Days of Rage (5 page)

Y
uri checked in with the four other Vympel team members inside the park, each situated at an ingress route to the meeting site. None had seen the target.

The park was fairly crowded and very large, making Yuri concerned that Vlad’s Nigerian had somehow slipped through, but he knew that was just nerves. It was highly unlikely his men would miss a six-foot-tall African in a Bulgarian park. Even so, he wanted to ensure there was no screwup. For the first time since the USSR had fallen, Yuri felt he had a purpose. A chance to make a difference.

He had been adrift for over ten years, striving to do what was right only to see his efforts wasted, watching the abuse from the leeches that fled the security services when the USSR fragmented, only caring about themselves and what they could gain from the carcass of the country he loved. He had thought he might be the last person who cared, until he met Vlad. A man who had a vision for the country. A man who understood the purpose of power, and was willing to do what was necessary to attain it. To do what he must to reestablish Russia in its rightful pantheon among the other global leaders.

After the successful ambush of the Americans, he’d reported back to Vlad, letting him know the surveillance effort was in disarray and the men he’d attacked were dead. Yuri had remained on the fortress road just long enough to confirm that the Ford had plunged straight down, exploding in a violent fuel-air ball of fire, incinerating the men inside.

They’d kept a loose countersurveillance eye on the remaining men of the American team, only pulling off when it was clear the horrific crash had overcome any attempt to remain in contact with the Nigerian. From afar, he’d watched the team frantically scale the hills attempting to get to the wreckage, clearly seeing the pain on their faces through the binoculars. He felt no remorse.

Back inside the military club, he’d expected some praise from Vlad, but the man had simply nodded and said, “On to the next step.”

Chagrined, he’d waited for his next orders. Vlad had said, “Have a seat.”

He did so, still not saying a word.

Vlad said, “The Boko Haram savage is named Usman Akinbo. The group is fighting the government of Nigeria, but with my prodding, Akinbo has decided to make the fight global. We wish to help them on this path.”

“Why? Don’t we have enough problems with Chechen terrorists? Why are we helping an Islamic radical?”

“We are not helping him. We’re helping ourselves. He has no idea who’s behind him. As far as that savage knows, he’s being assisted by any number of different terrorist groups.”

“But we
are
assisting him. He’ll be blowing up Russian interests soon enough.”

Vlad poured two shots of vodka, handed one to Yuri, then held his glass out for a toast. Yuri tapped the glass and waited.

Vlad said, “You need to think larger. More strategically. Akinbo will only strike once, and his attack will be the catalyst that ensnares the United States into one more quagmire war. The final one that will cause its bankruptcy.”

“I don’t understand. America has been burned from both Iraq and Afghanistan. There’s no way they’ll get involved in another war. Look at Syria. Ten years ago, the United States would have done whatever it took to cause the downfall of Assad. Now they watch from the sidelines while our own president manipulates them like a puppet.”

“Yes. You’re right. But Syria is all part of the plan. The Americans have refused—in their words—to put ‘boots on the ground,’ but they haven’t been properly incentivized. All it takes is an attack that will trigger a response. I told you there was a Syrian Shabeeha coming. He’s bringing a package of Sarin nerve gas.”

Vlad saw Yuri’s eyes squint and said, “Contrary to what the press reports, Syria isn’t giving up its chemical weapons.”

Yuri grimaced and said, “That’s great. Wonderful. Another country we’ll back until it bankrupts us. So how will this help?”

Vlad glared at the words, causing Yuri to backpedal. “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

The Impaler waved a hand impatiently. “Let me finish, child, before you give me your keen grasp of world events.”

He took a sip of vodka, then said, “Akinbo will release the weapon in the west. He thinks he’s on his jihad—which I guess he is—but the true response will be from America. The threat from Boko Haram will go from regional to global, and America—just like they did in Afghanistan—will be forced to invade Nigeria to remove the global menace. On top of that, the Americans will trace the tags from the chemical munitions. When it tracks back to Syria, they’ll invade that cauldron of violence as well, flailing about trying to stem further WMD leaks.

“We, on the other side, will ensure the fight continues for years, bleeding dry the American economy. The US will flood both countries with its army and state department, and all it will cost us is weapons. They will reach a tipping point. Just like we did in Afghanistan in 1989.”

