The Insider Threat (9 page)

S
itting behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office, President Warren said, “So we hit something big? More than just a facilitator for the oil fields?”

Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, said, “It appears so. The number the Taskforce found led us to an abandoned industrial facility. Flying just inside the Iraqi border, Rivet Joint picked up the phone signature—a lucky break for us—and a Reaper UAV delivered the surgical strike. We hit exactly what we aimed for, then the chatter lit up across the board.”

Because the lead came from the Taskforce, the meeting was restricted to what was colloquially called the “principles committee” of the Oversight Council. Five of the thirteen members had an overwhelming presence because of their past experiences and power, and President Warren had taken to bringing them together for discussions before engaging the entire Council. Sitting in the office were the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the national security adviser, the director of the CIA, and the president himself. Off to the left, in earshot, but not part of the official debate, sat Kurt Hale.

President Warren said, “What else was there?”

“A lot of personnel on the ground, but we couldn’t determine their status. This area hasn’t been on our intelligence picture before.”

President Warren said, “Why didn’t we just line it up into the queue for a package of air strikes? Smoke that place to the ground?”

Kerry looked at the secretary of defense, then back to the president. “Sir, it might be a training camp, but it might also be a place where refugees have fled. We just don’t know. The only thing we had was the SIGINT of the Thuraya phone.”

The SECDEF spoke up. “Sir, I agree with the surgical strike. You don’t want a bunch of women and kids on the news tomorrow. We just don’t have eyes on the ground to determine what’s real.”

Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “Because of that bastard Hussein. Could BOBCAT have told us?”

Kerry bristled and said, “You want to get into the blame game, I’ll start with State’s ignoring Iraq five years ago.”

President Warren cut him off. “Enough. There’s no reason to rehash what-ifs. Only what-nows. So, what now?”

“We’ve got Rivet Joint trying to suck every bit of communications from the site, and have it blanketed with UAVs, but they’re not getting a whole lot. There’s no GSM cell coverage in that area, only satellite, and we’re not getting any radio traffic. The UAVs are seeing movement, but no black flags or technical vehicles. Just people.”

“But wouldn’t they do that if we hit them? Hide, I mean? Haven’t they done that everywhere else?”

“Yes, they have, but that’s not enough to blow it all up. An absence of evidence of ISIL isn’t evidence of ISIL. We did strike a convoy north of the compound that made the mistake of trying to shoot down our drone. We had positive ID of a hostile force in that case. In the compound, all we had was a cellular signal and a bunch of movement.”

“So, I ask again, what now?”

Kerry said, “Well, the SIGINT from across the entire area of operations—outside of the target—has pretty much confirmed that we killed the emir of northern Syria, Adnan al-Tayyib. We thought he was just facilitating the oil field workers, but it turns out, he was much, much bigger. The Islamic State leadership is segmented into four operational areas, and we just killed one. It’s a pretty good day for the red, white, and blue.”

President Warren’s face turned sour at the bravado. He said, “How do we capitalize on that? Can the Taskforce do anything?”

Kerry turned to Kurt Hale and he said, “I’ve got Pike’s team finishing up cover duties in Nigeria. Doing the basic covering of their tracks. The Omega package and support team redeployed without any issues, and are on standby. I’ve also got Johnny’s team prepping for deployment to Turkey, just in case. He’s not ready to go yet, but I can flex Pike in a day or two. The problem is we don’t have anything to go on. There’s no thread, and we still can’t penetrate into Syria. The Islamic State itself is a granite wall. They need to come to a different playing field.”

President Warren tapped the desk with a finger, then said, “Isn’t that what these Lost Boys are planning? Leaving Syria and coming to the West? Jesus, we’re just sitting here waiting to get punched.”

Kerry saw his frustration and said, “Sometimes you just wait it out. Let them make a mistake and give us the break. Forcing the issue leads to missed opportunities.”

