Terror Trail
The supporting hands were withdrawn. Lang collapsed, falling facedown in the sand. He struck the ground hard because his hands were still tethered. He lay motionless, numb against the pain that would hit him later. Nothing seemed real to him at that moment. He barely felt himself being dragged across the sand. He was not aware of being rolled inside the metal cage, the door slammed and locked.
* * *
KERIM SMILED. The episode had pleased his men. The CIA agent, the focus of their rage, would be a constant reminder of why they were here. He was the true enemy. Not just an American but an agent of the reviled secret agency that was dedicated to the killing of true Islamic warriors. He would play on that each time he spoke to his men. He would build on the anger already instilled in them so that when they were sent to America and unleashed, their fury would be that of a thousand devils.
“Tell me, Ibrahim,” he said, “how should we use this CIA murderer?”
Calvin James, who had been at Kerim’s side during the entire incident, considered his answer.
“We should benefit wisely. Be certain to gain the most we can from him. Use him to embarrass the American government. Seeing him captured and not being able to do anything to save him will leave them in an awkward position. Their opponents will use this against them, too. Washington will feel the backlash from all quarters.”
“Wisely said, my brother,” Kerim said. “I was right to choose you. Understanding the way the Americans think is half the battle. He smiled. “Like our CIA friend, I will use you wisely, as well, Ibrahim Hammid.”
James was glad his thoughts were not available to Kerim. The way he was feeling right then would have exposed his true hostility toward Hand of Allah and everyone associated with it. The way the terrorists had reacted filled James with revulsion, even though he knew this was the only way they could have reacted. Lang was a living example of what Kerim had been preaching to his men, so they had shown their contempt by savagely beating him while he was helpless to resist. The Phoenix Force commando was not so naive that he didn’t expect something like this to happen. Even so it was hard to take. Having to stand there and watch had been difficult. As James had decided earlier, this was not the time to act.
Not yet.
But it was coming.
He realized Kerim was speaking to him again.
“My brother, do you not hear me?”
James snapped out of his thought process.
“I hear you.”
“Is something wrong?” Kerim asked, staring at James.
“My thoughts were elsewhere, Kerim. I ask your forgiveness. I was still marveling at Allah’s gift of the American. Delivered into our hands at His choosing. May His blessing be upon us all.”
Kerim nodded. “Our day is coming.”
“Inshallah,” James said.
Kerim began to walk away. He stopped and turned around.
“Do this one thing for me, Ibrahim. Take charge of the American. Look to his injuries. Minister to him. Feed him. If we are to follow Allah’s intentions, then we need to keep this pig alive. Our brothers have had their thirst quenched for now. I will give the order that Lang is under your protection and he must not be harmed until I give the order. Allah is a compassionate God, so we must abide by his example.”
“But he stays in the cage,” James said. “He must not be allowed the opportunity to escape.”
“Again, wise thinking, my brother,” Kerim said. He handed James the key to the metal cage’s lock. “I trust you, brother. I know you will not disappoint me.”
James watched Kerim cross to his hut and vanish inside. He hefted the key in his hand.
Believe what you want, Kerim, he thought. In the end I am going to disappoint you big-time.
CHAPTER NINE
One of Kerim’s followers was the camp’s medic. Through Kerim the man was ordered to tend the beaten American. The terrorist did as he was told with a sullen attitude. He was of the opinion that Lang should be left to die, but his allegiance to Hand of Allah dictated he obey whatever Shaia Kerim instructed.
James unlocked the cage and Lang was brought outside and propped against the bars. The binding cord was removed from his wrists. He was still barely conscious and the beating had left him slightly concussed. In the time since the assault his face and body had begun to show the extent of the attack’s brutality. When the blood and sand was cleaned from his face James was able to see how badly bruised the man was. Great blue-and-yellow swellings distorted his cheeks and eyes. His flesh had split in a number of places. When the medic opened his shirt Lang’s body showed similar discoloration. The way he winced when his ribs were checked suggested some were either badly bruised or possibly cracked.
