Terror Trail
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With the monetary security behind him, Kerim was able to concentrate on gathering his people. The ones who would actually carry out the planned strikes on the streets of American cities. There was no shortage of willing volunteers, but Kerim wanted those who could walk the U.S. streets with confidence, able to restrain themselves until the chosen moment arrived. He did not want trigger-happy martyrs who might easily allow their eagerness to push them into acting too soon, breaking the orchestrated plans of attack. That meant he had to choose carefully, taking his time.
Over the long weeks he had selected his people. Each candidate had been quietly taken from America, some from London, a number from Paris. The thing they all had in common was their knowledge of big-city life. The ability to fit in and move around with ease. That was important. It would have been fatal to simply pluck some individual who lacked social graces because he came from a small town, a village in Afghanistan, the desert of Yemen or the banks of the Bahr al-Arab river in Sudan.
Kerim wanted his people to understand the pace and the attitude of city dwellers. He needed people who could walk and talk on the streets of New York or Washington, D.C. Casually traverse Boston or Chicago, dressed in similar clothing as the masses around them. They had to be able to walk into a Starbucks and order coffee. To sit at a table and look and act as though they were part of the surroundings. That demanded a degree of confidence, of familiarity. And that was why Kerim selected his team with care.
At the training camp the selected ones would be put through an extensive course designed to plant within them knowledge of how they must present themselves in America. There would be a waiting period while every member of the team was established. That was an important part of the mission. Making certain each team member was settled and unobtrusive. Providing each individual with identification and money to sustain them during their waiting period was another obstacle Kerim had to oversee. It was an intensive period, but one he undertook with his usual enthusiasm. His dedication to the task was unstinting. He let nothing deter him from it. And while he went about Allah’s work he presented himself to the world a picture of a moderate Muslim, a quiet man practicing his religion and offending no one. He blended into the background, inoffensive and compliant.
He looked on the plan as his greatest achievement. When it was put into motion there would be such an impact on America. The clever part was the plan required minimal setting up. No massive technical input. Just men who were prepared to undertake the mission, inserted into America and finally sent out on the streets to mingle with the public until the moment they took out their weapons and opened fire in a crowded area. Striking in such a way, against unarmed and bewildered people, the Hand of Allah martyrs would be able to inflict heavy casualties before they were brought down. If they managed to evade death or capture, each man would move to a prearranged location where he would eventually be taken to another place and the plan would be repeated.
The weapons for use were being brought into the country by Jack Regan’s organization. The weapons would be distributed to central points across America, so that Kerim’s people would have easy access to them. In this way there would be no need to purchase weapons within the U.S. There were too many restrictions on buying guns. These varied from state to state and created delays, and also suspicions if too many were requested. Regan had no such problems. He simply took an order and filled it. No questions. No paperwork. No violations of gun laws.
Money was the universal opener of doors, from Regan to the individuals prepared to carry out other tasks required in setting up the overall plan. Kerim had to smile whenever that item crossed his mind.
Money.
It was entirely true that in America money could get you anything you wanted.
Pay out enough and the problems went away.
Although in this instance America’s problems would only be increased. The money Kerim was handing out would create panic, death and blood on the streets.
CHAPTER FIVE
Yemen
True to his word Shaia Kerim took Ibrahim Hammid away from America. From a private airfield they took a flight to Ireland and changed planes. Although James was not privy to the arrangements, a great deal of money had passed between parties to ensure the flights were not interrupted, or even checked. The second part of the trip was from Ireland to Yemen. Once there the party transferred to SUVs for the final leg of the journey—the Hand of Allah training camp in the Yemeni desert.
They arrived at the camp while it was still dark, somewhere between midnight and two o’clock. James saw little except the black shapes of tents and a pair of prefabricated huts. The moment the SUVs stopped a pair of armed men took charge of James. He was marched across the dusty ground, thoroughly and intimately searched, not for the first time, and then pushed inside a steel cage. The door was secured and a large canvas sheet was draped over the cage, shutting out even the faint light. He had nothing except the clothes he was wearing and his leather-bound Koran.