Sitting on the park bench, Vlad’s final words still made Yuri smile twenty-four hours later. The chance to be instrumental in the great game was a breathtaking gift, something he had only dreamed about. No longer would he or his team hunt Chechens in a tit-for-tat pinprick war.

His earpiece chirped, bringing him out of his reverie. “Akinbo in sight. Headed in from the fountain. Five minutes out.”

Yuri left his position and moved closer to Vlad’s location. Seated on a plastic chair surrounded by old men playing chess and backgammon, Vlad blended in perfectly. With his worn clothes, he looked like any other geriatric killing time in the park.

Yuri settled onto a park bench ten feet away, but outside the concrete circle of board-game players. When Vlad looked his way, he twitched his head in a slight nod. Vlad gave no indication he even saw the signal, turning back to the chess game he was watching.

Akinbo entered the small circle of tables and moved to Vlad. He took a seat, and Yuri saw Vlad press a button on his lapel, turning on the microphone that allowed Yuri to hear the discussion, and in so doing, giving him early warning to protect his Control should the Nigerian do something stupid.

The radio was tinny in his ear, with scratchy static that spiked occasionally, causing him to flinch, but the words were clear enough.

Vlad: “I’m glad you could come here.”

Akinbo: “I’m not sure why I did. My leader sent me, but I’m not sure you are worth the effort. You are just as bad as the
kafirs
we fight in Nigeria.”

Vlad: “Your leader is wise. Take the help you can, regardless of who gives it. It’s how you win.”

Akinbo: “What help are you offering?”

Vlad: “You have been fighting for an Islamic state in Nigeria for years. Why have you failed? If your group is so strong?”

Akinbo: “The rapists of my country. You.”

Yuri heard what he thought was laughter, then Vlad continued.

Vlad: “Me? My country has done nothing but help the revolution. You mean my enemy the United States?”

Akinbo: “Yes. The United States. They keep the corrupt government in power. They prevent us from winning.”

Vlad: “Do you see how the United States operates? If you bloody their nose, they quit. Look at Lebanon, Somalia, Iraq, or Afghanistan. They don’t have the heart to fight. You hit them hard enough, and they’ll leave Nigeria to you. Can you win if that occurs?”

Akinbo: “Yes. Yes, we can. We have many, many supporters. But how will I bloody their nose? What can I do?”

Vlad: “I have a man I want you to meet in Istanbul. A person that has a very potent weapon. If you release this weapon in the west, it will cause them to react like a child touching a candle flame. They’ll leave the country to you.”

Yuri heard nothing for a long moment, enough to make him think his radio had failed. He moved his hand to the small control unit, then heard Akinbo say, “I would welcome such an opportunity, as long as you are telling the truth.”

Vlad: “I am. But there’s one thing you must know. You will become a martyr by using the weapon. It isn’t discriminatory. When you release it, you will die.”

Akinbo: “I am prepared for that. It was understood when I came here.”

Vlad: “You need to create a statement of some sort. Something to let them know it was Boko Haram that caused the attack. Otherwise, it will be a waste.”

Yuri was amazed at the duplicity Vlad was espousing. He was actually using Akinbo’s own vanity to accomplish exactly what he intended.

Akinbo said, “Of course. It would be my high honor to let the world know who caused the pain. I will make a videotape that my cell will release when I’m gone.”

Yuri saw Vlad hand over a package, then heard, “This is a new cellular phone. Throw yours away. It is undoubtedly being tracked. Along with that there are four different SIM cards. Make no more than five calls before switching SIMs. If you need to call family or friends, do so from a public phone.”

Akinbo took the package, but seemed reluctant. “I don’t want your electronic help. I can do this on my own. You give me the weapon, and I’ll perform the jihad.”

Vladimir said, “You
will
take the electronics, because without them you will be dead. I’m willing to help you, but I won’t do so just to see you fail. You work well in Nigeria, but you are in the real world now. And you’ve already had men hunting you. Why did you think you were ordered to the fortress in the mountains?”

Akinbo’s eyes grew wide and Vlad leaned into him. “You will do what I say. Do you understand?”

Akinbo nodded. Vlad slid across a passport, saying, “This has visas for Turkey, the United States, and Bulgaria. It is what you will use from here on out. The Bulgarian visa will also get you into any EU country.”

Akinbo nodded again, remaining mute.

Vlad tapped his hands on the table, then said, “I see you thinking, and that’s good, but know I’ve already saved your life once. Go now. I’ll call with instructions tonight.”

