State Of Attack

Chapter 13

The general had reported to the Pentagon on the position regarding the likely protection of Ibrahim by the Turkish mafia and the Muslim terrorist groups via a secure satphone a couple of minutes ago. He’d left Habib’s office and had snuck into a nearby alcove, anxious neither to be seen nor heard. Now, after stepping out of an old-fashioned cage elevator, he walked across the dull grey flagstones to the revolving exit doors, nodding to the two plainclothes operatives sitting behind a desk to the right beneath a wide staircase.

Outside, the heat was still oppressive and the general was glad that his chauffeur had had the wits to park the black Mercedes limo beneath the splayed branches of a deciduous tree in the small courtyard. The chauffeur was standing with a couple of police outriders that MIT had seconded to protect the limo, but which the general felt were unnecessary.

But he was a three-star general now, the de facto head of operations at the Defense Intelligence Agency, and he conceded the security went with the territory. Besides, Turkey wasn’t Switzerland, and suddenly he had a nagging feeling concerning what Habib had told him about Ibrahim, despite the bribe. In retrospect, he wondered if it had been given too eagerly, and he felt the ice on that metaphorical frozen lake shift a little beneath his feet. He felt played in a game within a game.

As he walked down the stone steps to the gravel at ground level, he focussed on the trio of men in front of him, seeing that they were smoking foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes in the shade beneath an overhang. But they stubbed them out quickly when he called out to them, and scampered over to where the limo and the motorcycles were parked like rebuked teenage kids. It was a scene he’d seen many times in foreign countries. Those at the top were treated with deference, irrespective of their vices, and outside of the States he always had the feeling of stepping back in time.

The chauffeur opened the back door, the general dipped in, leaving the seatbelt hanging, and he was driven out of the building’s courtyard. As the limo passed between the wrought-iron gates that abutted a tarmac slope leading to the street proper, he considered the possibility that MIT was protecting Ibrahim, too. There wasn’t a lot of logic to it other than some overarching but misguided geopolitical strategy regarding the Sunni-Shia conflict, and, for now at least, there was nothing to be done. He was doing his job and, after just four more appointments today, he would soon be home to spend some downtime with Tom.

He was looking forward to seeing his son. He knew he’d been through a helluva lot before he’d come of age, most of which, he, as his father, had been responsible for. He’d read a bit about how kids were affected by the break-up of their parents and how an absent father was about as healthy for a teenage boy as a diet of fries and pizzas, but he had vowed to change that a while back and they were now forming something that could be termed a wholesome relationship. And, less than two years off a retirement, which he intended to spend sailing in the Caribbean and playing golf in Palm Springs, he could involve his son in that, as and when time permitted.

As the outriders stopped oncoming traffic at intersections, the general glanced outside the limo’s smoked-glass window. Old men in flat hats were sitting under the awnings of hookah bars, puffing on the pipes and drinking the sticky coffee. Tired-looking women swept store fronts clean of dust and garbage, and young men sat astride mopeds, wearing shades and tight jeans, pretending, he guessed, that they were in a photo shoot.

But there was a distinct lack of females wearing the hijab, and he guessed that the metropolitan people of most countries tended to value personal freedom above tradition. It was different in the rural provinces, a fact that was being exacerbated by the rift between modernists and Islamists, something, he knew, that would dominate politics in the Greater Middle East for maybe the next twenty years. That and the other two main fault lines: the schism in the Muslim faith between Sunnis and Shias, and the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian issue.

After about ten minutes, the limo took a sharp right and, slowing down to take account of the motorcyclists’ sudden reduction in speed, seemed to crawl along at no more than fifteen miles per hour. The general thought the road looked like a back alley, bordered by the rear of rundown apartment blocks and derelict warehouses. But as he looked ahead and saw that it led to a well-populated square with squat palm trees, he figured it was a shortcut.