Whatever James might have been thinking about his treatment, he knew there was nothing he could do, so he made himself as comfortable as he could and slept. The ingrained capacity to resist, from his SEAL training, clicked in and James shifted his perspective. He woke to the sound of activity outside the cage. He heard men moving about, the distant rumble of a truck motor. Later, as the sun got higher and the heat penetrated the sheet, James picked up the sound of auto-fire. The rhythm of the gunfire suggested target practice rather than the sound of real combat.
Sometime during the day the front corner of the sheet was raised. A plastic bottle of water was pushed between the bars, followed by a foil-wrapped portion of food. James took off the cap of the bottle and took a sip of water. It was fresh and chilled. The meal was boiled rice and meat. James wasn’t sure what the meat was but he ate the food anyway.
No one came near him after that. James couldn’t be certain why he had been imprisoned. As long as he was still alive he decided all he could was go with it. Not that he really had much choice in the matter.
Beneath the canvas cover the cage became increasingly hot. Sweat drained out of James even though he didn’t move. He used the water sparingly, not knowing if he would get any more. He drank a little and used some to wet his face. The chill water had become increasingly warm as the time passed. He recited some of the prayers he had learned in case he was being observed.
Daylight faded. James spent another long night in the confines of his cage. The temperature dropped and it turned cold. James slept fitfully, spending his time going over his cover story to keep his mind active.
He also allowed some time trying to figure out why he had been locked up. Stony Man had spent time and effort creating his Ibrahim Hammid biography. He found it hard to accept his cover might have been blown. His only contact since taking up the Hammid role had been Phoenix Force before he had met Kerim. He couldn’t imagine any might have pointed the finger at him. James backtracked, admitting it was not written in stone that he might have been identified as someone other than Hammid. But he didn’t go for that.
So why the cage?
Was Kerim still digging into his fake life? Had he found something that had aroused his suspicions?
James wrapped his jacket tight around his lean body. The stifling heat of the day would have been welcome right then. He didn’t like the cold.
James was kept in the cage for three more days. Given water and food, but no human contact. In the end it made little difference what he thought. He was under the control of Hand of Allah. He would have to take what they handed to him and play their games.
On the morning they took away the canvas sheet and sunlight poured over him, James stared out on the camp, blinking in the harsh light. A half-dozen figures surrounded the cage, eyes watching him closely. One stepped forward as the cage was opened. It was Kerim. He spread his arms, palms exposed as he smiled at James.
“Come, brother. Join us now.”
James stumbled from the cage, limbs stiff from inactivity.
“Assalam alaikum,” Kerim said.
“Wa alaikum al salam,” James replied.
“Did I not say this is how it would be?” Kerim said to the other Hand of Allah men. “That our brother would accept what Allah decreed? Did I not say he is worthy of our respect?” Kerim embraced Ibrahim Hammid. “Tell me, brother, were you not concerned for your safety? Did your faith not waver?”
James turned to face the man. “Why would it? If Allah was testing me I would not be afraid. His strength gave me strength.”
“Then you have proved yourself worthy, Ibrahim Hammid. You are among brothers.” He pointed in the direction of one of the huts. “Come, we will see to your needs.”
As he entered the hut behind Kerim a cool stream of air could be felt. It came from an air conditioner in one corner of the hut. James stood for a moment and let the flow wash over him.
“A generator behind the huts provides the power,” Kerim explained. “It is needed to keep the temperature down to cool the environment.” Kerim smiled. “Even out here the trappings of the modern age are needed.”
James made no comment as he eyed the top-of-the-line laptop computer sitting on the plain wooden desk. There were a number of cheap plastic office chairs ranged around the desk.
“Allah provides,” Kerim said, ‘but even He cannot give us everything we need.” He gestured to a seat. “Sit, Ibrahim, and I will provide.”
Kerim brought James a cup of black coffee from a thermos flask. He watched as the first cup was quickly drained and refilled it. He sat behind a plain wooden desk and studied his new recruit.
