The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  The two terrorists ascended a short ladder to the cruiser’s deck. Raphael shook Al-Nashwan’s hand, then told them that they were expected in the salon and that he would take care of scuttling the inflatable.

  Even though it was dark out, Alavi noticed that the boat was quite spacious. They climbed four steps onto a large upper deck, where a seating area was richly furnished with a dining table and an L-shaped lounge seat. Al-Nashwan gently knocked on the deeply tinted triple patio door before sliding it open.

  The interior of the boat was spectacular. Alavi had never seen anything so luxurious in his life. The dimmed pot lights gave the interior an even more glamorous look. A lavish dining table was set up on the port side, and a settee big enough for six adults was on the starboard. A little farther and one step up, four leather helm seats were side by side, facing a huge windshield. Seated in one of the chairs with his two elbows firmly planted on the dining table was an Arabic man in his mid-sixties. The Sheik. He was casually dressed in a blue polo shirt and a pair of white linen pants. He got up and warmly embraced Al-Nashwan before looking at Alavi.

  “Omar told me great things about you,” said the Sheik. “We’ve been watching you closely, Mohammad.” He was slightly taller than Alavi, and his build had remained muscular. His hair was getting thin on top of his head, but his eyes were penetrating.

  Alavi felt his throat tighten. He’d met the Sheik in person just once before. His uncle had been one of his close advisers, but the only time Alavi had been in the physical presence of the Sheik was during the briefing of Ambassador Powell’s abduction.

  “Please, sit with me at my table,” the Sheik offered, then went back to his seat and sat facing Al-Nashwan and Alavi.

  “So tell me, Omar,” the Sheik began, “everything went according to plan?”

  “Yes, it did. The Russians are dead,” replied Al-Nashwan simply.

  “Great work, Omar. Once again, I’m very pleased with your services. The next few months will tell us if we have been successful.”

  “Indeed, Sheik Al-Assad. They will.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Ottawa, Canada

  I can assure you, Director, she’s safe. I’ve made a few calls, and she’s now on her way here.”

  “How did this happen? How the fuck did we manage to lose Mohammad Alavi?” asked Simon Corey, the director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. He was seated in his leather chair behind his heavy mahogany desk. He wanted answers, but the three men standing in front of him didn’t have any to give.

  “We’re not sure yet,” answered John Aschner, the deputy director of operations. Standing next to him was the assistant director of collection, Kevin Loewe, and his deputy, Joachim Persky.

  “Well, what do we know?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid,” started Persky. “Our three agents were carrying out their exit protocols following the murder of General Mathias Deniaud, the French gendarmerie—”

  “I am well aware of who General Deniaud was,” Corey cut in, exasperated.

  “Of c-course, Director. I’m sorry,” Persky stuttered, trying to salvage the situation. “Zima Bernbaum successfully wiretapped a very strange conversation between General Deniaud and his deputy, General Claudel.”

  “Strange in what way?” Corey asked curtly.

  “Well, it ended with Claudel shooting Deniaud before committing suicide.”

  The director showed more interest. “Do we have the tape in our possession?”

  “Not yet, sir. But we’ll get our hands on it very soon. As I said, Agent Bernbaum will join us shortly.”

  “Okay, Joachim. Please stick to what did happen,” the director ordered.

  “Yes, sir. As I was saying, our agents were following their exit protocols when Zima spotted Mohammad Alavi. She called Agent Bailey. Bailey then called us for instructions on how to proceed with Alavi. Their instructions were to grab him alive if they could, or to kill him if he didn’t cooperate.”

  “And now Alavi is nowhere to be found!” exclaimed Corey. He slammed his palm onto his desk. “That’s unacceptable!”

  The three other men kept quiet as the director scrutinized them one by one. He took a few deep breaths to clear his mind. “Do we have any leads on where he is?”

  “No, sir,” Aschner replied. “But our contacts within the gendarmerie will keep us in the loop as the investigation unfolds. I should receive the first report within the hour.”

  The director sighed. He suddenly looked older than his sixty-seven years. When he slowly got up from his chair, he seemed to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “I’ll have to go brief the prime minister. A political storm is brewing, and I see no way to hide the fact that we had an agent inside the French gendarmerie’s headquarters.”

  “We could make her a cover story,” Loewe suggested. “We’ve done it before.”

  The director shook his head. “I don’t see how we can get out of this mess without political retaliation from the French—or, as a matter of fact, without political retaliation from the rest of the European Union. Once the word gets out that CSIS had a spy posing as a French citizen within General Deniaud’s inner circle, we won’t see the end of the ramifications for months. We could have dealt with a failed operation on French soil. At least in that scenario we’d have a chance to keep things under the rug; it would have cost us some political favors, but nothing more. But spying on an ally at the highest level? That won’t fly.”

  “Sir,” Loewe replied. “I believe there is a way out of this mess.”

  The director looked at him with curiosity. “I’m listening,” he said, still standing behind his desk.

