“No. They don’t HAVE him,” Dempsey said, making quote marks in the air with his fingers. “President Harris is barricaded in his upstairs room.”
“The president is not in the hands of terrorists?”
“No. He’s not. He’s with one of our agents.”
“You’re saying he’s trapped!” Marvin said, sounding exasperated. “But he’s alive and well? And the only thing between him and these jihadis is a Secret Service agent?”
“Yes, one of our best men,” Dempsey said. “That’s the situation.”
Marvin scowled as he processed the information. “How did you manage that?”
“When this political summit was in the planning stages, we studied the sleeping arrangements,” Dempsey said. “The suites on the upper floors have special security protections. The suites are reinforced and are virtually impenetrable. The doors are bullet proof and fire proof.”
“So, you’re saying that for the moment, anyway, President Harris is safe.”
Dempsey nodded and said, “Yes, as safe as he can be in this situation.”
Marvin scowled, deep in thought. “What about an explosion or fire? I mean, what if these maniacs have a bomb? What if they try to blow the place up?”
“I can’t guarantee that the president would survive.”
“My God, man,” Marvin said as he scanned the faces of the people seated around the table. His eyes settled on the national intelligence director. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Prescott. Who are these people? How did they get in the country? How were they able to do what they did? And, why didn’t we know about it beforehand so we could stop it?”
“Let’s start with where we are now,” Prescott said, clearing his throat and arranging his papers. “For the moment, the terrorists seem satisfied with the present situation since the president can’t go anywhere. It’s effectively a stalemate. We can’t go in, and they can’t come out.” A somber and elderly man with a long oval face, and thinning gray hair, Prescott silently scanned the faces around the table. “The only conceivable way out now would be to jump from the third floor window.”
“Jump out the window?” Marvin shouted. “Is that your idea of a rescue?”
“No, it’s not,” Prescott said. “Not at all.”
“How long can Harris hold out?” Marvin asked, looking again at Dempsey.
“There’s snack food and bottled water in the room,” Dempsey said. “I’m guessing that could sustain them for a few days, probably.” He paused, then added, “We’ve been in touch with the president, actually. He’s holding up well.”
Marvin’s eyes opened wide. “You’re in touch with the president! Why aren’t we talking to him now? I know for a fact that he carries a collection of secure communication devices. I also know for a fact that you guys stripped his phones of all the fancy gizmos so that it all could be more secure.”
Dempsey nodded. “You’re right. But at this moment, we’re not sure of the capabilities of the people who have him.”
“What does that mean?” Marvin asked. “Speak plainly, man.”
“We need to keep any communications with the president at a minimum,” said the CIA’s Sidow, interrupting Prescott.
Marvin glared at Sidow, an intense man with closely cropped blond hair, and narrow, steel gray eyes.
“We can’t risk the chance the terrorists might be able to intercept those phone messages,” Sidow said. “We don’t want to let them have any idea of what we may or may not do to diffuse this situation.”
“Of course not,” Marvin said with a nod.
“What we need to know we get via the encrypted messages from the agent who’s there with the president now,” Sidow said.
Marvin shook his head. “What about the terrorist’s phones? Can we monitor them?”
Sidow nodded. “Yes, of course. We’ve got our ears on them now.”
“Anything worthwhile?” Marvin asked.
Sidow slowly shook his head. “They’ve been silent, so far, anyway.”
“Does that tell us anything?” Marvin asked.
“It tells us that this operation was planned well in advance,” Prescott said, jumping back into the conversation. “They’re not waiting for instructions. They already know what they’re going to do next.”
“Which is what?” Marvin asked. “We don’t even know what we’re going to do!”
Prescott loosened the knot to his paisley tie and cleared his throat. “Only time will tell. But, we are expecting demands, sooner rather than later.”
Marvin nodded, continued to gaze at Prescott, then asked, “Do we know who these bastards are?”
