Threat Warning (9 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

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BOOK: Threat Warning
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Boxers nearly vibrated with anger, but when the tension left his shoulders, Jonathan knew that he was back with the program.
As they filed into the War Room, Venice pulled Jonathan to the side. “I’ve never seen Boxers like that.”
“Did you find the video?”
She clearly wanted more, but knew better than to push. “Cued up and ready to go,” she said.
Tension remained heavy in the air as they filed into the War Room. Jonathan wasn’t sure where the nickname for the space originated, but given the activities that were often planned in this space, it was apropos. Detailed in teak and mahogany and featuring calfskin-soft chairs, the War Room offered all of the latest in communication and presentation technology. On the far end, Venice had already retracted the panels in the wall that housed the 106-inch projection screen, where the frozen image of the terrified Nasbes stared at them, frozen in time. He’d already seen it, of course, but it was time to pay attention.
He asked, “Colonel Rollins, would you like to catch us up on what you know before we start watching?” By using his official title, Jonathan hoped to defuse the tension.
Rollins leaned forward and cleared his throat. “The people you’re going to see are Christyne Nasbe and her son Ryan, sixteen. We don’t know how they ended up in the custody of terrorists, but we suspect that they were somehow taken after the Wilson Bridge incident last night. They live on Bragg when Boomer is home, but they’re apparently up here visiting her sister in Mount Vernon.”
“Does Boomer know the family has been taken?”
“He was the one to tell us. He found out purely by chance. He thought he recognized them despite the masks, and when he tried to establish contact with them, he couldn’t. They weren’t at the address where they were supposed to be staying, and both of their cell phones were turned off. We did a little checking and discovered that the SIM cards had either been disabled or removed.”
Jonathan asked, “Is he just going by the voice?”
“That was the first thing that caught his attention. But then he looked closer. It turns out that the son, Ryan, has a birthmark on his belly. It shows on the video.”
Gail asked, “Why are you coming to Security Solutions? A case like this has FBI written all over it.”
Rollins hesitated. “I’d rather we discuss this in private, Digger.”
Jonathan shook his head. “My team gets to know what I know.”
The colonel took a moment to think it through. “Here’s the thing,” he said at last. “The FBI is a civilian agency. I’m sure they’re fine at what they do, but they’re pretty damned distracted right now, and we want the Nasbes’ safety to be the first and only priority, not just one of many.”
Gail started to object, but Rollins held up a hand to signal that he wasn’t done yet.
“There’s also the Unit connection. The FBI can’t know that, and I think it’s clear that the kidnappers
don’t
know it, or they would have mentioned something about it in the video.”
Gail didn’t get it. “And why can’t the FBI know?”
“Because the FBI is packed with unnamed sources,” Rollins answered. “Deep Throat, anyone? What isn’t leaked to the press is revealed though congressional hearings. I owe Boomer more than that.”
Jonathan nodded to Venice, who pushed the buttons to make the lights dim and the picture come to life.
The setting was all too familiar, although Jonathan wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen it staged with multiple hostages. The boy, on the left of the screen, was shirtless and wore what appeared to be blue jeans. The mother wore a nondescript black-on-black outfit that looked oddly stretched out and disheveled.
“Do you see the birthmark?” Rollins asked.
Venice froze the frame.
Rollins pointed from his seat. “Look there on his stomach. Just to the left of his navel. Our left, his right.”
Jonathan leaned forward, as if by shortening the distance by five inches he could see the image more clearly.
“I see it,” Gail said. “Looks like a little check mark.”
“That’s it exactly,” Rollins said.
Jonathan took it on faith. One of these days, he was going to have to get glasses.
The picture had been framed tightly so that none of the captors’ faces showed. In fact all they could see of the captors were legs wearing black pants—Jonathan counted four pairs—and the muzzles of the AKs that were resting against each of the victims’ skulls.
Christyne Nasbe spoke for both of them. As she did, Arabic subtitles crawled along the bottom of the frame. “People of America,” she began. From the first words, she sounded as if she was reading, but how could that be, with a hood over her face? “We and our satanic government have brought suffering to the peaceful people of Islam for many years. We have murdered tens of thousands of innocent children while they slept in their beds, and we have martyred countless holy warriors as they fight every day only to create a world that will live in peace, free of the sloth and the wickedness brought by our Western ways. We need to realize that we can never win.
“This week, the Army of Allah began a new holy war that will bring you to your knees. They are many thousands strong, and they have already begun their battle, first in Kansas City, and on Monday night in Washington, D.C. This morning, they took the battle to our children, killing our youth as we have killed so many of theirs. The killing will continue until the United States government apologizes to Islamic people everywhere and withdraws all U.S. forces from the Middle East and Afghanistan. If an announcement to that effect is not made by next Wednesday, one week and one day from today, my son and I will be martyred for everyone to see.”
The instant before the image clicked off, the boy’s voice said, “Martyred means murdered in English.”
C
HAPTER
N
INE
 
They watched the video three more times before Jonathan asked Venice to freeze it on the image of the huddled captives.
