by Vince Flynn
Kennedy looked across the table at her date. He was the John Wayne type, that was for sure. A big barrel chest, with warm brown eyes and a disarming grin, which belayed a very serious man who, she had no doubt, could lose his temper at work. She worked with plenty of men just like him, although their suits weren’t as nice. His drink arrived a moment later, and he held it up to toast Kennedy.
As the two glasses clanged, Barstow said, “To an evening without interruptions.” With a conspiratorial wink he added, “I left my phone in the car.”
Guilt washed over Kennedy’s face. Based on what was going on in Afghanistan, she knew there was almost no chance of getting through the evening without a disruption.
Barstow noticed the look on her face. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No…it’s just that…there’s a good chance I will have to take at least one call.”
“That’s all right, your job is a little more important than mine.”
Kennedy heard no malice or jealousy in his voice. It was a gesture of honest humility. “Thank you. I’ll try to keep it short.”
Barstow ordered a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux and they made small talk over salads. He got the wedge and she got the baby arugula. Kennedy enjoyed asking him about the financial markets. He had a master’s degree in economics from the University of Chicago and he usually had a fresh take on the world. Like most economists he also used hard facts to back up his theories. He would have been really good in her line of work.
Three waiters filed into the room with the main course and sides. A petite filet was set down in front of Kennedy as well as steaming side orders of asparagus and mushrooms. A giant slab of meat was placed in front of Barstow as if it were a bar of gold. Kennedy knew it was the porterhouse, and if Barstow acted the way he did last time, he would eat only half of it and take the other half home for his dog. At least, that was the story.
Kennedy savored the aroma of what would be her first steak in four weeks. It was all she allowed herself. The wineglasses were refreshed and then the waiters filed out. Kennedy and Barstow looked at each other in anticipation. Barstow looked to be torn between making another toast and digging into his slab of red meat, which would feed a small family for a week. Kennedy grabbed her steak knife and fork and was poised to go to work, when she sensed something amiss. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass doors. It was men in dark suits, not waiters in white jackets. Kennedy badly wanted to ignore them but knew she wouldn’t. Carefully she turned her head and instantly knew the meal was over.
Looking back at her through the glass was Rob Ridley. The deputy Clandestine chief was a perennial smart-ass. He loved to tease and joke, but there was none of that on his face tonight. He was as grim as Kennedy had ever seen him. Kennedy slowly set her fork and knife down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
After a heavy sigh she said, “Bill, you’ll have to excuse me. It appears that interruption I was anticipating has arrived.”
Barstow tried to look sympathetic, but in truth was already inhaling his first cut and looked like he might pass out. Kennedy went to the door and drew it back. Ridley stepped forward, his eyes as concerned as Kennedy had seen them in some time.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got big problems.”
“How big?” she asked.
“Really big.”
“Mitch?”
“Yep.”
Kennedy sighed. It sounded like he was finally going to get the fight he was looking for. She had resigned herself to the fact that it would happen sooner or later. The conflict was unavoidable, and Rapp’s attitude that they fight it on their terms was probably right, but it still didn’t feel right.
“I’ll brief you on the rest of it in the car,” Ridley said.
Kennedy turned to say good-bye to her date, saw his expression of understanding, and felt very guilty that he would have to eat alone. She considered the time difference, looked at her own meal, and made her decision. Turning back to Ridley she said, “I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”
CHAPTER 17
TRIPLE FRONTIER, SOUTH AMERICA
MORALE was not good. It was something he had failed to account for and Karim rarely failed to account for the important things. That was his strength. He was a scholar first and a warrior second. To be fair to himself, though, he had considered it briefly. In the final few seconds before he killed Zachariah he thought of how the execution would affect the other men. As he drew his sidearm, pulled the trigger, and watched the hollow-tipped round spray the back of Zachariah’s head against the screen, he felt certain that his action would galvanize the men, unify them, force them to put their differences aside and focus their talents on this important mission. He saw now that he had misjudged them.
It was their faith, he decided, a lack of true devotion. Tribal rivalries had also played a role, to be sure, and Karim chastised himself for not seeing that beforehand. Islam was notorious for its infighting; the petty rivalries that had kept them apart for so many years. The four Saudis under his command were fine. They would fight with efficiency and courage to the last man. Even the lone Afghani seemed to be taking it well, but then again the Afghani had served under him for more than a year and had fought bravely in countless incursions with the enemy. Because they had been to battle together they had that trust. The Afghani would be fine. They were the toughest, most selfless fighters Karim had ever known.
The Moroccans, however, were a problem. He now saw that, if anything, the team was more deeply divided than before. He briefly considered executing one of them, but found it impractical. He was not above using fear to motivate, but in this instance he was dealing with a finite supply of men. Karim had studied the brutal tactics of men such as Lenin and Stalin. There was something to be learned from them. Their sheer audacity and thirst for power was unmatched. Most impressive, though, was their ability to seize power and then hold on to it by the most heinous means necessary.
