The Insider Threat (8 page)

S
itting at the long makeshift table, Jacob caught the Chechen and another man studying him. He ignored them, waiting on Ringo’s team to arrive for dinner. In truth, he was growing tired of the constant blanket of Islamic State minions watching his every move, and tired of the so-called instruction they’d received.

Expecting to learn the art of the suicide bomber, they’d done nothing of the sort. The mornings were spent working with the tools of the
shahid
, but it was nothing like Jacob had been expecting, like from the movies, with detonators and ticking red numbers. They mostly worked with chemicals. Learning how to break a cylinder of glass inside a plastic container. Then how to break the next one. Beyond that, they learned to hide and remove small wooden dowels inside the shell of a smartphone, then hook them to plastic tubing before inserting them into sleeves of clay.

They were tested endlessly and told their very lives depended on the training, but the “chemicals” they used were nothing more than colored water, and the wooden dowels made little sense. It grew boring.

The afternoons were spent studying the Catholic faith, including all of the strange trappings of that religion. Scripts, ceremonies, and arcane trivia that meant little beyond reminding him of the hated reform school he’d fled.

Having had to absorb the multitude of Islamic strictures inherent in the Islamic State had been bad enough, but something he could tolerate because it was all forgotten on the battlefield. But he was disgusted at being forced to learn about Christianity and Catholicism. He’d had enough of that beaten into him at the school, in what he felt was an incredible show of hypocrisy. They preached tolerance and love on Sundays, forcing the boys to listen to one itinerate preacher after another, then tortured him and his friends the other six days of the week. In his mind, Christianity was nothing but a cloak for abuse, and, if the world were just, he’d take every one of those hypocritical preachers with him in a blaze of glory.

There was no such duplicitousness within the Islamic State. They proclaimed up front what would occur for any infractions, and adhered to that creed with brutal efficiency. While he didn’t really care for all the Islamic diatribes, he found symmetry in his existence here. A life worth living, even if it meant death.

Next to him, Carlos rubbed his chin, now shorn of its patchy, juvenile beard, and said, “Rumor has it we’re leaving soon. That we’ve done all we can here.”

Devon said, “We haven’t done anything. Where is all the training like Mohamed Atta got? All we’ve done is break some glass and learn about an infidel religion.”

Jacob inwardly smiled at the statement, amazed at how deeply his two companions had embraced the propaganda. Wanting so badly to belong, to feel a sense of inclusion and purpose, they’d absorbed the myth of the Islamic State like gauze on a gunshot wound, the blood soaking through and permanently staining whatever remained.

Jacob saw Ringo’s team enter and waved to Hussein. Watching him walk over, he recognized that the same hadn’t happened to his other friend. If anything, Hussein’s wound was too great, the blood of the Islamic State overwhelming his defenses. Instead of absorbing, Hussein was fighting it, and he was losing. He looked haggard. Scared.

He’s not going to make it.

Hussein fist-bumped Carlos and Devon, then sat down. Devon said, “What do you hear? Yousef says we’re leaving soon.”

Jacob scowled and said, “What were you told about our names? You
forget
the Muslim one. Use our given names.”

Chagrined, Devon snuck a glance at the Chechen, hoping he hadn’t heard. He whispered, “Carlos. Carlos says we’re leaving.”

Hussein said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I am. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Jacob said, “So are we. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon.”

Carlos said, “How do you know?”

“They had us shave. There’s a reason for that. They want us to look American, and they want it now.”

Devon said, “I hope so, but we don’t even know what we’re doing. We haven’t learned anything.”

Jacob said, “Maybe it’s like
The Karate Kid
. Wax on, wax off. Maybe we’ve learned something without even knowing. Or maybe there’s more training that can’t be done here. Even Mohamed Atta had to learn to fly, and he couldn’t do that in a cave.”

Carlos smiled and, like a kid discussing college applications, said, “I sure hope so. Hussein, what are you doing? Did they tell you?”

Hussein nodded, his head bobbing over and over, as if he were trying to convince himself that what was occurring was real. Jacob thought he might start crying. He said, “Yes. We’re going to Jordan. It’s why they told me to keep my mustache. They want me to look like a local. Ringo’s in charge, and he’s taking the team to Ma’an, in the south. I’m going to Amman. To meet my father.”