Yuri watched Akinbo collect his passport and phone, then waited until he was out of view before approaching Vlad.

He said, “That seemed to go fairly well.”

Vlad shook his head and said, “You can never tell with an asset. You want them to execute what you ask, but they have a mind of their own. Either way, we need to get him moving out of here before another American team comes.”

“You think they will send another?”

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

“What do you want me to do if they arrive before we evacuate Akinbo?”

“Do what you do best.”

R
etro gunned the drill, causing bits of sawdust and insulation to float down onto my face. I looked to the ground, but that was all I could do to escape the rain of dust, since I was bracing the table/chair pyramid we’d made so he could reach the ceiling.

He said, “I don’t know why we don’t just put in a Wi-Fi transmitter. This guy isn’t some super-spy. He’s not going to pick up a signal coming out of his room. He’ll just think it’s part of the hotel’s Wi-Fi network.”

“I’m not worried about the target,” I said. “I’m worried about the hotel. This
is
Bulgaria, after all. Past heart of the Communist empire, now the heart of the Mafia kingdom. I’m not taking any chances.”

He continued drilling and said, “Come on, Pike, hardwiring a microphone is a hell of a lot of work, especially one of these shielded ones. We’re not in the Kremlin.”

The microphone he was installing was made for serious covert usage, with all components protected from emitting any electromagnetic energy. I’ll admit that it was a little overboard, but we had no middle ground. It was the only wired device we’d brought. Everything else transmitted a signal. Much easier to emplace, but also easier to find. At least I knew this one would remain undetected.

We’d flown in early this morning, landing at the airport in the capital of Sofia and renting cars to come south to Plovdiv. It would have been much more convenient to land at the Plovdiv airport, but we were flying a Gulfstream IV, and I didn’t want to spike anyone’s interest this close to the target. We jokingly called the aircraft the rock-star bird because, well, that’s what rock stars use. It was a specially constructed piece of Taskforce equipment that could hold a large array of equipment hidden within its walls, and it was how we got the technical kit into Bulgaria that we were now installing. The aircraft was “leased” to Grolier Recovery Services, and was a pretty convenient way to travel, but sometimes it wasn’t prudent to brag about that luxury. Landing at Plovdiv’s small airport would probably get tongues wagging.

We’d checked into the same hotel as our target, and, through some manipulation of their computer system from hackers at homestation, managed to get a room directly above his. After scanning his room and ensuring it was empty, I’d placed Decoy and Blood in the lobby as early warning, and left Knuckles in the room above us, ready to help with the install.

Retro pushed the drill hard, causing the pyramid to sway. I braced my feet and stabilized it, while he slammed his arms into the hanging light to stop himself from falling. He said, “Are you holding this damn thing?”

I grinned and said, “Maybe we should have Jennifer do this.”

From the corner of the room, where she was preparing various beacons for operation, she snapped her eyes up with an unspoken question.

I shook my head at her, hearing Retro say, “Jennifer won’t do any better than me with your lack of help. I’m telling you, this is a waste of time. This hotel room looks like the set of
Three’s Company
. They won’t have any technical capability.”

I said, “Well, then you’ll fit right in,” bringing a smile to Jennifer’s face. Retro got his call sign because he refused to buy new clothes simply because the old ones were out of style. Thus, if a garment was still capable of performing its intended function, he kept wearing it. He looked like an advertisement from a 1980s Sears catalog. He did have a point about the hotel, though.

The Trimontium Princess was pretty utilitarian. Despite being one of the finest guesthouses in Plovdiv, the rooms were still
fairly outdated. The TV was an old twenty-four-inch tube, the thermostat apparently a decoration, and the bathroom fixtures antiques. But they did have Wi-Fi, so that was a plus.

Truthfully, that description was a little harsh, as the hotel was very clean and the staff did everything it could to please us. It was just a little tired and on the wrong side of the old Iron Curtain, but it still had a lot of life left. Jennifer, of course, loved every inch of it. Primarily because she loved anything at all that was older than her.

She’d wanted to start building our cover immediately, which meant going out and looking at UNESCO heritage sites, but I wanted to get a handle on our target first. She was correct in her intentions, but in this case, we knew the guy was gone and we needed to seed his room.

