Terminal Rage (17 page)

The helicopter rose vertically in the sky. Smythe tried to see if Sobhy had gone back inside the prison to deter any possible interception as he had asked of him. But the mini-sandstorm the helicopter had stirred had reduced visibility to zero. Within a few seconds, The Devil
’
s Throat
was dwarfed in scale as it transformed into a mere aerial view.

In the chopper, Smythe explained to the crew what had just happened below, as the Delta Force operators looked at him with what appeared to be growing admiration. Even though Delta Force was instrumental in assisting the FBI to set up its own Hostage Rescue Team in 1983, over the years, a spirited competition had grown between them. But that sibling rivalry was for now suspended inside the helicopter. The crew chief and gunner of the Knighthawk, who had clearly never seen any live action, listened with wide eyes as Smythe alerted them of the possibility of an intercept in the next five minutes.

Smythe felt Nabulsi
’
s hand on his shoulder trying to get his attention in the midst of the excitement.

“Are you really going to set us free? Or will you take us to Guantanamo?”

“Look me in the eyes, Mr. Nabulsi, because I
’
ll only say this once. Someone out there has authorized you to be set free. And my job is to get you both to your final destination safely.” He turned his attention to the pilot, who was describing their trajectory to the airport.

Smythe kept a discreet eye on the Jordanians, who were oblivious to his command of Arabic. Nabulsi held his hand out and looked to the sky to pay tribute to his maker. “
Alf hamd we shukr leek ya rab! Alf hamd we shukr leek ya rab!
” He let out a deep sigh and glanced at Madi, who was mute as a mouse and a hair away from fainting. Nabulsi shook his hand and hugged him.

“
Mu oltelak ana men set seneen enohom ma rah yetkhalu ana? Mu hayk ana oltelak?
” Smythe didn
’
t flinch to avoid raising their suspicion. Nabulsi was reminding Madi how six years ago he had assured him they would never be abandoned.

It was one of the Delta Force men who first glimpsed the tiny Egyptian helicopter on the horizon even before the Knighthawk pilot confirmed it.

“We have a fast-approaching bogey at eleven o
’
clock. A Black Hawk.”

Instinctively, the gunner armed the Hellfire missiles and clutched the trigger waiting for further instructions.

“Black Hawk, Black Hawk. This is Knighthawk 4-3-2 of the Multinational Force and Observers. We are authorized to fly over this airspace by order number Alpha-Bravo-Oscar-Lima-0-6-1-1-2-0-1-1, issued by the Egyptian armed forces. We are cleared to land at Hotel-Echo 2-6, Wadi Abu Shitat airport in under eight minutes. Please identify yourselves.”

The crackling of the radio and the ensuing silence was instantly ominous.

“Black Hawk, Black Hawk, please identify yourselves immediately. You
’
re coming in awfully tight.”

Nothing. The pilot turned to Smythe. “Your call, sir.

“What
’
s our response time if they fire on us?”

“Nil, sir. They
’
re too damn close. If they release a missile it
’
ll take us out. Whoever shoots first survives. That much I know.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This wasn
’
t how this mission was supposed pan out. He looked out at the Egyptian Black Hawk and pondered its unknown intentions. His eyes moved erratically between the unidentified helicopter and the young gunner
’
s hand clutching the missile trigger. He had to make a decision.

The captain spoke again. “Agent Smythe. Now or never.”

The Black Hawk was no longer just a dot on the horizon, but a clearly visible foe in the sky with the potential of ending their lives in a few short seconds.

“Try one last time.” Smythe was pushing their fate to its limit. Large beads of sweat trickled from his forehead down his shirt collar.

“Black Hawk, Black Hawk. We intend you no harm, please identify yourselves.” Nothing again. No response from the oncoming aircraft.

Smythe took a deep, resolute breath. His heart was sprinting at a million beats a second.

“I hate this fucking job.” He put his sunglasses on and looked away. “Take them out.”

The voice of the Egyptian pilot breaking the silence in the aircraft breathed life into Smythe. It was the most exhilarating thing he’d heard all day.

“Knighthawk 4-3-2. This is Black Hawk November-India-Sierra-Romeo 7-1-0, Egyptian Police, Department of Prisons. You are all clear to land at Hotel-Echo- 2-6, Wadi Abu Shihat Airport. Apologies for the radio silence—we had another communication going on at the same time. With Major Sobhy. He sends his regards. Have a safe trip.”

Smythe dug his face in his hands and exhaled far more air than he would have thought his lungs could store. The Black Hawk changed direction and before long disappeared from the sky.

FIFTEEN

Sunday, November 6, 2011, 3:02 a.m.
Manhattan, New York

B
lackwell paced around with fire in his belly. He looked at his watch every few seconds, all too aware they were just an hour away from Seth
’
s first deadline at four a.m. If his demands were not met by then, he would kill four hostages every ten minutes until five a.m., after which he would kill everybody else.