“You are still puzzled. Yes?” James nodded. “A simple test we put every new man through,” Kerim said. “A test of resolve. A way of assessing inner faith. And to satisfy those who may have suspicions as to the character of someone they know little of.” Kerim laid his hands flat on the desktop. “I chose you, Ibrahim, because what I saw and heard when we first met convinced me you were a true believer. A man with the will to make your stand against the true enemies of Islam. If I had not had enough faith then I would not have chosen you. I would have walked away and you would still be on the city streets. A lost and wasted soul. Others have been brought here, put in the cage, and many have broken quickly.” He smiled again. “But you, Ibrahim Hammid, lost nothing of your faith. The doubters will be satisfied now.”
“Thank you, brother,” James said. “Your faith in me makes me humble.”
Kerim began to speak in French, his voice soft, persuasive.
“You will rest and refresh yourself today. Tomorrow your training will begin. Weapons. Handguns. Automatic rifles. Hand grenades. The use of the knife.” He paused. “Forgive my indulgence but it is not often I am able to converse in French. It is a language I enjoy. Do you mind, brother, if we speak it together?”
James shook his head. “It was my mother’s tongue. It reminds me of her.”
They spent some time together. Kerim had food brought in for James. Gave him more coffee. James ate sparingly. Gorging too heavily after four days of very little food could have made him ill.
Finally Kerim said, “Forgive me, brother. You need to rest.”
He led James outside and took him to an empty tent. Inside was a low cot and blankets. Then he took James to where he could wash and dress in provided clean clothing.
“I will leave you now. Rest well, brother. Tomorrow we start your education.”
* * *
JAMES SLEPT WELL that night. In the morning, after prayers and breakfast, Kerim took him on a brief tour of the camp. James counted well over two dozen Hand of Allah followers. Every man was armed. Outside Kerim’s hut was a satellite dish and antenna. A mobile generator stood some distance away, a power cable connected to Kerim’s hut. The hut next to Kerim’s was the weapons center. James saw a number of vehicles some distance behind the huts. The dusty and much-used Toyota pickups were equipped with wide, deep-tread tires for negotiating the desert terrain.
James noticed that every snatch of conversation he picked up was in English. There was no other language being spoken. He mentioned this to Kerim.
“You will hear only English being spoken around the camp,” Kerim said. “I want every man to converse in English once they reach the U.S.A. Just another way of lessening suspicion. For our people to fit in. To make the Americans feel more comfortable. So while they are here only English is allowed.”
“Did that make your choices harder?”
“Not really,” Kerim said. “Just that much more selective. But not impossible. English is a widely used language so we had enough people to bring in.”
“Is that why there seem to be American objects around in the tents? I saw American magazines and newspapers. Candy bars. American coffee.”
“I was right about you, Ibrahim, in what I thought. You are very observant. You talk very little but you see everything. And you are correct. I want our soldiers to learn about American life—the habits of the people, the way they act, go about their daily lives. We have videos we show the teams. How to follow the rules in American cities and towns. The use of American currency. Some may be small things but they will accustom our soldiers how to behave once they reach America and walk the streets. They must not stand out. They must blend in. Be invisible so that when they strike no one will be expecting it. In the time they have they must be able to inflict maximum damage.”
James simply nodded in recognition of Kerim’s revelations. Despite his revulsion of the man’s concept, there was no denying the brilliance of the terrorist’s plan.
And it made the Phoenix Force warrior all the more determined to do everything he could to make certain the Hand of Allah kill teams did not carry out the mission they were training for.
After the tour, James was taken to the hut where the ordnance was stored. He was given an AK-47 with a loaded magazine and a Beretta 92F, also ready for use. There was also a matte-black Gerber combat knife.
“Carry these with you at all times,” Kerim advised. “Yes, we have protection but it is not wise to allow complacency to make us weak. You understand? If there was an attack on the camp we must be willing to defend it.”
James handled the weapons as any novice would. His Phoenix Force skills were going to have to be denied until Ibrahim had gone through his “training.”