Jonathan turned to the colonel. “I understand that you want me and my team to rescue the Nasbes, but I’m still confused,” he said. “This video is going to go viral. Even with their faces blacked out, somebody’s going to recognize them. Neighbors are going to call. Distant relatives are going to call. What do my team and I bring to the table that you’re not going to get from the authorities?”
Rollins shifted in his chair, recrossing his legs, one over the other. “Two things we need to talk about,” he said. “First, we’ve already reached out to the community at Bragg. We’ve asked them not to forward any theories on the family’s identity, and we’re confident that they’ll understand. Ditto the immediate family. We’ve let them know that the best way to bring their loved ones home safely is for them to rally around each other and say nothing.”
“Surely someone’s going to say something,” Gail said.
Jonathan shook his head. “You haven’t witnessed the community built up around the Unit,” he said. “They understand the importance of secrecy. Even the kids. Back in the old days, we used to exclude the family from almost everything for fear of word leaking out to the bad guys. But the toll was too great on families.” He gestured with his hands as if to say,
ta-da
.
Boxers agreed. “We opened up a lot of the details to the families, and the result was all good—specifically because everyone understood the stakes.”
Rollins went on, “I sense that you’re looking at the equation from the wrong side. It’s not about what you bring. It’s about what I bring.” He cast another uncomfortable glance at the others in the room.
Jonathan waited him out.
Rollins sighed. “Look, you’re not a naïve guy. The new administration has rewritten all the rules. As a guy who’s been in the service for more than a few years, I’m more feared by them than trusted. These days, you either toe the line, or you tour a jail cell. The old national security shortcuts just don’t exist anymore. But you know how the community works. We look after our own, yet Posse Comitatus forbids the military from engaging in domestic law-enforcement activities. Other laws and executive orders prohibit domestic activity from other intelligence organizations. No eavesdropping without warrants, no questioning without probable cause, no midnight rescues without due process.”
“You mean we have to obey the law,” Gail said.
Rollins shot a look to Jonathan. “All on the same team?”
Jonathan shrugged. “What can I say? You can remove the girl from the cops, but you can’t remove the cop from the girl.”
Rollins drilled Gail with his eyes. “With all due respect, some laws are ridiculous. Like the ones that respect terrorists’ rights over those of the people they terrorize.”
“Oh, I see,” Gail said. “All we need is to let the military decide who’s good enough for their own constitutional rights.”
Jonathan sensed where this was going, and he hurried to intervene. Gail had never been comfortable with moral gray area in which Jonathan plied his trade, but it made no sense to engage Rollins like this. “No civics lessons, okay?” he said. “I asked him to state his case. We need to let him do that.” To Rollins: “Go on.”
The colonel shrugged. “The rest should be pretty obvious. The unit has friends in the right places, and they’re willing to help us—off the record, of course, and behind the scenes. We need someone to feed the intelligence to, who can then go and bring the family to safety.”
Venice cut to the chase. “You want Security Solutions to provide cover for you to break the law.”
Rollins smiled for the first time since arriving. “Well, no,” he said. “To hell with providing cover. I want you to actually break the law.”
Something about the sheer honesty made Jonathan laugh. “What kind of support are you offering?”
“Whatever you need. Any and all intel assets we might have. No hardware, though, and no manpower. There’s no way to do that without triggering a congressional hearing.”
“How do you provide the soft services without triggering an investigation?” Venice asked.
“Through careful management of resources,” Rollins said.
“Who all knows you’re here?” Boxers asked.
“I’m not at liberty to answer that.”
“How high up the Unit chain?”
“I’m not at liberty to answer that, either.”
Boxers growled.
“Here’s the thing, Colonel,” Jonathan said. “We’ve still got tread marks on our backs from the last time you threw us under the bus. How do we know you won’t do it again?”
Rollins leaned forward in his chair, and his expression became very thoughtful. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not making myself clear. I’ll be more direct. If this thing blows up—if word leaks out—you are exactly the ones who will take the hit. With all respect, isn’t that why people pay you for your services?”
Jonathan noticed Gail’s ears turning red so he spoke quickly. “They pay us because we’re a hostage recovery team with a perfect record.”
“Except outside of the community, nobody knows you have a perfect record. When Daddy Lottabucks’s kid gets snatched from spring break, all he knows is that you’ll get the job done without the police ever knowing a thing. I bet he’s expecting you to take the fall quietly if things go wrong.”
“Daddy Lottabucks is paying for the privilege,” Boxers said.
“We’ve got money,” Rollins said. “A bunch of the guys pooled our resources, and we were able to pull together sixty thousand. I know that’s not what—”
Jonathan held up his hand for silence. “Boomer’s a friend,” he said. “I don’t want your money.” His teammates froze at his words. It was a gang poker face.
Rollins smiled, genuinely relieved. “Digger, I appreciate this. I’ll inform—”
Jonathan cut him off again. “This meeting never happened, Colonel. We’ll do what we do, but we will not keep you in the loop, and we will not accept any help that we don’t ask for. If, on the other hand, we ask for help, I expect to get it immediately, and without question.”