“What is the target?”

“I don’t know, but my father works at a hotel. A fancy one.”

W
atching the Lost Boys eat, Adnan al-Tayyib said, “My friend, I gave you permission to train and lead our external operations, not break them up as you see fit. You had two tasks to accomplish, and I didn’t give you the authority to use one of the untainted Americans for the false flag attack.”

Omar said, “You told me my mission, then said it was up to me to ensure success. I didn’t realize there were restrictions. The boy Hussein is weak, and his name is Muslim. I considered him a threat for the primary mission. His heritage alone will raise eyes, even with an American passport. Don’t listen when governments say they don’t profile. They do. On the other hand, he’s Jordanian, and his father still lives in Amman. He’s perfect for the false flag.”

“Don’t make it a habit of such decisions without consulting me.”

Omar said, “I won’t. I’m sorry if I seemed to usurp your authority, but because of Hussein I no longer think of the second attack as a deception. It may prove more instrumental than the primary operation.”

Adnan turned to him and saw he wasn’t fabricating a story to cover his disobedience. “You truly believe this?”

“Yes, especially since we control all of the assets. The city of Ma’an is ripe with recruits. Ever since the Jordanian pilot’s death they have been hounded by the authorities for their religious convictions. All they require is a catalyst, and we can give them that. It will provide a second front for the crusaders to fight. One in the backyard of Jordan, their favorite
takfir
ally. I’m more confident of it than the primary attack.”

Adnan said, “Come. Let’s not talk here, among the men.”

They left the ramshackle two-story building, the clatter of dishes and eating utensils fading behind them, the desert air rapidly cooling from the day’s heat.

They walked in silence, Omar patiently waiting on his emir to start the conversation. They crossed the compound, little dust devils swirling in the gathering gloom, formed by the wind of the temperature inversion.

Reaching the front stoop of a one-story brick building one hundred meters away, Omar finally decided to break the silence.

“I hope our accommodations are to your liking.”

Adnan opened the door, saying, “They’re fine. Come in.”

Omar followed, waiting on the man to speak yet again. When Adnan remained mute, he broke the silence one more time but stayed away from the mission, not wanting to antagonize his emir. “How did your recruit of the oil field technicians go? Is all well with that endeavor?”

Adnan adjusted several pillows and took a seat on the floor. He said, “Sit.”

Omar did. Adnan said, “The recruiting went fine. They’re flying into Turkey as we speak. When they get here, they’ll contact me, and I’ll put them to work.”

“How?”

Adnan pulled out two Thuraya satellite cell phones. “On this. Both are clean, and the other one is for you.”

Omar said, “You know how I feel about phones. Especially satellite ones. It’s how Dzhokhar Dudayev was killed in Chechnya. It’s how the crusaders kill everyone since they’re too afraid to fight man-to-man.”

“I know, but sometimes we take risks. In this case, minimal. These phones have never been used. Once I get my recruits, I’ll throw this one away. Once you get the material for the explosives, you can throw that one away.”

Omar studied the phone, then said, “Okay. This once. Who will be calling?”

“A man named Rashid al-Jaza’iri. He’s giving us the explosives.”

“Al-Jaza’iri? As in ‘the Algerian’?”

“Yes.”

“The French intelligence officer? From Jabhat al-Nusra?”

Adnan took a date from a bowl, popped it into his mouth, and said, “Yes.”

Omar said, “Adnan, I don’t think you know the history between us. He won’t help the Islamic State. He and I have had some issues.”

Adnan laughed and said, “Issues? From what I hear, he would like nothing more than to skin you alive. But he’s dealing with me. He doesn’t know about you, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“Why would he help? We broke from al Qaida, and when we did, we slaughtered al-Nusra in Aleppo. I know. I did the killing. I came close to beheading Rashid myself, but he got away, running through our checkpoints dressed as a woman in a niqab. They’re nothing but pompous asses putting out tapes, but they’ve sworn vengeance. Tell me we haven’t put the success of the attack in their hands.”

