Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  "Yes," Ethan said. "Cue the unsung heroes theme."

  Sam had to move fast on the remaining targets, Ethan knew. That was another reason she had hired her own team. As news of the sheik's capture spread, emails and phone numbers would change, and the dark forums would die.

  Even so, Ethan doubted he would be involved in the next leg of operations in Yemen. "So what's next for me?"

  She finished texting, locked her phone, and looked up. "You."

  "Me. My cover is blown."

  She nodded slowly. Sam had been forced to launch the operation early. The sheik was only in town for those two days and any delay risked losing him. The original plan had been to sell or give Al-Khayr the bugged dagger and then capture him at a later date, but Sam had moved up the time frame when she caught wind of the suicide attack in Tahrir Square; also influencing her decision in the matter was the fact that the sheik was notorious for detecting and evading bugs.

  Although the DIA team had made an effort to downplay Ethan's involvement—making it look like he had saved the sheik's life, for example—it was inevitable the blame would fall upon him. His visit coincided with the kidnapping, after all; it would be fairly obvious to surviving Al Qaeda members that Ethan had played a part.

  "I'm reassigning you," Sam said simply. Her ambiguous response told him she didn't entirely believe his cover was blown, but she wanted him to stay under Al Qaeda's radar for a while anyway.

  "Reassigning me."

  She laughed. "Don't be so dour. You make it sound like I'm relegating you to a desk."

  Ethan felt a sudden dread in the pit of his stomach. "Are you?"

  "Hardly. An operative as valuable as yourself would be utterly wasted at a desk. Besides, if I did that, I think I'd be seeing your resignation. If I don't put you to use in one war or another, someone else will."

  Ethan shrugged. He couldn't disagree there.

  "Instead," Sam continued. "I'm reassigning you to one of the most target-rich environments in the Middle East. A place where we currently have a serious dearth of assets and intel. I've already got the legends made up."

  She tossed a passport and birth certificate onto the coffee table.

  "Are you going to tell me where this mystical target-rich land resides?" Ethan said, leaning forward to grab the legends. "Or are you going to leave me in suspense?"

  She smiled obligingly. "I believe it's time you made your hegira to the great Caliphate in Syria."

  "The great Caliphate." Ethan wasn't all that shocked. "Islamic State?" Ethan opened up the passport. His new identity was apparently that of a Saudi Arabian national.

  "The very same. Ever heard of the 'Selous Scouts?' A spec-ops regiment of the Rhodesia Army. They operated from 1973 to 1980."

  "Rhodesia."

  "Yes. A former British colony, it was an unrecognized successor state until the reconstitution of the country as Zimbabwe in 1980."

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Selous Scouts..."

  "Their mission was to infiltrate the terrorist cells of the guerrilla factions in the country. These guerrillas sought to end the white majority rule in Rhodesia through insurgency and terrorism, but the Selous Scouts applied asymmetric warfare tactics to destroy them from the inside out. Essentially, Rhodesian soldiers learned to act and talk like terrorists, then infiltrated the cells, gathered intelligence from behind enemy lines, and acted upon it directly. They obeyed the five D's: detect, deceive, disrupt, delay, destroy.

  "I want you to be one of my Selous Scouts. Go undercover as a foreign jihadi. Recruit local assets. Use insurgent tactics to attack Islamic State targets from within, and lay the blame at the feet of rival militant groups such as Al Qaeda." She paused. "If you think about it, everything you've done up until this moment has been part of your training, preparing you for this mission."

  "An operation of this scale, this complexity..." Ethan scratched his beard doubtfully. "I could be out there for years."

  "Foreign jihadists can leave whenever they want. It's an unwritten rule. The usual tenure seems to be about six months to a year."

  "Basically until they're injured or die. Am I right?"

  Sam pressed her lips together. "Look, if you don't want to do this, I'll understand."