The chauffeur, who had several chins and a neatly trimmed moustache, and who the general had secretly nicknamed Oliver Hardy, turned his head forty-five degrees, and spoke pidgin English. “This Alevi part of city. Many problems. They like to fight police. No respect for government.”

The general kept silent. He’d read about the Alevi as part of his substantial briefing on the country before he’d left the States. It was a sect that had evolved from Shia Muslims in a Sunni dominated country. Some referred to them as Sufi-Shia, due to their unorthodox spiritual practices.

Even before the recent outbreaks of sectarian violence, they’d existed alongside the Sunnis in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion and loathing. They’d always seen themselves as a pragmatic counterbalance to Sunni extremism. But they had strong ties with the Shia-based Alawites in Syria, even if many of them didn’t agree with Assad’s tactics, and this had literally enflamed the enmity with the Sunnis.

But something else was bothering him, too. He couldn’t pin it down, and wasn’t anything more than an ill-defined notion. Somehow the general felt that this Ibrahim would pose a whole new threat. Even if it was just a whim, he knew that in his business something akin to an animal sixth sense could save your life if you let it, and his was just about to spike.

As the car reached the edge of the square, and turned right along the one-way street that edged it, the general heard the motorcycle engines revving little more than a split second before the MIT outriders sped away.

“They crazy men,” the chauffeur said, raising a hand in the air.

Not crazy, the general thought, but in on it. He knew something bad was about to happen. He just didn’t know if it would be an assault by submachine gun-wielding assassins, an IED, or a kidnapping attempt.

“Stop the damn car and run,” he shouted as his left hand went for the door handle.

Chapter 14

Remaining seated at the café, Ibrahim knew that the vehicle the general was travelling in wasn’t an up-armoured limo; all part of the setup. As the motorcyclists reached a suitable distance, he used the newspaper to mask the removal of the cellphone from the pocket of his pants. He’d done the same as he’d received the text message from the MIT officer, Habib, who’d had the meeting with the general just minutes earlier. There was no coded text, and that meant that it was game on.

When the limo came parallel with the parked truck, he thumbed the cell, still hidden beneath the paper, in order to activate the bomb by remote control. It was a simple procedure, ringing the vibrate mode on another cell attached to the explosives by conducting wires. This cell had been modified, using an electric match – a small amount of primary charge fitted around the battery that ignited when the current passed through it – as a detonator.

Two seconds later, the truck rose a full three yards into the air, leaving a gaping crater instantly. Due to the force of the blast, the shockwave made the Merc somersault to the right before crashing into the crowds who were jamming the sidewalk. No one could survive that, he thought. It would take hours for fire crews to cut free their mangled bodies from the wreckage.

But the immediate aftermath was eerily calm, as if the explosion had rendered everyone deaf and dumb. Allah was Most Compassionate and Most Merciful, but He demanded the death of unbelievers. When the screaming and activated fire alarms cut through the silence, Ibrahim felt a calmness and contentment he had never known, a spiritual euphoria that he hoped would last for hours afterwards.

It was good practice for a terrorist to walk calmly away from an incident that they’d created. But, apart from the dead or injured, those in the square were either running for the exit routes, or were paralyzed with shock or fear. With the sound of the wailing of the injured in his ears, he began to sprint in the opposite direction to the bomb wreckage, feigning distress.

Ibrahim saw the white Ford Fiesta pull up at the designated place, a grocery store twenty yards down the adjacent street. As he got within a few feet of the car, the back door was swung open. The Turkish mafia had wanted to use an S series Mercedes, but he’d insisted upon a more popular and less conspicuous form of transport. He’d also ensured that no one exited the car and held open the door for him, something that could garner attention, even with the ensuing chaos around him. He got in and opened a translation App on his secure smartphone.

“No speeding,” he said in Turkish.

