Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (71 page)

He knelt down next to Ma’mun, wiped the blood off his knife on the back of Ma’mun’s coat, retracted the blade, and stuffed it into his pocket. As he looked down at the pistol on Ma’mun’s belt, he remembered Craig’s words:
Just get me a weapon.

He unlatched the holster and pulled out a Desert Eagle 9mm pistol. It had some weight to it. He held it up and aimed it, just to get its feel. He then yanked the black bandana off Ma’mun’s head and put it on, hoping to blend in with the other men in the warehouse.

The most urgent question then entered his mind:
What next?
Ma’mun lay dead at his feet. If caught, Husein had guaranteed his own quick and brutal execution. The only option he had was to fight on. But he couldn’t do it alone. He needed Craig. He observed the eerily quiet room. It was time to move on. With pistol in hand, he slipped out the door, hoping to get to the basement undetected.

***

The video preparation was complete. The broken light had been cleaned up and disposed of, and everyone was in position. They would have to make do with one light—a fact that yielded constant harassment directed toward Yassif. Craig’s knees ached. His discomfort, however, was the last thing on his captors’ minds.

One large stage light shone on Craig, the three masked men, and the ISIS flag backdrop. If they had to have Craig announce their propaganda, he would milk it for all it was worth. His survival rested on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old Chechen boy. The glass shard in his hand was a last resort.

He had been digging the blade of the glass into the rope around his hands since he’d grabbed it. The muscles in his wrist and fingers were cramped almost beyond movement. Once free, he figured he’d be able to take out one, maybe two men, before they gunned him down. But it would all be recorded, and they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of sawing his head off as they had done to so many other unfortunate souls in their last seconds of life.

“Are we finally ready to do this?” the general asked the group as he paced in front of them. He sounded agitated and impatient. “Unbelievable! You would think this is the first video you people have worked on.”

Qadar manned the camera as Yassif stood guard by the remaining light they had. Craig shifted his weight between knees, cringing from the pain. Behind him, the three masked men stood together, like mirror images, with their rifles angled into the air.

“Where’s Adam?” Qadar said, looking through the camera viewfinder.

The general circled around, tossing another cigarette butt to the ground. “Adam! What are you doing?”

“Relax, I’m just getting my neckerchief on,” Adam said. He had changed into full military fatigues and was taking his spiteful time getting adjusted.

“It’s called a keffiyeh, you idiot,” Qadar said. “Hurry the hell up.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Adam said.

Qadar quickly stepped away from the camera, but the general put his arm out, blocking him. “Both of you stop it right now. Keep messing around, and you’re going to have answer to Ma’mun.” He glared at Adam. “Relative or not.”

Qadar stepped back behind the camera, shaking his head. He had never cared much for Adam—from his American name to his Western upbringing. He hoped to see him kneeling in front of their camera one day.

Adam put his black ski mask on and walked over to the set. Like the others, his mask had a long slit across the eyeliner. Uniformity was important down to the very last detail.

“Any day now, princess,” the general shouted. He was worn out and hungry, and the filming hadn’t even started yet. “Why did I agree to do this?” he said under his breath.

Adam moved into position right behind Craig and placed a gloved hand over the back of his neck. Inside, Craig seethed with anger, mingled with fear. Having sudden doubts about Husein, he continued to cut at the rope with as little movement as possible.   

“Is everyone ready?” Qadar asked.       

“I’m ready,” Adam said.

The three masked gunmen nodded.

“Hey!” the general shouted, causing Qadar to turn around. “I’m in charge, and I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

Qadar shrugged. “Whatever you say, General.” He wasn’t too fond of the old man, either.

“Are you all ready?” the general asked. Noticing Craig’s head drooping, the general yelled to Adam. “Wake him up!”

Adam smacked Craig on the back of his head. “Stay lively there, FBI man.”

“Head up and level, and eyes to the camera,” the general said, standing behind Qadar.

Craig lifted his head and tried to look as defeated as possible. Inside, however, he was exploding with anticipation.

“All right, we start recording at my command. Adam, remember your lines. And you, American. Start talking when I say so,” the general said.

He held up a finger and counted down. Qadar began recording. The general pointed to Craig with a forceful, thick finger. Earlier, they had taped the paper to the wall and made Craig read it again and again until he’d memorized it. The words were what he expected: sinister, twisted, and delusional. Now it was time for him to recite them. 

“My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen, captured in my home country illegally harassing innocent Muslims, detaining and torturing them. I am a part of the criminal cabal known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation which has, for the past century, terrorized its own citizens and others. I am here today to deliver a message to America on the part of the Islamic State. It is this: Your government’s domination of world affairs ends today. Throughout history, your government, duly elected by its people, have committed unspeakable atrocities against people of different…” Craig suddenly stopped, trying to remember the words.

Qadar looked up from his camera as the general watched with his mouth open.

“Uh…” Craig said.

“Stop!” the general said. “Stop recording.”

Qadar sighed and pressed the stop button on the camera.

The general stepped forward and shouted. “Unspeakable atrocities against people of different faiths and backgrounds for over two hundred years! Get it right or we’ll be here all night!”

“Maybe we can start from there and splice it together,” Qadar suggested.

“No,” the general said. “Have him at least say it through in one complete take before we start doing different cuts.”

Adam leaned down and held the knife in front of Craig’s face. Its sharp nine-inch blade glistened in the light. “Maybe you just need the right motivation.”

Craig stared at the blade with his non-swollen eye, saying nothing.

“Okay, let’s try this again. Go!” the general said, pointing.

“My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen…”

***

Husein walked carefully down the hall with the heavy pistol in his hands. He passed several darkened, unoccupied offices, getting closer to the warehouse floor, where he could hear several different televisions and see the shadowy movement of militants moving around at the eleventh hour.

