The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  Kennedy, dark hair greying at the edges, moved to the lectern. ‘Flying time from here to our jump point is one hour and 15 minutes,’ he began. ‘We will depart here in a Hercules MC-130 at 1800 hours, so equipment checks will take place in the hanger at 1700 hours. Oxygen pre-breathing has been calculated at 40 minutes.’ In order to flush nitrogen from the bloodstream, the team would all breathe pure oxygen prior to jumping. When nitrogen was not given enough time to escape the bloodstream on ascent, hypoxia, or lack of oxygen, was potentially fatal. Divers knew it as ‘the bends’. O’Connor’s team would not only pre-breathe when they were airborne, they would all jump with an oxygen supply fitted to their specially designed helmets. ‘As the boss has indicated,’ Kennedy continued, ‘there’s no moon and when I checked 15 minutes ago, the low cloud is holding and light snow is falling which suits us just fine.’

  Five hundred kilometres to the north-east, an ISIS clearing patrol checked their Kalashnikovs before moving out to ensure the approaches to the castle were clear of any threats.

  General Mahmoud Waheeb, a veteran of Saddam Hussein’s army and now one of ISIS’s most trusted strategic advisors, adjusted his binoculars. The swarthy, muscled, devout Sunni warrior was protected from the cold by a thick woollen long-sleeved robe. He scanned the icy path that led to his position, high above the remote Afghan village of Mangwal, where rugged white peaks marked the north-eastern border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Responsible for the defeat of more than one invader, including the British and the Russians, the Hindu Kush were amongst the steepest, most inhospitable mountains on earth. The rugged remoteness of the terrain was precisely the reason Waheeb had chosen this part of Afghanistan. His meeting with the world’s Caliph and leader of the Islamic State, Abu Muhammad al-Rahman, was crucial, but with a US$10 million bounty on his head, al-Rahman was the most wanted man on the planet. Waheeb smiled to himself. Iraqi troops, supported by the Great Infidel, had taken Mosul, where they had expected to find the ISIS Caliph. Now the US suspected al-Rahman might also be hiding in another ISIS stronghold near the Syrian city of Raqqa, on the banks of the Euphrates River to the east of Aleppo. Given the animosity of some of the Taliban toward ISIS, Waheeb was confident that for the moment, the Infidel would not be looking in Afghanistan, but he also knew that would not last for long.

  The setting sun was reflected from a mirror far below and Waheeb nodded to Mohammed Baku, the commander of his elite protection squad who were armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs and shoulder-fired anti-tank and anti-aircraft missiles. The Caliph and his equally well-armed protection were approaching.

  Two hours later, the two men sipped coffee by the fire. The bearded al-Rahman was dressed in his trademark black turban and black robes. The 45-year-old former professor from Baghdad University held a PhD in Islamic Studies. Tonight he looked drawn, but the trials of the past months had not extinguished his passion.

  ‘The Infidel will pay for his attacks on Mosul,’ al-Rahman fumed. The northern Iraqi city had a particular meaning: it was where the worldwide Caliphate had been declared – the first since the father of modern Turkey, Kemal Atatürk, abolished it in 1924. ‘The fight for Mosul and Raqqa might be going against us, but Insha’Allah – God willing, the West will never defeat Allah. There is a certainty in his victory!’

  General Waheeb nodded without interrupting, waiting for the moment when he would have to bring reality to the table.

  ‘Muslims around the world are slowly coming to recognise that if they are ever to hold their heads high again,’ al-Rahman continued, ‘they will have to migrate to the Islamic State, because that is the true community – the worldwide Ummah. Muslims, and particularly our young men, will recognise they have a responsibility to join us in the fight.’

  ‘But for the moment, they are not migrating,’ Waheeb offered, ‘and that is something we have to address. Our losses in Iraq and Syria have severely damaged our recruiting.’

  ‘Which is why we need to convince the Ummah and the rest of the world that we are still very much a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ asked General Waheeb.

