought he’d help out with your country, I’d toss his ass to you in a heartbeat, but that’s not what’s in his head. Please. I’m asking, not demanding.”
He considered, then nodded, saying, “What else?”
“I need all of your databases, and I need it without a flag that we looked.”
He said, “What information do you have to input?”
I smiled and stood up, saying, “I don’t know yet, but I will.” I held out a fist, and he looked at me quizzically.
I waited a beat, feeling embarrassed, and Jennifer said, “You’re supposed to make a fist and bump him. It’s a man thing.”
He did so, with his left hand, and I said, “You sure you lived in America?”
He leaned back into his pillow, his bloody right arm held over his body, and said, “I’m getting tired of trying to measure up.”
I patted him on the shoulder and said, “After the shootout today, there’s no question about that. Regardless of religion.”
He smiled, accepting the co
mpliment, and I left him to Jennifer’s ministrations, walking to the next room in our suite. Carly was outside the door. She said, “He’s awake. You want me to get a recorder?”
I said, “No. I want to talk to him alone.”
She said, “Let me come in with you.”
I hesitated, and she said, “I’m a CIA case officer. I work with liars for a living. I won’t say anything. I’ll just assess him like I do with sources and assets.”
I nodded, saying, “Okay, but no interrupting.”
We were staying in a large suite at the Palais Faraj-Fes hotel, with three rooms each having a view of the medina and a great room in between them. It was bordering on celebrity status.
Two of the rooms were used as holding cells. One, for medical reasons, and another, as a true cell. Jennifer and I had the final room, with the rest of the team at reservations down the hall.
Carly and I entered the holding cell, seeing Johan van Rensburg handcuffed to a chair, each wrist locked down and his ankles taped to the legs. We’d found his passport and done a dive on his history, learning that he was a South African who’d recently been hired by some sleazy American company called Icarus Solutions. Now it was time to determine what he had in play. Why he was here, and what he was trying to protect. I’d met his sort many, many times, and didn’t have any illusions about his moral compass.
He tensed up when he saw us, waiting on the beatings to begin. Both of his eyes were black from the blows earlier, so he had some reason for the trepidation. I said, “We’re not going to hurt you, unless you answer less than truthfully.”
He nodded, then said, “And how will you know that?”
I looked him in the eye and said, “I’ll know.”
He said, “What do you want from me? I’m sure I can’t explain anything that happened to your satisfaction. I was there, and I acted.”