The Insider Threat

by Brad Taylor

  Brett and I switched positions, and Knuckles growled, “I oughtta use the damn Taser on him.”

  I called Retro and Jennifer. “Koko, Retro, this is Pike. Assault element secure. Moving your way.”

  Retro said, “Pike, we’ve got an issue. The target is being tailed by one of Panda’s security. The black guy from inside the hotel that Koko swiped with ABS.”

  15

  I heard the transmission and cursed. We were now moving out of what even I would call perfect conditions.

  “Why? What happened? What did the target do to spike security?”

  “Nothing. I think Panda’s actually providing him protection without him knowing.”

  “Is he moving on the projected route?”

  “Yeah, but we can’t take him in view of the security.”

  We had planned on assaulting the target just south of Adams Arcade. There was a road that ran east to west on the southern edge, acting as a border between the security of the mall and a flea market called Toi. Unlike Adams Arcade, Toi was a maze of vendors jam-packed together in makeshift huts, and was a local favorite for buying secondhand clothing. Most of the stalls would be closed at this hour, but not all.

  I looked at the map and said, “Okay, we’re bumping the kill zone one road to the south. See Kinangop? See where it curves? He hits that and he’ll trail it back to Kangethe and home. Hopefully.”

  I looked at Brett. “Start moving. Stage on Joseph Kangethe Road where Kinangop dead-ends into it.”

  Jennifer came on. “He just broke out of Adams Arcade. He’s into the Toi Market, and security’s still following. What about him?”

  We had maybe three minutes.

  She repeated, “What about the security following him?”

  “Retro interdicts him. He’s the only one that’s clean. Retro, can you penetrate inside Toi?”

  “Yeah. I can get in. I’ll stick out, but that’s not the problem. I take out the security and everybody’s going to see.”

  I said, “Retro, don’t take him out. Just stop him. Is he well dressed?”

  “Yeah, he’s in a suit.”

  “Okay, act like you’re lost. Act like a tourist. Stop him as a nice-looking Kenyan and ask for directions. We only need seconds. Get a gap between him and the target.”

  Jennifer said, “And me?”

  Brett stopped the van, saying, “We’re here.”

  I said, “All elements, we’re staged. Koko, penetrate into Toi with Retro. Split when he moves to the security man. Same profile. Prevent the target from running back the way he came.”

  I didn’t want to do that, because a single white female walking around out here was like dropping bloody chunks of meat into shark-infested water. I heard nothing for a moment, then Jennifer said, “Pike, target’s spotted security. He’s getting skittish.”

  “Okay, okay, stay on him. Nothing’s changed.”

  “He’s speed-walking now. I say again, he’s moving fast through the stalls. He’s headed west, not south.”

  My first thought was Abort.

  I looked at the map, seeing my plan of action was way off. I said, “He’ll hit Suna Road, then go south. This is it. Retro, interdict security. Jennifer, stick with him. Brett, get up there. Get to the intersection of Suna and Kinangop.”

  He goosed the engine and we went flying past our projected kill zone. Knuckles said, “We’re not going to make it in time. He’ll be through the intersection before we get there.”

  “Nothing I can do about possibles. We’ll deal with the situation when we get there.” I keyed the radio. “Jennifer, Retro, status?”

  Jennifer said, “I lost him in the stalls. He’s headed straight west.”

  From Retro, I heard mumbled conversation. He couldn’t talk, and had keyed the mike to let me know he was executing.

  Brett raced up Kinangop, luckily the only car on the road, the weak headlights from the van providing barely enough illumination for the speed we were going.

  Jennifer called, “I’m on Suna. I see him. He’s running south now. And I mean running.”

  Retro came on. “Security’s broken contact. He got sick of me, and he’s moving west.”

  Blaine’s orders flicked through my head. The drugs are set. I should really let him go.

  I saw the intersection of Suma and Kinangop just as Jennifer called, saying, “He’s going east now. He’s on your road, but I’ve got an issue. Some youths are following me. Closing on me. No idea of their intentions.”

