Nomad

by James Swallow

  He put the gun away and opened the door without waiting for them to knock. His lieutenant entered, followed by the Britisher mercenary and his Afrikaner associate. They looked oddly out of place dressed as American peace officers.

  Jadeed greeted him firmly, his eyes lit with fire. “Commander. We have secured the last items.” He offered Khadir a plastic packet. Inside were a dozen identity passes, and from them the faces of his young charges looked back up at him.

  “Good work, innit?” said the Britisher. “No one’s gonna be able to tell those have been doctored.”

  Khadir allowed a nod of agreement. “Your employers … Their counterfeiters work quickly.”

  “I went to the forger in Georgetown myself,” Jadeed noted. “The cover identities have completely overwritten the originals.”

  “You encountered no problems securing them?”

  Jadeed shook his head. “The exchange was made without issue.” While Khadir had been driving to the rendezvous, the advance team had tracked a specifically-targeted student party to their hotel, stealing their passes and replacing them with fakes.

  “That’s what happens when you work with people who know what they’re doing,” said Tommy. He came closer, his belligerent swagger dialing up as he advanced. “Not like you fucking weekenders.”

  Khadir missed the exact meaning of the term but not the sense of it. “You think we are not soldiers, like you? I have worn a uniform. I have saluted and carried a gun for ‘king and country.’” He said the last with a sneer. “Our breed of war is not yours, mercenary. Do not judge what you do not understand.”

  “You what?” The Britisher rocked on his heels. “Did you just compare your toe-rags to us?” He shook his head, and Khadir sensed too late that the man had come into the room looking for a fight. “I understand you have no fucking clue about how to handle operational security! I mean, just ’cause your idea of a class hit is to blow yourselves up, you don’t police the little things, do you? Like making sure your boat wasn’t tracked all the way from bloody Turkey!”

  Khadir’s moderated manner disintegrated. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone got aboard the Santa Cruz after you left,” said Ellis. “Details are sketchy, but we lost men. There was a firefight on the ship. Grunewald is dead.”

  “Point is,” Tommy snarled, “you got fleas on you. Someone here talk?” He looked around, searching for another target to vent his annoyance on.

  It took Khadir a moment to process this. “Who were these intruders? American intelligence? The British?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough if you don’t stick to the fucking plan, Saladin. If someone’s got a scent, we can’t make any more mistakes. Now, if it was up to me, I’d leave you twisting in the wind, but it ain’t. This is almost done and I’ve had enough of babysitting all your jihadi bollocks. Don’t mess about, and we can all go home happy…” The Britisher trailed off, then nodded toward the bus. “Well. Most of us.”

  “You are afraid to die.” Khadir’s gaze bored into the mercenary as he said the words. This man he had nicknamed “Tommy” was the exemplar of his masters, the faceless rich who comprised the Combine. They did not fight for a belief in anything larger than themselves, only for power. There was no purity to these men.

  “Say that again,” Tommy hissed.

  “You fear death. Perhaps you think you will go to hell for what you have done in your life. Or perhaps you believe there is nothing beyond. It is not important. All that matters is that you will never be able to understand those who sacrifice themselves for a greater good.”

  Ellis rolled his eyes. “Nice speech. Said it a lot, I bet.”

  Something in the Britisher’s gaze shifted, and the hooligan mask he wore slipped. Khadir wondered if he had been played for a fool. Was this man more than just the thug he seemed to be? He could not be certain.

  “You don’t like me ’cause I take blood money for all the shit I do,” said Tommy. “Fuck you, pal. I know what I am. I’ve made my peace with it.” His voice dropped and he prodded Khadir in the chest. “I don’t like you because you’re a zealot, sunshine. You don’t give a squirt of piss about anything but body count. You think you’re on a mission from god, you strut around like you’re better than the rest of us … but you ain’t no soldier.” Before Khadir could respond, the Britisher leaned back. “You’re not going to be doing any dying today, are ya?” He shot another look at the bus. “That’s the difference between you and me, mate.”

