Treason (2 page)

The presidential car exited the church grounds onto Woodley Road, where it turned left in the direction of Wisconsin Avenue N.W. It was moving at a fast clip, but when it reached the intersection, it slowed to make the left turn south. As the limousine was rounding the corner, a man standing on the sidewalk darted into the street and flung his body against the president's car.

Cumar Samatar—Fawzia's husband—detonated the suicide belt hidden under the bulky hooded sweatshirt that he was wearing. Tiny steel balls packed into it blew in all directions, peppering the limousine. The explosion knocked the 20,000-pound presidential limo sideways, but it did not cause it to overturn. The vehicle's bodywork of hardened steel, aluminum, titanium, and ceramic fibers was specifically designed to stop projectiles. None penetrated the car's back chamber, where President Allworth was now lying prone on the leather rear seat. Protected behind five inches of layered glass, the president's driver continued speeding down the street away from the blast zone.

The backup presidential limo also was mobile, but the two SUVs following it were hit hard. Steel balls ripped into both like buckshot, killing the first SUV's driver and his front seat passenger. That SUV careened out of control, jumped the curb on the east side of Wisconsin Avenue, and smashed into a storefront. The driver of the second SUV swerved when the blast hit, turning his vehicle into a lane reserved for tour buses. It collided with a parked tour bus and burst into flames.

Two police officers directing traffic in the intersection were killed instantly by the blast. Half of one officer's torso was blown onto a nearby sidewalk. The other man's face was shredded beyond recognition. More than a dozen onlookers were dead, others screamed in pain from their wounds.

Two hours after the joint attack, a video made by Fawzia and Cumar Samatar appeared on the Internet. The couple gleefully identified themselves as American-born jihadists who had sworn loyalty to the Islamic State. They challenged other American Muslims to martyr themselves and promised that their deaths were only the beginning of more slaughter.

Fawzia looked nothing like the meek, childlike, flirtatious cleaning woman whom her coworkers had addressed as Cricket. Wearing a black hijab, she yelled into the camera with hate-filled eyes: “We will kill you and your children! Death to America!”

A beach on the Mediterranean Sea

Near Misrata, Libya

T
he wind is shifting,” the jihadist warned as he slipped into the front seat of the parked Land Rover.

The backseat passenger behind him appeared unconcerned as he looked up from the portable computer balanced on his thighs, which was connected via a satellite phone to the Internet. He glanced out a side window into the desert.

“Yes,” he replied. “I am almost finished.”

Only one percent of Libya's land was arable and only a fraction of it supported permanent crops, which meant strong winds could create dust storms so thick they hid the ground. Before dawn, there had been no wind, and when the four-vehicle convoy had arrived at this beach, the air had been stale and thick with the smells of rotting jellyfish washed ashore.

The man in the Land Rover's rear seat was dressed completely in black: black combat boots, black trousers, a black long-sleeved shirt, and black gloves. His face and throat were hidden behind a snug-fitting black hood. Only his eyes were exposed, and those eyes, which peered through a narrow slit, were as black as his apparel.

To his followers and his enemies, he was known only as “The Falcon.”

Unlike other radical Islamists, who would show their faces when they were among friends and their fellow fighters, the Falcon never removed his mask. None of his men would have recognized him if they had passed each other on a street.

Many believed the Falcon was an Egyptian who had first drawn blood during the Luxor Massacre in November 1997 at the Egyptian archaeological site of Deir el-Bahri. Six gunmen had murdered fifty-eight foreign nationals and four Egyptians during forty-five minutes of bloodshed. Women were hacked to death with machetes, a five-year-old child was slaughtered, and a note praising Islam was tucked inside a disemboweled body.

Others believed the Falcon was much younger. He appeared fit, with catlike movements. No matter, the Falcon had become legendary in the Arab world. He claimed Allah had shown him a vision of a united Islam and had instructed him to create a caliphate rooted in Sharia law, a unified Islamic territory where all believers—whether they be members of the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, Boko Haram, Al-Shabaab, ISIS, or hundreds of other Islamist splinter groups—would live together and create an invincible fighting force capable of crushing their non-Muslim enemies.

