As they rode down the boulevard toward the center of Khartoum, Madani said, “You have not been to Khartoum before. Am I right?”
“No. Never.”
“What do you think so far?”
“It’s fine. I don’t know. When do we meet?”
Madani took a bite from a small loaf of bread he had brought with him. He looked at Ismael. “It is one of your faults. This impatience. This idea that everything must be done now. It is what has caused you so much trouble so far.”
Ismael was tired of being treated like a small boy. “Either you know, or you don’t know.”
“We’ll go when we’re called.”
“So you don’t know.”
Madani shot him a hateful look.
They arrived at the small, dingy hotel where they had been told to stay. They went to the room reserved for them and unpacked their bags, which contained only one change of clothes.
They worked in silence in the gray room, where the paint was peeling from the walls. After some time, with no provocation, Madani turned to Ismael. “And when it comes time to speak, you say nothing. Is that understood?”
“Then why am I here?”
“Sympathy. We want them to look into the eyes of the brother of the man who was killed.”
“You should have brought my picture.”
Madani rushed Ismael, grabbed him, and slammed him against a wall. “Do not speak to me that way! Ever! You have no idea what you’re doing or who you’re dealing with. You come back to us because your brother was killed. Fine. But it doesn’t mean you can say whatever tumbles into your stupid little mind. You keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told! Now shut up and prepare to pray toward Mecca,” he said as he heard the call from the minaret. “The meeting is this afternoon.” He let go of Ismael, who fell back against the wall.
Rat went to Langley to see Jacobs directly after the funeral. It had been a good funeral. The family had seemed comforted and encouraged. It was a sad thing, but it gave them some comfort, which was as much as you could hope for, he figured.
Jacobs looked as if he’d been waiting for him for three days. He was not pleased. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Yes, sir. I wanted to be at the funeral.”
“Even though I told you in my last e-mail that Nezzar was in Algeria?”
“I’m not assuming anything. He may have someone working with him.”
“How did this sorry son of a bitch Algerian get to Stovic’s brother without being stopped?”
Rat looked at the floor. He had asked himself the same question hundreds of times. “I knew he had a brother, sir. I knew his brother would be at risk. What I didn’t think to do was tell the FBI about that. I assumed they would know the person they were protecting, his weaknesses, his family. I’m sorry, sir.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Rat. Maybe you should have checked on what they were doing, but hey, that’s not your job either. We have to work with them. It’s just so damned typical of them,” he said, fuming. “Give them something to analyze, to send to a lab, and they do pretty well. But to anticipate? To think ahead of evil people?” He shook his head.
“Where is he now?”
Jacobs looked up. “Khartoum.”
Rat was surprised. “Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“The Blue Angels have changed their air show schedule.”
“I saw that. So?”
“So they’ve added a show for ten days from now in Paris.”
“The Paris Air Show?”
“And guess where the largest community of Algerians is outside Algeria?”
“You’re right,” Jacobs exclaimed, considering. “You’ve operated with the French, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir. Many times.”
“Could you again?”
“Yes, sir, but I’d like it to be in parallel, not necessarily together. They’d need to know I was there and give me some room. You want me to coordinate with French intelligence?”
“That’s up to you. You know some people?”
“Yes, sir. But they’ll need to hear from you, or the Director, that I’m coming, with some friends. They’ll need to stay clear. If we need to do an op, it may be with them, it may not. I don’t know if they’ll let us operate like that, but that’s what I’m going to do, whether they let me or not.”
“Just don’t run into them.”
“No, sir. I need to get back. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Rat,” Jacobs said, “I wouldn’t count on the Navy going through with this air show. Once they find out this murderer may be waiting for them over there, they may just take their ball and go home. It might even come as an order from the SECDEF.”
“Don’t underestimate them,” Rat said. “They may fly in air shows, but they’re all fighter pilots. They aren’t afraid of much. And if they see the opportunity of rolling up a terrorist network just by flying at an air show in Paris, I don’t think you’d be able to stop them.”
* * *
Ismael and Madani were surprised by the loud knock on the door. Madani nodded at Khalida, who opened the door slowly and saw three people waiting in the hall. As soon as the door was open the three came quickly into the room, speaking to them in low tones. They blindfolded the three Algerians.
Madani was furious. “We are your friends!”
“We decide who our friends are. You bring with you one who has been in America for three years? How do you know he is not with the CIA?”
“His brother was killed by the Americans!”
“Come with us.” They led the three down the hallway of the hotel and out into the loud streets.
Ismael’s blindfold was painfully tight. He saw stars whenever he tried to move his eyes. “Where are you taking us?”
“Silence!”