As he worked on Lang the medic carried on a mumbling litany of Arabic. James was unable to understand what the man was saying. The vicious tone in the man’s voice told James it was nothing pleasant.
His work completed, the medic gathered his kit and left James with Lang. James had brought food and water for the CIA man. He raised a flask and tried to give Lang a drink. Most of the water dribbled down Lang’s chin, but some slid down his throat. When James leaned back he saw that Lang’s eyes were open and staring at him.
“What’s this for?” Lang asked. “Strengthening me up for round two?”
“No. I want you ready for when we get out of here,” James replied.
“You want me to run so you can shoot me in the back? What is it with you bastards? Not enough guts to kill a man face to face?”
“I can’t answer for Kerim’s men. I’m not one of them. Name’s Roy Landis. Undercover while I try to dig out information on Hand of Allah.”
The CIA agent offered a cynical smile that looked all the more grotesque because of his swollen face.
“Sure. And I should take your word for that?”
“They see through my cover we’ll be sharing this cage.”
Lang’s gaze flickered over James’s shoulder, and James picked up the sound of someone coming up behind him. He saw a shadow on the sand to his right.
“Is he still alive, my brother?” James recognized Kerim’s voice.
“By Allah’s good grace the infidel has not died. Praise be to Allah the merciful.”
Kerim made a sound in his throat and strode by.
“So why is everyone speaking English?” Lang asked. He stared at James through his good eye. “Is this some kind of psychological trick to get me on your side?
“They’re all speaking English to get familiar with the language. There’s a series of strikes being planned by these guys on American soil. I need to find out about them.”
James maneuvered Lang back into the cage. He placed food and water next to the CIA agent.
“One of us is crazy,” Lang muttered. “I’m still trying to figure out whether you’re screwing with my head.”
James managed a quick grin through the bars as he locked the door of the cage.
“The rest of my team is waiting for a call to bring them boiling in here. You want to see crazy? Wait until that happens.”
“What agency are you with?”
“Not one you’ll find on any list,” James said. “But we get the job done. Lang, be patient. This might take time.”
“Well, you’ve given me plenty to think about. Not like I’m going to have much else to do.”
CHAPTER TEN
Stony Man Farm
“Is Hal back yet?” Kurtzman asked as Price approached his workstation.
The urgency in his voice alerted her. “Not yet,” the mission controller said. “What have we got?”
Wall-mounted plasma screens flashed up messages. Kurtzman used a pen-size laser pointer to highlight the sections he was interested in.
“These are from Langley,” he said, offering no apology for the fact his information was from CIA data streams. “Been coming and going over the past couple of hours. Something’s gone wrong. And the other bad news is it seems to have originated from Sana’a in Yemen. A message from there, then acknowledgment from home. Since then no further contact with the Yemen source.”
“Could you intercept the email from Yemen?” Price asked, feeling the question was irrelevant.
Akira Tokaido swiveled his chair around and fixed her with a rueful stare. “Say what?” Then he laughed. “No problem.”
He tapped his keyboard and the last email Henry Lang had sent flashed up on a secondary screen.
Price scanned the text. Something about cover broken and a need to get out of Sana’a. And a reference to someone called Samir being compromised.
“We ran a back trace to see if we could link up with the computer,” Tokaido said. “Couldn’t get a peep out of it. Server links are there but the terminal is gone. No connection. My guess would be whoever operated that computer has purged it.”
“Probably after downloading what was on it to Langley,” Kurtzman added.
“We’re searching for the most recent data dump,” Tokaido said. “May take awhile before we find out who sent it.”
“I can tell you that,” a familiar voice said.
It was Brognola. He had entered the room unheard while they were all focused on the wall screens.
“Hal?” Price said.
