by Jason Elam
Opening his eye, he saw one man who was not participating in the bickering. Hamad bin Salih Asaf sat at the opposite end of the table, staring at al-’Aqran with the slightest of smirks on his face.
Asaf was the one who had masterminded al-’Aqran’s rescue and the brilliant but unfortunately failed attempt on Riley Covington in Costa Rica. Saudi-born, Asaf had been given an excellent education. Following graduation, he had fulfilled a short commitment with the Royal Saudi Naval Forces before being recruited to the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah.
For the next ten years, Asaf had worked in this Saudi Arabian version of the CIA. While the secrets he learned about his country and the rest of the Middle East were helpful in his new life as part of the Cause, the greatest assets he had come away with were connections. Asaf had ties into all the major terrorist organizations and most Middle Eastern governments. It was one of these relationships that had allowed him to broker a deal with the Chechens through Hezbollah, despite its being a Shi’ite organization. Asaf was the one al-’Aqran counted on to clearly analyze the economic, political, and social fallout of any attack the Cause might be planning.
As if in direct contrast to Asaf, the man who had managed to plant his sizable bulk into the seat of honor was Kamal Hejazi, an Egyptian who had somehow found a way to weasel himself into the upper leadership echelon during al-’Aqran’s incarceration. As soon as Hejazi noticed al-’Aqran looking at him, a wide smile broke out on his face.
“Would you like me to call this meeting to order for you, sayyid?”
Rather than answer Hejazi, al-’Aqran looked back to the opposite end of the table. “Hamad, my brother, why are you so far away from me? Come to me. I need your counsel. Kamal will gladly give up his seat for you, won’t you Kamal?”
Al-’Aqran locked eyes with Hejazi. Surprise, then anger flashed in the Egyptian’s puffy gaze. Then resignation and shame washed out all other emotions. Hejazi answered with a slight bow. “Of course, sayyid. After all, a chair is just a chair.”
Al-’Aqran watched the other three men at the table as Asaf and Hejazi swapped positions. All three seemed to be diligently studying the embedded gold glitter pattern on the faded white tabletop.
Silently, al-’Aqran assessed the leadership council of the Cause. To his left sat Arshad Hushimi, an Iraqi, al-’Aqran’s oldest confidant, valued both for his skill with munitions and for his friendship.
Next to Hushimi was Tahir Talib, another Iraqi. Talib was in charge of communications—internally to the members of the Cause itself, to other organizations who shared the same goals, and ultimately extending out to the media of the world.
Quickly passing over Hejazi, whose only contribution al-’Aqran could discern was contradicting and nay-saying the leadership council’s decisions—something I’ll put a stop to today if the opportunity presents itself, he thought—he came to Babrak Zahir. Zahir’s father, Mohammad Zahir, had packed up his family and left (not fled, he was always certain to insist) Afghanistan in 1996 after the Taliban took control of the capital city of Kabul. While the elder Zahir had been no fan of President Burhanuddin Rabbani, he also hadn’t cared for the leadership of the new extremist Islamic regime. “It’s like a stupid little ten-year-old stealing the key to his parents’ car,” he used to say. “He’ll drive hard and fast—running over some pedestrians along the way—but eventually he’ll crash and crash hard.” His words proved prophetic when Kabul fell to Western forces a mere five years later.
Mohammad Zahir had been al-’Aqran’s closest friend for the past ten years, ever since they had been introduced to each other in Algeria. That friendship had abruptly ended when Zahir was killed earlier that year during the Americans’ rescue of Riley Covington in Italy. Only the news of Hakeem Qasim’s failure in his attack in California had shaken al-’Aqran more upon his arrival in Istanbul than had the news of his friend’s death.
Upon learning of Mohammad’s martyrdom, al-’Aqran had immediately promoted twenty-five-year-old Babrak to fill his father’s place on the leadership council. This was not just a sentimental action. Babrak had three things that qualified him to fill his father’s shoes—intelligence, a passionate desire for revenge, and, despite being part of the terrorism organization only a short eight years, a hands-on kill number second only to that of al-’Aqran himself.