  What else can happen? Where’s my luck?

  “Retro, get to Koko, now. Break, break, Koko, we’re ten seconds out. Keep moving south. Call if you need help.”

  She said nothing, but I could feel her wrath at my words. Knuckles said, “Pike, maybe we should . . .”

  Before he could finish his sentence, something flashed in front of our headlights like a bad horror-movie strobe effect. There one second, gone the next. I strained my eyes outside the window, and finally saw my vaunted luck. It was a tall African, waving his arms to get us to stop.

  The leader.

  You’re kidding me. About time.

  “Brett, see if we can help that man out.”

  He grinned and pulled over. Our target ran to the passenger window, shouting something in broken English. Knuckles slid open the side door and stepped out. The Nigerian glanced toward him, saw his wig and running black face paint. He drew back, confused and alarmed. I followed Knuckles and the man backed away, preparing to sprint. Knuckles hit him with the Taser, dropping him like a sack of dirt.

  We heaved him into the back of the van, Knuckles keeping the juice going while I stabilized him. Knuckles slammed the door shut and Brett called the dismounted team. “Retro, Koko, status.”

  Retro said, “I got her. I’m with her, but the thugs are still following. They’re blocking our ability to get back into Toi. You want me to escalate?”

  Meaning, Can I draw my weapon?

  I said, “Negative. Let’s see if we can’t get you out clean.”

  Brett hit the gas while I flex-tied the leader, his head rolling left and right. I pulled out the manila envelope from under his shirt, a flip phone and notebook spilling to the floor of the van. Jackpot. Knuckles readied a syringe and the target began flopping up and down, like a fish trying to get back into the water. I used my weight to hold him down and Knuckles hit him with the sedative. He thrashed a bit more, then his eyes rolled back into his head.

  Brett slammed through the intersection, ripping right hard enough to fling us into the side. He said, “I got them, I got them.”

  I leaned forward and saw Retro walking quickly with Jennifer, holding her hand like they were a couple. Behind them was a pack of men following like wolves pacing a wounded deer. Lost tourists they planned on fleecing as soon as the hapless couple cleared the area of Toi and entered the outskirts of the slum.

  Retro said, “Is that you to my front?”

  “Yeah, we’re going to roll right up. Get to us and get in. If they start running with you, we’ll handle it.”

  Brett pulled abreast, the headlights on the group thirty meters away. Jennifer broke into a sprint, with Retro right behind her. The thugs were surprised for a split second, then began to give chase, two starting to catch up.

  Jennifer dove inside, followed by Retro. The door slammed shut and we were gone, hearing nothing but a couple of fists banging the quarter panel.

  Brett swerved onto the main road in front of the mall, and I got smacked in the shoulder by Jennifer.

  “Call if I’m in trouble? Call if I’m in trouble? Really? That’s why I called.”

  I said, “Hey, I knew Retro had your back.”

  Knuckles said, “Don’t blame me; I tried to get him to help.”

  I said, “What? In the hotel you said I was on the verge of compromising the mission because I thought Jennifer might be in trouble. Now I’m at fault for letting her work it out?”

  She muttered something and I turned to Brett, telling
him to get rolling toward the support crew in the storage garage. I started to call Blaine, then paused, saying, “Everyone listen. No matter what Blaine asks, this went perfectly, okay?”

  Knuckles said, “Why?”

  Jennifer squinted and said, “What are you hiding?”

  All innocent I said, “Nothing. Just tell Blaine it went like clockwork. Trust me, that would be for the best.”

  16

  Sitting at the long makeshift table, Jacob caught the Chechen and another man studying him. He ignored them, waiting on Ringo’s team to arrive for dinner. In truth, he was growing tired of the constant blanket of Islamic State minions watching his every move, and tired of the so-called instruction they’d received.

  Expecting to learn the art of the suicide bomber, they’d done nothing of the sort. The mornings were spent working with the tools of the shahid, but it was nothing like Jacob had been expecting, like from the movies, with detonators and ticking red numbers. They mostly worked with chemicals. Learning how to break a cylinder of glass inside a plastic container. Then how to break the next one. Beyond that, they learned to hide and remove small wooden dowels inside the shell of a smartphone, then hook them to plastic tubing before inserting them into sleeves of clay.

