by Lynda Filler
“RB needs to talk with you. It’s about the DJ, the kid. He says to check the secure server. There’s a couple of photos posted, and more coming. There won’t be much on any news servers yet.”
“Sure, I will get right on it.”
“RB says the kid might need our help.”
With all the excitement of preparing for his own wedding, Raven forgot about the young man he’d worked with six months ago when they were chasing the money trail of a high-level politician in the US. RB needed help on this one. It had to appear as if the Raven Group was not involved in this inquiry. Luke contacted his friend in Geneva, Firestorm, and the email address of the DJ was the result.
The Turk, a high-profile DJ in his twenties, had a secret life. At the time, Raven thought it strange that an operative would hide in plain sight. But the world was changing, rushing towards what? The US was known around the globe for home-grown domestic terrorism. Statistics and algorithms were designed by the young to predict similar problems happening in other hotspots around the world. Something insidious was happening within the government of the USA. And Luke was the man tapped to find the problem.
People like Firestorm operated without borders. He and his associates used the world wide web to follow the trail wherever it took them. Firestorm suggested his brilliant associate in Istanbul. “If there’s a problem in your government, let the kid work on it. He’s smart and sneaky. He won’t leave a trace. He will find out where the problem originates.” Luke took his advice.
This young Turk turned out to be an expert on cryptocurrencies, money-laundering, and terrorism in the Middle East. He ended his search in the Far East, which was rapidly becoming the international center of cybercrime. Yunus was able to discover where the US politician’s funds were hidden and, more importantly, where they originated. He sent Raven the hash-codes he’d uncovered. Raven and RB took over from there.
Luke had great respect for the kid. Samaar mentioned something about Yunus getting married to a prominent Turkish fashion designer. It turned out the dates of their nuptials were in conflict. They were both getting married the same evening. Raven sent the DJ a case of his favorite M & M candy, with a blank card that had a symbol of a Raven. He’d received a secure email with the smiling face of a young Turkish man and his beautiful fiancée Sude. The two men had never met in person, but Samaar often showed him photos of the agent’s high-profile life. Yunus looked like a kid. His smile was all about play, mischievous. Raven could see why the girls would fall for his sexy nonchalance. No one would ever imagine the skillset and danger that lurked below the surface of those intelligent eyes.
He opened his ultra-secure cell. A series of photos downloaded immediately. Blood, corpses, a billionaire’s yacht barely afloat. And Yunus’ tears streaming down his face, cradling the body of a woman in a wedding gown covered in blood. He immediately tapped the intercom to the flight deck.
David responded.
“Change of plans.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Head to Istanbul.”
“Roger that.”
“And David.”
“Yes?”
“Send a coded message to RB. Place an ad for Firestorm: Domestic help wanted. Contact ZRRS.”
Samaar walked in on the conversation.
“Istanbul? Whatever for, Luke?”
“Here.”
Samaar stopped smiling. She hardened her heart and immediately began to analyze the scene.
“How recent are the photos, and what do we know?”
“They came in while I was conversing with our daughter.” At the mention of Alice, Samaar smiled, in spite of the severity of the moment. She waited.
“Amir.”
“Yes, Amir.”
“Did you know?”
“Of course, I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I would have, eventually.”
“Women and their secrets!”
“Yes, Luke.”
She studied the photos again.
“Let’s get them up on the big computer screen. There’s something that doesn’t feel quite right, but I can’t see it yet.”
Luke’s phone vibrated.
“Yes, RB.”
“I’ve located Zach. He’s in Syria.”
“What’s he doing there? I thought he was on vacation.”
“He’s with his friend, Rachel.”
“Friends? Zach? I’ve never known him to have a relationship with a woman while he was active and since he retired from the SEALs.”
“Well, he’s with her. She did great work with us on the sex trafficking ring in Washington. I don’t know what kind of ‘relationship’ they have. All he would tell me on the phone is Yazidi women.”
“Ah, NGO work, no doubt. This is very interesting.”
“He’s worked with the Turk in the past—I think through Himanish. He said he and Rachel will drop everything and drive to Istanbul. They’re already on the road.”
“RB contact Tabak. He’s the only one I trust to get us into Turkey without bribes and paperwork. He’ll tell us where and when to land.”
“On it, boss. I anticipated your response. I know how much you appreciated Yunus’ help on our case. I already secured a safe house. Belongs to a friend of a friend, but Raven Group International did all the hi-tech security for the compound.”
“Location?”
“It’s on the Asian side of Istanbul, gated, and well-guarded. The businessman will have private security waiting for our arrival at the new airport. And you will love this.”
“What?”
“The owner has a passion for helicopters! He says we can have it at our disposal. I gave the instructions to David. No passports will be recorded upon arrival.”
“Perfect. We should be in, settled, and on the trail of whatever is going on by dawn. But let’s not contact Yunus yet. I want to get some background. I want a guest list. Find out who was invited to the wedding, and who actually showed up. And find out who owns the yacht. If anyone canceled at the last minute, we need to know. Keep the photos coming. It’s good to have friends in the wire services. Get them to send us everything, not just what’s suitable for print.”