It was vital that he got to his destination undetected. The Amir was waiting for him and the Silent Jihad was about to begin. He was on a short timeframe, too, but speeding was a bad idea. The cops could be bribed and he had influential friends in the highest echelons of Turkey’s “Deep State”, but an enforced delay could be fatal. Some dumb cop could even attempt to make a connection. As a result, he might even be overlooked, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. He’d been reaching this point for years. Resting his head against the rear seat, he studied the folds of skin on the driver’s neck, reminding him of a slab of pork belly. He thumbed the APP.

“How long before we get there?” Ibrahim asked.

The black-suited man in the front passenger seat turned around. He had a thin, pitted face and a dropping moustache, a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw line. “We drive you, we don’t like you. Keep you fucking mouth shut and we get there quicker,” he said in Turkish.

Ibrahim didn’t understand him, but the tone was obvious enough. He guessed the man had swapped a shoeshine kit for a switchblade years ago. He chose to ignore him. He nodded, appearing subservient.

The plan had been conceived following a report by a middle-ranking officer in Turkish military intelligence, who was in the mafia’s pocket and reported to them intermittently on any potential crackdowns on the smack trade. The officer had informed the mafia, who had in turn informed Ibrahim for the usual fee regarding relevant anti-jihadist intel, that he’d found out that the general had been working on the case for six months.

When Ibrahim had heard this he knew that that meant the general was capable of getting close. If he did, he might be able to not only thwart what had now become his raison d’être, but also interrupt or even sabotage the mission as a whole. And so he had found out what he could about the man.

Once he had he knew the general had to die. It was the only decision to make. Ibrahim had decided to do it himself. It was a risk being so close to mission time, but it was riskier to get more people involved with the assassination of a top-ranking US military official. He didn’t want any mistakes made so close to the Silent Jihad.

He closed his eyes now. It was done. There would be no comeback and he was going on to greater things. By the time he opened his eyes he told himself that he would have forgotten the general had ever existed.

Chapter 15

Halfway out of the car door, which abutted the café and store fronts, the general had seen a white-red flash and had heard a massive explosion. Vaguely, he’d sensed that he’d been flying through the air; that he’d been cut by what had felt like dozens of razorblades. He’d landed on his back with a sickening thud, his bloody head jarring. The world had turned black.

Three minutes later he tried to blink and realized that his eyelids were heavy with, he guessed, brick dust and flecks of tarmac. He couldn’t feel his legs or his arms, but there was a searing pain in his chest. Smelling burning gasoline, he heard people screaming and the sound of sirens from fast-approaching emergency vehicles, although the noise was muted, as if he was wearing padded ear defenders. Then the competing sounds simply began to merge into a dull drone. But he could make out another distinct smell, a smell that was both sweet and nauseating. Grimacing, he realized it was his own burning flesh.

“Jesus,” he said, his voice little more than a murmur.

He tasted blood and chocked as bile rose in his throat. He did his best to keep it down but the conscious effort made his head swim. The pain moved over his body in waves. With that came the realization that his breathing was shallow and wheezy. It seemed as if his airway had all but closed over and his lungs had partially collapsed. There was no way he could move his limbs an inch.

Feeling what he took for the sun beating on his forehead, he risked opening his right eye partially. As grit made him blink repeatedly, he glimpsed the sky directly above him. It was shrouded by thick black smoke. Despite this, the heat intensified and he realized it was coming from a fire. Fearing being burnt alive, the sky began to rain red-hot ash, which settled on his face and fizzled out, and felt to him like the caress of death.

Blinking still, he sensed someone bending down to his face. He winced involuntarily, fearing the worst. The person began speaking in Turkish, a low, muffled voice, or so it appeared. Then his head was being raised. The pain in his head and neck made him clench his teeth and moan. Something was placed around his neck, supporting it. Something smooth yet firm, which, despite his dazed state, he realized was a brace.

When he was raised off the ground he felt the urge to vomit again. His head ached; his eye closed. But as quickly as the pain had risen in a crescendo, it began to abate now, the throbbing being replaced by numbness, even in his neck and chest. He felt as if he was floating and, incongruously, a closed-mouthed smile crossed his face. Morphine, he thought. Thank God for morphine, although he’d felt no prick from a needle, and that meant he might be paralyzed, albeit in one or more of his limbs.