  His anger boiled at the man’s disrespectful words, and for a moment, Khadir contemplated killing them and moving on without the mercenaries. But Al Sayf needed the Combine’s goodwill. As much as he loathed these empty men, the work required that he carry on this association for a little while longer.

  He turned his back on them and handed his smartphone to Jadeed, who seethed silently at the Britisher’s insolence. Khadir met his gaze, switching to Arabic. “Take this and arm the weapons. Make sure each of them is ready.”

  Jadeed gave a reluctant nod and took the handset. His eyebrows rose as a question formed in his mind. “Number Seven?”

  “Wastage,” Khadir told him. “He was weak. You were correct, my friend. I should have let you execute him at the orphanage. Instead, he served another purpose.”

  Jadeed accepted that. “I want to kill the Britisher,” he said quietly. “After. Will you grant me that?”

  “After,” Khadir agreed. “It will help us to throw some corpses to the Americans.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Marc chanced a look at the Cabot watch on his wrist and saw the minutes falling away. Every mile they traveled seemed to take an age. His fingers drummed on the sill of the GT-500’s window and he stopped himself by making a fist.

  “We have time,” said Lucy, without taking her eyes off the road.

  “We really don’t,” he shot back. “Look, maybe I should dial 911, phone in the threat…” Even as he said it, the idea seemed wrong.

  “Give the DC Police descriptions of Khadir and the bus, tell them a tale about kids with bombs sewn up inside them? The cops will think you’re insane.” Lucy shook her head. “The only way they’re gonna take you seriously is if you give them your name, and that’ll connect with whatever Interpol warrant MI6 has with your smiling face on it. You’re an international fugitive, which makes it pretty unlikely anyone is going to listen to you.”

  He studied her. “So you make the call, then.”

  Lucy’s jaw stiffened. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Why?” Marc pressed, sensing that she was holding something back from him, the same vibe he’d got on the road in Turkey. “Apart from that whole pretending-to-be-a-federal-agent bit back at the diner, what’s stopping you from contacting someone in Washington? Someone from your Army service? Lucy, come on—”

  “No.” She shut him down hard. “Okay, you want to know why? Because I’m on a wanted list too. See, the US Army and me? We didn’t exactly part on good terms.” He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucy cut him off. “And I will not elaborate, because it’s none of your goddamned business.”

  “So,” he said, after a moment. “Up to us, then.”

  * * *

  Lucy pulled off 13th Street and slipped the Mustang into an underground garage below a shopping mall. As the engine died, she sat there and listened to the echo of the concrete space, the growl of other cars coming and going.

  She fished a pair of sunglasses from the top pocket of her jacket and put them on, flashing a look at her reflection in the rear-view to see if they concealed the new shiner she was growing. Good enough, she decided, and checked the loads in her Walther semi-automatic before settling it into a shoulder holster.

  Marc was doing the same thing, easing back the slide on the Glock to make sure he had a bullet in the pipe.

  “We’ll walk and talk,” she told him, reaching for the door handle.

  He jutted his chin at the car. “We’re just gonna leave the HMX we pulled
out of that kid?”

  “We sure as hell are not taking it with us.” She walked on, and neither of them mentioned the ever-decreasing countdown. They both understood what missing it would mean.

  Marc dragged his battered daypack up and hung it over one shoulder, hunching into it as he walked. “Should probably split up,” he said, as they approached the door out to the sidewalk. “More chance of spotting the bus that way.”

  She was going to agree, but then they emerged into the bright daylight on the corner of F Street to see a convoy of identical school buses heading in the opposite direction. “Or not.”

  In every direction, Lucy saw coaches, buses and school vehicles. More than that, the streets between Metro Center and the Federal Triangle were choked with dozens of groups of teenage students on top of the city’s usual load of transient tourists and day-trippers. They moved in flocks behind harried teachers, each cluster color-coded by college sweatshirts or fluorescent backpacks.