“Yes,” Sidow barked before Prescott could respond. “The core of the group is from the Islamic State in Syria. Torture and beheading are their trademarks.”
“We know about the Islamic State,” Marvin blurted. “We all watch TV.”
Sidow pointed a remote control device at the large wall screen. He clicked and the screen slowly filled with a photo of Tariq, dressed from head to toe in black, holding his knife at the throat of Nate Kennard on his knees and dressed in orange.
“Well then, as a reminder, I thought I’d show this to everyone here.” Sidow turned to the camera with which Raoul, Benedict and the others at Atlas Global were watching. “Can you see that?” he asked them.
“Yes,” Benedict shouted. “We can see it fine.”
Sidow nodded and cleared his throat. “Our best information is this group of jihadis is led by a British national, a man who goes by the name of Tariq. You may recognize him as the same man who has beheaded three American citizens, two journalists and one aide worker. It was done on camera, recorded and posted on the internet.”
“They’re the ones who have the president?” Marvin asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Sidow said.
“That’s the man they call Jihadi John,” Prescott said, after a couple of moments as he silently took in the video.
“Yes, the very same,” Sidow said.
“What do we know about this man?” Marvin asked. “Who the hell is he?”
“As best we can tell,” Prescott said loudly, interrupting Sidow, “his name is Tariq Abdullah Karim. He speaks perfect English.”
“He almost sounds like he was DJ or radio guy,” Secretary of State Helen Carter said.
“Yeah, well, you’re not far off,” Prescott said. “He was born in Yemen. His parents emigrated to England after the first Gulf war.”
“Back in 1991,” Sidow said.
“Yes,” Prescott said with a nod. “Tariq is a Yemeni citizen. Grew up in England and also speaks Arabic fluently because his family spoke it at home. He seems to have been a handful. He had aspirations to be a rapper. He and a few of his Muslim buddies formed a hip-hop band and produced an album.”
“That would be interesting to hear,” Marvin said, his voice dripping with disgust.
“Yeah, it is,” Prescott said. “Tariq picked up the gangsta rap style. His rhymes are pretty violent stuff. He calls for the execution of the kafirs and oppressors.”
“My God,” Marvin said.
“Yeah,” Sidow said. “His songs call for jihad against the West. The songs are what put him on the watch list of the British security, both MI5 and MI6. He was radicalized at one of the mosques there in London and became involved with underground Islamic groups.”
“That’s what happens when you’re soft on extremists,” Marvin said, his voice choked with disgust.
Carter cleared her throat and interrupted. “Muslims have a hard time in England, despite their numbers,” she said. “It’s not that easy to assimilate.”
“You’d think that maybe they’d appreciate what they have,” Marvin said.
“So, what pushed him over the edge?” Carter asked.
“You ever hear of an Islamic group ca
lled al-Muhajiroun?” Sidow asked.
“No, but it sounds like, muhajideen, the word for fighter,” Carter said.
“You’re close,” Sidow said. “Along with another Muslim cleric, the group was founded by a man named Ahmed Gaffari. He was highly critical of British involvement in the Iraq war. When ISIS appeared, Gaffari urged his followers to support the Islamic State.”
“So, Gaffari and Tariq already were on the watch list in England?” Marvin asked.
“Yes,” Sidow said. “But it gets better. Before that, he was praising the al-Qaeda operatives who pulled off the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers and the 2005 subway attacks in London.”
“More than 50 dead in London and hundreds more wounded, as I recall,” Carter said. “They call it the 7/7 in England.”
“Gaffari has called for the imposition of Sharia law throughout the UK and the western world,” Sidow said.
“So, where is our friend Gaffari now?” Marvin asked, calm returning to his voice.
“In jail,” Prescott said. “But it seems Tariq has done what his mentor, Gaffari, could only dream about. Tariq went to Syria and joined ISIS.”
“Not directly,” Sidow said. “The intelligence is that he was supposed to go to Yemen to meet with his bride, through an arranged marriage.”