  ‘We have to convince the Ummah that our losses in Iraq and Syria are temporary, Mahmoud, because we’re making powerful gains elsewhere, especially in the Philippines and now in Russia’s northern Caucasus. We have a lot of support in Chechnya, Dagestan and Ingushetia, and with the establishment of Wilayat Qawqaz, we now have links into the very disaffected heart of Moscow.’ Al-Rahman had cleverly organised ISIS on military and business reporting lines. The provinces or wilayat, in which Wilayat Qawqaz or Caucasus was just the latest, were headed by governors who reported directly to the Caliph. At the very top of ISIS, councils of finance, media, legal, military, security and intelligence also reported directly to the Caliph, as did a cabinet of advisors. Despite the setbacks, Caliph al-Rahman’s authority was still very strong.

  ‘To convince the Ummah,’ al-Rahman continued, ‘we need something on the scale of 9/11, and preferably bigger.’ Al-Rahman’s voice was laced with venom. ‘We need to hit the West with a dirty bomb, accompanied by a promise that unless they stop killing our people in Syria and Iraq, we will follow up with the real thing.’

  ‘Khalilfatul Mu’mineen . . . Successor of the Believers,’ said Waheeb, addressing the Caliph by his formal title, ‘a dirty bomb is one thing, but getting our hands on a nuclear weapon is in a different class again. You will recall that bin Laden’s most trusted lieutenants tried many times. Zawahiri tried for him in Russia, but he failed. Al-Banshiri, before he died in that ferry accident on Lake Victoria, tried in Southern Africa, and since 9/11, security over nuclear weapons has been strengthened. We might have had some success in Pakistan, but after their chief nuclear scientist admitted to selling technology to Iran and Libya, that avenue is closed as well.’

  ‘But a dirty bomb is possible?’

  ‘That’s relatively easy,’ replied Waheeb. ‘There are several possibilities. Strontium-90 is one. It’s used as a power source in satellites and space probes, but the Soviets also used it in remote thermoelectric generators where batteries or solar were not practical. Strontium is a pure beta ray emitter with a half-life of 28 years – so the strontium in those abandoned generators will still cause the West a lot of problems. The advantage of strontium-90 in a dirty bomb,’ Waheeb explained, ‘lies in its chemical similarity to calcium. Like calcium, strontium will lodge in bones and bone marrow, and that means there’s a strong chance of cancer.’

  ‘Delivery?’

  ‘We simply surround the strontium with normal explosives and even though we’re not going to kill many people outright, by the time the media is finished with the headlines, the radioactive threat of leukaemia and bone cancer will bring the centre of a city to a standstill for months if not years.’

  ‘And we can get our hands on this?’

  General Waheeb nodded. ‘A lot of the old generators, along with the power canisters of strontium have been secured, but in the more remote areas of states like Georgia and Kazakhstan, those power sources are still out there, and we know of two locations where they were left over from the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. The Soviets deployed dozens of them back in the seventies and eighties and the black market is alive and well. Canisters of strontium-90 I can do, but an actual bomb, Khalilfatul Mu’mineen . . .’ Waheeb opened his palms and shrugged.

  ‘It may not be as difficult as you think,’ al-Rahman replied. He withdrew an envelope from beneath his black robe. ‘This is General Danilo Dragunov.’ The Caliph passed Waheeb a photograph of the Russian physicist. Tall and fit, with rugged good looks and thick, dark hair greying at the edges, General Dragunov was revered throughout Russia for having restored his country’s position in the world as a leading nuclear power.

  ‘Dragunov’s wife is a television celebrity and both are held in very high esteem. Dragunov himself is credited with modernising President Petrov’s nuclear arsenal, and he is one of the most distinguish
ed nuclear physicists alive today, but . . .’ Al-Rahman’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. Waheeb listened carefully as the Caliph outlined Dragunov’s dangerous vulnerability.

  ‘How do we know this?’ General Waheeb asked incredulously.

  ‘We don’t have any documentary proof – yet – but we have managed to recruit a disgruntled Muslim scientist in Dragunov’s nuclear research laboratory in the closed city of Sarov. Our man has suggested to Dragunov that we have certain knowledge, and although Dragunov’s challenged us to prove it, he’s worried enough to agree to a meeting in Dubai. I want him to realise we’re deadly serious with our demands and I want you to represent us.’

