Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  Cubbidge instantly recognizes a Photoshop job. The kaffiya has been electronically cut and pasted onto the man’s head with the program used all over the world to adjust, improve, and doctor photographs.

  But why in the world would someone do that? she asks herself. And then, I wonder what this guy’s going to look like without the headscarf? Saving the original, she makes a copy, opens Photoshop and erases the headscarf. Then replaces the missing part of his forehead and fills it in with hair.

  Sitting back and surveying the result, she decides: Without the kaffiya, there’s no doubt he’s Western—British or American, Canadian or Australian. So what’s his face doing in an email written in Arabic? And why would someone go to the trouble to put a headscarf on him?

  She sends the flier to the translation section and then, as she has been instructed, Red Codes the message in both versions, original and her edit, and touches the SEND button on her keyboard, zipping it to her supervisor and whoever else in the intelligence community is authorized for Code Red. Have I intercepted an encoded terrorist communication? And if so, what in the world does the disguised Westerner pictured on the flier have to do with terrorists?

  Fourteen miles away in the Pentagon, Lieutenant Williams notices the Code Red intercept the second it flashes on his screen—two documents arriving from NSA. One a crude flier with a picture of a man in a headscarf. But Williams checks the face again. Is there something familiar? When he opens the second document. Williams almost spits out his coffee. There is no mistaking the subject of the photograph or the import of the intercept. Someone has put Howard Collyer’s picture on a poster. And the fucking copy is in Arabic.

  Two seconds later, he hears General Watt bellowing his name. As he scrambles around his desk, he can see others in the skiff also staring at the flier. Officers are standing, grabbing for phones, the photo causing an increasing buzz of conversation around the crowded office. Why did someone put Collyer’s face on a flier and place a turban on his head to make him look Middle Eastern? And the fact that his picture is surrounded by Arabic copy is even more alarming.

  “Williams, get in here,” Watt yells from his office. “Did you see what just came in?”

  “Yes, sir,” Williams says.

  Watt has already printed out the email and is holding it up for Williams to see. “How many people receive Code Red?”

  “Only us as long as our NSA contact plays by the rules.”

  “Are you sure? We have to know if this was circulated.”

  “I’ll double check, sir.”

  “Someone who speaks Arabic is looking for Collyer. And most likely it isn’t the Arab-American Friendship Society.”

  “Even though I can’t read a word I think that is the only possible conclusion.”

  “If some jihadist group knows Collyer’s on the track of a nuke, it’s a whole new ball game.”

  Watt recalls the bug at Collyer’s house that suddenly went dead. He sits back in his chair, tossing the printout of the flier on his desk with a gravelly snort. All of a sudden the stakes have gone up big time. Terrorists on the trail of a loose nuke—an unsettling prospect—even though the nukes would be hard to find and retrieve and it’s only a crank like Collyer who’s involved. It’s no longer a matter of saving face, there might be national security implications. How long will we be able to keep this information under wraps before we’re forced to act?

  “Could be they’ve lost him,” Williams offers, trying to make the best of the situation. “I bet that’s why they put this out. Risky of them to send his picture over the Internet. They must have guessed we would intercept it.”

  Williams leans farther back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. “On the other hand maybe they don’t give a damn.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Think about it. As long as they beat us to the nuke, who cares?”

  “That’s a ghastly thought.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’ll get it translated ASAP. Might take them a while but I’ll put the pressure on.”

  Watt watches Williams shut the door behind him then looks over at his stew phone. He wonders how long it will take Hatkin to find out about the terrorist connection to Collyer. Watt bets he has his own sources at NSA so it won’t be long before he’s on the horn to him. Though the terrorists the FBI has rounded up so far have been a sorry lot—from paintball players in the Virginia woods to a bunch of whackos in Miami—there’s always a chance an authentic sleeper cell is out there.

  Watt unwraps a fresh roll of Tums, knowing he’s going to need at least one pack to get himself through the day.

