The Insider Threat (25 page)

S
itting on a park bench, Rashid gave his men a couple of minutes, then trudged up the hill, just one more man enjoying the sunshine and green space. He reached the top, the chipped and crumbling asphalt path connecting to a wide lane made of white flagstone. He could just see the edge of the amphitheater down the hill, built into a bowl. He went away from it, heading along the flagstones deeper into the park, leaving the surveillance to his men.

Rashid had no doubt that he was branded into Omar’s psyche, and one glimpse of him would immediately initiate a gunfight. Like a wild animal, Omar would recognize the threat Rashid represented, and would seek to eliminate it with overwhelming force. Just as Rashid would do if the roles were reversed. Or, more precisely, just as Rashid intended to do.

He reached a small alcove of granite set into a copse of evergreens, the flagstones ringed with monuments. In the center was a pedestal with three bronze busts from Albania’s past, a raised step of granite leading to it. Rashid ignored the busts, sitting on the granite and watching a child and father kick a soccer ball back and forth.

He pretended to be engrossed, but kept his eye on the amphitheater. From this distance, due to the slope of the hill, he could make out only the top of the projection building, getting a small sliver of the steel door leading inside.

He sat, patient as a snake on a hot rock, flicking its tongue out, tasting the wind.

Waiting.

*   *   *

I passed the drive leading to our hotel, the Sheraton standing tall on the hill. I pulled in front of the university, looking for a place to park. To my right was a huge roundabout—really a football-size square of asphalt—probably used for parades back in the bad old days. I saw a couple of cabs parked on the outskirts, their drivers out and smoking cigarettes. I crossed the lanes of traffic and pulled in behind them, nose aimed toward the south. Toward the park. Driving a Ford minivan, I didn’t really fit in, but I wasn’t standing out that badly.

I could hear the chatter on the radio, the team working the problem. I broke in. “Knuckles, this is Pike. You with Aaron?”

“Yeah, I got him.”

I explained on the net what Shoshana was doing, saying, “She’s his baby. Make sure he can control her. You stick with him.”

“Roger, but I was planning on running him down the hill. There’s an amphitheater here and it’s pretty large. With Shoshana to the east, I got that covered, but Blood’s the only guy to the south, keeping tabs on one of the UNSUBS.”

“I copy. Retro’s still got eyes on?”

Retro cut in. “Roger. He’s just sitting at a monument. Killing time. I’m okay for a longer spell. If he leaves, I’ll trigger, but I can’t pick up the follow.”

Knuckles said, “Can you get Koko in here?”

I looked at Jennifer and said, “If I do, I’m the only one locking down the entrance. I was going to use her as contingency.”

“If you want me to stay with Aaron as control for the Israeli team, I need her to the southwest. I’ll pick up the follow when Retro triggers, but we’ve lost contact with the second UNSUB. He’s to the southwest somewhere. Get Koko in here for that.”

She was already digging out kit from a large pack in the back. I said, “Roger all. She’s coming in east of the main entrance, on a footpath. Vector her in.”

She glanced up, wondering what I was talking about, looking for clarification about her approach. Off the radio, I said, “See that café?” An indoor/outdoor sandwich shop about two hundred meters away from the primary entrance, it fronted the street with a small patio. She nodded, and I said, “Go farther up the hill. See those goats eating in that little pen?” She nodded again and then saw what I was talking about: a thin footpath that wound from the pen up through the scrub of the hillside, disappearing into the trees.

She opened the bag wider and said, “How many long guns do they have?”

“Brett took one, but everyone else is carrying Glocks.” The weapon choice had happened before we thought there was a threat. Before Rashid had met a team.

She pulled out a harness, saying, “You still think there’s a potential that Rashid is up to something? It’s a little hot, but I can get away with a light jacket.”

The harness was nothing more than a double loop that went over the shoulders, with a magazine holster on one side, the magazine itself positioned upside down for fast removal, and a quick-release clip on the other side that held the folded rifle at the buffer spring, both riding uncomfortably underneath the armpits of the person wearing it.