The Crusades, first launched by Christians in 1095, had never ended, in the Falcon's thinking. Modern-day weapons and propaganda had simply replaced the long swords, maces, spears, and arrows used by medieval warriors. The proliferation of corrupt Western culture, calls for democratic governments, demands that women be educated—all were abhorrent to him and therefore to Allah.

“All Muslims must join in our fight against America and its satanic alliance with the sons of Zion and worshippers of the Cross,” he declared in weekly messages his followers posted on Internet jihadist sites. “Any Muslim who is physically able to join us but refuses is no different from an infidel and will suffer the same fate. Death!”

The Falcon typed three words—
Await my orders
—on his keyboard in the Land Rover's backseat and hit send. The message was encrypted and traveled through multiple relays to protect it from being intercepted and deciphered by Western intelligence.

Shutting his laptop screen, he said, “Two of our fellow fighters have achieved martyrdom. Unfortunately, they failed to kill the American president. But Allah's wishes will not be denied. The president will be dead soon and the Great Satan will be brought to its knees.”

He put his laptop aside and opened a satchel at his feet. Taking a twelve-inch-long knife from the bag, he asked, “Is everything prepared?”

“Yes,” the jihadist replied.

Six Coptic Christians were waiting for the Falcon on the shoreline in orange jumpsuits.

“Do you know why we behead our enemies and post videos on the Internet?” The Falcon asked as the two of them exited the SUV.

“They are infidels, our enemies.”

“Tell me,” the Falcon said, “do you know the group Jama'at al-Tawhid wal-Jihad?”

The jihadist shook his head, indicating no.

“The Tanzim Qaidat al-Jihad fi Bilad al-Rafidayn? Or the Mujahideen Shura Council?”

“No,” the jihadist replied. “I arrived from England only three months ago through Syria and am unfamiliar with those names.”

The Falcon said nothing. He did not explain that the groups he'd named were earlier versions of the Islamic State (ISIS).

Why had his young protégé not recognized those earlier incarnations? Because they had never achieved the worldwide notoriety that ISIS had the moment its members beheaded a Western journalist. A religious war needed a steady stream of believers willing to die, and while most Westerners had been appalled by the beheadings, others wanted to join the Islamic group that formed the tip of the Islamic spear.

“Why haven't you asked me?” the Falcon said as he and the jihadist approached the captured Coptic Christians. “When I removed my knife, you saw
their
book inside my satchel.”

“Yes,” the jihadist replied. “It's blasphemy. Pornography.”

“You have not read their Book of Lies, have you?”

“I would rather gouge out my eyes.”

“In the West we are considered ignorant savages,” the Falcon explained. “They believe we are uneducated, even though many of us have graduated from their best schools in England and the United States. They believe we don't understand how democracy works, otherwise we would choose it for ourselves. They believe we are unfamiliar with their freedoms, otherwise we would embrace them too. But they are the ignorant ones. They are arrogant. We know all about their Western democracy and we
choose
to reject it. We know all about their freedoms and we reject them. This is not ignorance, it is enlightenment. We believe in Sharia law as delivered by the Prophet, blessed be his name. We do not need their false teachings. We live by his teachings.”

The Falcon stopped walking so that he could look into the eyes of the jihadist with him.

“Their Book of Lies contains a story. A king named Sisera is fleeing from his enemies when he comes upon a tent where a woman named Jael lives. She offers him shelter. When he says he is thirsty and asks for water, she gives him milk. When he asks to rest on the floor, she makes him a bed with her finest blankets. She tells him if his enemies come to her tent, she will send them away. King Sisera falls asleep. And when he is snoring, the woman named Jael drives a stake through his head, nailing him to the ground.”

The Falcon glanced at the six Christian prisoners kneeling in the sand a few feet from them.

“We will not defeat our enemies fighting here in our lands. We must take the fight into their homes and onto their streets. There are many living among them who can be recruited to do Allah's bidding. The beheadings we perform this morning will show them our resolve. And they will be the servants of Allah who will drive a stake into the heads of those who trust them when they go to sleep. We will use Americans to defeat Americans.”