  “I’m not exactly sure what’s on the tape that Agent Bernbaum will bring back. However, if we are to believe what she told us before boarding her flight home, she has successfully recorded an admission of treason on the part of the second highest-ranking officer of the gendarmerie. We don’t know why General Claudel killed Deniaud yet, but I’m sure the French would like to keep the recording of their chief’s murder a secret.”

  “You want to use this recording to blackmail the French into keeping quiet about our activities inside their headquarters?” Aschner asked incredulously.

  “Absolutely,” Loewe responded. “It might not work, but even if we fail, we won’t be in a worse position than we are now.” Beaming, he looked over at Director Corey.

  “I like your idea, Kevin. But for it to work, we need to take the lead and contact them now, before they have a chance to spin the story into something they won’t be able to undo.” He looked at his deputy director. “This is your department, Aschner. I’ll let you take the lead on this. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

  Aschner looked less than convinced. “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The Mediterranean Sea

  Omar has done quite well,” the Sheik said into his secure satellite phone. He was sitting behind his desk in the master cabin of the Azimut yacht.

  “I knew years ago it would be with you that my son would contribute the most to our cause,” answered his interlocutor.

  “He saved the life of one of our cell commanders. I can commend him on his leadership and initiative.”

  “He’s always been the best at what he does. Did you know that he finished first in his class at West Point?”

  “He never mentioned that to me.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. Alexander has always been discreet about his accomplishments.”

  “I believe that is one of his strengths,” Sheik Al-Assad added. “It must run in the family.”

  “It’s a shame that the final fireworks didn’t turn out as we expected,” returned the man, changing the subject. “That would have ended it, at least for the European portion of the plan.”

  “We did all we could, my friend. I still believe we had a good
run. Now it’s time to regroup and prepare for the final attacks. As you said, we’re getting close to our ultimate objective. The European economy is already on the verge of collapsing. I believe that one more wave of attacks will bring it to the abyss.”

  “Let’s hope so,” replied the man. “I’ve shorted all my positions a week ago and made good money so far. But we need to see an even bigger downturn soon, before the economy has a chance to recover.”

  “It will be soon, but these operations take time. You know this,” the Sheik said.

  “I know, Qasim. But I’d hate the market to improve and have to cover my positions,” the man said before changing subject. “And how are you doing financially?”

  “We still have our agreement with the Africans, and that’s enough to finance our operations,” Sheik Al-Assad replied. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

  “But?” the man prodded.

  “I feel that this African arrangement is our weakest link,” he admitted. “We’ve been using them for a few years now, and I’m starting to sense that we might encounter some problems in the future.”

  “Go on.”

  “Your son thinks—and I agree with him—that Major Taylor is getting a little too comfortable with his standing within our organization. He’s arrogant, and he’s using drugs frequently. I’m not sure he’ll keep his mouth shut. Also, some irregularities were noticed in many of the major’s financial transactions.”

  “I see. Are you sure about these, er…irregularities?”

  “I am. Our accountants double checked. It seems that Major Taylor might have been in business with another organization for a few months now.”

  “That’s goes against our agreement,” the man said angrily. “Did you confront him about it?”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise. E-mails, bank statements—the proof is there. Why give him a chance to lie to us?”

  A long pause ensued, and Sheik Al-Assad wondered if his friend in the United States was still there. Finally, the man spoke again:

  “Didn’t you tell me that Taylor is afraid of Alexander?”

  “He used to be. But as I said, he has become overly confident. He truly believes that he’s irreplaceable.”

  “Can you scare him back to his place?”

  “It might work for a short period of time, but in the end, I think it could backfire on us if he decides to talk to somebody he shouldn’t. If he’s caught and put under pressure, he’ll talk. I can guarantee it. He knows too much about our final operation. In my opinion, he needs to go. ”

  “I see. Would you like me to leak some info on Jackson to the president’s national security adviser? Hell, I could even speak to Muller myself and tell him I heard rumors about an African planning an Ebola outbreak in the US. That would take care of your problem, Qasim.”

  “Don’t do that. If they don’t kill him, he might talk. Then we’ll have real trouble. I’ll take care of him myself. This way, it will send a strong message not to cross us.”

  “Of course, you’re right. I just hate it when people play behind my back.”

  “If we could use part of the money we stole in Iraq, it could finance our operations for the next twelve to sixteen months. That way I could deal with Jackson Taylor and sever all links we have with the Africans before it gets more complicated.”

  “What about the training? Didn’t you say yourself that we needed him to train our new recruits?”

  “I can think of many other places where young jihadis could receive training,” replied the Sheik.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Qasim. But you must realize that using even part of that seventy million could be dangerous. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but I’ll have to think about it. Give me a few days.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll call you once we reach Benalmádena.”

  “Very well, Qasim. There is just one more thing you need to know before I let you go.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our main contact within the French gendarmerie is dead. He called me after shooting General Deniaud dead and before swallowing his own gun. He said that all evidence left by the Antibes team would lead to him and no one else.”