It was built for concealment, not speed, and worked fairly well when the weather was cold or rainy, when we could cover the bulk with coats, but sort of sucked in the summertime. Luckily, Albania was still a pretty formal place, with nobody wearing shorts and most men sporting leather coats or cheap woolen blazers. Brett was no monster in height, but he was built like a fireplug of solid muscle. Given his size, the harness worked for him. He could pull it off, but I wasn’t sure Jennifer’s jacket would cut the mustard.

I said, “Leave it. Rashid’s definitely up to something, but I don’t think it’s an attack. Take a Glock. The last thing we need is you getting busted by some stranger because you’ve got a suppressor hanging out of your hem.”

She slid a suppressed Glock 30 compact into a concealed sleeve on the side of the duffel bag she called a purse. It looked like someone had skinned a water buffalo to make it, and she packed it with all manner of feminine bullshit and Taskforce kit. I swear, I had no idea how she lugged it around everywhere.

She rearranged some things in the bag—probably making sure she could get to her lipstick—snapped it closed, then pecked me on the check. “See you soon.”

“Get a radio check with Knuckles.”

She nodded, slid out of the vehicle, and jogged across the road. She reached the fence next to the café and found a break the locals used. She scampered past the goat pen and I heard, “Knuckles, Knuckles, this is Koko, I’m about two minutes out.”

A
fter twenty minutes of instruction on the weird detonation devices, Omar was growing impatient. He wanted to test one.

He said, “Look, I don’t care about what type of chemicals are in the vials or why they react the way they do when mixed together. I’m not going to be building my own, and I left school at the age of ten. All I care about is that it will set off explosives. Will it or not?”

The gap-toothed man said, “Yes, of course it will. I’m sorry. I was told to give you all the information that I was given.”

He removed one of the detonators from the table and held it up. About the size of a pack of cigarettes, it had no metal that Omar could see, with a black rubber button that protruded on one side, a tiny lever on the other, and twin nozzles on the bottom that looked like they’d come from an aquarium pump.

He said, “The device is completely immune to any current metal or explosives detection capability known today. Everything is rubber, glass, or plastic, with the exception of a single piece of steel inside, much too small to alert anything.”

He waved to his partner, who picked up the smartphone. “On the surface, this replicates an ordinary cell phone. You can swipe left and right and pull up applications. The difference is that the applications are only shells and the phone cannot call anything. It should pass a cursory inspection, but if someone spends more than a minute inspecting it, they’ll know it’s a fake.”

Omar said, “What’s it for?”

Gap-tooth stuck a toothpick into what appeared to be the headphone jack, then levered upward. The front of the shell rotated out, exposing wires, circuit boards, and the battery—five triple-A-size cylinders encased in a plastic sleeve, a double strand of wire running out of the end. He popped the sleeve, exposing two glass cylinders, two metal blasting caps, and a true battery. He said, “The phone holds the chemicals and blasting caps. It’s padded for travel and protection, and will reflect like ordinary batteries on an X-ray scan.”

He palmed it, showing the cylinders. They each held a colorless fluid inside. He set the phone on the table and returned to the plastic device. He popped off the top and leaned it forward, showing what looked like a receptacle for holding batteries in a television remote control, two parallel to each other.

He said, “Before you put them inside, you have to cock the device. That’s the only drawback, really. Once they’re in, the thing is armed, and it really hasn’t been drop tested or anything. By cocking it, you’re basically drawing back that little section of steel with rubber bands, which is held by a dual check.”

He moved the lever on the side from top to bottom. He let go, and it flew back to the top. He shook his head and said, “That’s what I mean. Sometimes it doesn’t catch.” He did it again, more forcefully, and the lever stayed down. “Be sure you lock it in.”

He then slid the vials into the tube and closed the lid. Omar said, “Does it matter which one goes in what tube?”

“No. You’re going to smash the tubes and mix up the chemicals. It doesn’t matter the order.”

He closed the lid and said, “Now it’s armed. All you need to do is connect the nonelectric firing tubes to the bottom, then press this button. It will release the metal breaker, and the chemicals will mix.”

“How soon? How long does it take?”

“It’s not instant. Maybe a second before the chemicals react, but when they do, it’s a miniature explosion, with the jet of flame directed down the valves at the bottom. The man holding it will lose his hand.”

Omar said, “That’s of no consequence. What about the explosives? And I was supposed to get three detonators.”