  “Needle, meet haystack,” muttered Marc. “Everyone and their dog has come out today.”

  “Keep moving,” she told him. They crossed down to Pennsylvania Avenue, and Lucy’s own threat radar went off as she saw the uptick in the numbers of uniformed police officers. Blue sawhorses were arranged to slow traffic and manage the flow of vehicles and pedestrians into channels that the DC PD could watch—and if the need arose—cut off. Trailing a group of people carrying pro-presidential placards for the rally, they turned west and Marc pointed out a striking white Beaux Arts building on the corner.

  “The Willard Hotel. Little up-market for my tastes, to be honest.”

  She frowned. “It’s a landmark. It could just be that. A waypoint.”

  He shot her a look. “It’s also one of the tallest buildings in the area. If you’re planning a strike, it’s got a good view of the target zone.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The temporary stage where the rally’s speeches would be given was a few blocks to the east. A whole section of the National Mall, in front of the Capitol Building and its reflecting pool, had been cordoned off, between 3rd and 7th Street. From the top of the Willard, an observer would have a clear line of sight over the roofs of the Internal Revenue and Legislative Affairs buildings in the so-called Federal Triangle. “I’ll check it out. You take Pershing Park across the street.”

  “Or…” She halted, and a weight of certainty settled on her. “Or I don’t do that.” Lucy looked around at the civilians moving past them, and she could hear the sounds of a boisterous brass section, where the band of the United States Marine Corps were playing “The Circus Bee” to the waiting crowds. She had been entertaining the possibility that the two of them could find a way to isolate the Al Sayf cell, but as she saw the people, the numbers … That seemed more and more like pinning their hopes on blind luck.

  “This is not a time to be cryptic,” Marc told her.

  Lucy shook her head. “I mean, you were right. I can make a call. Get more eyes on this.” Her mind flashed back to the ugly mess of red she had seen inside that poor Arab kid’s belly, the callous device and the ugly potential within it. A dozen more of those could turn this peaceful gathering into a day of hell.

  “You’ll be in cuffs ten seconds later.”

  “Likely,” she said sharply. “But my liberty is a small price to pay if we can flag Khadir and his soldier-boys.”

  “You sure?” He actually sounded worried for her, and Lucy found that oddly touching. But she was already walking away. Now she’d committed to the choice, she felt no doubts about it.

  “Get up there,” said Lucy, jabbing her finger at the Willard’s ornate parapets. “And do some of that clever shit you’re good at.”

  * * *

  Jadeed lined up the youths in front of the school bus. They had been given tea and hot food, woken from their fitful slumber for a last meal. Khadir did not tell them it was so, of course.

  Now it was just them, Khadir, his second and the American with the dead eyes and expressionless face, the one called Teape. All the others were gone, and he had not been sorry to see the arrogant Britisher leave for the observation point with the South African. The warehouse had an expectant air that reminded Khadir of a mosque in the moments before a service began.

  He walked the line of young men, measuring the balance of their confidence. It was to their credit that none of them showed weakness. Cutting the boy Halil from the crop had made sure that would not happen. He had served his purpose as a lesson, and the others had learned it well.

  Jadeed offered a tight nod. “Ready for final deployment.”

  He returned the nod and gestured to the American. “Wait inside the bus.”

  Teape climbed into the vehicle, indifferent to the weight of the moment taking place around him. Khadir turned his gaze on the youths. “We are here,” he began, speaking in Arabic. “In the heart of enemy territory. America is a great beast, asleep as we walk softly through its domains. In the past that beast has lashed out at us. But it is a foolish, imbecilic animal. Slow and ponderous. It does not see us coming, my brothers.”

  He saw some of them react; he had never called them brothers before this moment, and they understood the consequences of being granted that status.

  “Today, we will strike a blow of great force. It will sound around the world. Every enemy will recoil in its wake. You are the bringers of glory, and after today you will be undying.” He paused and brought his hands together. “Much has been asked of you, but you have not faltered. You make Al Sayf proud, my brothers. You make me proud.”