“Sure, no problem. Anything else, Luke?”
“RB.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
There was a slight hesitation while RB processed the right response.
“Samaar asked me not to say anything.”
“Right. So, tell me, what did you find out about Amir’s family? Is there anything else I need to know?”
“I set up a system. The family tree is extensive. Not everyone left Iran. A few went to Saudi Arabia and UAE, but some are still in Tehran. If I hear anything that sounds suspicious, I will let you know. But I’m certain the family in Paris is okay. The boy’s father was murdered. I still don’t know why or how. I did find a reference to him as a scientist connected to a University. There’s a name change here too. Not sure how they managed that. I haven’t got all the pieces. But, the scientist's wife, their son, and his father escaped to Paris. They have a significant amount of money. The old man moved money into the European banks while the country was imploding with the overthrow of the Shah and the Iranian Revolution.”
“Well, as long as you’re satisfied, I’m okay with the intel. I’m not so sure about the relationship.”
“I’m still digging. But there are no flags on the family’s life in Paris. And no contact with Iran as far back as I can go.”
Luke remained silent. Maybe his concerns were unnecessary. But he’d rather be safe than miss an essential piece of the puzzle.
“What are we doing about Samaar’s home in Paris, Luke?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see if there’s any fallout from the Instagram posts. RB, monitor as close as you can.”
“I’ve used a program to check out everyone who has seen or clicked on the posts. Alice didn’t have an opportunity to
post many shots. There’s nothing about Paris, and only scenery from the Maldives and innocuous hints of a wedding but no names or specific locations. I’ve deleted everything, but not before I checked out the accounts of anyone who reviewed the posts. It appears insignificant. We’re good. But going to Istanbul will keep us away from France. It will allow me to watch for any unusual activity.”
Luke signed off and returned to his thoughts.
9
Saudi Arabia
The distinguished gentleman tried to find beauty in the millions of stars that filled the black night sky. From the back seat of a 4x4 luxury sedan, he looked out over endless black sand dunes somewhere east of Riyadh. The barren desert seemed to go on for hours, although when he looked at his Rolex, only forty minutes had passed since the last signs of civilization. He took a sip from his silver flask. The whiskey went down smoothly but didn’t erase the fear and revulsion he felt for the evening ahead.
A driver and one machine-gun-toting bodyguard conversed in some form of unfamiliar Arabic.
“Five minutes to our destination, sir.”
The alcohol neither relaxed him, nor helped his ailing health. The man from Turkey who’d joined him the last time he’d made this trip to the desert, had left his imported alcohol for the old man. He took a last quick shot of Jack Daniels then pulled a stick of Juicy Fruit from his pocket. Chew and spit. He lit up another American cigarette to mask the remaining smell of alcohol.
His last private thoughts were of a glimpse of a raging pyre burning ten feet into the sky amid three ostentatious and elaborately decorated sand-colored tents. The stark moon cast eerie shadows outlining guards carrying assault weapons patrolling the opulent luxury in the middle of nowhere.
The vehicle came to a stop by a guard post. Three men in flowing robes waited to greet him.
“I would say the operation was a success. Of course, there will always be martyrs for the cause.”
The three men and their prominent guest nodded, sipping tea. They bowed heads and praised God, who, in their interpretation of the Quran, sanctioned the annihilation of anyone who didn't agree with their specific version of religion.
“Did you contact the ones who were holdouts?”
“Yes. It seems the recent events have motivated many in opposition to reconsider and align with our cause.”
“Can I assume the Acting Minister of Defense is on board?”
“Of course. Whatever concerns, the new minister had before have been erased by the demise of his predecessor.”
“What about the financial accounts of those martyrs who are dead?”
“We are clawing back the funds as we speak. There will be no trail leading back to you.”
Silence ensued.
“Do you know your role going forward?”
“Yes.” The man who looked more European than Arabic brushed sand from his well-groomed grey beard and cursed a God who placed him in the middle of this terrifying mission.
“Is your son co-operating?”
“Yes, of course. He will do what is asked of him.”
“Does he have any idea what we are doing?”
“I haven’t discussed anything with him. But he continues to do his work as you have requested.”
“There may be a change in plans for him in the coming days. We have a new role for him. If he comes to you for advice, go along with his decision.”
The father simply nodded.
The other three men smoked; fires dwindled down. Sentries casually observed their surroundings. No problems were expected. Still, they were always on alert.
“Israel took a shot at us yesterday.”
“Merely a distraction. Israel’s re-elections will keep them focused for the coming month. By then, it won’t matter.”
“Yes. And what is Tehran saying?”
“Again, the tankers are child’s play. The Americans are so busy playing the bully; they won’t see our deadly game until checkmate.”
The three murderous jihadists experienced a rare moment of peace. Violence was what excited them, and mass destruction was the only thing that gave meaning to their lives. The fourth visitor cursed his fate even though he did agree with his nation’s politics.