“Yes, yes. First, there’s one more thing you need to know. The button is a dead man’s switch. You push it in, and the breaker releases from one catch, but is still held by another. That catch releases when the button is released.”

Omar smiled, “Dead man’s switch. So once it’s pressed, the only thing keeping it from going off is the man holding the device. Killing him does no good.”

Gap-tooth flashed his tobacco-stained molars in what passed for a smile and said, “Precisely.”

“And the explosives?”

The other man came forward and handed Omar what looked like a luggage retrieval receipt. “All of it is packed and ready to go at the Tirana airport, in the lost luggage section. It’s safeguarded, and the men watching it have been paid handsomely, don’t worry. They have no idea what it is, but we’ve done business with them many, many times. You present this, along with your flight information, and the bags will be loaded with the appropriate luggage tags for your final destination.”

Omar felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Having purchased it this morning, only two people knew the number. The two he had for security outside.

He held up a finger and said, “I must take this.”

He turned away from the men, jamming his hand into the pocket with the pistol. He said, “Yes?”

“Omar, there are people outside of the amphitheater. We’ve watched them for a while, and they’re not acting like they’re here for the sunshine. One, a woman, has passed back and forth three times.”

He glanced at the men in the room and said, “You are positive?”

“Yes. She’s not Albanian. She’s foreign. Her dress is off, and she’s constantly talking into a cell phone. What do you want to do?”

He withdrew the gun and pointed it at the men. They took a step back in shock, raising their hands. He said, “Take her out of play, but I want her alive. Get her to your place. Do not go to mine. I’ll meet you there.”

He hung up and said, “I was told to come here alone, as were you. Who is outside of this building? Who’s the woman?”

As if he’d been in such situations many times, Gap-tooth calmly said, “Yes, you were told to come alone, and clearly you didn’t. We have done the same. We only have some security. You must understand. But we have no women. It’s not us.”

There was a crack from outside. It could have been a car backfiring, or maybe some children playing with fireworks, but nobody in the room believed it.

The other man jammed his hand into his leather jacket, got a pistol halfway out, and Omar fired, catching him in the right cheek, the left half of his face exploding outward. He fell, and Omar dove at Gap-tooth, preventing him from drawing his own weapon. He slammed the man into the concrete, ripping the detonator from Gap-tooth’s hand and twisting his arm ferociously. He felt the tendons snap, and the man screamed, his fetid dental work wide-open. Omar jammed the end of the detonator in his mouth and punched the button.

He held it and said, “I am not some criminal to be trifled with. I
am
the Islamic State. I will meet Allah. You will not.”

Eyes rolling wild, Gap-tooth shook his head, trying to talk, drool running freely. Omar pushed the detonator deeper, breaking Gap-tooth’s jaw and wedging it in the soft palate at the back of his throat. He let go of the button, then leapt up, backing toward the door. Gap-tooth frantically sat up, and even managed to get his hands on the device before there was a flash, then a
pop
, like a large firecracker had gone off. His lower jaw exploded downward, and a jet of molten flame severed his spinal cord at the neck.

R
elaxing on the marble, watching the children play, and getting regular updates from his two men, Rashid heard the first gunshot and bolted upright. Everyone around him was looking left and right, just as confused as he was. He tried to identify where the shot had come from, but it was impossible. It reverberated off of the hills, confusing his ears. He knew it was close, though.

He stood, bringing his phone up and straining to hear something that would tell him what was happening. He dialed, getting Hashim. “What was that?”

“I don’t know . . . I don’t know. It wasn’t here, at the amphitheater. It’s farther away.”

“What’s going on at the amphitheater?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. The meeting’s still going on.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than another
crack
split the air. From the amphitheater.

Hashim shouted, “Shooting! Shooting from inside the building!”

Rashid whipped his head, but saw the door was still closed. Hashim said, “Two men just came forward. Both have pistols drawn. They’re running toward the building.”

Rashid started walking toward the theater, torn between fleeing and his need to kill Omar. He saw the door open, and Omar came spilling out, leaping down the stairs and disappearing from view because of the slope of the hill.

Then gunfire erupted: multiple
snap
s of noise from at least four shooters.