  The youth closest to him, the lanky teenager called Adad, looked up with shining eyes. His words fell on fertile ground, emboldening the young troop of soon-to-be shahiden. Khadir wondered if they really did understand the fate that was unfolding before them. It mattered little at this point. The training at the orphanage had beaten the questions out of them long ago, forged them into soldiers that would obey willingly. Al Sayf had made them anew, he reflected.

  You’re not going to be doing any dying today. The Britisher’s mocking words came back to him as he studied their faces, and Khadir looked inside himself, searching for any spark of guilt at the plan he had set in motion. He found none.

  “The strike you lead this day will eclipse all others,” he said, closing the speech with a respectful nod. “Go to it, brothers, and take a man’s revenge on those who have wronged you.” He stood by the door and bowed to them as they boarded the bus, ending with a final handshake to Jadeed.

  “Inshallah,” said the other man. “Nothing can stop us now, sir.”

  “From your lips to heaven’s ears,” Khadir replied, although he shared little belief in higher powers. “You know what to do. Position the weapons and then disengage. We will meet again at the rendezvous, yes?”

  “Paris, in five days,” agreed Jadeed. “Then we begin our next endeavor.”

  Khadir stepped away, slapping the control button to retract the roller door and allow the bus to drive away. He gave each of the teenagers who dared to meet his eyes through the window the same fatherly gaze, and then they were gone.

  He waited for the sound of the engine to fade, and walked to the far corner of the warehouse, where a tarpaulin covered a Volkswagen Jetta. He threw aside the cover and climbed into the rental car, finding the keys on the seat, along with a one-way ticket on KLM’s mid-morning service to Charles De Gaulle.

  Khadir glanced at the clock on the Jetta’s dash, then at the timer app on his smartphone. His flight would be taking off shortly before the detonations, and he could not risk missing the departure. Every aircraft out of Washington DC not already in the air would be grounded within moments of the attack, and he had no wish to be trapped in this country while their lawmen picked through the debris. He donned a wig and eyeglasses, rubbing makeup into his cheeks to make his face appear lighter.

  His false smile became genuine as he drove off. By the time he deplaned in France, Omar Khadir would be responsible for redrawing the world, in b
lood and in flames.

  * * *

  Marc’s attire was inappropriate for the Willard’s more exclusive clientele, a dark jacket of military cut over a mix of tactical gear from the night before, but rather than brave whatever hawkish concierge patrolled the lobby, he slipped down the side street and made for the service entrance.

  Parked outside was a line of trucks, each bearing the logo of a different international broadcaster. Thick black cables snaked away under plastic covers, leading toward the press gallery a block distant. Inside the Willard, away from the gaze of the hotel’s well-heeled guests, tech crews were setting up their equipment to broadcast the president’s address live to millions of viewers.

  He aimed himself at a woman exiting the building, the tag of a laminated security pass dangling from her jacket pocket, and deliberately brushed too close to her. “Sorry!” he said, throwing a smile back at her without losing a step. She scowled and walked on, unaware that her pass was now in Marc’s hand. He tucked it in his jacket collar, using the lapel to hide the picture.

  He jogged across the Willard’s loading bay, ignored by one of the hotel’s security guards, and squeezed into a freight elevator as the door was closing.

  Two men were already inside, each wearing technician’s tool vests. They gave Marc a cursory glance and continued their conversation.

  The younger man was in the middle of complaining about something. “It makes work for all of us,” he was saying. “Would be way easier if we could just use wireless.”

  The other man gave a rueful, seen-it-all shrug. “Don’t mess with the government,” he said. “You work in this town long enough, you’ll realize that’s rule numero uno.” He looked at Marc again. “Hey. You just get in?”

  Marc’s pass bore the logo of BBC, so for once he could drop the accent. “Yeah. Off the red-eye from London.”

  “You look it,” said the younger man, taking in the fatigue that colored his expression. “There’s a rack in back of the comms room…”