Images of Albert Voss on his knees, begging for his life before being shot in cold blood shredded through Blackwell
’
s heart. Four good men executed in the line of duty. How were they ambushed? Seth was calm and composed when he killed them. There wasn
’
t an ounce of remorse or guilt in his voice after he did it. He
’
d shown them he didn
’
t just talk about his threats, he made true on them.

Delusional, that
’
s what Blackwell had been when he
’
d hoped Seth sparing the daycare in Detroit would set the tone for the rest of the operation—bloodless. But now, somewhere in Virginia or Maryland or DC, four women were about to get the call that every FBI spouse has been dreading since the first special agent was killed in 1924: “We regret to inform you that your husband has been killed. He died valiantly in the line of duty to protect other innocent lives. He joins the rank of the few dozen agents the FBI has lost along the years. While his valor will be acknowledged in public, due to the sensitive nature of the operation, the Bureau cannot reveal any details about the circumstances of his death.”

Blackwell made an effort to stop tormenting himself with thoughts of things he couldn
’
t control. Nishimura was back chewing that damn gum as if nothing had happened. He remembered a time when he too was able to accept death as a normal part of this job. He was young and callous and stupid back then. But he
’
d been away for too long now, and couldn
’
t do this anymore.

Eddie Grove sat a few chairs away from Nishimura, his boot-clad feet on the conference table and his notebook on his lap. Even though he seemed to be the coolest customer in the room, he too was now obsessively glancing at his watch as the minutes to the deadline ticked away.

Vlasic, who had been on the phone for most of the past hour whispering with Benny Marino, was also tense. Back in the day, she used to smoke, and if she still did, she must have been dying for a long satisfying drag to take the edge off.

Robert Slant dashed in, phone in hand and laptop under his arm, hardly able to contain himself. Blackwell only just realized Slant and Natasha Shaker hadn
’
t been in the room for at least a few hours. Slant
’
s eyes were gleaming. He turned to Monica, who was still on the phone. “I have something.”

Vlasic signaled him to sit down and promised to cut the call short.

Blackwell turned to Slant. “What
’
s up?”

Eddie Grove raised his eyes just a few degrees, put his feet down and stopped typing.

Slant dropped in his chair between Nishimura and Grove and placed his phone and laptop in front of him. His feet started tapping
on the floor rhythmically as if they had a life of their own. He grabbed a pen and began twirling it between his fingers while his other hand tapped on the table in perfect sync. Nishimura stopped chewing his gum and stared at Slant. And Grove did the same.

Blackwell
’
s eyes burned through Vlasic impatiently.
Hang up the damn phone and let
’
s hear what Slant has to say.

When she was done, she strode back to the table. “Where the hell have you been, Bob?”

“Iyad Malki.”

“He had
what
? Who? What are you talking about, Slant?”

Nishimura came to his aid. “Iyad Malki is the Iraqi suspect on the MI5 list. He
’
s the third guy who was in contact with Prince Omar Al Seraj back when he was a student in London—the only one of the three on that list who is still unaccounted for.”

Slant observed Nishimura with admiration, as if he was noticing his existence for the first time.

“Exactly. We have a solid lead.”

Vlasic moved closer, sat down, then motioned to Blackwell. “Sit down, Alex. Go ahead, Bob. What do you have for us?”

“A couple of years ago, the German Bundeskriminalamt ran a joint week-long training event in Wiesbaden, which I attended. One of their senior agents, Oliver Fruehauf, spoke there. He specialized in refugee communities living in Western Europe.”

Vlasic
’
s eyes widened. “I remember
that training week. I had been called back to DC for training and couldn
’
t make it.”

“Fruehauf spoke about how the profiles of Iraqi refugees trickling into the UK had changed drastically by the late nineties. It wasn
’
t just the wealthy liberals and disgruntled Shiites anymore.
Young, radicalized Sunni Islamists, many of whom had active ties to Al Qaeda were also slipping in with less than honorable intentions. But after 9/11, these guys couldn
’
t operate under Britain
’
s tough new antiterrorism laws. So they were on the move to more lenient places like Scandinavia or Germany.”

“We checked all over Europe for Iyad Malki and found nothing,” Blackwell said.

“Yeah, but here
’
s the thing—many Iraqi refugees trickling into Germany from the UK changed their identities. The Germans were running a blind scheme that would make it impossible for anyone to trace these guys back.”

That didn
’
t sound very intuitive or smart for a law enforcement agency, Blackwell thought.

“And why would the Germans do that?”

“According to Fruehauf, many of those hardcore Iraqis had fled Saddam
’
s persecution. A new identity protected them from the Iraqi secret service. Some of the best intel on Iraq came from these guys. Even the most radical of them were rooting for the same thing we all wanted—the quick demise of Saddam
’
s regime.”

“Surely the Germans kept a record of their original identities anyway?”