“The field agent in Sana’a was Henry Lang. Been there a couple of years. His front was as a dealer in regional antiquities. Local goods. Ran a genuine business and had extensive contacts in Yemen. The guy named Karam Samir was his partner. Part Yemeni. One of the assignments Lang was handling had to do with locating Hand of Allah. Week or so back he came up with a thin lead and went after it. From what we now know it looks like that lead turned around and bit him.” Brognola helped himself to coffee and perched on the edge of a desk. “That call I got was from the Man. I just spent an hour with him. He was updating me on the file he’d just had from Langley, informing him of the loss of a CIA team in Yemen. Sana’a in fact. He thought we ought to know because of the Stony Man operation in the area. Gives us a chance to let Phoenix Force know.”
“We picked up CIA scuttlebutt,” Kurtzman said. “Yemen field office. A guy called Samir compromised.”
“Local news source from Sana’a reported a killing that corresponds with the time of Lang’s email. Guy shot to pieces in some backstreet area. Identified him as Karam Samir. He was confirmed as Lang’s partner in the CIA file the President had.”
“We can send a text message to Phoenix Force. Let them know what’s going down,” Kurtzman said.
“Okay,” Brognola said. “Do that. And let them know a name cropped up in Lang’s last email. Behin Jahir. The informant who gave us the initial information on the Yemen situation. Jahir supplied information to Lang’s guy, Samir. He’s a local information source. Lang passed along Jahir’s location in Sana’a. There’s a warning about a local cop named Ariq Taj being involved. Looks like he’s involved with Hand of Allah. Tell Phoenix to stay sharp.”
“It’ll be a help,” Price said. “They need something to get a grasp on things out there.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to go in with practically nothing,” Brognola said. “Jahir could point the way for them to locate that camp and Cal.”
* * *
AARON KURTZMAN called a meeting in the war room. Brognola and Price joined him as Kurtzman brought up images on three of the plasma screens.
“These flashes started coming in around an hour ago. I had the team scour all our sources. Checking other agencies for background. Pulling in everything we could. Even news reports from the scene.”
Brognola and Price checked each screen as the images were played and replayed.
The scenes showed what looked like a massacre. Bodies lay strewed around the location. Some lay still while others moved, wounded but still living. There were bullet wounds in evidence, while other bodies showed evidence of what could only be grenade damage. Among the casualties were a number of children.
“This is what we have,” Kurtzman said. “Los Angeles. Lone shooter. Suddenly opens up in crowded area. It’s been confirmed the weapon was an AK-47. There was no warning. Guy fires indiscriminately into the crowd. Threw up to three fragmentation grenades. It all happened quickly. Open area with no cover. People panic. Shooter has no problem hitting targets. There was a police cruiser nearby with two officers. One gets caught by the blast from a grenade but the other gets his shotgun from the cruiser and takes down the shooter. Cop empties his full magazine into the guy. Cuts him to pieces.”
“Good for him,” Brognola murmured. “Casualties?”
Kurtzman sighed. “Thirteen dead. Close on twenty wounded. A number extremely severe so there could be more deaths yet. The media is having a field day over this.”
“What’s the feeling about the attack?” Barbara Price asked in a quiet voice. Her shock at the images being displayed was noticeable. “Was this some crazy loner, or was it part of a deliberate terrorist attack?”
“Jury is still out on that,” Kurtzman said. “We checked agency databases but no one has a valid opinion yet.”
“Any ID on the shooter?”
“We may have a break there. Just before I came down, Akira picked up on an image posted on the internet. Somebody took a cell phone photo of the dead shooter before the cops cleared the area. It was a pretty clear image. One of those fluke shots. We’re running it through every database we have. Domestic and foreign. We may get lucky.” Kurtzman paused. “Are we thinking this might have a link to the current mission?”
Brognola leaned his hands on the conference table. “We expected some kind of strike from Hand of Allah. No prior warning on exactly what it would be. The only tie-in is the fact that son of a bitch Jack Regan is involved. His business is weapons.” He glanced across at Kurtzman. “Aaron, make contact with Able Team. Update them on what’s happened. Let’s work on the assumption this incident has something to do with what Hand of Allah is planning. Hell, I know it’s supposition at this stage, but we have to stay with the ball.”