He stopped before reaching the end of the hall. The door to the basement was across the way, and it would be nearly impossible to walk through the place without being seen. Some of the ISIS men would recognize him, question him, and most likely detain him.

              He peeked around the corner of the hall and looked out to the busy warehouse floor. There were about thirty men in all, their backs to him, eyes glued to the television monitors displaying the carnage of the day. Calls for war were being shouted by pundits as solemn news anchors offered a complete timeline of where and when the port attacks had occurred. Almost everyone was dressed in desert combat fatigues, similar to what U.S. Marines wore. Husein wondered where they had gotten such uniforms.

Months ago, he could remember hearing on the news that much of the equipment in the possession of ISIS was stolen from the American-backed Iraqi and Syrian rebel armies. It could have been the case.

He saw men walking around with cell phones to their ears, talking rapidly in Arabic, a language he did not understand. Bright lights from overhead illuminated the warehouse floor. There were large industrial machines everywhere and bins and bins of empty plastic bottles.  

The militants were occupied with their seemingly urgent tasks, with no apparent shortage of technological devices at their fingertips. What did ISIS want? Did they really think they were going to defeat the Americans? Although his own country was no paradise, there was no place, at that moment, he would rather be.     

              He didn’t dare stand there much longer. Craig was waiting for him. His legs froze in place, preventing him from moving. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. It was time to move. With one step, he walked out into the bay, open and exposed. The basement door was only about fifty feet away, near a plastics molding machine, but as he moved—eyes on the

ground—the door seemed farther and farther away.

***

Craig was on his third run-through. He had stopped halfway through the second time. Three paragraphs of rambling ISIS propaganda were not the easiest to remember and recite. Adam held the knife in Craig’s view again and promised to cut him if he messed up again.

The general slapped his hands together amidst all the grumbling from his crew. “Let’s quit the whining and do this already. The American is bound to screw it up a few times. But we’re close, I can feel it.”

For Craig, the issue wasn’t so much reciting the message verbatim, as was the fear that once he did, they would kill him. He knew how mock executions went. He had studied their videos before. Captives were convinced everything was just an act, a piece of propaganda. For when a person knows they are going to die, it’s harder for them to concentrate on whatever message their captors want them to deliver. ISIS 101.

Craig knew their game and was trying to make it as difficult as possible for them. No matter how many times Adam flashed the knife in front of his face, Craig believed they would not kill him until he delivered the entire message.

“All right, let’s try this again,” the general said, lighting up another cigarette. “Go!”

Craig recited the first part without issue, and then continued.  

“Your government’s crusade throughout the Middle East has murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqi and Afghanistan people, all through a misguided, imperialistic campaign of lies. You have since been at the forefront of the aggression toward the Islamic State, interfering with our affairs, which should be no concern of yours. Your day of reckoning has now come. You will answer for the crimes of your government, the atrocities of your people, and your wrongdoings against Islam, in a just manner as dictated by the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

Craig stopped. All eyes focused on him in anticipation. He was close to finishing. The general’s cigarette dangled in his mouth as he stared at Craig, frozen and waiting for him to finish. Instead, Craig began coughing. 

“Can’t I just do it?” Adam shouted out. “Why are we even wasting our time with this American? Let me say the words and let’s be done with it!”

The general stepped forward. “Because this is what Ma’mun wants. And what Ma’mun wants is what Allawi wants. Got it?”

There were no objections from the group. The general tossed his cigarette and spat on the ground. “Now from the top. Let’s go!”

***

Husein moved quickly across the bay, behind any machine he could hide behind, trying to remain invisible. No one seemed to take notice of him, but he didn’t want to look around to find out. He was close, the door was a quick sprint ahead, when suddenly a man he did not know walked out of a nearby restroom and made direct eye contact with him. Husein looked immediately to the ground and tried to walk past the man. His hand went to the pistol stuffed into the back of his jeans, and he went on, staying as inconspicuous as possible.

              A hand touched his shoulder, causing him to stop. He could barely bring himself to look up. When he did, he saw the stern face of a man with a chin beard, thick eyebrows, and glasses. The man spoke in Arabic as Husein stared blankly ahead. On a gamble, Husein spoke back in his native tongue. To his surprise, the man smiled and responded in Chechen.

              “You’re from Chechnya?” he asked. “My mother was from there. What part?”

              “Grozny,” Husein said.

              “Ah. Mother was from a small town. Argun. Are you Russian?”

              “No,” Husein said. He had always been taught to hate the Russians.

              The man looked intrigued. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ismael.” The man stuck his pudgy hand out.

              Husein shook it. “I’m Husein.”

“What are you wandering around for? There is much work to be done. Walk with me.” He grabbed Husein by the arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.

Husein resisted, thinking of the first name that came to mind. “The general requested my presence in the basement.”

Ismael stopped. “Hm. What would he want from you?”

“I don’t know.”

Ismael turned and pulled Husein around again, back to his original direction. “Let’s find out then. I don’t trust him, myself. Did you know that he was a former Shiite? They never change, if you ask me.”

Husein yanked his arm free, causing Ismael to stop. His face went from friendly to offended and angry in an instant.

“No offense, brother,” Husein said. “He asked for me and me alone.”

Ismael gripped his arm and pulled Husein toward him. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Let me talk with him.”

Husein swallowed. His throat had long been dry. He didn’t see any way out. He looked toward the operations area of the bay. The men remained fixed at their monitor screens. 

“Very well,” he said.

Ismael pulled him along as they approached the basement door, certain to surprise those involved in the production taking place downstairs.

***

“Can we do this sometime today?” the general asked in an exhausted tone as he leaned against one of the basement pillars.