  Ethan smiled grimly. He noticed she hadn't brought up compensation. Smart. Because it wasn't about the money. Doing something that no one else could do—going undercover, infiltrating enemy camps, and wreaking havoc in the name of freedom and justice—well, that was what Ethan lived for. The potential long term of the operation was what bothered him, but he smothered that concern. The thought of having to work behind a desk...

  "No, I'll do it. I'm your man. Like you said, this is what I've trained for my entire life. I'm a weapon. Use me."

  Sam folded her arms, seeming suddenly defensive. "I've also purchased William's contract. He's no longer a member of Task Force 78, and is now under my direct command. I'm sending him with you. You'll meet another operative in Turkey who'll join the two of you and arrange for transport into Syria. He'll brief you on the details."

  Ethan frowned. He understood why she had become defensive. "William and I are good friends, and we go way back, but I'm more of a lone wolf, you know that. And who's this third operative? Do I know him?"

  "You do. Aaron Berkley."

  Aaron was a former Army Ranger he'd fought with in Iraq. One of the few people who could do what Ethan and William did. Last time Ethan had seen him, Aaron had been working on some operation for Sam in the southern highlands of Yemen.

  "Sam, look—-" Ethan began.

  "The three of you will be working independently," Sam interrupted quickly. "You still get to be lone wolves, but you'll support each other as necessary. Trust me, when you're surrounded by brainwashed fanatics whose sole purpose in life is death by glorious jihad, it's good to have normal people to ground you."

  "Are you speaking from experience?" He knew she had done deep cover work of her own, but he wasn't familiar with the extent of it. He'd heard her speak two dialects of Arabic to contacts over the phone, but that was about it.

  Sam didn't blink. "You know I am."

  Against his better judgment, Ethan capitulated. "All right. Fine. They can come."

  "Good. You're our test group. If this operation is successful, we're going to expand, repurposing more units into Selous teams to infiltrate terrorist cells throughout the region."

  "Where are you going to find the people?" Ethan said doubtfully. "You know what I do is a very specialized job."

  "Oh I know," she said. "But we'll find them."

  Ethan frowned.

  "The goal is to eventually spread like a virus," Sam continued. "Ravaging the enemy from the inside."

  "Until they develop antibodies," Ethan said. "And stop accepting recruits so readily."

  "The openness of most terrorist groups to foreign fighters is their downfall. If our actions cause the Islamic State and other groups to stop accepting recruits, or require all newcomers to go through some complicated vetting process, then we slowly choke them of badly needed combatants. We win either way."

  Ethan set the passport down on the coffee table. "So I was thinking of spending a week in the Mediterranean."

  Sam smiled sadly. "No rest for the weary. Your flight leaves tomorrow. Better start brushing up on the Saudi accent you'll need for your new identity. Your mujahadeen brothers await."

  five

  Ethan stood in line at the passport control of Atatürk airport, Istanbul. He was in the "other nationalities" queue, a line that was a good hundred people long. There were eight service desks at the front of the queue, but only one of them was manned. The bored-looking official thumbed through the passports at what seemed a glacial pace.

  Ethan glanced over his shoulder and spotted William a few spots behind. He made eye contact with the other operative, but neither of them offered any further signs of recognition.

  Ethan took in the cornucopia of cultures around him. The Iranians in their dark
blazers and white dress shirts with the collars open to the chests. The Omanis in their violet thawbs and cap-like mussah headdresses whose designs could have belonged on elaborate curtains. The southern Gulf Arabs with the pure white keffiyeh shawls held in place by tasseled black agal loops. And of course the Western-dressed Turks.

  Ethan was looking forward to infiltrating the Islamic State. He was given a tabula rasa: it was up to him to create his own leads and missions. Actually getting there, however, was the first big hurdle. As there were no international flights to Syria due to the fighting and sanctions, Ethan and William had to fly to Istanbul first, then board a domestic flight to Gaziantep near the Turkish border. From there they would make their way to Syria, following the conventional foreign jihadi route.

  As he neared the front of the queue Ethan retrieved his passport. He thumbed to the photo page and glanced at his details. His name was "Emad Al Zahrani," a Saudi Arabian national born in Riyadh.