“They
are
pompous, spouting proclamations from hiding, but they also have much greater expertise in making improvised explosives. Expertise they intended to use to attack the crusaders, but were prevented. They now want to give that expertise to us, courtesy of the United States.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember the initiation of the crusader air strikes after we threatened Irbil? When they bombed individual tanks and empty buildings all night in a great show of force?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the Western press hysteria about the ‘Khorasan group’? How they were an al Qaida offshoot and were on the verge of a spectacular attack, so they bombed them as well?”

“Yes, yes. What’s the point?”

“Those stories were true. The Khorasan group has been perfecting nonmetallic methods of explosives to be used in bringing down a multitude of aircraft in an attack that would span the globe. Methods which can defeat almost all detection capabilities, but the air strikes wiped out most of the participants. But not the expertise. The explosives research was completed, and the attack was being planned. As always, the devil was in the delivery, not the device. The crusaders drove al-Nusra to us. I reached out, and they agreed to pass the explosives. We will use them for our attack, courtesy of the Algerian.”

“So the man who’s been teaching them all of those strange things knows the weapon system? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Is he Jabhat al-Nusra as well?”

“Yes.”

Omar stood, tossing the phone on a pillow and saying, “If you think the Algerian will help me—help us—you’re wrong. He’s using this as a means to attack. As a way to get inside.”

“Omar, I was Jabhat al-Nusra before I joined the Islamic State. Even that arrogant British fighter you’ve chosen for the Jordanian mission was al-Nusra before. I still have contacts there, and so does he.” He smiled. “Contacts that don’t want to kill me. If I am the intermediary, they’ll do as they say. They want to harm the crusaders much, much more than they do us.”

“Maybe you. I doubt the fire has left their belly for me.”

Adnan picked up the phone and handed it back. “It’s already done. They’re delivering the explosives to Albania. A man in that country—who has no knowledge of you—is the contact. He thinks he’s dealing with me. You answer that phone and don’t tell him otherwise.”

Omar took the phone, shaking his head. “You just said Rashid would call.”

“Rashid delivered the explosives to the contact. The contact is calling you.”

Omar sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I’m sending my men to Jordan tomorrow. They will succeed. The Lost Boys are going to Istanbul. I have the tour schedule for the Americans, and can interdict them. I can control all of that, but without your explosives, I can do nothing. I control nothing for that mission. And yet you tell me to succeed.”

“You
will
succeed.
We
will succeed. Who stands in our way? The Syrians? The Americans? The Iranians? They all fight each other, handing us the caliphate.”

“The Iranians are no problem. Their fighting in Iraq helps us forge the true Islamic world. The undecided despise them, and fear the Shia militias enough to succumb to us. The Americans are a different story. They know nothing of Islam and blunder around like a drunken dog, but they should not be underestimated.”

Adnan waved his hand. “What have they done but help us? They struck some tanks and killed the Khorasan group, giving us the means to attack.”

Omar opened the door, saying, “Maybe. But remember, I didn’t succeed in Mosul because I underestimated the enemy.”

Adnan laughed and said, “Don’t build yourself up into something you’re not. The Islamic State won in Mosul. Our message won. Not you.”

Omar felt his face grow red. He came close to a rebuttal, but nodded and slammed the door, walking swiftly away. It wasn’t until he was across the compound, about to reenter the training wing and inform the Lost Boys of their trip, before a buzz penetrated through his anger.

The same faint noise he had heard multiple times.

Drone
.

He stopped and scanned the sky, hoping to see the aircraft break the light of the stars. He saw nothing. He strained his ears to locate the noise, still staring hard. He caught a flash, then a sputtering of light streaking toward the emir’s residence.

Hellfire missile
.

He dove to the ground, and the missile sliced through a window, looking deceptively small, like a bottle rocket spouting sparks. The earth split open, lighting up the night sky, the building torn from the inside out, masonry falling like devil’s rain.

Men began spilling from the teaching residence, shouting and pointing. He stood up, screaming at them for silence, trying to determine if the floating death still circled.

He could not.

He felt a lump in his pocket and realized he still held the phone. He ripped it out of his pocket and hurled it across the compound, then began running.