“We’ll need Klinkman in the apartment. If we decide to move them, we can send him down for the van. It won’t take more than three of us to get these assholes down to the ground level. We’ll have gravity on our side. Just don’t get the fucking van stuck in the courtyard,” Petrovich said.
“A little more credit for my driving, please? I can pull the van through the opening between those trash dumpsters. It’ll be a tight fit, but I can get this thing up into the courtyard. Straight shot down the middle. Looks clear on the other end. The only problem I see is that I’ll have to turn us around in the courtyard. The other end looks blocked. It would be very easy for the police to bottle us up in this courtyard,” Klinkman said.
“It’s our best option at the moment. We’ll know if the police are alerted and can adjust accordingly. I’m hoping to get what we need inside the apartment,” Farrington said.
“Don’t count on it. If Al Qaeda trusted this crew with the virus shipment, they’re likely to be among the best operatives in the Al Qaeda inventory,” Petrovich said.
“Agreed. We hit their door in exactly six minutes. They’re about two minutes from settling in on their mats for maghrib. Sunset prayer. Luke’s team will confirm that they are deeply into reciting their verses before we hit the door. If they try to resist when we bust inside, Petrovich will use his pistol to disable or kill Hanif Akhnaten. That’ll give us a two to one ratio to get the others under control. Stay alert inside the apartment. We need to keep Hassan and Ozier el-Masri alive for interrogation under any circumstance. The FBI is missing a big piece of the puzzle. This crew might be the only hope of piecing the whole thing together. Any questions?”
“Suppressors for everyone?” Hubner asked.
“Negative. Just Petrovich. He’s the only shooter unless something is really off in the apartment. Are we good?”
They all nodded and waited to hear from Luke’s team.
**
Luke Fortier sat on the edge of a cheap plastic folding chair and listened intently to the array of police scanners arranged on the makeshift desk bolted into the back of the Ford transporter van. The entire cargo area behind the driver and passenger seat had been hastily converted for their use during this operation. A thick padded curtain separated the two areas, providing the team with complete privacy from anyone staring through the windshield or front side windows. From the outside, the van resembled every other compact van found throughout Europe, with the exception of the unique antenna array located toward the back. A trained observer would note that this very average van had an enhanced Wi-Fi and satellite communications capability, in addition to a combined UHF/VHF landmobile radio system. Fortier’s job was to communicate with Farrington’s team and scan every possible police frequency for any indication of a law enforcement response to the team’s entry to the target building. The other two members of the team got to do the fun work on this operation.
He turned his head toward Ramish “Mish” Banergee and Alvaro “Alvin” Batista, who were huddled around three laptop computers sitting on the metal table jammed into the left side of the van. Wires poured down the back of the table, splitting into thick tentacles that snaked off in several directions along the carpeted floor, sending information to various electronics components buried in shock absorbent foam cases designed expressly for the purpose of mobile surveillance. Mish kneeled at the desk and typed a string of commands into the leftmost laptop. The middle screen changed to a view of the brightly lit, sparsely decorated room. Three men appeared near the bottom of the screen, facing away from the door. They all bowed in unison and stood back up, before dropping to their knees and prostrating with their heads touching the floor.
“Look at this shit. I’m a genius,” Mish crowed.
“You got lucky. One in a thousand that they’d leave a laptop open for us. We have eyes and ears on target, Luke,” Batista said.
“Looks like they’re into a rhythm. Are they faced away from the door?”
“Yep. Facing southeast. Pointing directly at our van, ironically.”
“I think they’re planning on taking a trip. I see a few suitcases along the far wall. Check it out,” Banergee said.
The screen zoomed in on three pieces of luggage stacked along the wall leading to a different room.
“The team is at the door. I’m clearing them for entry. Do you see anything on the screen that might get in their way?”
“I don’t see any weapons or furniture obstructions. No unusual RF activity from the building or surrounding area. The team is clear,” Mish said.
“Give me an identification line up,” Luke said.