“Probably would have helped the guy to have a woman around, if you know what I mean,” Marvin said.
“Maybe,” Sidow said. “But when the bride’s family found out that Tariq was on the watch list by the British government, they called off the marriage.”
“That girl dodged a bullet,” Carter said with a disgusted shake of her head.
“Tariq never made it back to England,” Sidow continued. “The next time we see him he’s working his way up the ISIS command structure with a several other radicalized British Muslims.”
“They were the ones who took care of the westerners ISIS kidnapped, because they spoke English,” Prescott said. “They were called the Beatles. John, Paul, George and Ringo.”
“So, Tariq proved to ISIS that he was a real-deal jihadi by executing a couple of journalists,” Marvin said.
“That’s the size of it,” Sidow said with a nod.
“And now he’s there at Vista Verde Ranch,” Marvin said.
The room fell silent as the grim implications became clear.
“How in the hell did they get into the US?” Marvin asked, breaking the silence.
Sidow turned to FBI director Huntington, who also wore a gray suit with a red tie, and had cropped white hair. Huntington adjusted his rimless glasses and looked to Marvin.
“Our best guess,” Huntington said, “is that they walked across the border. Like everyone else, they paid the drug cartels to guide them across.”
“Jesus,” Marvin said.
“There’s speculation they’re the ones who killed those border guards a few months ago,” Huntington continued.
“Why didn’t we catch them?” Marvin asked.
“We almost did. The group was apprehended after they crossed the border in southern Arizona and entered a federal wildlife refuge. A handful of our best Border Patrol agents thought they were dealing with another large group of migrant workers. They didn’t expect a fire fight with a group of armed jihadis. After killing the border agents, the jihadis made their getaway in the Border Patrol vehicles,” Huntington said. “They were able to slip through a check point dressed as the border agents they’d killed. They drove away and into the night.”
“And why haven’t we found them?”
Huntington again adjusted his glasses. “Well, they appear to have made contact with an Islamic underground. You could call it a cell, I supposed.”
“What? Like a sleeper cell?”
Huntington nodded. “Yes.”
“Why haven’t we been on top of this?”
“They’ve been very careful. They went underground. There’s been no communication that we can find. But we know they communicate, but not by the typical internet providers or messaging services.”
“Can’t we do anything right?” Marvin asked, becoming more irritate. “Does anyone know what the hell they want?”
Prescott shook his head. “As was mentioned earlier,” he said, “we’ve had no communications from them yet, but we expect it soon.”
Chapter 18
Sitting comfortably cross-legged in the middle of the wide, dark leather couch, Tariq gazed at the cold stone fireplace that rose to the pitched ceiling of the lodge. His men sat near him, also sitting cross-legged, but on the Middle Eastern woven carpets that covered portions of the polished stone floor. Tariq turned and looked through the double-paned glass of the wide windows to the broad, stone patio on the south side of the lodge. It was there that they’d dragged the bodies of the infidel agents, and the nearly naked congressman.
The fat congressman had looked foolish, Tariq thought, as the corners of the man’s mouth were fixed in a permanent smile, the man’s laughing desk mask. It was a good thing the man was a bad shot, Tariq mused. They’d taken the bodies to the patio for the kafirs to see and contemplate. It was a message: You will be next. Prepare to die.
Tariq nodded to himself knowing many more would die before his mission was complete. Beyond the bodies, he saw where the grassy field ended at the deep green of the pine forest that rose along the slopes to the high mountains, shadowy in the distance. Yes, he thought, many will die.