  “Let’s hope he was right,” said Sheik Al-Assad. “I’m surprised he committed suicide. I’ve never imagined him capable of doing that. I always thought I would have to send Omar to take care of it once we were done with him.”

  The Sheik heard his friend chuckle. “Let’s just say that I mentioned that he shouldn’t leave any loose ends if he didn’t want his boyfriend to endure a lot of pain.”

  “I see. It’s a shame we lost him so soon, though. He was greedy but a great asset.”

  “He was. I’ll call you back in a few days with my decision regarding the funds,” said the American. “Tell Alex I miss him, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” replied the Sheik.

  Al-Assad replaced his satellite phone in a special drawer under his bed. He could have pushed his friend a little more, but he wanted him to come to his own conclusion. Major Jackson Taylor needed to go. Insubordination couldn’t be tolerated. He had already served his purpose. Their business arrangement with the Africans had been fruitful, but now it was time to pass on to better and brighter things.

  He knew his American friend was worried about using the money they had stolen from the CIA just after the invasion of Iraq. That money was presently sitting in a vault in Switzerland, and Sheik Al-Assad thought that it was now time to put the funds to good use. He was aware that the US government could have put a trace on it, but he doubted it. That had been one of the first large shipments of money the CIA had sent to Iraq prior to the invasion in March 2003, and he was betting that the money had come from one of the spy agency’s black projects—thus ensuring that the CIA would have erased all possible tracing mechanisms itself.

  The Sheik poured himself a scotch from a crystal decanter on the sideboard, then sat in his favorite armchair, made from reclaimed leather. Allah would allow him this small indulgence. He and his friend went back a long way, and he respected the older man’s judgment. They might not agree on everything, but the bond between them transcended any differences of opinion they had. In many ways, their bond was stronger than blood.

  ―

  Forty years ago, Steve Shamrock had married the Sheik’s sister while serving as an oil executive in the United Arab Emirates. Because he spoke fluent Arabic, Shamrock had been asked by the company’s board of directors to act as their official negotiator regarding drilling rights on the land of the Sheik’s father, Sheik Zafad Al-Assad. Most of the meetings between the parties had taken place inside Al-Assad’s palace. Once an accord had been reached, Shamrock and the other senior company representatives had been invited to a gala at the palace. It was during this dinner that Steve Shamrock’s life changed forever. Ghayda Al-Assad was an Arab beauty like Shamrock had never seen before. Her piercing brown eyes melted his heart quicker than ice under the sun. With the consent of Sheik Zafad Al-Assad, they were married five months later.

  Less than a year after the wedding, Shamrock was promoted to vice president of public affairs and transferred back to the United States. His wife, who was then pregnant with their first child, was accepted as an intern at the Mayo Clinic. She gave birth to their baby boy, Alexander, at their private residence in Scottsdale. Baby Alexander, known to the Al-Assad family as Omar Al-Nashwan, attended the best schools Arizona had to offer. Like his father, he kept his faith to himself, knowing that it would set him apart from the other kids in his classes. In the states, he excelled in sports and academics, but it was during the many summers he spent in the Emirates with his Uncle Qasim that Omar felt most alive.

  All was well for the Al-Assad family until, while on vacation in Damascus with his wife and daughter, Sheik Zafad Al-Assad was mistakenly assassinated by a CIA Special Activities Division team that had wrongly
believed he was a wanted terrorist. The firefight between the Sheik’s bodyguards and the SAD officers didn’t last long. The Americans’ fire had been accurate and deadly. None of their rounds had missed their mark, but the same couldn’t be said for Al-Assad’s bodyguards. Once the dust had settled, the three bodyguards were lying lifeless on the ground next to the sheik. His wife and daughter, caught in the crossfire, had both been mortally wounded and died during their transport to the hospital.

  Even though five of the six Americans miraculously evaded capture, one of them was caught by the Syrian secret police less than a mile from the Lebanese border. They thought briefly about a prisoner exchange but wisely elected not to go with this option. Sheik Zafad Al-Assad had been a man with great influence in the UAE, and the Syrians concluded that transparency might be the best choice of action. When Qasim Al-Assad received the bad news from Syria, he immediately contacted Steve Shamrock. They were in Damascus less than twenty-four hours after the shooting.

  The CIA agent resisted for a long time but finally caved in after hours of torture at the hands of the Syrian secret police. Qasim Al-Assad and Shamrock witnessed the confession given by the captured man, who, while in agony, admitted working for the CIA and that he was the one who had actually shot the old man.

  In the dirty basement of that Syrian prison, the man who would become known as the Sheik and a future CEO of an important oil and gas company from the United States of America agreed to dedicate their lives to getting revenge. They would use Islam to recruit naïve souls. They would use Allah’s words to induce them into fighting for them. To die for them. Religion would be the stick used to motivate their own jihadis to attack the Americans where it would hurt them the most—their wallets.

  ―

  The Sheik couldn’t wait to take care of Major Jackson. As soon as he was removed, the network would concentrate its resources on one thing: the economic collapse of America.