President Warren took that in, then, in a slow, measured tone, said, “I don’t want the ‘break’ to be a bunch of dead bodies from some assholes holding American passports. Tracking them down after the fact plays well in the press, but preventing the attack is what matters.”

The room became quiet. After the silence grew uncomfortable, Kerry said, “Sir, I understand. I don’t think I was clear. Usually, we’ll get something from the chatter. Someone will break operational security and ask for guidance or permission for something, now that the chain of command is in disarray. The Lost Boys are a threat, but they won’t solve the problem of the Islamic State. We killed a very big fish, and now we’re looking for a specific name.”

“Who?”

“A Chechen. Omar al-Khatami. Adnan obviously lived in the shadows, since we didn’t know his importance. He had the ear of the senior leadership, but Omar is the reason they’ve succeeded as much as they have. He’s an absolute killer, and a strategic genius who learned his talent fighting the Russians. Killing Adnan might cause spiritual and leadership issues, but he had no skill in the fight. Omar is the sword he wielded, and we’ve been trying to find him for a long time.”

“So this targeting might lead us to him?”

“Yes. With any luck.”

“And that would be a good thing?”

“Yes. He’s the military commander who took all the terrain in Iraq. The man who swept through Mosul on his way to Irbil before we initiated air strikes. Adnan may have been the emir, but Omar is the real target. We get him, and we knock them back on their heels.”

“So you think he’s more important than the reporting of these American ‘Lost Boys’?”

“Oh yeah. Much more. The Lost Boys are just stray voltage at this point. We don’t even know if they’re real.”

Kerry closed his briefing book. “The only way I’d lose sleep over them is if I heard Omar al-Khatami was in charge of their targets.”

F
eeling completely out of place, Ali Jaafar Hussein waited for his father in the lobby of the five-star Grand Hyatt hotel. He felt the stares of the hotel staff and knew they weren’t misguided. He didn’t belong here. He only hoped his father wouldn’t throw him out. If that happened, if he had to report failure, he was sure he’d be beheaded by Omar. Even here in Jordan.

The trip out of Syria had been surreal, starting with the bombing of the VIP residence at the camp. The regular fighters had fled their tents in a convoy of Toyota pickup trucks, driving off into the darkness and leaving the men in the two-story building behind. Omar wouldn’t allow his team to do the same. He’d forced everyone out of the building, marching them on foot into the desert, where they’d curled up into balls to ward off the nighttime chill. They saw air strikes in the distance, to the north, and Omar had said, “Idiots. They made themselves a target.”

When dawn broke, and no further missiles had come down, he’d allowed them to return to the camp. Barking in sharp, clipped sentences, he’d instructed them to pack their belongings and load up the remaining Toyota HiLuxes.

Hussein brought his meager possessions downstairs, but didn’t know which vehicle to board, Ringo’s team or the Lost Boys’. He was slated for Jordan with Ringo, but Ringo was driving to al Qa’im, a town on the Iraqi border, and then south, through the desert, to slip across Jordan’s border to Ma’an. Hussein was supposed to use his American passport to fly from Istanbul.

He looked for Omar and saw him across the compound, digging in the dirt for something. Omar bent over, picked up an object, then came walking back. Hussein saw a phone in his hand.

Omar said, “What are you waiting for?”

“Which truck should I use? The one going to Jordan, or yours?”

“Mine.” He turned and shouted into the building. “Come on. Time to go.”

The men gathered around and he said, “We’re leaving sooner than I wished, but the Americans have clearly found this place. They won’t shoot individual trucks without positive proof of the Islamic State, so don’t give them any.”

Ringo said, “How did they locate us? How did they know where the emir was staying?”

Omar held out his hand, showing the Thuraya phone Adnan had given him. “Through one of these.”

Ringo shuffled his feet, wanting to say something else, and Omar said, “Load up. The Jordan team in the last two trucks. The Lost Boys in the lead truck.”

Everyone began moving except Jacob. Omar said, “Load the truck.”