Finally, al-’Aqran’s assessment brought him to Asaf, just as that man scooted his chair to the table next to his leader. “What is the latest on our assets in the United States, Hamad?”
Al-’Aqran saw Asaf shoot a quick look to Talib, who, as the communications man, should have received this question. Out of the corner of his eye al-’Aqran saw Talib give a slight nod. Good. At least one man puts the Cause before his own ambitions, he thought.
“Tahir has informed me that the chosen four have been activated and have been given their instructions,” Asaf answered.
“And the Yamani girl is among those readied?”
“As you ordered, sayyid.”
“Good . . . good,” al-’Aqran said, more to himself than to anyone at the table.
“Are you sure this Naheed Yamani is the right person for the job?” Hejazi’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “She seems to me to be nothing more than a spoiled little rich girl who, when the going gets tough, will go running home to the protection of her grandfather. We can’t afford another failure like the debacle of your protégé, Hakeem Qasim.”
All eyes turned to al-’Aqran to see how he would respond to this challenge.
At that moment, a thin, veiled woman walked up carrying a tray containing six small cups of Turkish coffee. The aroma hit al-’Aqran as his cup was gently placed before him, and it helped to ease his growing anger. Dark brown foam formed a soft, gritty barrier to the rich liquid underneath. In his subconscious, a clock began counting down the five minutes it would take for the dregs to settle. One more deep inhalation, and peace returned to his mind.
Hejazi had ignored his cup and was looking defiantly at al’Aqran. The older man just smiled to himself. His play has begun. A little more rope, he thought. Just a little more rope, and this son of a goat herder will hang himself.
Without acknowledging Hejazi’s remarks, al-’Aqran turned back to Asaf. “And our plans to bring Allah’s revenge upon Covington?”
“Also in process, sayyid. Right now he is surrounded by many people. We have initiated a plan to isolate him and then draw him out. If we cannot get to him, we will find a way to have him come to us.”
A picture of Hakeem Qasim as a boy flashed in al-’Aqran’s mind. The child’s body and soul had been damaged by the American missile that had slaughtered his parents. Al-’Aqran had taken this shattered boy and recreated Hakeem into a young man of courage and purpose. He had instilled the concepts of honor and revenge into his mind and had taught him the skills he would need to accomplish those goals. During those times of training together, the older man had almost come to think of Hakeem as a son. He had so much pride and hope in the young man.
But you still sent him to his death, did you not? he heard from the left side of his mind. Oh, but what a glorious death it was to have been! the right side answered back.
“May I ask you something, sayyid?” The tone of Hejazi’s question instantly turned up the heat again in al-’Aqran’s body.
“No, you may not,” the old man snapped.
Hejazi pressed on anyway. “A thousand pardons, but I must ask it anyway. Is this vendetta against Covington really for Allah, or is it for you?”
“As far as you are concerned, there is no difference between the two!”
“Please, sayyid! Words like that are close to blasphemy! I understand your hatred against this man, but please do not equate your will with that of our beneficent creator!” Then a condescending smile spread across his face. “Please do not be angry if I find it necessary to press this point. I am simply concerned for you and for our organization. I know you spent a horrible time in the hands of Satan’s minions, and may Allah
greatly reward you for what you suffered. I can hardly imagine anyone coming back to leadership so quickly, especially someone of your . . . experience. Maybe some rest is what is needed for you. Then, after a time, you could return to us and lead us with a clearer mind and a more direct purpose.”
Al-’Aqran could see in Hejazi’s smile that the man thought he was establishing the upper hand. Fool! Time to start tying the noose.
“While I appreciate your concern, my Egyptian friend, you must know that through Allah’s grace my mind is clear and my purpose is set. But since you have convinced yourself, at least in your small, addled brain, that you have the clearer head, what would you have us do? Covington has brought a great dishonor against the Cause! Would you see us turn a blind eye to that?”
Al-’Aqran saw Hejazi cast a glance at his eye patch and then, realizing he had been noticed, quickly look down at the table.
When al-’Aqran spoke again, his volume matched his intensity.
“Answer me! What would you have us do, you weak man?”
