The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

“And there is something else,” Reece said, picking up a photograph next to him. “It’s grainy and it might be difficult to see in this light, but I think you will recognize the man in the photo. He’s aged twenty years but I’m confident you know him.”

  Reece held up the photo in his left hand, illuminating it with a small Streamlight Stylus penlight. The photo was indeed grainy: black and white and in low resolution.

  “That could be anyone, Mr. Reece.”

  “But it isn’t anyone, Qassem. It was taken in Portland, Maine, on September tenth, 2001, at the same restaurant that also captured photos of two men who would be dead the next day.”

  “Oh? What happened to them?”

  “They flew a plane into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.”

  “I was in Iran in September 2001,” Qassem said, in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “Just prior to midnight that same day, this man crossed the border into Canada,” Reece continued, holding up another picture. It was still black and white, but the resolution was better. “Facial recognition technology was still in its infancy when these were taken, but it has improved significantly over the years.”

  “He does not look familiar.”

  “Look closer, Qassem. I’m sure you will recognize him,” Reece said. “Here he is checking into the Montreal airport Marriott hotel a few hours later. He had a flight scheduled for the following day but of course flights were grounded for three days, so he stayed in the hotel and took an evening flight to Frankfurt on September fourteenth.”

  “A couple of blurry photographs of a Middle Eastern–looking man you say are from September 2001, mean nothing.”

  “Oh, to the contrary, it means everything when that man reenters the United States as a diplomat of a foreign nation and has access to the diplomatic pouch, and is on U.S. soil at the same time a virus is unleased on the twentieth anniversary of the most devastating terrorist attack in the nation’s history.”

  “It wasn’t released,” Qassem countered. “I heard your president tell the world it was from Angola and that it burned itself out after an early spike when it was at its most potent.”

  “I heard that, too, Qassem. Did you believe it?”

  “Why would I question it?”

  “Because you brought Marburg Variant U into the United States in a diplomatic pouch. You passed it to Dr. Ansari, who then replicated it in a lab in Denver and unleashed it through surrogates to simulate a naturally occurring respiratory-spread virus.”

  “That seems far-fetched, Mr. Reece.”

  “It does, which is why I want just a little more information from you.”

  Reece set the photographs to the side and opened a nylon case.

  “I know nothing about this, and I will not be coerced into taking responsibility for 9/11. Everyone knows it was the work of al-Qaeda and bin Laden.”

  Reece made a production of taking out an IV bag and hanging it just behind Qassem on a hook on the wall of the van. He removed medical scissors and cut the left sleeve off Qassem’s shirt to expose the arm.

  “What are you doing?” the Iranian intelligence officer asked, trying in vain to pull his arms and legs from the restraints.

  “Do you know who you killed that day, Qassem?”

  “I killed no one.”

  “You certainly did. You may not have flown the planes, but you met with Mohamed Atta that night in Portland. No one was able to figure out why Atta and al-Omari drove to Maine the night before their mission of death. But I know,” Reece said, as he attached a thin rubber band tourniquet to Qassem’s upper arm.

  “I killed no one,” Qassem repeated.

  “I heard you the first time. You won’t mind if I forgo cleaning the site, do you?”

  Reece anchored the area by grabbing Qassem’s upper forearm and pulling the skin tight with this thumb to prevent the vein from rolling. He then flipped the cap off the end of the needle and inserted it into Qassem’s vein. Reece watched the flash chamber fill with blood. Keeping the needle in place he advanced the catheter into the arm with his forefinger, exerting pressure on the inserted portion to keep it in place. He removed the rubber band on the upper arm with his right hand and attached the IV tubing to the catheter.

  “Do you know why I’m wearing this suit?” Reece asked through his respirator.

  Once again, the aging spy chief remained silent.

  Reece opened a small aluminum case and extracted a vial from the foam.

  “Recognize this?” he said, holding the small, clear bottle up to the man strapped to the chair. “It’s Marburg Variant U.”