Banergee typed furiously and worked the mouse, isolating images and sending them to Batista’s laptop on the right side of the table. Batista matched the pictures taken from the hijacked laptop with employee identification photos taken at DBM. The entire process took five seconds.
“From the team’s frame of reference. Left to right. El-Masri. Hassan. Akhnaten.
“All right. I’m clearing the team. Keep your eyes glued to that screen,” Luke said.
He pressed a small button attached to a wire connecting his earpiece to a handheld VHF radio clipped to his belt.
“Room looks clear for entry. No obstructions. Three targets facing away from door. All identities confirmed. Upon entry you’ll find el-Masri on the left, Hassan in the middle and Akhnaten on the right. Police channels are clear. They’re roughly four minutes into prayer. Do you want to breach while they’re on the floor?” Luke said.
“They’re praying, right?” Hubner whispered.
“Yes. But the prayer cycle involves standing, kneeling, prostrating. Your choice,” Luke replied.
“We’ll take prostrated. Charges are set. Ready to go when they hit the floor,” Hubner said.
“Stand by.”
Fortier moved from his chair to a position directly behind Banergee and Batista, cramming himself against the side of the van behind their chairs and leaning forward until he could see the middle screen between their heads. Watching a live operation was an extremely rare event, and he had no intention of missing this one. Petrovich’s reputation for ruthless brutality far preceded him, and given this terrorist cell’s intentions, he hoped Petrovich wouldn’t disappoint them.
“Put this on speaker,” he said to Batista.
He watched the three men stand up as Quranic verses suddenly filled the van. He pressed the talk button for his handheld radio.
“Five seconds estimated. Three. Two. Breach!” he hissed.
The apartment door exploded inward just as the three terrorists touched their foreheads to the floor. Petrovich slid into view first, with a suppressed pistol extended forward. Luke heard the distinctive pop of the suppressor as the screen became a tangle of human bodies vying for physical dominance. When the action settled, the three suspected terrorists were arranged neatly in a line, secured tightly to chairs taken from the kitchen table. One of them, possibly Akhnaten, was bleeding profusely from a shoulder wound. A thick line of silver duct tape crossed each of their mouths.
“Christ. That was quick. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the wrong side of that door,” Luke said.
“This crew doesn’t fuck around,” Batista said incredulously.
**
Petrovich glanced back at the door, which remained open. Hubner caught his glance and quickly slammed it shut, relocking the knob. They hadn’t detected a deadbolt, so it turned out to be one of the easiest breach jobs yet. A simple lock-pick exercise and a kick. They had considered using a charge just to further disorient the three men, but given the fact that the men would be deep in prayer, they had opted for the quietest entry possible to avoid a call to the police. The apartment building on Jugenheim was different than Mazari’s. The hallway extended the length of the building, giving them less privacy.
Once the door was shut, Farrington nodded to Hubner, who would lead the interrogation. Neither Farrington nor Petrovich could speak German, which was the only
language beyond Arabic that was listed on their human resources files at DBM. Farrington suspected that their German would be rough, but given the fact that nobody on Farrington’s team spoke Arabic, German would be their only common ground. Luke’s team had a sophisticated translation program, but they wanted to keep this a secret from the men for now. Huebner addressed Hassan in German.
“Naeem Hassan, I will make this very simple for you. You have been betrayed by those you trusted. They led us directly to your apartment.”
Petrovich studied their eyes. Hassan and el-Masri kept the same defiant sneer. Akhnaten’s grimace of pain didn’t shift, though he didn’t exude the same purposeful menace as his coconspirators. He was slowly bleeding to death from the bullet that shattered his shoulder.
“Your brothers in America have all been killed, and the virus canisters that you shipped to them have been stolen. This had been their plan all along. You were pawns in their game. Your leadership made a grave mistake trusting this group. Trusting anyone outside of Al Qaeda. Even the scientist who created the virus betrayed you.”
Farrington nodded at Klinkman, who ripped the tape away from Hassan’s mouth.