They drove around the city randomly for twenty minutes, then headed toward the outskirts of Khartoum. The ruts of the dirt road jarred Ismael as he sat painfully on the metal floor of the truck. The brakes finally squeaked, and the truck came to a stop. The back opened, and the Algerians were pulled out into the dust that hovered around the truck where it had stopped. They were pushed into a building, into a cold, dry room, and their blindfolds were removed.
Ismael squinted at Madani. “Why do we have to be treated like spies?”
Madani ignored him and looked around the room, wondering the same thing but trying to act superior.
Ismael leaned back against a wall with his arms folded. They could hear muffled voices, but no one came for them. Ismael slid down the wall and sat in a crouch with his back against the wall. He picked a piece of concrete off the floor and played with it in his hands. Madani paced. They waited for an hour. Just when Ismael was about to try the door out of annoyance, it opened and a man came in. They assumed it was a guard; the man was as young as Ismael.
The man looked at Ismael, then at Madani and Khalida. “You have come a long way.”
“We have. We came for . . . help.”
The young man had a dazzling, mischievous smile. “Everyone wants our help!” he said, holding out his hands in mock surprise.
“If you are offended by our request, we could leave,” Madani said, trying to determine whether this young man was one of the leaders, someone to whom he should give deference.
“No, no. Not after coming all this way. I will hear your request, although I already know what it is you want.” He gestured, “Come with me.” He led them out the door into the bright sunshine. He walked along the side of the building toward another building. He stopped and looked at Ismael. He was intrigued. “You are the brother.”
Ismael nodded.
“The one who just came from America.”
Ismael nodded.
“You were successful in your objective, there, in America.”
“Some of it.”
“And you learned much, I understand.”
“I could have done better, but I’m here.”
The man smil
ed again. “Being smart doesn’t mean you make all good decisions. It means you learn from your bad ones, and make the best of all of them.”
“I had never thought of it like that.”
“No, of course you haven’t,” the man said. He went inside the second building and into a cool room with a low table. “Because all the people you have dealt with are much older, right?”
“Yes.”
“They always think they are smarter. But in all their experience and wisdom, they never tell you about all the stupid things they did—and survived—that allowed them to be so old and wise!”
Ismael nodded, amused. He liked this young man, just as he had expected he would from what he had been told.
“And they never tell you about the mistakes they continue to make. Many of them are much more stupid than you are, but will never let you see that. It would make them lose power over you. Here,” he said, indicating the table. “Let us sit down. Here, with us, everything is based on what you can do, or what you have done, not how old you are. Would you like some coffee?”
Madani frowned, sure that all this insolent man’s comments were directed at him, but he nodded at the offer. “What is your name?” Madani asked.
The young man looked into Madani’s face for the first time. Ismael thought he detected a hint of contempt. “I go by Salam.”
“Well, Salam,” Madani asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, “are you the one that we will be dealing with in presenting our request?”
“Much like Ismael here, I have a very technical mind—electronics, explosives, and weapons come very easily to me. After years
of working with such things, I have been put in charge of our weapons. When someone comes to us, like you—which is not uncommon—I am the one who decides. Just me. Not a committee.” He frowned slightly. “Generally these requests are not well thought out, and are rejected. So it doesn’t take long. What surprises us is that people are willing to travel so far to get nothing. But they come from all over the world to ask things from us. We listen. I listen. And I make good decisions.”
“You were able to get out of Afghanistan with your weapons?” Ismael asked.
Salam breathed in audibly and paused. “Not all of them. But most. Most of the important ones, and we’ve been able to replace the rest. So we are doing well.”
“Could you be seen when you brought the weapons here?”
“There was no one watching. Of that we are sure.”
Ismael was about to say something but held his tongue. Salam was watching him. “You think I am wrong.”
“I said nothing.”
“You think we have been observed. Can you not see that we are in a large warehouse? No one can see in. No one comes in without escort, and we know everyone. It is very secure.” He still saw a look on Ismael’s face that showed disagreement. “What is it that concerns you?”
“Satellites.”
Salam smiled. “We track all their satellites. We know where they are and when they will pass overhead. We know what we are doing.”
Ismael considered saying nothing, but couldn’t resist. “Are you aware of the two launches from Vandenberg in California and Cape Canaveral in Florida within the last six months? Satellites USA 164 and 165. Are you aware of those? They joined the others in the American surveillance system, the Advanced Crystal satellites. The California satellite took up a Sun-synchronous orbit at 97.9 degrees around a thousand kilometers. The second was set at 63.5 degrees about twenty-nine hundred kilometers in an Earth-circular orbit. When put with the radar-imaging satellites launched in October of 2001, they give the Americans an ability to photograph this area every hour. Are you aware of that?”
Salam stared at Ismael in disbelief. “How do you know this?”
“I pay a lot of attention to things others don’t care about. I find it helps prepare me for what I am doing.”
“We knew there were new reconnaissance satellites, and that is why we have moved all our operations indoors.”