They moved away from the camp and came to the firing range. The sound of auto-fire had been noticeable for some time. There were a half-dozen shooters using their weapons on the selection of targets set up at different distances.
Kerim gestured for a lean figure dressed in military fatigues to join them. The man, dark skinned with fierce eyes, wore a hard expression on his scarred face.
“This is Anwar. He will train you. Listen well to him and do as he instructs. He also speaks English.”
Anwar studied James for a moment.
“He looks fit,” he said. “Have you ever fired a weapon?” he asked James.
“Never.”
“At least you won’t have any bad habits, then. That’s something in your favor. Come with me and we will begin.”
“I will leave you in Anwar’s hands,” Kerim said and walked away.
There was a trestle table set up at the side of the range. Anwar pointed to it.
“Place your weapons on the table.”
James did as he was told.
“AK-47 assault rifle,” Anwar said. “Still one of the best. Caliber 7.62 mm copper-jacketed bullets. Has a punch that will knock a man off his feet and go right through him. Magazine holds thirty rounds. Once you get the feel you should be able to change a magazine in seconds. Selector lets you use full auto, or fire one shot at a time. The weapons you will be given once you reach America will be without the stock to reduce the length. This will make it a little easier to conceal. The automatic pistol is a Beretta 92F. Solid, dependable 9 mm weapon. Magazine holds thirteen shots. A man with a few extra magazines will carry a lot of firepower. Quick magazine changes mean you can get through a large number of shots quickly. More shots, more results. In a crowded place people will panic once the shooting starts, so you’ll be able to pick a lot of targets in a short time. Now, first we’ll go through each weapon. Strip down and reassemble. We will start with the Beretta… .”
CHAPTER SIX
Los Angeles
Doug Castle saw his partner emerge from Starbucks with a coffee cup in each hand. He watched as Larry Shapiro crossed the street, heading for the parked cruiser, weaving between the pedestrians milling around the town square. Shapiro was no lightweight but he maneuvered the crowd like a trained gymnast. Castle was grinning as he stepped out of the cruiser to meet his partner.
The two cops had been partnered for almost five years. They were good cops, though not promotional material. They liked the way things were. Steady and uncomplicated. Let the ambitious guys go for the higher ranks, even plainclothes in the detective division. That might bring in more pay, but it also brought more responsibility, longer hours and fractured lives. Castle and Shapiro preferred their street-cop existence. The younger guys could have all the pressure.
Through the open door of the cruiser Castle could hear the click and hiss of the car’s radio. The dispatcher’s voice came and went, issuing instructions, keeping track of the city’s patrol vehicles. He hoped nothing would come through to break into their midmorning coffee halt.
“Hell of a crowd in there,” Shapiro said. He handed Castle his paper cup. “Watch out, it’s hot.”
“You don’t say.” Castle felt the scalding brew leeching through the waxed cardboard. “Hey, you forgot the protector.”
“They ran out,” Shapiro said.
A couple of young children ran by, yelling and screaming excitedly.
Castle took off his uniform cap, sleeved his forehead. “Hot day.”
The sky was open and cloudless above the rooftops. No breeze to cool the temperature.
“Good thing they fixed the climate control,” Shapiro said. He kicked one of the cruiser’s tires. “It was an oven in there last week.”
“Hey, you and Helen fixed your vacation yet?” Shapiro asked.
Castle shook his head. “She still can’t decide between going to stay with her mother in Florida or booking that Caribbean cruise… .”
Shapiro didn’t hear the rest of his partner’s words.
Things began to happen quickly.
Someone screamed. A high, shrill sound that carried above the general hum of the crowd.
A split second later the scream was drowned out by a sound Shapiro had never expected to hear on the streets of his city.
The hard, brutal crackle of auto-fire. Not individual shots from a handgun, but the continuous, chilling rattle of an automatic weapon.
“Jesus,” Shapiro said, dropping his coffee cup and not even noticing that most of it splashed his shoes and the legs of his uniform pants. He reached for his holstered issue Beretta 92F pistol. “Doug, call it in. Now. And bring the shotgun.”