Jacob said, “Why did you retrieve the phone if the Americans are tracking it? We’ll get killed on the move. You say don’t give them a reason to attack, and yet you’re holding the reason.”

Hussein saw Omar start to boil over, but Jacob stood his ground, unperturbed at any potential outcome, his eyes devoid of life, pale blue like the meat stamp on a haunch of rump steak. Amazingly, Hussein watched Omar back down.

He said, “The attack last night was from a drone. It was surgical, directed to that one building. They could have used a flight of aircraft and obliterated this place. They did not. If they were going after this phone, it would have been struck last night, and I’m glad it wasn’t. It is our contact for the explosives for your mission. A necessary risk.”

Hussein waited, feeling the greasy sweat of fear begin to sprout, praying that Jacob wouldn’t push it any further. He was sure Omar’s patience was at an end.

After a moment, Jacob climbed into the back, settling next to him.

Omar nodded, then moved to Ringo’s vehicle. “We didn’t get the chance to adequately prepare, but you know your mission. Find the contact in Ma’an. He is ready for his phase. When you do, call me on this.”

He held out the phone and read off a number, Ringo copying it down.

He said, “You only call me, understand?”

“Yes. Who else would I call?”

Omar slitted his eyes and said, “The al-Nusra front. Do you still have contacts there?”

Ringo nodded, then contradicted the action with his words. “I did, but I don’t talk to them anymore. Only on Twitter and that sort of thing. We share stories.”

Omar snatched Ringo’s chin with his right hand and said, “Do you feel allegiance to them?”

“No, sir, no. I’m the Islamic State now.”

Omar let him go and said, “No more. I hear you’re talking to them, and I’ll cut your heart out.”

Ringo bobbed his head up and down, over and over, like a child.

Omar continued. “Hussein will be arriving in Jordan in two days. He’ll provide access. You do the killing. I want at least a hundred. If you can make it to the convention center, you should get three times that. Videotape everything. If you can behead some, all the better. Once the news hits, the contact will turn the city of Ma’an into a river of blood for the Hashemite kingdom. He’ll start the second front. But it rests on you.”

Hussein saw Ringo’s eyes slide to him, and he looked away. Ringo said, “I don’t like our mission relying on a Lost Boy. He’s a weakling.”

Ringo said it loud enough for Hussein to hear, and he felt shame. Before Omar could respond, Jacob stood up, his hollow eyes on Ringo. He jumped over the side of the truck and walked to the man in a measured pace. Ringo was a few inches taller than Jacob, but the size difference mattered little. Jacob leaned into his face. No anger. No fear. Nothing but potential violence, like an axe hanging in a shed.

Jacob said, “Ringo, you complain that I haven’t learned the ways of Islam, but I have. I and my brother against my cousin. I and my cousin against the world.”

Omar stepped in between them, his face inches from Jacob’s. “Do not test me, Lost Boy. Get. In. The. Truck.”

His face expressionless, Jacob backed up, then turned to the HiLux, saying, “Ringo, my tribe, my war. Remember that.”

Hussein could feel the tension in the air like static before a storm. The only one who was immune was Jacob. He’d sat down in the bed across from Hussein, and had smiled. A wicked, twisted thing. Hussein had grinned weakly in return, and they’d set out, a single truck making the long trek to the Turkish border, losing sight of the dust cloud made by Ringo’s caravan headed east.

After hours of bouncing in the back, they passed through Raqqa without stopping. Jacob said, “Looks like there’s no going back now.”

Carlos and Devon grinned and fist-bumped. Hussein said nothing, studying Jacob. Seeing the change that had occurred in his friend, like a virus that had invaded his soul and taken whatever humanity he had left.

J
acob had always been crazy, even on the inside of the boys’ school, but he’d had a limit. You could push him only so far before he’d react, but even then, he’d cause just enough damage to solve the problem. Now those limits were gone. Destroyed in the cauldron of the Islamic State. What remained was anybody’s guess.

