The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

  The caviar smugglers were about to receive a healthy payday to help fund the resistance while at the same time removing an Iranian official involved in what amounted to a genocide against the Kurdish people.

  The boat had red paint markings to signify they had paid the appropriate bribes to the right officials to prevent boarding and inspections. The fishermen had their orders: insert their package off the coast of Chalus, 125 miles to the southeast, and continue on their usual path. They were to return to the waters off Chalus two days later, wait until just before dawn, and then continue back to their home port if their package failed to return.

  Reece had entered Iran through Iraq by way of Turkey. The Agency maintained a base in Erbil for their Peshmerga fighting force despite the official policy of the United States toward Kurdistan. The CIA-trained direct-action force also ran operations into Iran across borders the Kurds did not recognize, gathering intelligence and atmospherics and distributing cell phones into the black market loaded with spyware from the whiz kids at Langley’s Directorate of Science and Technology. Kurdish smugglers moved everything from weapons to cigarettes to alcohol to cars to jeans to illegal drug precursors to walnuts. Two nights ago, they had smuggled in their first American.

  The phones the Kurds had been feeding into Iran’s economy had penetrated the upper echelons of the Iranian military and intelligence apparatus and had led to the death of Quds Force General Qasem Soleimani at Baghdad International Airport. That same technology had given the CIA access to Ja’far al-Sadiq’s travel schedule.

  The American hadn’t said a word to anyone other than the Iraqi who accompanied him. When they spoke to one another it was only in whispers. A traditional shemagh covered his head and face, obscuring his features. They could tell he was bearded, dirt and dust visible around eyes that seemed to change from brown to green depending on the light or his mood. A chameleon.

  The man sat watching the coast or looking north out to sea. He accepted the offered tea and dates. The intensity radiated by his calm, silent focus made them nervous, but his companion helped put them at ease. They had been instructed to only call him Mohammed, but they heard the American call him by another name: Mo.

  When Mohammed wasn’t whispering to the infidel, he shared stories and cigarettes with the crew. His easy smile, dark slicked-back hair, and dashing looks made them all feel comfortable with what they were about to do.

  Around midnight the American unrolled a dirty rag from his satchel and began to assemble what the fisherman recognized as a Kalashnikov, though this one had a thin metal stock that folded under the weapon. One of the smugglers had seen his share of fighting and recognized the flip-up grenade sights, three cutouts on the hand guard, and Arabic markings identifying it as a “Tabuk,” named in honor of the prophet Muhammad’s final military expedition. The fisherman watched as their passenger ran his thumb over a symbol of the Lion of Babylon engraved on the left side of the rear sight block. The mariner found himself wondering what, or who, the man was remembering.

  They watched as he carefully wiped down the bolt and applied grease to its stem and triangular lug with his finger. He then wiped grease on the bottom of the bolt lugs and across the lower portion of the bolt carrier assembly. When it was finished, he attached what they knew as a silencer to the end of the barrel. He then pointed it out to sea, reached under the weapon, and racked the charging handle with his left thumb. He pushed the selector to its top position and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened, indicating the safety worked as intended. The smugglers watched their passenger move the selector lever to the bottom position and press the trigger. He was rewarded with an audible click. He then racked the charging handle again, with his finger still retaining the trigger reward in the “pulled” position. As he released the trigger, another audible click could be heard as the trigger’s disconnector returned the hammer to a ready-to-fire state, confirming that the weapon functioned properly in semiautomatic. He then moved the selector to the middle position and pulled the trigger. Click. He racked the charging handle a third time, keeping the trigger depressed. This time he slowly rode the bolt home, hearing the automatic click of the hammer as the bolt seated into battery. He then released the trigger. Silence. No click permeated the night air, which verified that the hammer had followed the bolt home on the rifle’s fully automatic setting, exactly as its inventor had envisioned.

  With what the fishermen could tell was practiced efficiency, the American inserted a dark metal magazine and clicked it into place. He then racked the charging handle, returned the selector to the safe position, and pulled the bolt back slightly to ensure a steel casing gleamed back. Americans were strange. He reached into his bag, stood, and lifted a dark green chest rig with what looked to be three magazines over his head, adjusting it before sliding his arm through the sling of his rifle and moving it to his left side.

  The fisherman had never seen anyone handle an AK like that before. They’d shot a few themselves and had only put in the magazine and pulled back on the charging handle before letting loose on full auto. The rifles had worked every time. He then did something even more peculiar. The foreigner pulled out what looked like a trash bag and snapped it open to fill with air. He pushed more than half the air from the bag, tied it off, and stuffed it into his satchel. He stood and whispered something to his companion. The two men hugged in the way of old friends. Then the American slipped over the side and disappeared into the Caspian.

  CHAPTER 79

  REECE PUSHED THE SATCHEL in front of him as his legs worked beneath the surface, propelling him toward shore.

  The air-filled garbage bag provided flotation and Reece rested the venerable AK on the leather satchel. He was confident it would work even when filled with sand and salt water; that was the genius of Kalashnikov’s iconic design. Even so, Reece did his best to keep it dry, just to be safe.