  Reece inserted a needle and extracted a milliliter of its contents. He attached it to the injection post on the side of the drip container that fed saline solution into Qassem’s arm.

  “I know you are familiar with what this will do to you, Qassem. Unlike the innocent people you killed on 9/11 and those you killed in Aurora and Richardson, you get a choice today.”

  Qassem’s eyes darted from the IV to his arm to his captor.

  “You answer my questions and I drop you off at Dulles and you fly home to Iran. You don’t, I hit this plunger and then I drop you at Fort Detrick. The doctors there are very anxious to study the effects of Marburg Variant U on the man who brought it into the country. They’ve only performed experiments on baboons and read the reports from the Soviet days of Dr. Ustinov slowly liquefying from the inside. That was over thirty years ago. You will add to the body of classified bioweapons research. Who knows, maybe something we learn from watching your body decompose from within will help develop an even more formidable weapon that we unleash on Iran.”

  Qassem felt the perspiration soaking his clothing and his bowels begin to loosen.

  “Your choice, Qassem. And, just so you are aware, there is nothing I want to do more than hit this plunger and avenge everyone you’ve killed. Please give me an excuse.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want you to confirm for me that it is you in these photos.”

  Qassem’s eyes went to the pictures and back to Reece.

  “Give me an excuse, Qassem,” Reece encouraged.

  Qassem squeezed his eyes shut.

  A’oothu billaahi minash-Shaytaanir-rajeem

  I seek refuge with Allah against the Satan, the outcast.

  “Qassem, answer me now or become a biomedical test subject. Those doctors at Fort Detrick, they won’t take you out of your misery. They will keep you alive as long as possible to prolong your misery and extract as much research data as they can.”

  Qassem attempted to nod his head but the restraint kept it in place.

  “Enjoy your stay at Fort Detrick,” Reece said, raising the plunger to Qassem’s face and applying pressure.

  “It was me,” Qassem said.

  “Say that again,” Reece ordered.

  “It was me, but I only delivered a message. I didn’t make the decision about 9/11. I passed along a word.”

  “What word? A word that triggered 9/11?”

  “yd alshaytan.”

  “Arabic?”

  “Yes, those al-Qaeda Sunnis did not understand Farsi. I swear I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Somebody knew, Qassem. Somebody knew, because the next day three thousand of my countrymen would be dead.”

  “I thought it was for an attack on the White House. A car bomb maybe. My job was just to pass along a word and then drive to Canada. I found out about it on the news with everyone else.”

  “But then you made the connection, didn’t you, Qassem?”

  Qassem tried to nod.

  “So, you waited until flights resumed and then you flew to Germany and back to Iran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who ordered you to deliver the message?”

  Qassem’s eyes darted to the syringe filled with liquid death. Not just death but weeks of misery or bleeding through skin pores, through eye sockets, through his penis and anus, a pain no one but Allah could stop.

&n
bsp; “Ja’far al-Sadiq,” Qassem whispered.

  “Louder,” Reece said.

  “General Ja’far al-Sadiq.”

  “Who is that?”

  “He is now the minister of intelligence.”

  “Did he plan it?”

  “No.”

  “But he facilitated it, didn’t he? He gave the green light. You delivered the message.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you planned this Marburg attack?”

  “Your country is on its knees, Commander. Your response to COVID surprised even our brightest minds. Close down your schools and businesses and destroy your economy for a virus with less than a 0.3 percent mortality rate? With that kind of a response, what would you do with a respiratory virus with a ninety percent mortality rate? I wanted to call the operation off; you were already doing such a good job destroying yourselves from within. All we needed to do was sit back and watch as COVID, race riots, and identity politics further divided an already weak nation; it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I am not the minister of intelligence. General al-Sadiq wanted to capitalize on the conditions set through your response to the coronavirus and riots. He has been on the front lines all his life but he is getting old. Rumor has it that he was with Imad Mughniyeh on the hill overlooking Beirut in ’83. He’s killed more Americans than al-Qaeda or those ISIS fools could ever hope. He should have been more patient, but I believe he wanted to see the Great Satan in ruins before he passes through the gates to Paradise.” Qassem smiled. “Now, drop me at the airport and go fuck yourself.”

