Money was not an issue for Nick. That had been arranged many months before under the assumed name of Monsieur Jacques Guillon, a former diamond merchant, who had moved to Marseille from Tunisia after selling his business. Seven million euros, almost the equivalent in dollars, had been deposited at the local bank and with all the paperwork in order, no questions had ever been asked of their newest cash rich customer.
Using the funds over the last six months, on his travels he had purchased and loaded numerous pre-paid credit cards in various currencies. All transactions relating to the cards had been made in cash, rendering them anonymous and totally untraceable. His first transaction was for a ferry ticket to Algiers, departing in a few hours from Marseille, France’s largest port and gateway to North Africa and his African army of believers.
Chapter 31
Manhattan, New York
Hunter College
Rafik took his seat as the 8:00 a.m. class in General Chemistry was due to begin. The six seats to his left remained vacant. His friends had not shown up yet. He called them friends but ‘acquaintances’ was probably more accurate. They never fully welcomed him into their fold. They seemed wary of his background, a Muslim immigrant from Iraq. His family was killed during the insurgency and he was left alone in the world. Bitter and unhappy with life, he had tagged onto the group and it seemed at times that he was accepted and at others excluded. He looked at the vacant seats and wondered what it was today that he had been excluded from.
Perhaps he had pushed his anti-American rhetoric a little too much and had frightened them off? It was a beautiful day and there were better options than being stuck in a classroom for the morning. However, they were very serious students, like him, and keen to learn as much about chemistry as possible. He looked around the lecture theatre and noticed that all of the normal seats were occupied. Just the six to his left remained vacant.
The clock above the blackboard at the front of the lecture hall clicked to 8:01 and like clockwork, the lecturer entered the room. Rafik had voiced his disgust to his friends at being lectured by a female. He watched with disdain as she placed her coffee cup on the desk and bid them good morning.
Rafik looked out for his friends, but still they didn’t show. He thought back to the previous Friday. Had he said something that may have scared them off? He had tweaked the rhetoric up slightly but not dramatically. He was playing the long game, gaining their trust. At 8:10, they had still not arrived. Perhaps he had pushed it too far. He began to consider that he might be in danger. He looked around and recognized all the faces. The exits appeared to be unmanned. At 8:15, Rafik got up from his seat. Something was definitely amiss. He made his way out of the lecture hall and, checking the corridor carefully, to an exit. There was still no sign that he was being watched.
He crossed the street and walked the short distance to Central Park, losing himself amongst the early morning joggers, tourists and sun worshippers. He withdrew a cell phone from his backpack and swapped the SIM card with another from his backpack. A pre-programmed number on the SIM required him to dial a code to access the number. He entered the code number into the cell, hit the dial button and waited.
***
NCTC
Special Agent Sarah Reid had arrived at 6:00 a.m., having left only five hours earlier. Many joked that she had no life. It wasn’t a joke; she didn’t. She lived for her work. She was forty-five years of age, single, a little too short for her weight and not a looker. She was the stereotypical definition of a plain Jane. If there had been a pictorial example in the dictionary, her picture would have fitted perfectly. However, her personal lackings were the Bureau’s gain. Special Agent Sarah Reid was without doubt one of their best and most talented investigators. When Deputy Director Paul Turner put his team together, there had never been a doubt he would select Reid as his number two. There was not a more hardworking or tenacious investigator in the Bureau. She had refused promotions into management and training many times. She lived to catch criminals, particularly terrorists. Her father had died in the North Tower on 9/11. It was one of the many reasons she lived for her work.
There were over a hundred Joint Terrorism Task Force Centers across the country, all feeding into the main National Task Force at the NCTC where any patterns could be noted and analyzed. Resources could be shifted as and when required at any particular hotspot.
Updates throughout the day were normal. The regional centers were encouraged to notify the National Center of anything out of the ordinary.
By 8:00 a.m., the phone lines at the National Center were struggling to cope. By 8:30, Reid had secured additional resources and lines to take the sudden and unexpected increase in calls.
***
Rafik’s listened into his cell, it rang once. A pause followed and a connection was made. He waited, ensuring he was out of earshot.
“ID?”
“Rafik Al-Basri,” replied Rafik quietly.
“Go ahead.”
“I need the Watch Commander asap.”
After a few seconds, the line clicked and another voice came on the line. “Come home, bud, they’ve gone, flown the coop.”
“Shit! They made me?” asked Rafik.
“No, son. Rafik was perfect. They’ve all gone. Come home, Ricky,” replied the New York JTTF Watch List Commander, using undercover FBI Agent Ricky Hernandez’ real name.
***
Reid didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or more nervous than ever. Across the board, the phone calls were informing them that the radical Muslims— jihadists— on their watch lists were booking flights and heading out of America. If this continued as the sun rose and the west caught up with the east, there wouldn’t be a jihadist left in North America.
Reid picked up the phone and called Turner. Like her, he was nervous. She heard him update Carson and could have sworn he shouted at the pilot to fly faster. Whatever the case, they were already heading back after their wild goose chase.