  22

  Rutgers campus, Wednesday, 7 a.m.

  He can hear Melanie in the other room, TV’s blaring, she’s singing along with a commercial. His early class on Wednesday is a three-hour lab. Mehran puts the finishing touches on his paper then checks his email. There’s a new message with an odd attachment.

  He gets up, quietly clicks the door shut and sits back down, staring at the document accompanying the email. It’s written in the words of a spurned wife reaching out to people in the Islamic community to put the finger on her reprobate husband. He puzzles over it. Wait a minute, he thinks, there’s something familiar about the face. He leans in toward the screen, inspecting the photograph closely. Then he does a classic double take.

  I can’t believe it. It’s Collyer’s picture from his website. Why do they risk compromising the mission by publishing Collyer’s picture? They’ve dressed him up in a kaffiya to make him look like an Arab. Or maybe to disguise him? But it’s such a clumsy job the Americans will see through it in a second.

  From the start they have been warned about the millions of American computers sifting through worldwide communication looking for traces of terrorists. His first thought is his own security. Then he worries about the mission. Have they lost Collyer and are pulling out all the stops to find him?

  Quickly checking Collyer’s site, he sees nothing has changed, no updates in the past two weeks. Then he goes on the website sent with the email and is immediately heartened. There is a long string of messages, many posted in the last hour, Mehran guesses over fifty. As he watches them multiply minute by minute, the network answering the appeal for information on the whereabouts of the husband in order to turn him in to her bloodthirsty brothers for the appropriate revenge, he realizes it’s a stroke of genius. Someone in the top command must have deemed it necessary to go public. He chides himself for being so doubting.

  If I didn’t believe in the leadership, I wouldn’t be devoting my life to the cause. I have to believe they have chosen the right course.

  Mehran gets up, unlocks his door and walks out into the living room. Melanie is pouring coffee.

  “Is everything all right? I heard you close your door suddenly.”

  “It is okay,” Mehran says, taking the cup of coffee she’s holding out to him.

  “I was afraid you’d gotten bad news.”

  “Everything is fine, thanks for being concerned.”

  Melanie gives him a peck on the cheek. The irony of the scene strikes him.

  Here I am in this typical American domestic situation, taking a cup of Maxwell House from my smiling partner who’s wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, instant waffles heating in the toaster with Good Morning America booming from the TV. What could be more typically American?

  Mehran thinks and then adds, If they only knew.

  Though it’s well after midnight in Solo, the early summer air is still thick and steamy. Even the torrential downpour during the day has not cooled things off. A flock of mosquitoes insistently buzzing over his head keeps him company. The ceiling fan is whirring noisily, flapping the papers on his desk. El-Khadr has not slept since they sent the email and he’s just nodding off when Naguib sticks his head in.

  “The network is coming alive. They are beginning to respond to our communication,” he tells El-Khadr. Grabbing his glasses
and crop, El-Khadr hustles out toward Naguib’s workstation.

  Nodding in approval as he looks at the posts flooding into the website, he says to no one in particular, “This is good, good, this is very good.”

  As the flier circulates, connections are being made instantaneously and multiplying swiftly. As Naguib opens the messages one after another for his boss, they read down the string of posts.

  People are shocked and outraged by the woman’s tale of woe. The stolen Koran is the last straw. The number quickly mushrooms as more and more people log onto the website, a chain of emails, faxes and telephone calls extending over the East Coast as Muslims keep an eye out for the loathsome husband.

  El-Khadr looks at his watch. Though he is tired, he cannot afford sleep. Either we find Collyer or . . . He does not need to finish his thought.

  Watt is halfway out the door on his way to shower at the POAC when Williams stops him. Other than napping at his desk and catching a couple hours of shuteye on his sofa, Watt’s had no sleep. And he’s fed up with food court meals, craving wine and a juicy ribeye, but knowing Hatkin might call any minute, there was no way he could leave his post.