Kurtzman picked up one of the telephones and connected with the cyber unit.
“Aaron, give Able everything we have. Advise we might, only might, be looking at what Hand of Allah is planning. Okay, send it through.” Kurtzman put down the phone and swung his chair around to face the plasma screens. “Facial recognition made an ID of the shooter.”
A face flashed up on one of the screens. Full frontal and profile. A lean, dark-complexioned man in his early thirties. Thick black hair, his angry gaze fixed on the camera.
“Hussein Muran,” Kurtzman said. “Born in Pakistan. Spent time in Europe. Associated with a number of Islamic groups. Pretty vociferous in his condemnation of the West. He’s been on the move the past few years. Wanted by the French. Kicked out of the U.K. because of his extremist views. Mossad even have a file on him and the latest update on him suggests a link with Hand of Allah. At the moment that’s all it is. A suggestion.”
“Damn well better be more than a suggestion,” Brognola said.
“Suggestion or not,” Price said, ‘he still shows up on a U.S. street, spraying bullets into a crowd and throwing grenades around? It’s too convenient not to be connected.”
“I’d like to know the answer to that,” Brognola growled, letting his anger show in his tone.
“It seems he flew into LAX just over a week ago,” Kurtzman said, working the plasma screens. “That was his entry point. Came in on a false passport along with a party of tourists. It’s only just been tagged. He wasn’t on any watch lists because he hasn’t been here before. There was a glitch in the system so the foreign interest data wasn’t made a relevant issue. No one made a connection. Muran walked through customs and hasn’t been seen since. His image has only just been verified through the FBI running his picture through their database. His papers have him using a false name.”
“Jesus,” Brognola said, “I hope someone gets his, or her, ass kicked for this.” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table. “We have all these damn agencies and screening procedures and still let these bastards into the country. How many more times are these crazies going to slip into the U.S. before we shut the gates?”
“It’s going to take more than we have right now,” Kurtzman said. “Sheer volume of passengers in and out every day. Airport staff overworked. Bound to be slipups. A percentage of the wrong individuals are going to get through, Hal.”
Brognola sat down. He rubbed his face with his big hands.
“Can we at least confirm he’s with Hand of Allah?”
“Working on it,” Kurtzman said. “Hal, we’ve only been in the loop for a short time. Information is coming in slowly, and we have to get it secondhand.”
Brognola held up a hand. “I know, Aaron. Not your fault. Just keep me updated, huh?”
* * *
IN THE COMPUTER ROOM heads were bent over keyboards, fingers tapping, data flashing across the monitors. There was a palpable sense of urgency in the air. Each member of the team was aware of the situation. They understood how things could change in a short time and how the need for information became increasingly relevant with shifting scenarios.
Carmen Delahunt, ex-FBI, sat upright, a soft “yes” passing her lips. She gazed at her monitor, rereading the lines of data displayed there.
“DCRI,” she said out loud. “French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.”
The Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, founded in 2008, was responsible, among other things, for monitoring threats to France and had built a database of suspect individuals. Using one of Kurtzman’s programs, Delahunt had penetrated the DCRI. She had keyed in Hussein Muran’s name and had found his file and known associates.
The list threw up a number of other names, with brief biographies.
The one that stood out was Shaia Kerim. Now associated with Hand of Allah. When Delahunt read through the French-compiled list she saw that at least three other names were coupled with Hand of Allah.
And one of them was Hussein Muran.
Stony Man had its connection.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blancanales made contact with Stony Man on his sat phone. He asked for and was connected to Kurtzman.
“This could be a loose angle,” he said, ‘but what’s the chance the cameras at LAX picked up Muran when he exited the terminal building? Did he take a cab? Was he picked up?”
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