  ‘And if he wants proof from me?’

  ‘We are working on that. We have arranged some surveillance for the next time Dragunov visits Paris, but if he requires proof, tell him he will regret it if he doesn’t agree to our request. People like Dragunov eventually get careless and slip up, and then we’ll have him.’

  Waheeb looked thoughtful. ‘I will do my best, Khalilfatul Mu’mineen.’

  ‘Think of what it will mean, Waheeb!’ The Caliph was suddenly energised. ‘Picture Washington. You can’t drive past the White House or Capitol Hill because the Infidel has them cordoned off, but with a nuclear blast, those precautions are useless. If our truck containing a nuclear bomb is driven down 15th Street and the driver turns left into Constitution Avenue, he can stop beside the National Archives, halfway between the White House and the Capitol building. Once there, he can detonate the bomb and within a millionth of a second, the temperature reaches 100 million degrees and the blast immediately kills 100 000 of the Infidel.’ The Caliph’s eyes were filled with malice and revenge. ‘His capital will be reduced to a smoking, radioactive wasteland. The White House and the Capitol will be destroyed along with his Treasury, the Old Executive Office and a host of other buildings. So too his Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, his War Memorials, and his Smithsonian Museum. All this is contained in a study the Infidel himself conducted which we’ve downloaded from the internet,’ al-Rahman said. ‘That report shows that milliseconds after the blast, ultra-powerful shock waves will take everything in their path and the thermal energy will inflict excruciating burns. But the most exciting part of the attack is yet to come.’ Al-Rahman smiled malevolently.

  ‘Radiation,’ Waheeb affirmed.

  ‘Exactly! Depending on the time of year, in April the radioactive cloud would drift over Bethesda. At other times it would drift over Northern Virginia. The deadly rays will penetrate what buildings are left, and the fallout will settle over his capital. There will be widespread nausea and vomiting and the intense fires and radiation mean that what is left of his emergency services will be totally unable to cope. It will make 9/11 look like a walk in the park. Over time, cancer and radiation sickness will be widespread and hundreds of thousands will die. His capital will be uninhabitable for decades.’

  General Waheeb nodded, deep in thought. ‘I agree, Khalilfatul Mu’mineen. Perhaps the most important thing is to limit the Infidel’s ability to react,’ Waheeb said, envisaging the scenario. ‘If we detonate the bomb when the president and vice-president are in Washington, it will result in total chaos.’

  ‘Precisely. When the president and vice-president are both killed – and they never travel together for mainly this reason – the leadership of the country falls to the Speaker of the House of Representatives and then to the President pro tempore of the Senate, and then to the Secretary of State. So if they’re all in Washington, which happens frequently if Congress is sitting, and they’re all killed, along with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and other Service Chiefs . . .’ Al-Rahman’s dark eyes glinted in the firelight. ‘And with telecommunications to Washington, including the relay towers down . . .’

  ‘Total disarray,’ Waheeb agreed, warming to his leader’s fervour. ‘It will cripple his economy, interrupt his chain of command, and terrify the population which are all pre-requisites for bringing a country down. The Infidel might feel he can ignore our warning on the dirty bomb, but if that is followed by an actual nuclear blast, it will show the world we mean business. Recruiting will pick up.’

  ‘More importantly, the worldwide Caliphate will be restored, Mahmoud. The West will be subject to Sharia Law, just as Allah always intended. We will put pressure on General Dragunov to provide more than one device, so we can keep exploding them in his cities until he is brought to his knees . . .’

  ‘In the meantime, Khalilfatul Mu’mineen, we need to get you to safety. The Infidel is looking for you in both Iraq and Syria and it will not be long before he turns his attention to Afghanistan.’

  The Caliph shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving until the Caliphate is established around the world.’