The wind grew stronger. Sand began pelting their faces. The Falcon stepped behind the first prisoner, glanced at the camera filming him, and lifted his knife.

A coffee shop

Falls Church, Virginia

I
sn't that terrible?” asked the fifty-something woman serving him coffee and a bagel.

The customer seated in a corner booth at the Bean & Bagel eatery seemed confused by her question.

“The front page,” she said, nodding at the morning newspaper that he was reading. “Yesterday's attack on the president—the woman who burned herself and her husband who blew himself up.”

“Oh,” he replied. “I was reading the sports page.” He put down the sports section and glanced at the front page that he'd laid aside on the tabletop. A photograph showed people on Wisconsin Avenue bloody and despondent moments after yesterday's explosion.

“The radio said they were from Minneapolis,” the waitress said. “They were Muslims, but born here. Can you believe that!”

“Somali Americans,” he replied.

“You can't trust them even if they was born here. If they don't like our country, they should go back to wherever they're from.”

He reached for the white plastic knife she'd brought and used it to spread butter on only one half of his toasted bagel. He put both halves together so it would melt between them.

“I knew you were going to do that.” She beamed. “You come in here every Friday and always order the café misto with a cinnamon raisin bagel. You only butter one side of the bagel. You're Mr. CM/CR.”

“Mr. CM—who?”

“We don't like to ask customers their names because we don't want to pry, but we recognize regulars by their orders. That makes you the Friday café misto with a cinnamon raisin guy or CM/CR. Get it?”

“An acronym.”

“Yep, it's just like we never say the Bean and Bagel, it's always the B and B.”

“My name is Don,” he said, smiling for the first time. “What's your name, or do you go by an acronym?”

“Rhapsody, and sometimes I wish I did go by an acronym. Everyone says it's a stripper name, but it's not. My parents were musicians.”

“Rhapsody,” he repeated. She was too heavy set and a bit aged to be a stripper, he thought. “Well, Rhapsody, maybe next time I come in, I'll order something different. I'm not terribly fond of being Mr. CM/CR.”

“Oh, don't you worry none. I'll tell everyone you're Don. We like to think of the B and B as a family. So tell me, Don, do you live around here?”

“No. I'm a regional manager for a software company and this area is part of my territory. I just happened to stop in one Friday and really enjoyed your bagels. I'm hooked now.” He raised his hands as if he were surrendering and chuckled.

“That explains why I only see you on Fridays,” she replied, “'cause you're just passing through town. And yes, our bagels are good.” She slapped her thighs, adding, “Too good! We make them every morning fresh, or, I should say, Carlos does. I couldn't get up at four a.m. and come in here to boil bagels. Anyway, Don, it's nice to put a name with Mr. CM/CR.”

He watched her return to the B & B counter. He really had enjoyed eating their bagels. He would miss them. Don wasn't his real name and he wasn't a regional software manager who just happened to pass through every Friday. He'd chosen the B & B because it was near the commuter route that he traveled into D.C. Had anyone been following him, his stopping here would not have seemed suspicious. It was convenient, but also far enough from his home and office that it was doubtful he'd bump into anyone who recognized him. He'd assumed that he wouldn't be noticed nor remembered. Rhapsody had proven him wrong. He'd become a “regular.” Mr. CM/CR and now Don.

He took a bite from his bagel and was reminded of how dangerous habits could be—the simple act of him buttering only one side of a bagel, placing the exact order each visit, arriving every Friday morning had made him familiar. He'd gotten sloppy.

He glanced at the large blackboard behind the cash register where the B & B's daily specials were posted in chalk. While he enjoyed the bagels, it had been that blackboard that had drawn him here for the past several months. He'd checked it every Friday, and today—the day that Rhapsody had identified him—he'd finally seen a purple happy face in its lower right corner.

He let his eyes sweep across the coffee shop. Two customers were placing orders. Both were men wearing navy blazers and khaki pants—the unofficial uniform of federal workers. A college-age woman was answering e-mail on an electronic tablet nearby while sipping an espresso. An older couple was eating breakfast pastries near the entrance. A young man wearing denim jeans and a red Washington Nationals T-shirt was speaking too loudly on his cell phone while pacing near the counter waiting for his to-go order.