But as he was being carried his head seemed to explode, his skull crack and shift, despite the drug. He sensed what felt like warm blood flowing from the back of his head to the nape of his neck. He panicked, his mind forming words he couldn’t express.

With that, he lost consciousness.

Chapter 16

Tom had drawn the heavy drapes to hide the encroaching sunlight and lay asleep now on his bed, his angular face lost between two chocolate-coloured buckwheat pillows. His cellphone on the nightstand began to buzz in vibrate mode, moving around like a kid’s toy whose battery had almost juiced out. His half-limp hand stretched out and picked it up.

Yawning, he said, “Who’s this?”

“Mr Dupree?”

It was a man’s voice. Businesslike, he thought, blinking his eyes slowly like a reptile.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Can you be at Langley in an hour, sir?”

He rubbed his face with his free hand. “Langley? What time is it?”

“Zero one thirty, sir.”

Tom sighed. “You kiddin’ me?” He’d been asleep for the best part of eighteen hours.

“It’s important, sir.”

“Yeah. What’s this all about?”

“Your father, sir. It’s about your father, General Dupont.”

He sat up, switched on the arc light on the nightstand to his left. “What about him?”

“Langley in an hour, sir. The NHB,” the man said, referring to the New Headquarters Building.

Tom thought for a couple of seconds. “Okay.”

The line went dead.

He put the cell down back on the nightstand, pushed back the duvet and vaulted out of bed. What the hell did the CIA want to say to him about his father at this hour? he thought. As he pulled on a pair of jeans and a black sweater, he decided that trying to work that out would be an impossible task and, at best, could only lead to increasingly negative conclusions.

He knelt down, opened the drawer on his nightstand and eased out his badge and SIG. He clipped the badge to the belt on his jeans and, out of habit, released the handgun’s magazine, checking there was a full complement of twelve .357 SIG cartridges, and that the chamber was empty. Satisfied, he walked to his closet and took a nylon windbreaker from a hangar.

Apart from his time as head of the Secretary of State’s protective detail, and a couple of occasions when he’d been in the DS counterterrorism unit, he hadn’t had any interaction with the CIA. Truth was, he felt uneasy around them, not because he feared them, but rather because he found their take on the world changed with a disconcerting regularity. One day some group was an ally, the next it was a sworn enemy.

The CIA had advocated airstrikes against the Assad regime in Syria, which would bolster the Sunni jihadists there, and then a few months later, they’d advocated airstrikes against the same Sunni jihadists to bolster the Shia regime in Iraq, and he couldn’t imagine living his life in that way. Then there was Dan Crane, of course, the man who’d been saved by his father and had helped him find the secretary. The guy was a walking contradiction, too.

Thinking this he headed out of his second-storey bedroom and down the staircase without turning on the lights. Reaching his study he couldn’t remember where he’d left his small recording device. To the world, it was a fountain pen. Sam, his veteran DS driver, had told him once that when he had to meet with the CIA or Homeland Security he should tape it. Given that this meet had something to do with his father he felt it was doubly important.

He flipped the light switch. The sudden brightness had caused his tropical fish to dart for cover. The huge tank, which lined the fourth wall, appeared to be empty. It could be a full twenty minutes before they emerged from the encrusted rock formations and clumps of green plants, and begin to swim in the open again, circling the miniature Doric columns. They were timid souls, Tom thought; or perhaps paranoiac ones, like him. Not a bad trait for a fish in a tank to have. He scribbled a note for the lady cleaner to change the water and put in a fresh delayed feeder.

He got a text message, a world security update from the DS’s counterterrorism unit. Truck bomb kills thirty-four in Ankara. Two American casualties.