  “A woman in Pittsburgh called the cops. We’ve had an alert out with police departments in counties around the area. Returned from a business trip last night to find her plates missing. Only tags stolen from the airport in the past week so there’s a possibility it was Collyer.”

  “If it was him, that’s damn smart.” Watt thinks, Hopefully that’s the last good move he’ll make.

  “Every police department in a three-state area has the number.”

  “Alert a team, I want them standing by.”

  “Already done. I activated it before I came in so we wouldn’t lose any time.”

  “Which one?”

  “Alpha Orange—one of our best demolitions people, two snipers, an electronic surveillance group, anything we could need.”

  “And their orders?”

  “First locate the car, then check for Collyer.”

  Watt shakes his head. Motioning for Williams to come into his office, he closes the door. Williams notices the past five days are taking their toll on his boss. He’s looking disheveled, his hair matted and his uniform rumpled, a half-day’s stubble flocking his cheeks. But the grim determination in his eyes is unmistakable and his voice is clear and direct. “We can’t afford to have Collyer on the loose. He could be leading terrorists to a nuke. If it turns out to be his car, all three of them, Collyer, Risstup, Thorsen, have to be considered enemy combatants.”

  In order to crack down on terrorism, the term enemy combatant is now employed to any suspect, making anyone so labeled fair game for drastic measures.

  “I understand, sir.” Williams knows he doesn’t have to say another word.

  As he closes the door, the bell jingles behind him. Though he knows it isn’t smart, he is a sucker for her double-skim lattes. Howie quickly surveys the interior. Esmerelda’s Hot Shoppe is crowded with locals, most retirees, folks in their sixties and seventies scarfing down scrambled eggs and bacon, sausage and pancakes, sipping espressos and mugs of steaming java. Everyone gives him a quick once-over as he crosses the room and then goes back to the food in front of them.

  Howie gets in line for coffee. Two people ahead of him, one older guy and a secretary-type in a blouse, skirt and heels. She’s a looker, Howie thinks, appreciating her butt and shapely legs and praying she’s not going to order those concoctions disguised as coffee that take five minutes to make.

  “Caramel macchiato, please, with an extra shot,” she says. Howie gives the man in front of him a look. They nod knowingly, their eyes groaning in unison.

  As he waits at the counter, Howie’s gaze drifts through the pass-through. The kitchen is a beehive, people scurrying around, smoke sizzling up from the grill, the sound of plates clanking, metal against china, everything at Esmerelda’s moving at warp speed.

  The woman takes her drink. Then fishes in her purse. She’s not going to write a check? Howie rolls his eyes. Another two minutes.

  Howie needs to get back to work as Risstup’s progress has been encouraging. Sharon has helped fill in his childhood in California. His college experience is coming together and he’s starting to tell stories about piloting B-52s. Howie’s flight simulation software is ready to go. And as anxious as he is to move forward, he knows you can’t patch together a lifetime in two seconds.

  Then suddenly, just for an instant, Howie catches the eye of someone in the kitchen, a dishwasher maybe? Busboy? White outfit, stains on his shirt. Dark hair, could be Middle Eastern, staring at me as he slips through the space behind the pass-through—or is he? And what is his expression saying? Do I know you? Have I seen you before? And what is it that I don’t like about you?

  It all goes by in a few fleeting seconds—I am getting paranoid?

  “Sir? May I help you, sir?” the counter girl’s peeved.

  “Yes,” Howie recovers, “two double skim lattes, please, and one coffee with room for milk.” He glances back into the kitchen. The busboy has disappeared. Maybe he shot me a look because he’s looking for a little diversion? Or it was an idle glance, nothing more?

  “That will be six-seventy-five, sir,” the girl says, handing Howie a cardboard tray holding the coffees.

  Howie forks over the cash and turns to leave. One cup tilts, threatening to tumble. Howie catches it and heads for the door. He knows he’s rattled but doesn’t know what to do. Why would a busboy at a dinky cafe in a podunk town single me out? It makes no sense.