Any one of them could be watching him. No federal investigative agency ever sent one person to shadow a suspect. They dispatched dozens. Each would be dressed to blend into a crowd, much like the customers around him. But his gut told him these people were nothing more than what they appeared to be: ordinary Americans.

In addition to Rhapsody, there were three baristas filling orders behind the shoulder-high counter and array of stainless steel contraptions. Steam hissed from one device. He took note of the cashier. She was probably in her late twenties and was wearing a drab green hijab. He guessed she was Palestinian, possibly Syrian, but those were merely hunches. She was not wearing a wedding ring, but many married Muslims didn't wear them. He had never said anything to her other than telling her his drink and bagel order, but he felt certain that she was the contact who had drawn the happy face signal on the blackboard. He had once noticed chalk residue on her fingers when she had taken his order.

She would not know which of the morning customers at the B & B would be watching for the purple smiley face. She probably didn't even know what it meant. She would simply be told what to draw and when to post it.

The man returned to reading the sports page. Even if Rhapsody had not identified him as a regular, this visit would have been his last. Once a signal was posted, a new location had to be found.

He ate his bagel leisurely and when he finished, he folded his newspaper under his arm and disposed of his empty coffee cup and paper plate in a trash dispenser as he exited.

Rhapsody noticed him leaving. “Bye, Don,” she hollered in a cheerful voice. “See you next Friday!”

He nodded while glancing around to see if any of the customers there appeared to be watching him. None was. Still, he couldn't be certain. If they were following him, they would have been skilled enough to not tip him off by staring at him.

As he stepped out to the parking lot, he checked his surroundings. No joggers in sight. No one walking a dog or loitering.

His Ford Fusion was parked at the back of the lot near a tall cinder block wall and the B & B's forest green trash dumpster. As he strolled toward the sedan, he spotted a crumpled white bag from a McDonald's fast food restaurant lying on the asphalt at the base of the commercial dumpster. Someone had dropped it there, possibly throwing it like a pretend basketball toward the container's open mouth and missing. He stooped down and picked up the litter, which he dropped, along with his morning newspaper, into the trash bin. Had anyone been watching, they would have assumed he was simply being a good citizen.

If the FBI was going to arrest him, now would be the time. But no cars came shooting forward to pin in his sedan and block his escape. No badge-flashing agents came darting from the B & B. Nothing. He climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove away.

About ten minutes later, he pulled into a shopping mall's crowded lot and parked. He removed his laptop from his briefcase and inserted a thumb drive. The drive had been taped to the bottom of the crumpled McDonald's bag that had been discarded at the base of the B & B dumpster. He had discreetly palmed it when depositing the bag and his newspaper into the trash container.

He typed a series of passwords, unlocking the device.

A photograph of an attractive black woman appeared on his computer screen. U.S. Marine major Brooke Grant. A series of subsequent photos showed her with a white teenage girl, identified as Jennifer Conner.

The thumb drive contained maps and more detailed information about them. He studied the drive's contents before deleting the files. Stepping from his car, he walked to the back of the Ford, where he bent down to inspect one of its rear tires. He ran his hand over its tread, as if he were checking it for nails, and while doing so, slipped the thumb drive between the tire and pavement. Returning to the driver's seat, he put the transmission into reverse and backed over the thumb drive, crushing it.

A loud blast from a car horn caused him to jam on the brakes. He'd not noticed a white Lexus SUV speeding toward him. The woman driver jabbed a finger at his parking spot, indicating that she wanted to take it. He waved apologetically and drove toward the lot's exit.

“Did you notice the plates on that car?” the woman passenger in the Lexus asked her friend. “That's a government-owned car. He's a federal worker. What's he doing shopping in a mall when he's supposed to be working?”

“We should've written down that license plate and called his boss,” the driver replied.

Neither of them noticed the smashed thumb drive on the pavement as they walked from the Lexus toward the mall.