I’d read the dossier of the target on the flight over, including the pattern of life developed by Turbo’s team. Usman Akinbo was a leader in the terrorist group named
Jama’a ahl al-sunnah li-da’wa wa al-jihad
, but known to the world as Boko Haram, an indigenous Nigerian organization that was determined to create an Islamic government ruled by Sharia law. A familiar refrain heard in quite a few different Muslim countries, especially with the Muslim Brotherhood leading the charge of the Arab Spring. The difference here was that the conflict didn’t pit Islamic fascists against moderate Muslims, but against Christians. The northern part of Nigeria was Muslim, while the southern part—including the seat of government—was Christian. A volatile combination, and a microcosm of the global clash of civilizations, playing out here in a single state.

Given that, Boko Haram was different in another way. It was one of the most puritanical terrorist groups I’d ever seen. The name itself said it all: Directly translated, it means “Western education is sinful.” The members themselves believed anything coming from the West was an affront to God, and did whatever it took to counter that encroachment. Forget about “normal” whacko Islamic screeds. For them, saying the earth was round or studying the theory of evolution was outright heresy. Needless to say, their human rights record, including the treatment of the fairer sex, wasn’t that high on the scale. It hovered somewhere below Idi Amin.

Originally, the group was focused solely on creating an Islamic state and spent all its energy fighting the Nigerian government. It had no global aspirations, but, like just about every Islamic terrorist group in existence, it was now branching out.

The Taskforce had intercepted intelligence indicating that members of Boko Haram had coordinated with al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb, and were being recruited for attacks against Western interests outside of Nigeria. Because their nationality and ethnicity had much less of a chance of getting profiled for terrorism, the Nigerians were being wooed by the broader global terrorist networks.

Usman—whom Turbo’s team had given the code name Chiclet due to the size and whiteness of his teeth—was one of the Boko Haram men who had spiked interest. We didn’t know for sure if he was planning or coordinating an attack outside of Nigeria, which is why we had him under surveillance. Our mission was the same as Turbo’s: confirm or deny that Chiclet was a threat.

I heard the drill stop and looked up. Retro pulled out the bit and peered at his tiny hole. He keyed his radio and said, “Knuckles, see if you can feed it through.”

Ten seconds later a thin wire with a little bump on the end appeared, snaking out next to the plate that held the 1940s wiring for the hanging light. Retro extended the microphone wire just enough to go inside the plate, then seated the microphone with a bit of glue. He slid the base of the light back over the plate and screwed it down, then admired his handiwork for a minute.

I helped him down and he said, “I’m going for a sound check. When I call, go to each corner and count to five.”

I told him fine, then checked on Jennifer. She’d embedded two beacons, one into the Nigerian’s suitcase and the other in the heel of a pair of shoes, but was stymied with the third one.

She said, “I’ve got this last DragonTooth, but I can’t find anything to put it in.”

The DragonTooth was a beacon about the size of two quarters stacked together. It worked off a combination of the cellular GSM network and any available Wi-Fi node to determine its position, and would relay a location on a preprogrammed time. It wasn’t as accurate as a GPS, in that it wouldn’t give us a grid to within three meters, but on the other hand, it didn’t need to see the sky in order to access satellites like a GPS required. I could live with the greater circle of probable error; knowing the building Chiclet was in should be good enough.

The beacon was also disposable, and had its own self-destruct mechanism. When the battery reached a certain level and was about to be exhausted, it would use its remaining juice to fry the circuit board inside. Thus, if it was recovered later, nothing of its history would remain. With continuous use, the battery life was only six hours, and I needed to stretch that out. I’d programmed them to signal twice a day, which should give us about two weeks.

I said, “Don’t worry about it. Two should be good enough.”

She began packing our kit while I picked up a wand that registered the emanation of electromagnetic radiation from electronic devices. I climbed our rickety ladder and turned it on, seeing the needle jump. I said, “Turn off the light.”

She did, and the needle dropped to zero. I smiled.
Not going to find that bug without digging.

I began climbing back down and saw the needle jump again, a small spike that shouldn’t have registered among the wood and fabric of the table and chairs. I stopped and did a slow sweep with the wand. The needle spiked over the center of the chair, an old relic with faded, dusty upholstery. I looked below, seeing only the cloth covering and four wooden legs. I pulled the cushion up, finding nothing unusual. I bent down and looked closer at the fabric underneath. It too was faded, but there was something out of place. A little incongruity that had triggered in my subconscious. It took a second before it registered.

The staples holding the fabric to the chair were new.