Tariq glanced up and to the wide stairs leading to the top floor and to where the American president had barricaded himself inside the room with another of the American security agents. He drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He and his men could storm the room, demolish the door, and take President Harris into their hands. But that would come later. There was more to be gained now as America and the world awoke to the fact that the Islamic State had its grip on the throat of the Great Satan. The grip would tighten. Tariq smiled, his eyes unfocused as he let the coming glories flood his mind. After a long moment, he looked up to the bearskin hanging on the varnished log wall between the windows and double doors, and above it the mounted heads of three elk jutting from the wall, looking like they’d pushed their antlers, head, and necks through to get a better look.
From the kitchen, Tariq heard the sounds of banging pots and pans where he’d told Halima and a couple of his men to prepare food for them all with whatever they could find. He could smell the aromas of grilled meat and cooking rice. His hunger stirred and he motioned one of him fighters close, whispering to the man to tell those in the kitchen to hurry. He wanted to eat while they had a chance. “Tell them leave the cooking pots on the stoves. We will take plates and serve ourselves. Come, let us eat in the rich men’s dining room.”
An hour later, sated with a meal of meats and mounds of fresh, white rice sweetened with raisins and sliced carrots, Tariq called for a fresh pot of tea to be brought to the lodge’s library where he, Carlito, and his two top lieutenants were going to meet.
The room was spacious, almost as large as the stone-floored great room and foyer, and its walls were lined with book cases. Light filtered through the tall windows falling on a piano at one end and three French-style couches covered with blue silk fabric. Tariq clenched his jaw, disgusted at the decadent opulence of the lodge.
A surge of righteous anger filled him, renewing his focus on the mission. Tariq and his men shoved the piano and couches against the stone and varnished log walls, then settled onto the Persian styled carpet that covered much of the floor, placing the tea pot in the center of their small circle. He became excited as he realized how far they’d come in this most bold of missions. Allah akhbar! When his leader al-Bakar first had proposed the plan, Tariq thought the man had lost his mind. Now he knew better.
Tariq had believed al-Bakar was setting a trap for him, that he was being sent on a suicide mission. But he soon realized he’d been chosen
for a glorious martyr’s death. All missions were suicide missions! If a soldier of God cared nothing for this life on earth, and only the afterlife, then nothing on earth could stop him. Tariq smiled again, unable to hide his joy. They had already succeeded! God willing, the victories would continue.
Tariq considered his two best men, his two sub-commanders: Abdulla and Hamid. He trusted each implicitly. Abdulla was tall and rangy, with a light beard and round eyes. Hamid was shorter and stout with a round face and dark eyes, ever enthusiastic. And there was Carlito. Yes. Carlito, the one who had been integral to the success of his mission. Carlito was part of them, now and forever.
“We must devise a statement,” Tariq said. “We need to contact the White House and issue our demands. Then we will contact the news media.”
Abdulla jerked upright, his eyes wide, and shook his head. “Demands? We can’t negotiate with the infidels. Even if they comply with some or all of the demands, it means nothing. We have their president. We will never give him up. Alive.”
Tariq nodded. “I know this, Abdulla. Please be patient. We are going to play with their minds. We are going to make this victory last as long as possible.”
Abdulla nodded in silent ascent, dropping his eyes to his tea, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile.
Tariq knew Abdulla might not agree with him, but would go along with the plan. Abdulla had also been taken from Tariq’s homeland of Yemen, and like Tariq’s spiritual mentor, al-Awalaki, had been raised among the kafirs. He and Abdulla had grown up in Manchester, England, and were both educated for a time at the University of Manchester. They had shared their journey and had grown very close, talking long into the nights. Like Tariq, Abdullah had been stung by the alienation he had felt growing up in England, insulated and isolated from all the English boys, rejected by the English girls.
During those long, late nights, when they talked about their sadness and fears and how they had wished they’d never been born, they had cried in each other’s arms. Then, as if they’d been handed a gift from God, they’d visited the mosque where the each had been inspired. Like Tariq, Abdulla found purpose and meaning in life by taking up the cause of their Islamic brothers and sisters in Syria. Both had said good-bye to their families and in Syria they’d become true brothers.
Enemy of the People Page 13