“The weapons boxes I saw stored in the area between the two buildings?”
“They are just boxes.”
“They will look like weapons boxes from the sky. The shape and size is unique.”
Salam nodded, smiling. “We were talking about how we got out of Afghanistan. After the World Trade Center . . . attack . . . which we had nothing to do with . . . there were a few weeks before the American bombing started. We knew it was coming and moved our operation here to Khartoum. It has been a good home for us. We are keeping our heads down until the time is right.”
A boy brought small cups of coffee for each of them.
“How are things progressing in Algeria?” Salam asked Madani.
“We have made much progress. Islam is finally part of the ruling government, something that has not been the case since before the French.”
“So now the problems truly begin.” Salam smiled.
Madani was shocked by Salam’s irreverence. “Islam is the greatest thing that could happen to a country.”
Salam’s face instantly changed to show he was deadly serious. “You have misunderstood me. I did not mean that Islam brings problems. It highlights corruption and evil much more clearly than any other sort of government. The country can no longer pretend that it will all work out in the end. It is the light of truth. But before the light shines on a country’s activity, no one recognizes how corrupt and evil it is. When the light is on, it is obvious to everyone. It makes people think things are much worse. People prefer living in corruption. I’m sure you have seen that.”
Madani nodded enthusiastically. “Forgive me for misunderstanding you.”
Salam settled back and breathed deeply. “So. What is it you would like?”
“Stingers,” Ismael said before Madani took complete control of the conversation.
“For what?”
“To avenge the death of my brother. The pilot who shot down my brother is a pilot for the American Navy flight demonstration squadron. They fly in air shows. The Blue Angels—”
“I know all this. You killed his brother. You have achieved your revenge.”
“I want to get the man who did it.”
“How?”
“By shooting him down with a Stinger during an air show.”
“In America? You plan on doing this in America?”
“In a few days they will perform in an air show outside the U.S.”
“Where?”
“Paris.”
“Paris?” Salam raised his eyebrows. That was the first thing he had heard that was encouraging. “That is not much time. How do you plan on doing this?”
Madani pulled a diagram from his shirt. He put it on the small coffee table in front of them. “We have a plan. We have spent many hours on it—”
“With Ismael? Has he been part of the plan?”
“He will be one of the shooters—”
“My question was whether he was part of the planning.”
“Yes.”
Salam looked at Ismael. “Were you?”
“I helped.”
“Then you are comfortable with this plan?”
“Yes.” They exchanged a knowing glance.
Salam sat forward and asked, “What is that?” pointing to the document Madani had taken out.
“It is a diagram of Le Bourget airport where the air show will be. It is from their web site and shows the display booth locations, the hangars, and the buildings near the airport. I have drawn in lines of sight for the shooters and the proper time to shoot, calculating the speed of the missiles and the time of flight so they all arrive at the same place at the same time, when the two solos cross right in front of the crowd.”
Salam looked at Ismael. “Do they carry flares on their airplanes?”
“I have studied their F/A-18 jets and know where the flares are carried. I looked for signs of them on the jets during air shows and saw no indication. Maybe Paris will be different, but I doubt it. And the Stin
ger is a very smart missile. It works off a different heat spectrum than the usual flare does.”
“How do you know this?” Salam asked, testing.
“Research.”
“You are right. The Russians dropped flares all over the place when they were shot at with Stingers. It had no effect. The helicopters were shot out of the sky like wingless elephants. But how would you get them into France?”
“I can do that,” Madani said confidently.
“You are sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure. We transport many things to France. In large bulk. It is not a problem. There are many Algerians living in Paris.”
“Who will be the other shooters?”
“Two who will go with us from Algeria, and we will be helped by some friends in Paris.”
“So you have a plan. Now, why should we help you?”
“For my brother,” Ismael said. “For the sake of all those who have had the courage to stand up to the United States in the past and have been killed for trying. For all of us to whom America represents what is decadent and evil and hostile to Islam.”
Salam shook his head. “It would be unwise of us to sell our Stingers. We cannot get more. We may have a greater need for them in the future. And if one is used, the Americans will know where it came from.”
“Will your Stingers even work?”
“Why wouldn’t they work?”
“Because the Stingers you have were the ones given to the mujahideen by the CIA in the eighties to fight the Russians. That was a long time ago. The Stingers have chemical batteries that only keep the missile ready to fire for about ten years. So unless you have found adequate replacements for the batteries, they will not work.”
Salam shook his head and smiled in amazement. He spoke to Madani. “This one is very bright,” he said, indicating Ismael. “You should make sure you protect him. He is an important part of the future.” He looked at Ismael. “We have replaced all the chemical batteries of the Stingers we have, and they are in perfect working order. How many missiles did you want?”
The Shadows of Power Page 21