Chapter 32
Tuesday 7th July
After twenty hours on board the packed ferry, Nick was glad to stretch his legs properly. The small Peugeot had been left with keys in the ignition not far from the Marseille terminal. He doubted it was there five minutes later. Marseille had improved dramatically from its less than illustrious reputation. However, like any large city, there were areas best left unexplored. In Marseille, that was the area around the ferry terminal. Nick had felt his pockets brushed a little too closely twice while he was waiting to board the ferry. If it happened a third time, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to restrain himself.
Algiers was an African city with a very mixed heritage. The various buildings from its history of empires stared back at Nick as he left the ferry; it was loud, chaotic, smelly and beautiful all at once, the way only ancient cities could be. Nick wasn’t interested in any of it. He checked his watch and approached a passport checkpoint. This was a mere formality but the facial recognition system of any camera in the hall was certainly to be avoided. An increased exaggeration of his limp ensured a perfect view for the cameras of the crown of his head.
Nick placed himself two thirds of the way into the line, not keen to get off but not keen to appear he didn’t care, just a normal guy getting in line. His passport in the name of Jacques Guillon scanned perfectly and Nick walked freely onto another continent. While the noon call to prayer echoed across the city, Nick headed towards the Casbah area of Algiers. The traditional walled quarter was a maze of alleyways and buildings built on a steep incline, some preserved beautifully, others falling dangerously into disrepair.
The call to prayer quieted, and Nick found himself in front of the Ketchaoua Mosque, a beautiful entrance to the old city behind. Nick entered and paid his respects to Allah. His western appearance drew a number of disapproving looks from fellow worshippers, particularly the younger men. Nick continued unperturbed.
Being one of the last to enter, Nick was one of the first to leave. He entered the Casbah by climbing
the steep staircase and, owing to his limp, he was soon overtaken by many other worshippers. As he moved deeper into the Casbah, the tight alleyways stole the sunlight and shadows became longer and darker. Nick had a rough idea of where he was going, although he had a feeling the four youths who had followed him from the Mosque had other plans. Nick turned a sharp right and, out of the youths’ sight, bounded up a short flight of stairs. As he neared the center of the Casbah, the walls closed in further. The alleyways tightened and darkened with each step and they climbed further and further up the hillside.
Nick stepped back into a doorway, just before another sharp turn in the alleyway. He needed to lose or deal with his admirers, whoever they were. His meeting was far too important to be put at risk.
He heard them at the base of the staircase, wondering where he had gone. Their cockiness was diminished a little at the ease with which the cripple, their easy prey, had eluded them. Nick pushed himself further back into the shadows and their footsteps raced to catch up and find him. Nick let the first three run past, reaching out and grabbing the fourth by pulling him towards him. The youth attempted to cry out, so Nick clamped his hand over his mouth, then slammed the youth into the stone wall. The sickening crunch made far less noise than the wooden door would have. It would also mean that the youth was far less likely to die from his injuries. Nick opened the door and was rewarded with a magnificent arched courtyard that led off to various apartments. Fortunately, the courtyard was empty. He dumped the youth’s unconscious body on the floor and moved back to his original position, closing the door behind him. He took up position on the opposite side of the doorway. When the youths came back, they would not see him unless they looked behind them.
A clatter of steps suggested they had discovered the loss of one of their own. They charged back down the steps and once again, as they passed, Nick repeated his previous actions. Unfortunately this time, the youth screamed the moment he was touched. The loss of their compatriot had obviously spooked them. Nick powered the screamer into the wall, and his two friends ground to a halt. The screamer’s lifeless body slumped to the ground. Nick, without his cane, limp or stoop cut a far more imposing figure and not the easy target the muggers thought he would be. The two hesitated, looking at one another for support. Nick had a meeting to get to. He stepped towards them. They turned and ran.
Nicked carried the second unconscious youth into the courtyard and checked their pulses. Weak but there. He emptied their pockets, removed the battery from their cells and pocketed the lot. They’d live but they’d certainly think twice about chasing cripples in the future. He placed them in the recovery position to ensure they didn’t choke on their own vomit and hurried off to make his meeting on time. He cut across a number of alleyways as he worked his way to the far side of the Casbah. He had led the youths in an opposite direction. Ten minutes later, he approached a nondescript wooden door in a nondescript alleyway, just as it had been described to him. He thanked Allah that his directional skills were as good as they were and he knocked on the door three times, once, then twice. It opened and a gun was forced into his face and the trigger pulled.
Chapter 33
“Did you see that? Did you see his face?!” shouted the gunman to his followers behind him.
Nick pushed the gun away from his face and walked into the room.
“He didn’t even flinch! Not even a flicker of his eyelid!” said the gunman excitedly. Handing the unloaded pistol to another man, he hugged Nick.
“I’ve warned you before, Shaheed,” said Nick. “One of these days your practical jokes will get you killed!”