  Reece’s thumb lingered over the plunger. He looked into Qassem’s eyes as he began to increase downward pressure, the Iranian agent struggling in horror against the restraints.

  Reece pulled his thumb away and detached the syringe, carefully capping it and locking it back into its padded case.

  He then toggled a switch next to him on the wall and said, “Dulles.”

  They both felt the van turn to the left.

  Reece looked into the eyes of the man still strapped to the chair across from him.

  “You never answered my question about 9/11, Qassem.”

  “Which question?”

  “When I asked you if you knew who else was killed that day.”

  To his unknowing expression Reece answered, “President Christensen’s fiancée. Her name was Jennifer.”

  “So that’s what you were doing in Chicago and Atlanta?” Qassem deduced.

  “And it’s what I’ll continue to do once you are on that plane.”

  “You Americans…” Qassem said, attempting to shake his head. “You should kill me, you know.”

  “Don’t think I won’t one day, Qassem. Right now, the president wants you to send the regime a message.”

  The van pulled to a stop, but Reece didn’t move. He continued to stare into his adversary’s eyes as the doors opened and three men jumped inside, releasing Qassem from his restraints and roughly escorting him out the door and into a Goodwill store parking lot.

  “You can find your way from here,” one of the men said, before moving back toward a trail vehicle and getting inside.

  Reece moved to the back of the van to close the doors.

  “Hey, Qassem, I’ll see you again. In this life or the next.”

  With that, Reece shut the doors and the van accelerated to the exit and onto Sunrise Valley Drive, leaving the man who delivered the order for 9/11 standing alone in the parking lot.

  * * *

  Vic Rodriguez joined Reece on the roof of the CIA annex at Dulles.

  Reece stood behind a thick waist-high wall that encircled the roof.

  “Think he bought it?” Vic asked.

  “Not sure. I think he bought that I wanted to kill him. That wasn’t a hard sell.”

  “I imagine not,” Vic said. “Do you think he believed you had Marburg in that vial?”

  “We’ll never know.”

  “Which one is it?” Vic asked, changing subjects.

  “That one there,” Reece said, pointing to an aircraft on the tarmac.

  Vic raised the binoculars around his neck and observed the twin-engine Beechcraft King Air prepare for takeoff.

  “He’s on board?” Vic asked.

  “He is. I watched him board with a few others.”

  “Good. We’ve confirmed that it’s a chartered flight making a short hop to JFK. The Iranian ambassador to the UN is staying in New York but his plane just filed a flight plan to Tehran via Madrid.”

  “What type of aircraft?” Reece asked.

  “A Dassault Falcon 50: French long-range business jet flown by Iranian Air Force pilots.”

  Reece watched the small commuter plane taxi to the end of the runway, turn, pause, and then accelerate, gathering lift under its wings until it took to the sky.

  “Good riddance, you son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER 72

  1st Fighter Wing, 27th Fighter Squadron

  Langley Air Force Base, Virginia

  THE PILOTS FROM THE F-22 Squadron had been scrambled before. Each time had been a false alarm. This alert was different.

  Operation Noble Eagle consisted mainly of F-15 Eagles and F-16 Fighting Falcons flying Combat Air Patrols over the nation’s capital, critical infrastructure, and high-profile public events. Authorized four days after September 11, 2001, the program was designed to shoot down hijacked aircraft to avert another 9/11-style attack. The 1st Fighter Wing with its 27th Fighter Squadron of F-22 Raptors trained for a different mission.

  While the Noble Eagle aircraft patrolled the skies in and around Washington, D.C., the F-22s were tasked with intercepting incoming planes deemed a threat to the homeland while they were still in international airspace.