Hussein knew Jacob would never be a Muslim. He was nothing like Carlos and Devon, two men who lacked both the intelligence and the self-esteem to even understand the cause they were being used to serve. Embracing the charnel house as a womb, they projected onto others the pain they’d felt their entire lives, for the first time harnessing a power they’d never had by holding a blade in their fist. A blade that was not only sanctioned but encouraged.

Jacob was different. And had grown more distinct in the time they’d been inside Syria. He was like a pit bull that had been trained in a gladitorial arena, punished again and again, then released into the wild. Free to run among the other dogs, but holding a killer instinct that none of the others possessed.

Hussein remembered cutting the head off of the other Kurd. Remembered the revulsion and the absolute fear. Remembered the man’s life force leaving his body as his limbs vibrated in their binds, the tapping of his legs as he cut, the image seared into his conscious like a physical branding, never allowing him to sleep again.

But what he remembered most of all was Jacob yelling at him. Jacob ordering him to do it for the white house. Jacob’s eyes boring into him. A visage completely devoid of emotion or empathy. A man who had crossed over. It scared him beyond belief, and he no longer knew if his greatest sin was killing the Kurd or turning Jacob loose.

The truck bounced along, traveling ever north, and Jacob scooted over to him, leaning in close. He said, “You can leave once you get to Jordan. You know that, right?”

Hussein said, “I won’t do that. I know my duty.”

“Bullshit. You aren’t cut out for this. Get to Jordan and get out. Anyone says anything about hunting you, and I’ll deal with them.”

Hussein studied his friend, seeing the same compassion from after the white house, when he’d been thrown back into the barracks. After the atrocities. Seeing the man who had helped him survive those days. Conflicted, he said, “Ringo told me what will happen if I flee. They’ll kill my father.”

“Why does that matter? That asshole left you when you were four. You don’t even know him. He’s getting what he deserves. You wouldn’t even be in this mess if he’d hung around.”

Hussein looked into Jacob’s dead eyes and wished he had the same pitiless mind-set. He did not.

“I know. I know in my heart, but I don’t know if I can do it.”

Jacob laughed and said, “You were always soft. Even inside.”

Hussein had a wild fantasy flit through his head, a solution to all of their problems. He said, “My mission is easy. All I have to do is get a door open, away from the security of the hotel.”

“So killing a hundred people is worth the life of your father? A guy you’ve never known?”

Hussein drew in, tucking his head like a turtle, wanting to get away from what his simple opening of a door would accomplish. He said, “What about you? You’re going to be a
shahid
. Kill yourself. You want to go out like that?”

Jacob got that distant look on his face and said, “I’ll follow this a little bit further.” He glanced at Hussein and said, “They made us study the Catholic faith. Remember when we used to talk about jamming broomsticks up the asses of those preachers? The same way the guards did to us? It looks like I might get that chance.”

Hussein said, “Our school wasn’t Catholic.”

“Fucking close enough.”

Hussein thought about telling Jacob his terrible secret. Fantasized about recruiting Jacob, then turning himself in at the Jordanian border, explaining how he had to ditch all of the communication methods he’d been given for survival—instead of the truth that he’d simply crumbled under outright fear.

They’d be pleased he’d survived, and would want to know what was being planned, and he could tell them. About Jordan, anyway. He had no idea what the rest of the Lost Boys were up to. But he could tell them he had a much stronger man on the inside. Jacob.

The thoughts flitted through his head, and he realized he could not. He was trapped between the loyalty Jacob required and the insanity of the Islamic State.

If he broached the
how
s and
why
s of his trip to Syria, laying bare his recruitment as a snitch, he would feel the wrath of Jacob. And he’d seen how his friend treated traitors.

He said, “Maybe we should both flee. Maybe you could meet me in Jordan.”

Jacob said, “Maybe so.”

But Hussein knew it wouldn’t happen. Saw the divide growing ever larger between them. Hussein was still clinging to his self-preservation. Still trying to find a way out of the maze of death he’d created.

Jacob was embracing it.