“Brother,” said Shaheed whispering in his ear, “I needed to show these men how special you are. You are a gift from Allah. Truly, you are.”
Nick hugged him back. It wasn’t the first time Shaheed had played the unloaded gun trick in his face. The first time had been back in the hills of Afghanistan. Although that time, Nick had not known he was joking.
“Come eat,” called a voice from the back of the room. The voice belonged to an older man who was instantly obeyed. The room silenced and the thirty men that had been gathered for the meeting moved to a table at the far end of the room. Shaheed led Nick to the top of the table and introduced him to the head of the Maghreb wing of Al Qaeda, Mustafa Ghazi. The welcome was warm but cautious, a normal response on meeting a new member of the leadership for the first time. Nick was everything they despised, at least, on the outside. Nick joked that if he were a sweet in a wrapper, he’d be the last one chosen but whoever chose him would be in for the most delicious treat of their life. The message was loud and clear: Don’t judge him on his looks. Mustafa accepted his words and introduced him to the hierarchy of the jihadist fighters from across Northern Africa. Leaders from Mali, Niger, Sudan, Morocco and many more were introduced to the man that had brought a plan to unite them in a common goal.
“Shaheed,” said Nick as the lunch was coming to an end, “do you have the laptop I asked for?”
Shaheed reached behind him, produced a laptop and handed it across to Nick.
Nick opened the Tor browser, the browser of choice for the world’s criminals, untraceable and hidden behind thousands of anonymous relays. Although not perfect, it certainly was better than the commercial options.
The website opened to reveal the man Nick had injected with a lethal virus just over thirty-six hours ago. It was not a pleasant sight. The man had been suffering from a high fever, vomiting and diarrhea and due to his contagious status, had not been tended to. Large sores had appeared across his body to add to the horror of the image.
Nick turned the screen around to his audience. “Friends,” he said, “this is the disease that will rid us of the infidels! In less than eight hours, this man will literally bleed out on live TV. His writhing in pain right now is nothing compared to what it will be just a few hours from now.”
A cheer erupted. the group began to understand just how grand the plan before them was.
“But how do we protect our lands?”
“We don’t need to. All travel to and from North America will cease after we introduce the virus. No country on earth will accept a plane or boat from America or Canada once we release this. Mexico will close its borders. A military buffer zone will keep the virus in. They will be isolated as the virus eats through the fabric of their corrupt society.”
Another cheer erupted.
“What do you need from us?” they asked, almost as one.
“I need your men. I need your warriors. I need the men who want to fight and more importantly, are not afraid to die for Allah.”
“Then you want every man in this room!” shouted Mustafa proudly.
“I want an army. I want to strike fear into them like they have never known. The virus is just part of the plan. I want to take the battle to their streets. I want them to see the army of Allah running down the streets killing their policemen and soldiers without fear. I want to destroy their hospitals before the virus takes hold. I want their hearts and souls to die before they do.”
The resultant cheer almost lifted the roof.
“The Caliph set the groundwork. He wanted a one true Islam to rule over us, for us all to unite together against the infidels. Together we can defeat them. That is what the Caliph died for and has asked me to help you deliver.”
Another cheer erupted.
Before Nick left, he laid out the detailed instructions of what each man needed to deliver. He was clear and precise. He wanted the true believers, only those who, if caught on film, would smile as they pressed a detonator that would send them to paradise. He warned that many would be tested and if one man failed, all of those leaders’ men would be sent home in disgrace. It was a threat that ensured only the true would be delivered to Nick’s army. Once selected, the jihadists’ names would be added to his army and their instructions sent to them thereafter. Each jihadist would receive his own instructions. Again, Nick emphasized the importance of compartmentalizing the plan.
The fewer people who knew the final details, the less chance the infidels had of stopping them.
Some, the most courageous and talented warriors, would have the honor of taking the fight to the streets of America. Others would have the honor of taking the virus into the heart of America and would be responsible for killing millions of infidels.
Just as individual fighters would wait to hear their fate, so would the leaders. Not all could make the trip. Not all would have the honor of taking the fight to the Americans. Some would have to stay and fight for the future, ensure that those who had sacrificed themselves for the cause would be rewarded by the creation of the one true Caliphate.
Not until the morning of the attack would each jihadist learn of his final destination and role in the plan. It would ensure that even if fifty were caught by the Americans before the attack, the Americans would have no idea whether they were trying to find one hundred jihadists, one thousand jihadists, or even twenty thousand. A huge cry of ‘Allahu Akbar!’ from his audience sealed the approval he required.
Nick retraced his steps back through the alleyways of the Casbah and grabbed a taxi on the outskirts of the old quarter. He headed towards Blida Airport, a small airfield to the southwest of Algiers. Between Farsi in Europe and Mustafa Ghazi and his African compatriots, Nick’s army was already growing into the thousands and he hadn’t even yet been to the heart of Islam. He was going to deliver a blow of such a magnitude that the world would struggle to understand what was happening.
ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS Page 77