“Your brothers’ plan for the virus in America is finished. All of them are dead. I can help you to avenge your brothers. I need to know the destinations for all of the shipments. I can account for twenty-eight of your shipments. Dr. Anatoly Reznikov assured us that there were fifty-eight.”
Hassan’s eyes just barely betrayed his surprise at the mention of the total canister count. Petrovich caught this and winked at Farrington, who tore the tape from el-Masri’s lips, followed by Hassan’s.
“I need an answer from you, Mr. Hassan. Will you help us? If you make this easy for us, I’ll personally ensure that you get to meet the men that betrayed your brothers. I’ll make sure that you are all sent to the same prison. You’ll have the chance to avenge their deaths with your own hands. All of you. What do you think about this offer?” Hubner said.
“Infidel pigs. You are lying through your teeth,” Hassan spat.
With Luke feeding him the information through his earpiece, Hubner recited the list of known FedEx shipment addresses for each of the terrorist cells in the tricity New York area. El-Masri’s eyes widened, and he spoke in rapid Arabic. He was instantly silenced by an order from Hassan, who barked at Hubner, “My brothers will not fail.”
“Hassan, they’ve already failed. I’m not making any of this up. We may only know seven of your brothers’ addresses, but I think it’s pretty clear that the rest are dead and probably rotting as we speak. The bodies recovered by the FBI will be given a proper Muslim burial. You should honor the rest of your brothers with this courtesy,” Klinkman said, in a calm, friendly tone.
“Your people will rape their corpses and defile them. This is what my brothers can expect in America.”
Klinkman stepped forward within a few feet of the seated men and brought himself to one knee. He stared at el-Masri and spoke in the same soft tone. “Last chance, gentlemen. If you don’t cooperate, you will be tortured, killed and desecrated in a manner that will prevent you from entering paradise. You will be cremated and your ashes will be mixed with hot pig lard to coagulate and sit in a jar until reheated and served to the next group of Jihadis that we catch. I have a funeral home waiting for your bodies as we speak.”
“Nothing can prevent us from entering paradise. We are pure,” el-Masri said.
“You don’t sound convinced,” Hubner hissed.
“Do it,” Farrington said.
Everyone moved at once. Petrovich raised his silenced pistol and shot Akhnaten once in each shoulder. The man screamed, but the duct tape turned the sound into a muffled, high-pitched moan. Hubner flicked open a four-inch serrated blade, which had been concealed in his right hand. He pounced on el-Masri as Klinkman yanked the man’s hair down from behind, causing him to scream in agony and buck in his chair. Hubner braced el-Masri’s head and started to cut off his left ear.
Hassan growled and tried to stand with the chair, but Farrington pistol-whipped him across the temple, collapsing him back into the chair. Hassan turned to look at Akhnaten, who was struggling wildly. He watched Petrovich fire a third bullet between Akhnaten’s eyes, spraying the gray wall and flimsy window curtain with a mosaic of bright red clumps.
**
Luke couldn’t believe his eyes. Everyone in the van turned away from the screen, but the screams echoed through the van, providing a grim reminder of the work they ultimately supported on behalf of General Sanderson. When he finally decided to look back, the view provided by the hijacked computer webcam had been partially obscured by what he could only assume was splatter from Akhnaten’s head.
“Turn the volume down at least,” Luke said. “Focus on your jobs.”
He turned around to keep a close eye on his own laptop screen, which monitored every local law enforcement radio signal they could find scanning UHF and VHF frequencies. The software he used would monitor and detect keywords inputted by Luke. He could also listen to the primary channels himself through his headset, which provided a split feed that he could control from the computer. One feed connected him to the team in the apartment and the other filled his right ear with police chatter. He turned up the volume for the primary police dispatch channel. Hubner’s channel was silent, but that didn’t surprise Luke at the moment. The crazy German was busy slicing off el-Masri’s ear. He’d be shocked if someone didn’t report this to the police.
“Shit. He just tore off the rest of the ear and tried to jam it down Hassan’s throat,” Batista said.
“Can I cut the feed to the webcam? We can do our jobs without it,” Banergee said in a disgusted tone.