“Alex, you need to remember that we
’
re talking about the dying days of the Saddam regime. The Europeans were spooked by Bush
’
s saber-rattling and were desperate to avert another war in the region. The Germans knew that leaving a paper trail linking these guys to their old identities could expose them to the Iraqis and end a valuable source of intelligence. They were hoping for a quick, bloodless coup or someone to assassinate Saddam, but not full-blown war.”

Blackwell pressed on. “So how did they implement this identity-change scheme, anyway?”

“The Germans issued preconfigured identity packages within the right age groups and ethnic backgrounds, and then had the Iraqis who wanted to opt in pick one at random.”

“Like out of a hat?”

Slant stopped for a beat as if to conjure a mental image of that before responding. “Yeah, something like that. The packages had German notarized foreign birth certificates and letters of approved refugee status. The Iraqis used these identities to start new lives—get jobs, apply for driver
’
s licenses, open bank accounts, and eventually become full German citizens.”

Blackwell was still skeptical. “And the Germans willingly
relinquished knowledge of their original identities?”

“The Germans didn
’
t want to give up that information
,
but they knew they couldn
’
t do it transparently—again, to stay a step ahead of Saddam
’
s goons.”

“So how
’
d they get around it?”

Slant smiled as if he
’
d been waiting for someone to navigate to this point of his story.

“They protected the information under seal with the highest office in the land, the office of the Bundespräsident—the German president. Although his role is mainly ceremonial, it
’
s also nonpartisan and therefore immune to political pressure. The idea was that if one of these guys ever got in trouble with the law, the investigating agency could, at its discretion and as part of its criminal checks, access that database of changed identities. It
’
s not a standard part of criminal checks across Germany. Only those in the know were aware of it. And to access that information they need a subpoena from a federal judge.”

Blackwell had understood. “The information on the changed identities was not available electronically at the local or federal levels—that
’
s why when we checked with the Europeans for Iyad Malki and his known aliases across Europe, nothing came up.”

Vlasic jumped on that. “How soon can we get a subpoena from a federal judge to find out Malki
’
s new identity?”

“Best-case scenario—if the president gets on the phone right now with the chancellor and asks her nicely, maybe a day or two.”

“We don
’
t have that kind of time.”

“We don
’
t need that time, Monica.” Slant was smiling like the cat who knew something nobody else did.

Vlasic fired him a dirty look as if to say, cut to the chase. Her voice was terse. “Why not?”

“Because I tracked down Oliver Fruehauf. I
’
ve been on the phone with him for the last hour. He told me this identity-change scheme only lasted a few years, and officially ended with the fall of Saddam.”

Blackwell rolled his eyes up to access his memory banks. “So—2003, right?”

“Yes, which means at best, only a few thousand Iraqis changed their identities since the scheme started in
’
ninety-nine. Of those, only about four or five hundred were migrating horizontally from other Western countries. And those coming specifically from the UK, about a hundred to a hundred and fifty.”

Nishimura looked up from behind his computer. “Iyad Malki was a student at LSE until
’
ninety-seven. MI5 lost track of him in 2002.”

“Exactly. So if my hunch was correct and he did slip into Germany and changed his name, it had to have happened between 2002 and 2003. And here is where it gets interesting.” Slant paused to get a sip of water. Vlasic could have strangled him with her impatient eyes.

“Fruehauf was managing the handling agents who were processing the Iraqis. According to him, even though the handlers were prohibited from finding out the new identities of the Iraqi dissidents, Fruehauf instructed them to breach
protocol, especially when it came to anyone with blatant jihadist tendencies. And to keep an unofficial log of who they were and who they
’
d become.”

That sounded sensible to Blackwell. “And it wouldn
’
t have been hard for a good federal agent to figure it out. Just follow their guys around for a while after they changed their identities. Check their mail, break into their apartments, or just ask the neighbors.”

“Bull
’
s-eye, Alex. Fruehauf was foreseeing a situation like the one we
’
re in today, where this information could come in handy and when the subpoenas would take too long to get.”

“Smart guy. Can he track down the handlers and get us these logs ASAP?”

“He doesn
’
t need to. Fruehauf is also a shrewd man. He kept a master log of all the jihadist dissidents for himself. It took him less than three minutes to check his book for me. Our guy now goes by the name of Mounif Ilham—Syrian-born, according to his new fake identity.”

Vlasic clutched her phone ready to pounce on this. “Where is he?”

“You
’
re not going to believe it. Right here in the good ol
’
US of A. He has a file this thick with Homeland. He came to this country in 2003 after winning the green card lottery and has been living in Palmdale in Southern California since 2004. Single, no kids. None that we know of, at least. He
’
s thirty-seven now and has done pretty well for himself. The American dream—jihad edition.”

Vlasic put her phone down. “What does he do?”

“He
’
s a contractor and works across LA county. He
’
s also an ardent follower of a hate-spewing cleric at the Lancaster Community Mosque. A firebrand Imam called Hassan Ghazawy, who makes Ahmadinejad look like a girl scout.”

Vlasic
’
s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged. “The
Egyptian?
”