  He could see the lights of Chalus ahead. From the water it appeared no different from any other seaside town or coastal city in which he had trained or operated over his time in Naval Special Warfare. In this case he’d studied the coastline years ago when he and his team had waited for the green light to capture or kill Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a mission approval that never came. Tonight, that training and those rehearsals would prove valuable.

  He didn’t come in directly on the urban center of Chalus, choosing instead to come ashore at the far eastern end of the beach, an area devoid of lights.

  Fifty yards from shore he paused, holding his homemade flotation device and treading water with his legs as he scanned for threats. He tasted the salt of the Caspian on his lips, its strength diluted by the numerous freshwater inflows to what was essentially the world’s largest lake. The water was cold, even this far south of the Volga.

  Being immersed in a maritime operating environment was not a new experience for the former frogman. Without a wet suit or dry suit, Reece felt oddly more in tune with his surroundings than he had since he’d ventured across Siberia the year before. He also knew he couldn’t scan the shoreline all night. He had someplace he needed to be.

  It was imperative he get into position before the sun came up. His local dress the satchel that fit the underfolder-stocked, Iraqi-manufactured AK, and shemagh would allow him to pass at first glance. Anything other than a cursory inspection and Reece was going to guns. The PBS-1 suppressor and subsonic ammo would buy him time. How much time? That was an unknown.

  Satisfied that this section of the resort town shoreline was clear, Reece alternated between breaststroke kicks and scissor kicks and drove himself toward his target.

  I come from the water.

  CHAPTER 80

  PLACING HIS MIND BELOW his heart in the position of prostration, kneeling to symbolize submission to God, Ja’far al-Sadiq was tranquil and at peace.

  He moved from kneeling to sitting for the final verses of Isah, which he internalized, eyes closed and focused.

  Allaahumma ‘innee ‘a’oothu bika min ‘athaabil-qabri, wa min
‘athaabi jahannama, wa min fitnatil-mahyaa walmamaati, wa min sharri fitnatil-maseehid-dajjaal.

  O Allah, I take refuge in You from punishment of the grave, from the torment of the Fire, from the trials and tribulations of life and death, and from the evil affliction of the false Messiah.

  Allahu Akbar.

  Audhu billahi min-ash-shayta-nir-rajeem

  Before he could finish the verse, Ja’far al-Sadiq felt the pressure change in the small room as a door opened behind him.

  Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-raheem, he completed the prayer.

  He turned his head to bark at the guard and instead found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. The candles provided just enough illumination to identify the suppressor protruding from the end of a Kalashnikov held by a tall man, head and face wrapped in a beige and black shemagh, a cloth rig of extra magazines strapped to his chest.

  “Who are you?” Ja’far demanded in Farsi.

  The man moved to Ja’far’s left, kicking the AK out of arm’s reach.

  “Guard!” Ja’far yelled.

  “They won’t hear you. Not until you join them anyway,” the man said in English.

  “American? You are American?” Ja’far said, switching to English.

  The AK’s selector lever was in the down position on semiautomatic and the man’s finger was on the trigger.

  “You really shouldn’t be so afraid of dogs. Had you cleared this place with them you might not have died tonight.”

  “What do you want?” Ja’far asked, attempting to get to his feet.

  “You can stay on your knees, General. This won’t take long.”

  Ja’far settled back on the ground, calculating distances to the door and to his AK in the corner.

  “Who are you?”

  With the Kalashnikov still trained on the veteran of terror, Reece reached up with his left hand and pulled the shemagh around and down to hang loosely at his neck.

  Ja’far’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “I know you.”

  “You don’t know me. You may know who I am, but you don’t know me.”

  Ja’far’s eyes narrowed.

  “And you are here to execute an old man on his knees?”

  “Not an old man. An enemy. A terrorist.”

  “Ah yes, a terrorist,” Ja’far said thoughtfully, bringing his eyes up to meet his intruder’s gaze. “You Americans are so fond of that word. War on Terror. Dropping bombs from the sky and killing entire families with drones. The world knows the real terrorists, Mr. Reece.”

  “And Beirut, 9/11, Marburg?”

  “Don’t insult me, Mr. Reece. Beirut would be a legitimate military target even by your definition of terrorism. I’ve read your literature: ‘car bombs are the poor man’s air force.’ ”

  “And 9/11? Marburg?”

  “You and the Israelis give us no choice. This is a struggle for the soul of the world. It always has been about religious and economic domination. Bringing the Holy Land under kafir control; the objectives of the Crusades are still very much the goals of U.S. foreign policy.”

  Reece shook his head.

  “Where do you think that fool bin Laden got his fatwā?” Ja’far asked. “From al-Zawahiri? The brains of the Base? He is too smart to tip his hand that way. That al-Qaeda fatwā came from me.”

  Ja’far bowed his head again and recited the fatwā that had been a declaration of war against the West, a war that only one side recognized when it was issued in 1998.

  “To kill the Americans and their allies—civilians and military—is an individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is possible to do it.”

  “You killed innocent men, women, children, even fellow Muslims,” Reece said.

  “I think you Americans coined the term collateral damage. They are martyrs for the cause and sit at the right hand of Allah.”