  They were tested endlessly and told their very lives depended on the training, but the “chemicals” they used were nothing more than colored water, and the wooden dowels made little sense. It grew boring.

  The afternoons were spent studying the Catholic faith, including all of the strange trappings of that religion. Scripts, ceremonies, and arcane trivia that meant little beyond reminding him of the hated reform school he’d fled.

  Having had to absorb the multitude of Islamic strictures inherent in the Islamic State had been bad enough, but something he could tolerate because it was all forgotten on the battlefield. But he was disgusted at being forced to learn about Christianity and Catholicism. He’d had enough of that beaten into him at the school, in what he felt was an incredible show of hypocrisy. They preached tolerance and love on Sundays, forcing the boys to listen to one itinerate preacher after another, then tortured him and his friends the other six days of the week. In his mind, Christianity was nothing but a cloak for abuse, and, if the world were just, he’d take every one of those hypocritical preachers with him in a blaze of glory.

  There was no such duplicitousness within the Islamic State. They proclaimed up front what would occur for any infractions, and adhered to that creed with brutal efficiency. While he didn’t really care for all the Islamic diatribes, he found symmetry in his existence here. A life worth living, even if it meant death.

  Next to him, Carlos rubbed his chin, now shorn of its patchy, juvenile beard, and said, “Rumor has it we’re leaving soon. That we’ve done all we can here.”

  Devon said, “We haven’t done anything. Where is all the training like Mohamed Atta got? All we’ve done is break some glass and learn about an infidel religion.”

  Jacob inwardly smiled at the statement, amazed at how deeply his two companions had embraced the propaganda. Wanting so badly to belong, to feel a sense of inclusion and purpose, they’d absorbed the myth of the Islamic State like gauze on a gunshot wound, the blood soaking through and permanently staining whatever remained.

  Jacob saw Ringo’s team enter and waved to Hussein. Watching him walk over, he recognized that the same hadn’t happened to his other friend. If anything, Hussein’s wound was too great, the blood of the Islamic State overwhelming his defenses. Instead of absorbing, Hussein was fighting it, and he was losing. He looked haggard. Scared.

  He’s not going to make it.

  Hussein fist-bumped Carlos and Devon, then sat down. Devon said, “What do you hear? Yousef says we’re leaving soon.”

  Jacob scowled and said, “What were you told about our names? You forget the Muslim one. Use our given names.”

  Chagrined, Devon snuck a glance at the Chechen, hoping he hadn’t heard. He whispered, “Carlos. Carlos says we’re leaving.”

  Hussein said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I am. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Jacob said, “So are we. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon.”

  Carlos said, “How do you know?”

  “They had us shave. There’s a reason for that. They want us to look American, and they want it now.”

  Devon said, “I hope so, but we don’t even know what we’re doing. We haven’t learned anything.”

  Jacob said, “Maybe it’s like The Karate Kid. Wax on, wax off. Maybe we’ve learned something without even knowing. Or maybe there’s more training that can’t be done here. Even Mohamed Atta had to learn to fly, and he couldn’t do that in a cave.”

  Carlos smiled and, like a kid discussing college applications, said, “I sure hope so. Hussein, what are you doing? Did they tell you?”

  Hussein nodded, his head bobbing over and over, as if he were trying to convince himself that what was occurring was real. Jacob thought he might start crying. He said, “Yes. We’re going to Jordan. It’s why they told me to keep my mustache. They want me to look like a local. Ringo’s in charge, and he’s taking the team to Ma’an, in the south. I’m going to Amman. To meet my father.”

  “What is the target?”

  “I don’t know, but my father works at a hotel. A fancy one.”

  17

  Watching the Lost Boys eat, Adnan al-Tayyib said, “My friend, I gave you permission to train and lead our external operations, not break them up as you see fit. You had two tasks to accomplish, and I didn’t give you the authority to use one of the untainted Americans for the false flag attack.”