Chapter 17

It was only a twenty minute journey to Fairfax County, Virginia. Tom was driving his Buick, the streets deserted but well lit. The CIA HQ was known as Langley after the unincorporated community it was situated in a few miles west of DC. But it had been called the George Bush Center for Intelligence since 1999, a compound consisting of a couple of major linked buildings set in two hundred and fifty-eight acres of land.

After passing through the high-level security checkpoint, Tom parked his Buick in the visitors’ car lot and walked to the entrance of the New Headquarters Building, or NHB. It was a chilly early morning, dawn still hours away. He passed the “Kyptos” sculpture, which ran from the entrance to the north-west corner of the courtyard, a massive S-shaped copper screen containing numerous coded messages, and felt his sense of unease heighten.

The single-storey section of the compound was flanked by two marble pillars, the glass facade on either side bathed in a yellowish glow from the security lights. Atop the pillars, an elongated, curved glass roof gave it the appearance of a modern art museum, rather than the most sophisticated intelligence hub on earth. The NHB, completed in 1991, was characterized by two, six-storey office blocks and was situated on a hill behind the well-known Old Headquarters Building, with its iconic CIA seal in the entrance lobby.

After being processed by internal security and given a laminated visitor’s badge, Tom entered the lobby area of the NHB, which was dotted with commemorative plaques and an impressive collection of donated statues. The four-storey glass atrium between the two tower blocks had three model drones suspended overhead. They were beetle-black and would ensure that visitors were left in no doubt that what went on here was deadly serious, Tom thought.

The main entrance to the NHB was on the fourth floor of one of the blocks, with an impressive skylight ceiling. Tom stepped out of an elevator into the corridor. At the end, he could see the still well-lit structure of the Old Headquarters Building, integrated by a network of further corridors, the wall space broken up by hung works of abstract art of the Washington Color School.

Before he could be questioned at the reception desk, he noticed a slim young woman dressed in a black business suit with a large-lapelled white shirt walking towards him. Her blonde hair was cut in a neat bob, her gait confident.

As she held out her long-fingered hand to greet him, he caught a waft of her perfume. Expensive and classy, he thought, reminding himself that he hadn’t been in a relationship with a woman for close to three years. He was left feeling oddly remorseful about that, given the circumstances of his visit.

“Cindy Rimes,” she said with a distinct New York accent. “Thank you for coming, Mr Dupree.”

Tom shook her hand and nodded. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

He got the impression that she was slightly embarrassed by her name, but couldn’t think why. It was as good a name as any. He didn’t ask her why he’d been woken up and told to report here. He’d get the answers regarding his father soon enough, he figured.

“Please follow me, sir,” she said, leading him down the corridor.

Getting about halfway up the corridor he saw a large alcove and was invited to sit on a low-slung chair behind a chrome and glass table, containing several copies of the National Geographic and promotional material for the agency. Apart from a water cooler and a vending machine, the space was empty.

Thirty seconds later he watched another woman approaching him, her hair in a French plait. She was wearing a fawn skirt and pearl-white blouse. He declined the offer of coffee and was led into a meeting room nearby. Judging by the acres of glass at the NHB, he reckoned it was the only room without windows. It was roughly thirty feet square, with bare walls and a tiled floor. He sat on a chrome-armed chair at the oblong pinewood table and waited. The woman, a six-foot redhead, with flawless skin, a twenty-thousand-dollar porcelain smile and an Ivy League assuredness, had said that someone would be along shortly.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened without a knock and a heavy-set man in his early sixties entered. He wore a dove-grey suit and shiny loafers. Dan Crane, the newly appointed director of the agency’s National Clandestine Service, although that was classified.

He sat at the table and immediately began to ride the chair. “You look better than the last time I saw you, Tom,” he said. “But saying that, you couldn’t have looked worse if you’d been trampled by a herd of goddamned wildebeest. Those jokers in the DS handed you a medal yet? Saving the Secretary of State’s ass singlehanded like that. I told ya, come work for me.”