Karim thought of Lenin and Stalin often. Asked himself if he had it in him; the greatness of those two men, the ability to lead a revolution, to take power from others, to kill every enemy, real and imagined, until your power was unquestioned, secure, and you were ready to implement real change. He knew he could be cruel. Knew he had the conviction to see things through, to indiscriminately kill as many as it took. It was Allah’s work he was doing, after all, and Allah would sort out the believers from the nonbelievers when they were dead.
Karim’s job was to turn back the tide. Stop the heathens and the infidels and their steady march, their assault on Islam. Their liberation of women, their thirst for pornography, their acceptance of an abomination like homosexuality—all were the work of the devil. Their music, their movies, their entire culture was an assault on the family. Their entire culture was a cancer on the world, a slow and steady attack on Islam. Whatever the cost, no matter how many innocents were caught in the cross fire, they had to be stopped.
This particular operation was not the end for Karim. It was a grand stepping-stone for something far greater. Allah had come to him during his unending hours of prayer, had told him of his plans. How he wanted him to take back the cradle of Islam from the traitors, from the corrupt lovers of money and wealth. But before he could accept that responsibility, he had to prove himself. Not to Allah, but to those whom he would need for the next fight.
Karim would not martyr himself like the others. For obvious reasons, he had failed to share this with his men. Allah had grand designs for him. He was to one day lead a revolution that would change the world. Karim was destined to unseat the Saudi Royal family and purge his country of their corrupting influence. The entire family, ten thousand plus relatives, would have to be killed. Karim knew a few would escape, knew the world would be shocked, but the numbers were insignificant compared to Lenin and Stalin. Millions had died at their hands, and for what, a godless system that rewarded only the uppermost echelon of bureaucrats. Muslims would unders
tand, and in the end that is all that would matter. But first he had to deal with America, and to do that successfully, he needed to raise the morale of the two Moroccans and get his team acting as one.
Karim pushed open the rickety screen door and stepped onto the soft grass. Six months in this suffocating place. Much had been accomplished, but not enough. The mid-morning sun was finally high enough in the sky to drive the disease-carrying insects into the shadows. He knew the men would be thankful for that, but now they had to contend with the suffocating wet heat. Even his fellow countrymen found the wicked combination of heat and humidity a formidable opponent. Water was the key, just like in the desert. The men must drink plenty of water, Karim thought to himself. He’d made sure they took their malaria medicine as well. He hadn’t poured his talent and energy into this operation only to see it fail because of some tiny little bug.
There was shouting from the men. Karim looked across the clearing to see what it was about. Six of them were assembled on the far end of the clearing approximately 150 meters away. They were all wearing jungle cargo pants and faded green T-shirts. Like Karim, each man wore a thigh holster with a 9mm Glock and two extra clips of ammunition. Karim made them do it because he wanted them to get used to always carrying a weapon. He also did it because he secretly hoped a drug cartel would stumble upon the camp and pick a fight. It would be a great way to test the men.
Karim knew they were standing at the point where the obstacle course both began and ended. Even from this distance he could tell the encouragement was only half-hearted. His eyes swept the course, looking for the seventh man. He was still trying to get used to that. A few days earlier it had been eight. One of the Moroccans rounded the far corner of the obstacle course. He couldn’t tell if it was Ahmed or Fazul, they were so similar. The man dropped to his belly and began crawling under a layer of barbed wire that was perched a mere eighteen inches above the ground. After he’d crawled thirty feet he popped up and headed straight for a twenty-foot wall. He hit the wall in stride, grabbed the rope, and started up. Halfway up he slipped, gathered himself, tried again, slipped once more, and then gave up, dropping to the ground. Out of breath, he bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Karim’s gaze intensified. He had not come this far to watch someone quit at something they should have mastered months ago.
After a few more deep breaths, the man shook his head in frustration and jogged around the wall, to the next obstacle. The other six men began laughing and taunting him. Even though it was almost impossible to tell the two Moroccans apart from this distance, Karim knew it was Ahmed. He had led Fazul, the other Moroccan, into battle and knew Fazul was tougher than any wall. Karim’s anger was set afire. That any man under his command would give in so easily was infuriating, but the fact that the others found it humorous was intolerable.
His worn black jungle boots were moving, carrying him along one of the many paths that cut through the tall grass like spokes on a wheel. His stride was short and quick, his anger building with each pace. One of the men noticed him coming and alerted the others. The laughing and jeering came to a nervous halt. The men spread out and while not coming to attention, they prepared themselves for the approaching fury. Karim stopped eight paces from the group just as Ahmed crossed the finish line. The gangly Moroccan stumbled and then fell to the ground, tumbling twice and coming to a stop at Karim’s feet.
There was a better than fifty-fifty chance he would have kicked him in the ribs if it weren’t for the fact that a nervous laugh managed to escape the mouth of one of the men. It was Farid, the most talented of the group, and as he struggled to suppress his ill-timed expression, the others joined in. It had a cascading effect, and soon they were all giggling like little schoolgirls.