“But the team was expecting—”
“Nothing,” Jonathan interrupted. “Your team should expect nothing because this meeting never happened. I will not answer to you, I will not cover for you, I will not run interference for you.”
The colonel leaned back in his chair. He seemed to know there was more coming.
“More than anything,” Jonathan went on, “know this. If you cross me, I will hurt you. Badly.” He shifted his eyes to Venice. “Please escort the colonel to the door.”
 
Michael Copley stood on the mezzanine overlooking the shop floor, marveling at the quality of the work his people produced. Thanks to their dedication to him and his mission, they had together raised Appalachian Acoustics to be the source for some of the most sought-after orchestral and choral tools in the world. Lightweight, less expensive than the competition, and easy to assemble by even a single person, his patented acoustic reflectors had become the gold standard.
These one hundred eighty employees were the ones who made it happen every day. Their continuing dedication to him, the company, and their mission stirred emotions that might have been called love if the context were different. They meant that much to him. And he was confident that he meant that much to them.
He heard the approach of his visitor before he saw him. “Hello, Kendig,” he said without looking.
Kendig Neen was the sheriff of Maddox County, West Virginia, and out here that still meant something. Tall and stout, with a waxed handlebar mustache and a speaking voice that was made for radio, Kendig
was
the law out here. With the nearest state police barracks nearly fifty miles away, backup was hard to come by, and that meant a freedom to occasionally craft new laws on the fly.
“Morning, Michael,” he said. “Have you got a moment?”
“Isn’t that an inspiring sight?” Michael said.
“Smells like airplane glue,” Kendig said.
Michael gave him a hard look. “You might show some respect. Those people are the reason you have a job, and I’m the reason
they
have a job.”
“Will your boardroom work for you?” Kendig pressed. “We really need to talk.”
Michael led the way from the mezzanine to the shop floor, and out to the executive wing, as he called it. He realized it didn’t look like much, with its Formica tabletop and metal chairs, but it was the best he could afford. For now. If visitors gave the boardroom only a cursory look, they would have seen only the knotty pine paneling and the linoleum floors and assumed it to be cheaply built. You’d have to be an expert, knowing exactly what you were looking for to see that it was a high-tech, soundproofed room.
Kendig started in as soon as the heavy door found its latch. “What were you thinking, putting that mother and her son up on the Internet for everyone to see?”
Michael took his time pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it. It was a common trait of brutes not to be able to see the complexity of the proverbial big picture. “I was thinking about the mission,” he said. His voice bore the exaggerated patience of a teacher speaking to a slow child. “We are at war now, Brother Kendig.”
“And war requires caution. You put faces on their battle against us. What you did steeled the resolve of every law-enforcement agency in the country. In the
world.
Have you been watching television? Have you heard the kind of resources they’re marshalling against us?”
Michael scowled, pretending to be confused. “I’ve glanced at the television, but I haven’t seen anything about us. Are you sure?”
“For God’s sake, Michael.”
“I’ve heard some ranting about ‘terrorists,’ but I haven’t heard a word about us. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, if you were to ask any of the new media who ‘we’ are”—he used finger quotes—“I bet they’d tell you that we were Arabs. Central Asian, maybe; but certainly Islamists. I don’t think you’d hear a word about devout patriots from West Virginia.”
“But they didn’t have to know
anything
!” Kendig insisted.
Michael leaned back and placed his heels on the table. “Now who’s being silly?” he said. “Of course they had to know. Knowing is part of the greater ruse. While the authorities are all looking for who we are not, we will attack them with who we are. It’s a classic feint.”
Kendig sat heavily in the seat adjacent to Michael. “Was it necessary to beat the boy?”
Michael laughed. “Oh, so that’s your moral compass? The killing is okay, but you draw the line at a few slaps and punches?”
“I draw the line at cruelty. I draw the line at increased incentive to find us. His hands were bound, for heaven’s sake.”
Michael waved it away as irrelevant. “Brother Stephen told me that the boy was a threat, a troublemaker. Now he’s a frightened boy again. A neutralized threat. No permanent harm was done.”
“Brother Stephen is a liability,” Kendig said. “I don’t like the way he is with the prisoners, and I don’t like his attitude around the other soldiers. I think you empower him too much by allowing his shenanigans.”
“He is a fine and loyal soldier,” Michael said. “He and Sister Colleen will both be honored for their service at the bridge in Washington. That was simply brilliant.”
“So why risk the victory with the broadcast? Videos like that can be traced directly back to you.”
Michael shook his head. “Impossible.”
“It’s
not
impossible, Michael. It’s inevitable. The feds have uncanny resources to track down Internet broadcasts. Crazy resources that we can’t possibly match.”
“I have it covered,” Michael said. He made a point of keeping his voice modulated and under control. He would not honor shouting with shouting of his own. “Brother Kirkland is quite the computer whiz. He assures me that everything about our transmission will trace back to a computer in Flint, Michigan. When we broadcast again, the signature will trace to Islamabad. We will have to let enough time pass for them to believe we took the family to Pakistan, which will fit perfectly with what they want to believe. That will leave us free to operate even less encumbered by the authorities than we already are.”

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