While the locals began running away, he sprinted toward the firefight, drawing his own weapon. He reached the top of the hill, the bowl of the amphitheater below him, full of children ducking and screaming. He saw Omar rapidly shooting, hitting two men within five feet of him. He scanned the stage area, and saw Hashim rise up from between the concrete seats, squeezing the trigger. He saw a child go down, blood spraying from his back, the mother screaming maniacally. Omar ducked, then returned fire.

Rashid knelt down, getting a bead along the sights of his pistol, Omar right below him, the blood lust raging, then a bullet smacked the concrete pillar next to his head, spraying him with spall. He fell flat, searching for the shooter, confused because he’d heard no sound. He saw a black man deeper in the bowl, behind the stage, and he held a rifle with a fat barrel, pointed right at him.

He saw the muzzle flash, then felt rounds driving around his head. He ducked down, panting. He heard Omar’s pistol spit fire, then another burst of gunfire from multiple locations, sounding like firecrackers on a patio. He peeked over and saw Hashim shooting at Omar. The black man swung his weapon as if it were on rails, then surgically put two rounds into Hashim. He saw the light leave Hashim’s eyes as he fell face-first into the concrete seats, his arms splayed forward as if he were trying to catch himself.

There was a flash of movement from the other side of the amphitheater, and Rashid heard a yell. Kamal leapt onto the stage, screaming and shooting. He took two steps before his body jerked, hit from bullets that made no noise. Rashid looked at the black man, but he wasn’t firing. He was aiming his weapon dead center on him, without squeezing the trigger. Someone else was shooting. Someone with the same skill. The sight of Kamal sliding, lifeless, onto the concrete stage made up his mind for him. Omar would live another day. All that remained now was escape.

He snapped two hasty rounds toward the black man, getting nothing but a small duck in return. He saw Omar sprinting, running away from the amphitheater to the east, and rolled into a small hollow in the ground, preparing to do the same.

He heard stomping feet and turned, seeing Albanian police swarming down the flagstone path. He jammed his weapon into his waistband and lay flat, screaming for help.

They went past him without pause. He lay still for a split second more, then jumped up and began running the way he’d come, passing the monuments. He crested the hill, diving behind the concrete wall and trying to maintain his balance as he tumbled through the woods downhill.

*   *   *

My radio crackled. “Shots fired, shots fired,” then nothing else. I rolled down my window, straining to hear and wanting like hell to break into the net, but not wanting to step on any of my team’s radio transmissions. I waited for an eternity, which was really probably five seconds, then Knuckles came on.

“Pike, Pike, we have a situation. I don’t know what it is, but I heard a shot at the amphitheater. Rashid’s on the move that way. We’ve got him in sight.”

An attack? Was I wrong?

Brett came on. “Pike, this is Blood. Two new guys to my west with pistols, running to a concrete blockhouse here at the amphitheater. UNSUB one still in sight, and he’s got a pistol out as well.”

“Is this an attack?”

“No, I say again, no. It looks like they’re all confused. The place is full of kids, but the gunmen aren’t shooting targets of opportunity.”

“If you’ve got the UNSUB in sight, who’re the guys with weapons?”

“Don’t know. . . . A man just broke out of the building. He’s firing on the run, and he’s good. Just took out the two runners. UNSUB one is firing at him. What’s the call?”

I needed more information. “Knuckles, what’s the target doing?”

“He’s headed towards the gunfight. He’s got something to do with it, but when he left, he looked as confused as I am.”

“You still got eyes on?”

“Yeah, well, no, he’s below the crest, but I know where he is.”

“Koko, Koko, what’s the status with UNSUB two?”

“Break, break, Pike, this is Blood. We’ve got a shootout going on. Kids are everywhere. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

Shit.

“Break out. Leave the area. Break contact and return to the hotel. Knuckles, can you maintain eyes on?”

“I think so. He’s out of sight now, but Blood’s right. It sounds like Fallujah now.”

Brett: “Pike, they just hit a kid. He’s down. These guys can’t shoot worth shit. They’re spraying lead all over the place. I got eyes on Rashid. He’s on the high ground, and he’s got a weapon. He’s going to start shooting too. Let me do something.”

I paused, knowing what the right answer for the mission was. But, fuck, they were killing kids. I said, “Okay, okay. For the record, it’s my call. Blood, discourage Rashid, but remove anyone else with a gun.”

His voice grim, I heard, “Roger all.”