  His turn came. Ethan stepped forward and presented his passport and the printout of the e-visa he'd purchased online to the man at the desk. The official took both items and said in bored, broken Arabic. "How long are you stay in Turkey?"

  "I am staying for seven days," Ethan answered in formal Arabic, using an accent appropriate to a speaker of the Urban Najdi dialect of Saudi Arabia. During the flight, he'd practiced the nuances of the language via the Arabic MP3s he'd downloaded into his phone. He had mastered the tongue in a previous op and only needed a quick refresher; it helped that he'd spent most of his time in Riyadh's King Khalid airport lounge chatting with the locals.

  "Where are you stay?" The mustached man flipped through the passport.

  "The Princess Hotel, Gaziantep." Ethan offered a printout of his hotel reservation.

  The official looked up and his eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't accept the printout. "Gaziantep? Near Syrian border?"

  "Yes. Here is my reservation."

  The official ignored the paper and waved over a nearby airport officer. He spoke to the man in hushed Turkish. Ethan caught the word "Gaziantep."

  The airport officer seized the passport and told Ethan, "Come."

  Exactly what he was hoping to avoid. Secondary screening.

  Ethan was strip-searched in a windowless, steel room that was much like a prison cell—it even had a toilet and sink. The experience was unpleasant, but at least the obese officer didn't take his fingerprints. Some countries, like Singapore, did that automatically when someone was transferred to secondary. It was only a matter of time before other countries started adopting similar biometric security measures. That would make traveling under aliases very difficult in the future. Airport entry would have to be avoided entirely. Ah, the ever-changing world of espionage.

  After the search he was led to a small questioning room. Ethan sat on one side of a steel desk, an airport official the other. The man possessed a handlebar mustache that made him look strikingly similar to Saddam Hussein. A laptop and landline phone rested on the desk in front of him, beside Ethan's travel documents and hotel reservation. Ethan's backpack lay on another table nearby, its contents rudely strewn across the surface.

  Another official, this one clean-shaven, leaned against the back wall, overseeing. Both of them wore white dress shirts with dark ties.

  "What is your reason for traveling to Turkey?" the seated official began in accented Arabic.

  "I am here for my cousin's wedding."

  "What is your cousin's name and where does he live?"

  "Aadil Al Zahrani. He lives in the city of Gaziantep."

  The official made Ethan supply an exact address.

  "Where is this wedding to take place?" the man asked.

  "Boyaci Mosque, Gaziantep."

  "Are you going to meet anyone else other than this cousin?"

  "No."

  "Is anyone picking you up at the airport?"

  "No. I'm taking a taxi."

  "Where was your passport issued?"

  "Saudi Arabia, of course."

  "When was your last visit to Turkey?" The official flipped through the blank pages of the passport.

  "This is my first time," Ethan said.

  "What kind of work do you do?"

  "Consulting. Information Technology."

  "Are you an employee, or do you own this business?"

  "It is my business."

  "Give me the website."

  "I don't have one."

  The official frowned. "You work in Information Technology and do not have a website?"

  Ethan shrugged. "Most of my business is word of mouth."

  "Where is the wedding taking place?" The official repeated the earlier question, trying to catch Ethan off guard.

  Ethan held back a smile. "Boyaci Mosque," he said.

  The man asked many of the previous questions again, and Ethan gave the same answers.

  "Are you going to Syria?" the official finally asked.

  "No."

  "Are you a terrorist? Are you affiliated with Al Qaeda or Islamic State? The PKK?"

  "No to all."

  He glanced at Ethan's meager rucksack on the table. "Do you always pack this light?"

  Ethan shrugged. "Is it illegal to bring a small bag?"

  "You pack like you don't expect to return."

  Ethan glanced at the printouts in front of the man, which included his flight information. "I have a return ticket."

  A flicker of a smile formed on the official's lips. "A return ticket." He shoved the landline phone toward Ethan. "Call your cousin."