“The American President is trying to hold on to his power, he sends his children out in the world to do their father’s work. He’s wasting money on a southern wall when he should be looking at the bigger picture. We made a good decision the day Iran and her allies decided to make him President of the United States of America.”
It was a rare event that the three leaders of the most violent terrorist organizations’ mankind have ever known were seen together in one place. The fourth man was aging and ill. He no longer had the stomach for this fight. He’d lost one son through his own rigidity and now might lose another. However, there will always be sacrifices required from men who are the keepers of the faith. This was a time of celebration. Their plans were in place, and nothing could prevent them from reaching their objective. They had the manpower, the fighters ready to die for the cause, and, most significantly, the money. With money, anything is possible.
“What started centuries ago will come to fruition in the next few weeks. We are invincible.”
10
Istanbul
Sultanahmet Square
Yunus took the fifteen-minute tram from Karaköy to Sultanahmet. He had moved on from his anger. Instead, he looked for comfort in the holy center of his historic Islamic community. His faith, its beauty, and purity were ingrained in his soul. Yunis touched each amber prayer bead, a gift from his love, Sude. He walked by the old stone structures and recalled his studies, the years he spent in religious school tutoring the younger boys to memorize and recite the Quran.
It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last that East and West played a conspicuous game for control of Turkey. Russia, Iran, and the USA all wanted a piece of Turkey and preferably absolute power over the remains of the proud Ottoman empire. But his fellow Turks were fierce and determined to stay independent of the worlds’ major players. Turkey and its people would live their lives on their own terms. They would continue to practice Islam the way the Prophet meant it to be followed. Regimes would change, but the words of the Prophet, tolerance, and acceptance of others’ faith, would always be part of their belief.
He watched the families making breakfast in the park, the children laughing, the parents smiling, unaware of the tragedy that Yunus had experienced less than twenty-four hours ago. He walked past the Hagia Sofia and glanced at the tourists waiting in line to enter the museum. He tried to imagine an ordinary world without war and mans’ insatiable appetite for power and greed.
Yunus found an empty bench and sat for awhile he gathered his thoughts. He was one of the fortunate few who found his true calling five years ago. All Turks were obligated, with few exceptions, to enter the military for at least one year. When his time came, Yunus, known for his partying ways, dreaded the idea of going to the border of Syria. His blessed mother prayed several times a day, and Yunus was positive, from the looks she gave him, that he was the topic of her ongoing conversations with Allah.
Maybe her prayers had been heard because the military changed Yunus’ life and led him on a path that molded him into the man he is today. Gone was the playboy, the I’m-going-to-live-forever guy. He saw what was happening near the borders, the pain, and the suffering of people. And his life as a DJ became less significant. He loved music, and the Prophet never said a man should not be joyful. But when he came back from obligatory military service, he realized that the future of the freedom of mankind and Islam was at stake. He knew exactly what he needed to do. And the persona of DJ Turk and his love of M&M chocolate gave him a perfect playboy cover for the dangerous life he was destined to live. He made a decision. The Turk loved entertaining people with his musical talent, but he loved Islam more. He would do whatever it took to keep his religion and Turkey safe from the violent jihadists and those who wished to wipe Isla
m off the face of the earth.
He passed the gardens in the square, too distracted to notice the tulips long past their prime. The Blue Mosque stood prominent before him at the center of Sultanahmet. To Yunus, it was a symbol of an enduring culture in a modern world that misunderstood the beauty of his faith.
It wasn’t his regular place of worship. Over the years, he’d stopped going to any Mosque except Fridays and during Ramadan. But today, the call to prayer with his fellow Muslims gave him comfort in his grieving.
He had seen too much evil perpetrated in the name of religion. He found himself at times embarrassed by those who called themselves followers of Islam. How could they fight, maim, and kill in the name of Allah? But then we don’t have to go far back in history to witness one of the world’s greatest atrocities, the Holocaust. It seemed that every generation was doomed to have religious wars, and those who abused and misused what they called ‘religion’. Even the history of his beloved Istanbul was filled with religious wars, conquerors, and slaughter.
The Turk performed the expected rituals and entered the mosque. Yunus grew up in religious schools. He learned that Islam teaches the love of God, and mankind, and peace. Look after the poor, respect your fellow man, practice honesty, and above all, love for humanity. How had the Middle East come to represent this place of war and hatred? It was the home of all religions.
Some days he wanted to scream to the world: “Can’t you see? This is not Islam. These terrorists have nothing to do with Islam. They maim and murder their own people, so how can they say they are followers of Mohammed?”
He bowed down and allowed silent tears to fall. And then he took some comfort from the men around him, all reciting the words of the Prophet they had learned so well as children.
The worshipers who surrounded the young man offered silent condolence for the pain he wore and wished only peace and healing in his time of grief. The Turk had found the moment of peace his soul craved, and the courage to strengthen his warrior’s heart for the work he had ahead of him.
He left the mosque and checked his phone. For the first time that day, he smiled.