  But that doesn’t keep Howie from heading back to the motel at a good clip, looking over his shoulder a few times to make sure.

  El-Khadr is at the bazaar when his cell phone rings. He told Naguib to call on the cell if there were any news—reluctantly, since an American Predator drone has homed in on a phone’s signal too many times and launched a Hellfire missile, instantaneously replacing the person talking with a twenty-foot-wide crater.

  He cuts Naguib off when he hears what he needs to know and scurries back to his headquarters as fast as his peg leg will carry him.

  Naguib is holding the door open. “The message came in two minutes ago,” he tells El-Khadr. “Someone saw him in a small town west of DC They know where he’s staying, even located his car.”

  El-Khadr is panting, he waits until the door shuts behind him. “Can we be sure?”

  “The person who saw him said he recognized him even without the kaffiya.”

  “Allah be praised,” El Khadr whispers. Crossing the room, El-Khadr pulls up a chair at the workstation next to Naguib. He will type out his orders in Arabic, Naguib will encode them.

  El-Khadr has already taken a gamble with the flier, he can’t risk any further open communication. As cumbersome as the code is, they must revert to encrypted messages.

  His first objective is to pinpoint Collyer, then to throw a protective cordon around him so he can continue his search uninterrupted. He has to expect the Americans are pulling out all the stops. He smiles as he imagines the American intelligence colossus falling all over itself as it scrambles to catch up with Collyer, the finger-pointing, the backpedaling—El-Khadr knows Americans all too well.

  El-Khadr wastes no time ordering the cell members based around Camden, New Jersey, into action. Three of the five cut their teeth fighting the Russians in Afghanistan, the other two are Saudis, veterans of the Chechen conflict. El-Khadr has used them on other operations in Africa and Yemen. All are young, fast, ruthless, fearless and dedicated to the cause.

  They also have mastered American slang and customs. Only one has dark skin, the others wouldn’t raise an eyebrow standing in line at McDonald’s. One works as a waiter, another’s a roofer, a third drives a cab, their names borrowed from high school yearbooks ring true, their identities precise and complete right down to their driver’s licenses and Social Security cards.

  No one would suspect that they are trained assassins dedicated to the overthrow
of the Great Satan, devout jihadists determined to bring destruction to the Far Enemy.

  El-Khadr claps Naguib on the shoulder as he reads his translation. He is further impressed with his new lieutenant’s work. Fast and flexible, creative and nimble, he is proving to be just the man El-Khadr needs to get his mission back on track.

  23

  Washington, Wednesday, noon

  Watt is around his desk and out of his office faster than Williams has ever seen the paunchy fifty-eight-year-old general move. “Front Royal?” he asks. “Are you certain it’s him?”

  “Definitely his car, a 1998 Accord LX with the plates from the airport.” Both men are examining the digital photo on Williams’ computer screen emailed to them by the Front Royal police.

  “Any sign of him?”

  “I left that up to us, sir. The less said, the better. No reason why any of the local cops should know who we’re looking for or why.”

  Watt realizes his lack of sleep is showing. “You’re right,” he says, and changes the subject. “How long before Alpha Orange lands?”

  Williams turns his wrist so he can see his watch, “Within minutes. They took off from Belvoir a half hour ago.”

  The minute the Black Hawk touches down outside of Front Royal, the Alpha Orange team jumps out and double-times toward a waiting SUV. Dressed in casual clothes, chinos, baseball caps and windbreakers, the seven men could easily be mistaken for a group of guys off to a football game were it not for their military-style backpacks and long black suitcases. As they stash their gear in the back and pile into the SUV, only four cows on the far side of the pasture pay any attention.

  As soon as the team leader is in the front seat, he has a detailed map open on his lap. Twelve minutes into town. Though he knows it’s none of his business, as he sorts through his target’s photos—the old coot, an attractive woman in a nurse’s uniform and the retired guy named Collyer—a question keeps running through Captain Perini’s mind. What did these people do to get themselves in such deep shit?