  “Before you join them, I have a message for you to send the regime.”

  “A message? I think you sent that message when you shot down a diplomatic aircraft over the Atlantic.”

  “This message is more specific.”

  “A message? From an assassin? I’m curious, Mr. Reece, the United States does not typically employ assassins. If they do, they are expendable traitors recruited from the lands of Allah, brainwashed, wound up, and sent off to do the West’s bidding. You are known for dropping bombs on innocent women and children from above, not sending assassins like this.”

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m a messenger.”

  Ja’far grunted.

  “And what message would you have me pass to the regime?”

  “Just this,” Reece replied.

  He leveled the AK at General Ja’far al-Sadiq’s face and depressed the trigger.

  The 7.62x39 bullet entered just to the left of the right eye. The round caved in the right side of the general’s head, a mass of brain tissue hitting the wall behind him and sliding to the floor of the musalla, showering the area in a dark red mist. He collapsed on his right side, blood seeping into the prayer rug.

  The man who had collaborated with al-Qaeda and provided them materials, support, and sanction, and who had ultimately approved the plan for September 11, 2001, and the bioweapon attacks on its twentieth anniversary was killed by an American on holy land.

  Reece stepped forward and followed up with two more rounds to the head to ensure his target was dead. He then slung the Kalashnikov and removed a chain from around his neck. He held the ring between his fingertips, remembering Lauren and Lucy and wondering what would have happened had Jen survived that Tuesday morning in September. Would two American cities now be smoldering piles of rubble? Did her death inadvertently save half a million lives?

  Reece knelt, opened Ja’far’s left hand, and placed the ring inside. He pressed the dead man’s fingers around it in a fist.

  “They’ll get the message,” Reece whispered.

  The messenger then made his way back through the house just the way he’d practiced in his team’s rehearsals all those years ago when al-Zarqawi was planning the Iraq insurgency from this very compound.

  He worked his way through the shadows, past the bodies of Ja’far’s four bodyguards. He climbed the back wall and dropped into a dark alley, sinking into the shadows as he listened for any sounds that betrayed his presence. He stood, folded the stock under the AK, and placed it in his satchel. He then adjusted his shemagh and walked toward his extract.

  He hit the beach and made his way to the water’s edge, feeling the sand give way beneath his feet just as it had in Coronado all those years ago. He could see the fishing trawler loitering five hundred yards off the coast, trolling for sturgeon in the early morning darkness.

  He knelt behind a cluster of rocks protruding from the sand and scanned the slope that led to the street above. Nothing signified that a foreigner had invaded or that one of the most formidable terrorists in the world had just met his maker.

  He had sent the message. It was time to go.

  Reece took one last look, then turning, moved through the light shore break, out beyond the waves toward the beckoning sea.

  EPILOGUE

  “I have a message from God unto thee.”

  —EHUD THE ASSASSIN, JUDGES 3:20, KING JAMES VERSION

  Ulcinj, Montenegro

  THE ENVELOPE ARRIVED VIA courier early that morning.

  Nizar Kattan tipped the boy a five-euro note and rolled the letter over in his hands. It had traveled a long way.

  Although originally developed to transfer money, in the modern world the ancient system of hawala persisted as the most secure way to pass information. With the CIA and Mossad collecting electronic communications from almost every keystroke worldwide, sifting it through complex algorithms developed by the tech titans in the private sector, it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain anonymous in a data-driven economy. It amused Nizar that those technology-dependent intellige
nce organizations could be fooled by a handheld package trading hands and crossing borders with impunity; all one needed was time and patience. Nizar had been given multiple assignments in this fashion. All were profitable when coming from Masada.

  The Russian mafia had initially offered him refuge but only because of an arrangement with a banished colonel, a colonel who had been turned into mulch when a PG-32V 105mm anti-armor HEAT round destroyed his armored Mercedes in Switzerland. Intelligence agencies and the media had pointed the finger at a terrorist known as Mohammed Farooq. Nizar wondered if he had really pressed the button that had killed the Russian colonel. It seemed too convenient. What the West liked to call the “free press” was not to be trusted.

  After the Odessa operation, Nizar had seen the writing on the wall. He was expendable. True, he’d always been expendable, but without Russian blood in his veins it was only a matter of time before the Bratva separated his head from his body.

  He had always scoffed at those who had sacrificed themselves for Allah. Die for the prophet; for the cause? Nizar preferred to live for himself, not for a prophet or ideology. He’d seen too many young, idealistic warriors strap on suicide vests and martyr themselves for a religion they didn’t even fully comprehend. That was not Nizar’s way. He favored freelance work that benefited his multiple bank accounts.

  He’d done a job for the Bratva in Montenegro and never returned to the Russia that had become his base of operations after he sent a bullet at Russian president Zubarev. His partner’s bullet had found its mark, eviscerating their target in front of the world. Nizar had adjusted and put his second shot into a man on a rooftop, a man who should have killed President Grimes. Nizar had read the papers. His round had not connected with his intended target. It had killed an American spy. It did not take much digging to associate that death with a funeral in South Carolina of a former Navy SEAL named Fredrick Strain.