“Cut it. Keep the cell phone live.”
Luke wondered what they had gotten themselves into with Sanderson. He had been approached thirteen months earlier by Klinkman, with an interesting proposal. Klinkman would facilitate the immediate funding of their startup computer security business, in return for discreet cyber services. They were told that the team would be used for “off the books” clandestine work related to EU security. Klinkman had been upfront about the legal issues raised by the kind of service required of the team, but this didn’t bother Luke’s crew. Even Banergee, who had started out working as a “white hat” hacker for computer technology powerhouse SCC Global, had no issue with the work. He had traded his “white hat” status for the less defined “gray hat” to join Luke and Batista in their startup venture.
The entire team had been flown out to the training compound in Argentina, to meet Sanderson and receive two weeks of intensive personal defense and firearms training. Luke had been extremely impressed by Sanderson’s operation and the operatives chosen to fill the ranks. Research into Sanderson’s past gave them no pause. As computer security specialists, a polite term for hacker, they were considered rogues by outsiders. Aligning with Sanderson further reinforced this notion. If Sanderson were a hacker, he would be the king of all “gray hats.”
For the first time since initially meeting with Klinkman, Luke could tell they were all having serious doubts about their involvement. They had expected to violate multiple cyber laws in support of Sanderson’s team, along with some basic privacy violations, but nothing could have prepared them for what they had all just witnessed. They could only hope that Sanderson’s crew would get everything they needed out of Hassan, and that this would be their last stop in Frankfurt.
**
Hubner backed away from Hassan after delivering a stiff punch to the terrorist’s solar plexus. The man moaned in an attempt to regain his breath. Petrovich aimed his pistol at Hassan’s right shoulder and fired, grazing the top and splattering el-Masri’s face with blood. Klinkman brought a closed fist down on Hassan’s wounded shoulder, causing the terrorist to scream and buck in his chair. Everyone backed away and let the situation settle for several seconds. Hassan raised his head with defiant eyes, and Petrovich could tell that they wouldn’t get any inf
ormation out of him in this apartment. Hassan was a long-term project. El-Masri was their only hope of an immediate payoff.
El-Masri whimpered and rocked in his chair. The entire left side of his head was a gory mess from Hubner’s crude ear amputation. Blood covered the side of his neck and saturated the shoulder of his white collared shirt. He wouldn’t raise his head to look at them, which told Petrovich that they were close to breaking him. They needed to do it fast, before he became emboldened by Hassan’s stoicism.
“Cut off his other ear,” Petrovich said.
Hubner repeated the order in German and raised the knife. El-Masri protested in Arabic and German, begging them not to cut him again. Hassan stared lifelessly at Petrovich, while Hubner explained their situation.
“This keeps going until one of you gives us the addresses.”
Hassan spit at Petrovich, hitting him in the leg.
“I guess your friend loses the other ear,” Hubner said.
While Hubner removed el-Masri’s remaining ear, Farrington slid the chair with Akhnaten’s lifeless body in front of the two terrorists. He stepped behind the chair and reached into Petrovich’s black nylon bag, removing a hacksaw. He nodded at Hubner, who explained what they planned to do next.
“Before we cremate your bodies, we’re going to saw them into pieces to ensure there is no way for you to reach paradise and your seventy-two virgins.”
This comment caused Hassan’s eyes to narrow, which Petrovich noted with some satisfaction. This could be useful if they needed to continue the interrogation later.
“Mr. Hassan, you can stop his pain by giving us the address. I don’t see why you’re doing this to him on behalf of the people who betrayed you. Give us the information, and I’ll carry through on my promise to let you avenge your brothers.”
“I will never betray my brothers. Allahu Akbar! You will all die!”
“Wrong answer. Hit his ears,” Hubner said.
Klinkman simultaneously slapped both hands against the sides of el-Masri’s head. The man writhed in pain, and Klinkman repeated the process. After the first few hits, El-Masri started to growl more like Hassan. He screamed angry Arabic phrases, which Hubner ignored.
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