  Omar said, “You told me my mission, then said it was up to me to ensure success. I didn’t realize there were restrictions. The boy Hussein is weak, and his name is Muslim. I considered him a threat for the primary mission. His heritage alone will raise eyes, even with an American passport. Don’t listen when governments say they don’t profile. They do. On the other hand, he’s Jordanian, and his father still lives in Amman. He’s perfect for the false flag.”

  “Don’t make it a habit of such decisions without consulting me.”

  Omar said, “I won’t. I’m sorry if I seemed to usurp your authority, but because of Hussein I no longer think of the second attack as a deception. It may prove more instrumental than the primary operation.”

  Adnan turned to him and saw he wasn’t fabricating a story to cover his disobedience. “You truly believe this?”

  “Yes, especially since we control all of the assets. The city of Ma’an is ripe with recruits. Ever since the Jordanian pilot’s death they have been hounded by the authorities for their religious convictions. All they require is a catalyst, and we can give them that. It will provide a second front for the crusaders to fight. One in the backyard of Jordan, their favorite takfir ally. I’m more confident of it than the primary attack.”

  Adnan said, “Come. Let’s not talk here, among the men.”

  They left the ramshackle two-story building, the clatter of dishes and eating utensils fading behind them, the desert air rapidly cooling from the day’s heat.

  They walked in silence, Omar patiently waiting on his emir to start the conversation. They crossed the compound, little dust devils swirling in the gathering gloom, formed by the wind of the temperature inversion.

  Reaching the front stoop of a one-story brick building one hundred meters away, Omar finally decided to break the silence.

  “I hope our accommodations are to your liking.”

  Adnan opened the door, saying, “They’re fine. Come in.”

  Omar followed, waiting on the man to speak yet again. When Adnan remained mute, he broke the silence one more time but stayed away from the mission, not wanting to antagonize his emir. “How did your recruit of the oil field technicians go? Is all well with that endeavor?”

  Adnan adjusted several pillows and took a seat on the floor. He said, “Sit.”

  Omar did. Adnan said, “The recruiting went fin
e. They’re flying into Turkey as we speak. When they get here, they’ll contact me, and I’ll put them to work.”

  “How?”

  Adnan pulled out two Thuraya satellite cell phones. “On this. Both are clean, and the other one is for you.”

  Omar said, “You know how I feel about phones. Especially satellite ones. It’s how Dzhokhar Dudayev was killed in Chechnya. It’s how the crusaders kill everyone since they’re too afraid to fight man-to-man.”

  “I know, but sometimes we take risks. In this case, minimal. These phones have never been used. Once I get my recruits, I’ll throw this one away. Once you get the material for the explosives, you can throw that one away.”

  Omar studied the phone, then said, “Okay. This once. Who will be calling?”

  “A man named Rashid al-Jaza’iri. He’s giving us the explosives.”

  “Al-Jaza’iri? As in ‘the Algerian’?”

  “Yes.”

  “The French intelligence officer? From Jabhat al-Nusra?”

  Adnan took a date from a bowl, popped it into his mouth, and said, “Yes.”

  Omar said, “Adnan, I don’t think you know the history between us. He won’t help the Islamic State. He and I have had some issues.”

  Adnan laughed and said, “Issues? From what I hear, he would like nothing more than to skin you alive. But he’s dealing with me. He doesn’t know about you, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “Why would he help? We broke from al Qaida, and when we did, we slaughtered al-Nusra in Aleppo. I know. I did the killing. I came close to beheading Rashid myself, but he got away, running through our checkpoints dressed as a woman in a niqab. They’re nothing but pompous asses putting out tapes, but they’ve sworn vengeance. Tell me we haven’t put the success of the attack in their hands.”

  “They are pompous, spouting proclamations from hiding, but they also have much greater expertise in making improvised explosives. Expertise they intended to use to attack the crusaders, but were prevented. They now want to give that expertise to us, courtesy of the United States.”