  The two $334 million machines rocketed through the clouds at 62,000 feet per minute hitting Mach 2 and closed quickly with their target. Designed by Lockheed Martin with stealth as a primary requirement, their low radar cross section and radar-absorbent material rendered them all but invisible.

  At 40,000 feet Langley handed off tactical control to the Eastern Air Defense Sector, headquartered at the Griffiss Business and Technology Park outside of Rome, New York.

  Targeting Single on the nose, eighty nautical miles, Angels 37, Elvis communicated to his wingman using the fifth-generation fighter’s Intra-Flight Data Link, a low probability of detection / low probability of interception communication system designed to augment the plane’s stealth capabilities. Check pointer.

  Painting a single, eighty out, Burbank replied via Data Link.

  Their mission was not simply to engage and confirm destruction; their mission was to first conduct a flyby to ensure the target aircraft identified them as Americans and then to blow it out of the sky.

  “Switching from data to voice,” the lead pilot said over the MIDS-J, the multifunction distribution system that allowed F-22s to communicate in VHF when stealth was not a primary concern. In this case, U.S. attribution was a mission requirement.

  “Target aircraft is leaving U.S. airspace, not incoming,” Burbank said.

  “Charlie Mike,” Elvis replied, using the military jargon for “continue mission” as the two pilots closed the distance.

  “Confirming remote ID,” Elvis continued. “Confirmed.”

  “Roger. Remote ID verified,” Burbank said.

  “Visual confirmation of tail number required.”

  “Good copy. We don’t want to get this one wrong.”

  The two fighters closed on the Iranian business jet.

  “Tally,” Elvis said.

  “Tally,” his dash-two confirmed.

  Elvis slowed his aircraft to keep pace with the large passenger jet and approached at its eight o’clock.

  “Tail number Echo—Papa—India—Bravo—Alpha, confirm.”

  Burbank pushed his Raptor to the four o’clock.

  “Confirm, Echo—Papa—India—Bravo—Alpha. This is it.”

  “
Roger, Burbank. Let’s let them know we are here.”

  Elvis and Burbank both hit their afterburners, passing the unique trijet-configured aircraft within feet before circling back around to take up positions on the starboard and port sides, close enough that they could see the panicked looks of the pilot and copilot in the cockpit.

  Burbank decreased his speed and visually confirmed that the windows were clear of passengers before throttling back up and taking up his position off the starboard fuselage. Elvis did the same on the opposite side of their target.

  “Elvis, no passengers starboard side.”

  “Roger that, Burbank. One passenger port side.”

  A national intelligence satellite captured the sat-com transmission from the Iranian aircraft to Tehran. As with the targeted assassination of Admiral Yamamoto by American P-38s over Bougainville in 1943, the president didn’t want to leave Iran with any questions as to who was responsible. That information was relayed to Eastern Air Defense Sector headquarters, who in turn sent an encrypted message to the F-22s.

  Target aircraft verified. Weapons Red and Free.

  Elvis confirmed receipt.

  The two F-22s fell back to two nautical miles and established the airspace was clear. Both aircraft locked on to their target.

  “Standing by,” Burbank said.

  “Roger,” Elvis acknowledged. “Cleared Hot. Stand by. On my count: three, two, one, Fox Three.”

  Two AIM-120C air-to-air missiles dropped from the internal weapons bays of their fighter aircraft, propelled forward by solid-rocket fuel motors at Mach 4.

  Unlike Air Force One, this aircraft did not have countermeasures and just like April 18, 1943, there would be no survivors.

  The first advanced medium-range air-to-air missile impacted the port wing. A millisecond later the second missile hit mid-fuselage, igniting the fuel necessary for transatlantic flights and turning the Dassault Falcon 50 into a ball of fire over the Atlantic.

  CHAPTER 73

  Mustique Island, Grenadines, West Indies

  “WE NEED TO COME up with a plan, Erik,” Senator Thwaite said, cutting into his “lazy” lobster.

  They sat at opposite ends of a long rectangular table with a stunning view over the Caribbean east toward Barbados just beyond the infinity pool.