  Ethan entered the number he had memorized.

  The official pressed the speakerphone button and Ethan set down the handset.

  "Allo?" came the voice over the line.

  "Salaam, Aadil, it is Emad," Ethan said in Arabic.

  "Ah, Emad, it is good to hear from you!"

  "Yes, well, I'm stuck in secondary screening at Atatürk. They wanted me to call you."

  The official lifted the handset, canceling speakerphone mode, and proceeded to grill "Aadil," asking the same questions. Ethan had complete confidence in his contact. Even so, because he was unable to hear the responses, he couldn't help the nervous sweat that trickled down his ribs. When the official switched to Turkish, which Ethan didn't understand, his discomfort only increased.

  The man abruptly hung up and shook his head. He looked angry, disgusted.

  Ethan held his breath. Had his contact contradicted any of his answers?

  "You guys are getting good," the official said in Arabic. "Too good." He folded his arms.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He corroborated your story perfectly."

  Ethan found it difficult to hide his sense of relief.

  "But let's cut the bullshit," the official continued. "The man is obviously your Islamic State contact. Someone you met over an online forum. If I try to call that number back tomorrow, I'll get a dead connection. It's a Burner number, isn't it?"

  Burner was a cellphone app anyone could install to get disposable phone numbers for texting and calling purposes. Ethan shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "On the jihadist forum, your contact promised you that everything you were searching for, you would find in Syria. That the so-called Islamic State was a chance to be part of something new. Something big. A chance to find God. That Raqqa, the capital, was a city of pure Islamic Law, a place of prayers, peace, and hope."

  Ethan crossed his arms. "As I said, I don't know what you're talking about."

  "The jihadist is lying to you," the official said. "If you go to Syria, you will not find peace. Or hope. Or even God. You will find war and death. And do you know what you'll be fighting for? A repressive regime whose interpretation of sharia law is... brutal, to say the least. There are at least two beheadings a day in Raqqa, the capital. Stonings are a weekly occurrence—for the local populace, it's like going to the cinema. Women are whipped for dressing the wrong way. There's no music. No smiling. No laughter. It i
s a place of repression and sorrow. Is that really something you're looking forward to?"

  Ethan remained silent.

  The official sat back. "You seek purpose in your life. You think jihad will help you find it. You want to be a martyr, fighting to defend your fellow Muslims. But as you murder the so-called infidels in the villages you conquer, and watch your companions brutally rape their widows, eventually you'll realize that every word I spoke is true. That this so-called state is perverting everything you believe in, and that you have made a very grave mistake. But by then it will be too late to get out."

  Ethan stared at the official calmly. You're preaching to the choir, dude, he thought. Still, he had to give the man credit for trying. He likely gave the same speech to every suspected jihadi. Too bad it probably always fell on deaf ears.

  Ethan forced a smile. "I am here for a wedding."

  The official glanced at the man behind him with an exasperated expression that Ethan interpreted as, "Why do we bother?" He returned his attention to Ethan. "You're not even Saudi, are you?" He held up the passport. "This is a forgery. A good one, I admit, but you would have been wiser to use your real passport. We are going to arrest you."

  Ethan said nothing. He knew the travel document was perfect. Not some passport made in a seedy backroom somewhere, but issued by the Saudi government itself. The official was merely trying to rattle him in some last ditch attempt at extracting a confession. Either that or he was looking for a bribe.

  On cue the official snapped his fingers and the second man reached for the wallet that was laid out with the rest of Ethan's belongings on the side table. He handed it to the first official, who counted the money and removed a crisp purple bill: two hundred Turkish lire. "This is your jihad entry fee."

  A female aide entered the room, placing a shoebox on the table. Inside was Ethan's phone. He knew they hadn't found anything incriminating on the device—he'd issued a hard reset before landing and wiped all the data. Even so, they had probably imaged its contents anyway.

  The official exchanged a few words with the aide in Turkish, and then he sighed, switching to Arabic once more. "You are free to go."