The gunfire was coming from the square Castle had walked across only a short time ago.
He cleared his pistol as he moved forward, left hand reaching to ward off people who were already scattering away from the source of the shooting.
As a gap opened Shapiro saw bodies down on the ground. His mind tried to gather it all in. The victims were spread around, some writhing in agony, others still. And there was blood. On the bodies. On the paving slabs. And then there was the lone figure at the epicenter of the panic. A tall, lean guy in dark pants and a bright shirt. A ball cap on his head. He had a sports bag slung across his body and an AK-47 in his hands; Shapiro recognized the weapon’s configuration from the training sessions they received in the academy classrooms and on the firing range. He did notice this one had the buttstock removed. The AK-47 was the favored weapon of—terrorists. The word stopped him. One of the classic assault rifles in existence. Known and used the world over. Millions had been, and still were being produced. A deadly, reliable and accurate weapon.
His mind snapped back to the moment. His Beretta lifted and he aimed at the shooter.
Shapiro had never raised his pistol in anger before. The only time he had fired was on the range at stationary targets. He held back for an instant because people were still milling around, crossing his firing zone. He couldn’t risk hitting a civilian.
He realized the shooting had stopped. Wondered why.
The shooter had let the AK-47 hang by a shoulder strap. His right hand reached into the sports bag, came out holding a spherical object.
What the hell?
Realization struck Shapiro as the shooter pulled the pin on the fragmentation grenade and threw it in the direction of scattering people. He shouldered aside a screaming woman and stepped forward, his Beretta settling on the shooter.
The grenade detonated with a harsh sound. A flash of brightness, a swirl of smoke. Bodies were thrown aside by the blast.
Shapiro fired his weapon, felt the pistol kick against his palm. He knew he had missed. His finger had jerked back on the trigger instead of squeezing in a steady motion.
Then he heard the second grenade go off, felt the shock wave. Something tore at his left hip. A searing rush of pain and he was down on the ground, trying to suck air into his lungs. When he glanced at his hip he was shocked at the sight. There was a ragged mess of a wound where his solid flesh had been lacerated by whatever had hit him. His black uniform was shredded and he could see chunks of torn flesh and shattered bone. Blood was welling up out of the wound.
The third grenade exploded.
More screams. People shouting for help.
The AK-47 started firing again, spraying slugs back and forth.
The whole area was a jumble of frantic people, smoke, blood, and in the distance the sound of approaching police sirens.
A dark figure loomed up beside Shapiro. He looked up and saw Castle, the cruiser’s Mossberg shotgun in his hands.
“Larry. You stay down,” Castle said.
“Go get that bastard,” Shapiro managed to say before he slipped into shock.
He never saw Castle crouch and run forward, the Mossberg rising in his steady hands as he cut across the square.
The shooter swung in Castle’s direction as he ejected the empty magazine from the AK-47 and snapped in a fresh one.
The rifle was turned on Castle a fraction of a second too late.
The Mossberg began to jack out 00 buckshot. Castle had never fired on a human target, either, but he triggered as he moved and kept on triggering. The shooter shuddered under the impact of the Mossberg’s full magazine. His right arm was severed above the elbow, bloody chunks of flesh and bone misting the air. His torso, from the waist up, took the brunt of the fusillade. Flesh disintegrated, ribs splintered and internal organs were reduced to mush. The shot-ravaged corpse slumped to the ground in an ungainly heap, nerves shivering to a stop as the body settled.
Doug Castle lowered the smoking shotgun and keyed his shoulder mike.
“Castle here. Situation under control. Perp is down and contained. Just get as many ambulances to the scene as you can. Multiple casualties. One of our own among them. Larry Shapiro took a hit from a fragmentation grenade to the hip. He’s bleeding badly.”
The screams and moans from around the square filled Castle’s ears as he made his way back to where Shapiro lay. He concentrated on his partner for the moment. Shapiro was pale, semiconscious.