Hejazi’s head came up, and al-’Aqran could see him muster the last of his courage. “I did not come here to insult you . . . or to be insulted!”
“Your very presence here insults me!” Al-’Aqran could feel his face reddening, an angry sweat breaking out across his hairline.
“Nevertheless, you ask what I would do?” Hejazi said, his own voice rising. “I would stick to our original plan of mobilizing our assets! The first phase of our strategy against the Americans is about to launch; the second phase—which, as the lesser prophet Jeremiah spoke, will have voices mourning in Ramah—is well in process.
“What would I not do? I would not let personal feelings put our whole organization at risk! I would not let a desire for revenge potentially unravel our well-woven tapestry for the destruction of the West. Hakeem Qasim failed—maybe it was Allah’s will or maybe he was just too weak! But that is in the past, and now we must look to the future!”
Al-’Aqran’s hand slammed down on the table, rattling the coffee cups and spilling the one that sat before him. Hushimi quickly pulled out a handkerchief to mop up the liquid, but al-’Aqran swept his hand away. “Do you not understand? There is no difference between the past and the future! Honor is honor! And there is no time limit on honor! How can we look forward when the past is still mocking us?”
“It is not mocking us! It is not mocking the Cause! It is mocking Hakeem, and it is mocking you!”
“I am the Cause! I am the Cause,” al-’Aqran shouted, his fist accenting each word on the table. “If I am mocked, the Cause is mocked! If I am insulted, the Cause is insulted! Do you still not understand, you ignorant son of a sow?”
Hejazi shot up out of his chair. “I will not be insulted! You have obviously been more affected by your time with the Americans than you think! The Cause is not one man!” Hejazi swept his arms around to the other men. “We, together, are the Cause! By saying otherwise, you insult not just me but everyone at this table! We have given up everything to come and serve Allah’s purpose, but you so easily dismiss that sacrifice with your words! I’m sorry to say it, but I think it is time for a change in leadership. Your own words have condemned you.”
Looking at each man around the table, Hejazi continued, “I ask that each of you stand with me, signifying your agreement that, for the good of the Cause, we must put the past behind and focus on our future of bringing the Great Satan to its knees!”
Rather than reply to this challenge, al-’Aqran smiled and leaned back in his chair. It is done. The fool has overplayed his hand. He has officially hung himself. Now let him dangle from the end of his own rope.
Perspiration poured down Hejazi’s full face as he turned to one man after another. Hushimi and Talib bored holes into the tabletop with their eyes. Asaf and Zahir, however, stared defiantly at Hejazi as they held their seats. Those two are my warriors, thought al-’Aqran.
After a tension-filled minute had passed, the defeated man sighed deeply and silently took his seat. Hejazi said nothing more, but his hard look at the downturned heads of Hushimi and Talib bespoke a betrayal.
When he felt the point had been clearly made, al-’Aqran finally broke the silence, his voice calm and friendly. “My dear Kamal, how is your son, Atef? You must be so proud to have such a legacy to carry on the Hejazi name. Isn’t he at . . . what university is he at again, Babrak?”
Still keeping his eyes locked on Hejazi, the young man answered, “He is taking his medical studies at October 6 University, southwest of Cairo, and stays in room 435 of the school’s dormitory.”
Al-’Aqran watched as the color drained out of Hejazi’s face. “A doctor for a son—what a marvelous thing.”
“A-Atef . . . ,” Hejazi stammered, “Atef has nothing to do with this, sayyid.”
“I agree that he does not now,” al-’Aqran answered. “However, if I ever hear of you questioning any of my decisions again, it likely will necessitate our dear friend Babrak personally—how should I say it—checking in on the progress of your son’s studies. Do you understand?”
Hejazi was visibly shaking but managed to slowly nod his head.
“And now, you are excused from this room and from this council. Hamad will contact you later as to if and how your services might be needed.”
Al-’Aqran watched as Hejazi stood, head bowed, and made a quick exit. As soon as the door latched, al-’Aqran swept his empty cup off the table and sent it crashing against the wall. Pushing the table away from him, he got up and limped through the thin cotton curtains behind him and onto the balcony.