Karim stepped over Ahmed, drew his 9mm Glock, and pressed the tip of the muzzle to Farid’s forehead. Karim’s action and the image of one of their fellow jihadists dying at the hands of their commander only a few days earlier sucked any and all humor out of the situation. The men straightened, throwing their shoulders back and staring straight ahead. Even Farid managed to stand tall with the weight of the cool steel pressing against his forehead.
“Amir,” Farid barked as quickly as he could, “I apologize for my bad judgment,”
“Do you find this humorous?”
“No, Amir, I do not.” Farid chose to call him Amir, which was the Arabic word for commander.
“Then why are you laughing?”
Farid hesitated, not sure how he should answer. Finally he said, “I was wrong to have done so. I will not let it happen again.”
“No, you will not,” Karim said in an icy tone, “or I will put a bullet in your thick skull.”
Farid blinked once, the sweat on his brow stinging his eyes. “Yes, sir!”
Karim lowered the gun, turned on the others, and barked, “Do the rest of you find humor in this?” They replied as one that they did not. The anger had not dissipated an ounce for Karim. It continued to build as he walked behind each man, fighting the urge to crack them across the back of the skull with his heavy gun.
Command was a lonely position, especially in the jungle thousands of miles and a world away from the war. Their failure was his failure, and he did not like failing. How could he get them to snap out of it, to understand what was at stake? How could he get them to understand just how serious the Americans were? As much as he despised them, Karim had no illusions about their formidability.
The men had all joined the fight willingly, and over the years Karim had met far too many who had talked bravely of war. Cafés and mosques all across Saudi Arabia were filled with them. Only a handful was brave enough, stupid enough, or devout enough to actually pick up a weapon and do something about it. The idea with his group was that they would be both brave and devout. Zachariah had been devout, and smart, but he was lazy. Never bothered to take what they were doing seriously enough. That was the element he had to contend with; young men with nothing better to do. Many of them had been sent by wealthy fathers who wanted to bask in the honor of giving to the cause. More than a few of these fathers also quietly paid to have their boys kept off the front lines. The vast majority showed up with no military training, and worse, a casual, false perception of battle. Even the most well-trained and well-equipped soldiers could soil themselves in battle. Take the novice, though, full of rhetoric and propaganda and see how he performs the first time the Americans drop one of their bruising, ear-shattering 2,000-pound-laser guided bombs. Karim had witnessed entire battalions of men refusing to move for fear that American warplanes were lurking in the dark skies above.
These men were not cowards. He had seen all but two of them fight in battle and all were worthy. Even Ahmed, for all his inability to simply get over the wall, had his strengths. A self-taught sniper, he was by far the best shot with both a pistol and a rifle. Karim had big plans for him. A well-trained sniper on the prowl in a peacetime urban area would be an invaluable weapon. A thought occurred to Karim as he continued to circle his men. Maybe he was pushing them too hard. Maybe it was destroying their confidence. It was against his nature to pull back. Everything he had accomplished in life had been done by pressing forward. By trying harder.
Maybe that was not the answer with this group. In less than a week they would begin their insertion into the heart of the enemy, where they would have few allies. The tension would be tenfold. Karim thought of the other two groups. He’d received word that they’d been intercepted, but there had been nothing in the press. That meant they were more than likely floating aboard some nondescript ship in the middle of the ocean, being tortured. How had they been caught? Did they trip themselves up? Was there a traitor somewhere in their organization? All of these questions and more had kept Karim awake at night for weeks.
Something came to him at that moment as he looked over his tense men. It was guidance from Allah. He knew that almost immediately. Increasingly he could feel the hand of Allah in everything he did. Guiding him, prodding him,
gently nudging him on this journey to the belly of the beast. His future was suddenly less certain; his destiny to one day lead a revolt in the holiest of lands. Maybe it would all end in America. Karim couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed, but it lasted only a second. He knew Allah was testing him. Making sure he was humble. Getting him to stay focused on the task at hand. So be it, Karim thought. If America is to be my final battle, I will make it a glorious fiery ending.
Karim turned his attention to Ahmed, who was still breathing heavily. He had yet to address a very important issue; with Zachariah gone the structure needed to be realigned. Karim had designed the team to function much like the Navy SEALs and their swim buddy system. Each man had been assigned a partner to train with. The eight men could be split into two fighting forces of four, or four smaller teams of two. Karim had put much thought into it. This would give him the strength to make the initial assaults and the flexibility to deploy smaller units that would be harder to detect once the powers that be figured out what was going on.
“Ahmed,” Karim said as he extended his hand, “I would be honored if you would accept me as your partner.”
The Moroccan was shocked. “Amir, the honor would be mine.”
Karim smiled. “You are a fine soldier and I have great faith in you.” He glanced at the other men and took pride in their approving smiles. To lighten the mood further he said, “I will have to make sure we don’t have to climb any walls.”