  Waheeb smiled grimly and reminded his leader of a similar stubbornness amongst the Infidel. ‘In June 1944, to the dismay of Eisenhower and Montgomery, Churchill insisted on boarding a destroyer to accompany the troops for the invasion of Normandy. It took the intervention of King George to convince his Prime Minister what a catastrophe it would be for the country and the war effort if Churchill were lost. It is no different for the future of the Caliphate. I can organise the attacks you have planned, but once they put us in a position of power, we need you to appear and address the faithful to spur them on to even greater efforts. I can’t do that.’

  A frosty silence descended.

  ‘Where do you suggest?’ the Caliph said finally.

  ‘Pankisi Gorge.’

  ‘Georgia? That’s 3000 kilometres away.’

  ‘Precisely, and it’s the last place the Infidel will be looking for you.’ Waheeb opened his laptop and pulled up a map and satellite imagery from Google Earth. ‘This is the village of Jokolo on the west bank of the Alazani river.’ The satellite photos, augmented by older tourist shots, were remarkably good, clearly showing a single dirt road winding past metal-roofed stone houses. The foothills of the Caucasus dropped precipitously either side of the river.

  ‘To the north of Jokolo is the village of Omalo and to the south, the larger village of Duisi. We have cells in all three villages, although even our safe houses are too dangerous for any extended period of time. But to the west, high above Jokolo, we have taken control of an ancient abandoned fortress.’ Waheeb opened a separate file of images provided by his men in Georgia. ‘It used to be visited by the odd hiker, but we have discouraged that with regular patrols. As you can see, it’s impregnable. I have arranged to get you out through Turkmenistan where my men are standing by to escort you across the Caspian Sea.’

  The National Security Agency or NSA operations building was located in the heart of Fort Meade – a sprawling complex known as ‘Crypto City’. The operations building was protected by dark, one-way glass, behind which a skin of copper, an air gap and more glass panelling made up the high-tech shielding codenamed Tempest. All electromagnetic radiation and electronic signals were trapped within the building, ensuring that the Russians or any other adversarial operatives were prevented from penetrating the nation’s closest secrets. The heavily guarded campus of the world’s largest intelligence collection agency was protected by NSA’s own police force as well as State Police, US Park Police and Fort Meade security services. The campus also housed the United States Cyber Command and the Central Security Service which were tasked with capturing foreign signals intelligence. The 18 000-space car park was only a quarter full, but at 6 a.m. Barbara Murray was already at her desk in OPS1, deep within the National Security Operations Centre. The petite, freckle-faced brunette was one of the agency’s most skilled and trusted analysts.

  The secure red phone on her desk buzzed quietly. Minutes later she knocked on the inner door of Admiral Mike Chandler, the NSA’s quietly spoken director.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mike?’

  ‘Have a seat, Barbara.’ Admiral Chandler got up from behind his desk and joined her at his coffee table. ‘One of the many issues that’s burning my ass at the mo
ment is ISIS, especially since Travers was sworn in,’ he added, rolling his eyes. The intelligence community thought the new president was a loose cannon and they had even less regard for him than he had made abundantly clear he had for them. ‘Travers is demanding results, I suspect principally so he can shove it up the media’s nose and the Russian president as well. Over at the CIA, McNamara’s copping hell and I told him I’d see if we could expedite things. What’s the progress on cracking the ISIS communications?’

  ‘They’re getting more sophisticated, I’m afraid, Mike. They’re channelling a lot of their communications through the Dark Web, which unlike the Deep Web makes it much harder to crack.’ The distinction between the Dark Web and the Deep Web was often misunderstood. The latter was simply a collection of websites that search engines couldn’t find, much of which was innocuous like government and library databases, but as Murray knew only too well, the Dark Web was far more sinister and the better-known drug sites such as Silk Road and Agora that were accessed with software like Tor were just the tip of the iceberg.

  ‘Yeah. What a collection of depravity that sewer houses. We’ve got the most powerful computers in the world, but unless we know the address of a website, they stay one step in front.’ The admiral had seen more than enough in his occasional briefings on the Dark Web, including paedophiles trawling for unbelievably disgusting child porn, drug dealers moving ice and cocaine around the world and gun runners disposing of their illegal wares, along with black markets for human body parts and a host of other criminal activities. ‘God was having an off day when she designed some of us.’