Below, the masses of people were filing by, filling the sidewalks and spilling out onto the street. The noise of car horns, street vendors, and a thousand private conversations danced around him. He watched until he saw Hejazi walk out of the building and join the human river. His eyes didn’t leave the disgraced man until he had crested the hill two blocks up.
Al-’Aqran turned now to his right and gazed out at the blue waters of the Bosporus Strait. A massive cruise liner was making its way under the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, while far below its decks water taxis and fishing boats carried out their commerce.
An organization is only as strong as its weakest link, he remembered reading a long time back. Well, that one weak link has been removed. It is time now for the rest of the chain to begin swinging.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THURSDAY, MAY 14, 3:45 P.M. MDT DENVER, COLORADO
“I spy with my little eye something . . . white!”
Scott Ross laughed, “Yeah, I guess it is a little sterile in here. I keep expecting Nurse Ratched to come down the hallway with my medication.”
The corridor that Scott, Riley, and Skeeter were walking down was absolutely without color—from the gleaming tiles to the painted bricks to the can lights mounted on the wall. A person could suffer from snow blindness walking through here, Riley thought as his Merrells squeaked their way across the thickly waxed floor.
The only things that broke up the homage to sensory deprivation were the secure entry system and black nameplate next to the occasional door. The plate mounted on the wall where the three friends now stopped read Front Range Response Team.
Scott placed his hand on Riley’s arm. “Although I know I don’t need to say this, I still need to say this. Nothing you see in this room leaves this room.”
“No problem. It saves me the trouble of having to swallow the microfilm from my secret spy camera,” Riley responded. When Scott stopped laughing, he continued, “I understand, buddy. But you better watch Skeeter—he’s the one that’s always shooting his mouth off. Right, Skeet?”
“Mmmm,” Skeeter replied.
“I’ll start worrying about the big guy after he learns to speak in complete sentences,” Scott said, smiling, as he turned toward the retinal scanner. After hearing a beep of recognition, he punched in a six-digit code. The lock audibly disengaged, and Scott pulled the door open.
Riley’s eyes were met with
a veritable visual feast for surveillance technology junkies. How many millions of dollars did it take to deck out this room? he wondered. As he took in the scene, he spotted Khadi staring over Tara’s shoulder at a computer monitor. A glimpse of her profile reminded Riley that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The insecure teenage kid in him again wondered what in the world she was doing giving him the time of day.
As if feeling Riley’s gaze on her, Khadi suddenly looked up and saw him. Her face lit up, but she held up a finger indicating that she still needed a minute.
Riley gave a quick wave letting her know to take her time, then turned to Scott. “So, are you going to give us the grand tour?”
“Of course. We’ve still got about fifteen minutes before Jim’s schedule will open up for our meeting.”
“Skeeter!” a voice called out from across the room. Riley, Skeeter, and Scott looked over in time to see Virgil Hernandez doing a Starsky & Hutch slide over the well-polished wooden conference table and landing between two chairs.
Giving Riley a quick “Hey,” Hernandez put his arm around Skeeter and started leading him over to his workstation. “Dude, I’ve been digging on that whole ‘was the Third Punic War a just war’ thing you turned me on to. That’s a hairy question.”
“Yeah, boy,” Skeeter agreed as he walked away with Hernandez. “Polybius’s hypothesis was that Rome usually acted out of fear—you know, like more of a hyperpreventative philosophy—instead of a traditional just war model of . . .”
Riley turned to Scott as Skeeter’s voice faded out, and they both started cracking up. “That one sentence contained more words than I’ve heard Skeet say in the past three months,” Riley said, raising an eyebrow. “‘Hyperpreventative philosophy’? Someone’s got way too much time on his hands!”
For the next fifteen minutes, Scott showed Riley around the new facility. It wasn’t until Riley greeted the third analyst that he noticed something had changed in the way they treated him. In contrast to when he’d worked with CTD a few months ago, now as he went up to the analysts at their workstations, they quickly checked what was on their monitors (Gooey had actually turned his off) and casually placed their arms across any papers that might be scattered in front of them. Interesting development, Riley thought.