The Insider Threat (10 page)

F
or the first time in his career as commander of the Taskforce, Kurt Hale sat to the side as Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, took a pounding. While he would have enjoyed the respite, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man, along with a hefty dose of skepticism as to why he was even in the room. Ali Jaafar Hussein, aka LEOPARD, was turning into a disaster, but it wasn’t a Taskforce problem. This was a mess for the congressional intelligence oversight committees, not for the principals of the Oversight Council.

President Warren shook his head in disgust. “How in the hell did he get from Syria to Jordan?”

Kerry said, “He flew. Some podunk airline from Oguzeli Airport in southern Turkey.”

The secretary of defense said, “How did that happen? I thought you were going to spread his name all over the place.”

Kerry said, “I did, I did. The point was to keep him from coming home. The no-fly list is for people traveling to or from the United States. I can’t help it if a two-bit commuter airline still using paper tickets let him go.”

Billings, the secretary of state, asked, “How did he get through immigration? If you told our allies his name?”

Kerry rubbed his eyes and said, “Once again, that was to prevent him from attempting to come home. To conduct an attack here. Getting out of Turkey from that airport required only a stamp because he has an American passport. I doubt his name was even run. Getting into Jordan required a visa, which he bought at the airport. He was let into the country, but our liaison alerted me, just as I asked. If he’d have tried to board an aircraft to the United States, he would have been stopped.”

President Warren said, “Why didn’t they detain him in Jordan?”

“Because I was afraid of the repercussions. They alerted me, and I thanked them. I couldn’t tell them he was a rogue agent, and I certainly didn’t want them interrogating him. After what happened in Afghanistan with the Jordanian triple agent, if Hussein had said one word about being a US asset, then about beheading someone in Syria, it would be on the world stage. The Jordanians would leak it sure as shit, and we don’t need those complications.”

President Warren said, “So what now?”

Cynically, Kurt wondered if the conversation had been scripted between the president and Kerry. Then realized why he was in the room, even if everyone else didn’t.

Kerry said, “Now we go get him.”

Billings said, “Inside Jordan?”

“Yes. He never reported, but he has information. He can give that up willingly or unwillingly, but he’s going to give it up.”

The SECDEF said, “If you’re going to roll him up in Jordan, why not just do it at the border?”

Billings said, “He’s already through the border, so getting him in Jordan is ridiculous anyway.”

“No, it’s not,” said Kerry, “We have an anchor. We know where his father works in Amman. That’s the only reason he could be in Jordan.”

The SECDEF said, “Then why not just have the Jordanians go get him?”

“The same reasons I said before. I want a clandestine hit. A Taskforce hit. I don’t want anyone even knowing he exists. I can’t do that with CIA assets. We’re too close to Jordanian liaison for an operation like this. Too many equities in play. I stand by my earlier words, but the fact is that we need to maintain our relationship with the Jordanians. They
are
a staunch ally, and we need their help in the fight. I want to separate this. Keep it clean.”

Kurt heard the words, remaining silent, but already calculating the operational parameters. President Warren said, “Kurt?”

He leaned forward and said, “I can do that. It’s pretty much a textbook operation, and Amman is an easy place to work. We’ve been there many times. As long as you guys are comfortable with me targeting a US citizen, I’m okay with it. It’s a gray line, though. I don’t want to hear any yelling after it’s done.”

President Warren looked around the room, then said, “He cut off a man’s head with a butcher knife. I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Kerry said, “You mentioned a team in Istanbul. I was thinking you could redeploy them tonight or tomorrow. Get them on the ground and start working. I’ll give you all the intelligence you need.”

Kurt nodded, thinking, then said, “Yeah, that would be quickest, but I’d like to keep them in Turkey. Their cover is working a natural gas pipeline contract, and that doesn’t translate easily to Jordan. I break them free, and I can’t get them back into Turkey. We might need to pull that trigger later.”

“So you’re saying you can’t do it?”

“No. I’m saying that Jordan has other unique cover opportunities. It’s full of old stuff, all over the country. I already have an established UNESCO world heritage site cover there, and I want to use it.”

Like he was spitting out spoiled milk, Billings said, “You mean Pike.”

Kurt smiled and said, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why him? I thought he was tied up in Nairobi. Surely there’s someone else.”

“There are a lot of archeological sites in Jordan. It’s perfect for his team’s cover. Get him and Jennifer in there, and they’ll have free rein.”

“Free rein to cause an international incident.”

Kurt bristled, and President Warren interrupted. “Enough. We make the Omega call, Kurt decides the operational parameters. So, is it Omega here?”

Kerry said, “Yes, for me. I think it would be best. The quicker we get Hussein under controlled interrogation, the longer we’ll have to determine the inside threats from the Islamic State.”

The president went around the room, and the Oversight Council raised their hands one by one, with Billings being the only dissenting vote.

President Warren said, “Looks like you’ve got your Omega. Get Pike moving.”

A
fter waiting much longer than he thought he would, Ali Hussein began to believe his father had decided to ignore him, which brought a sliver of fear. Ringo and his team were supposed to arrive from Ma’an tomorrow, and if he couldn’t deliver, he was sure he’d be discarded, his throat cut, left to bleed out in an unnamed village in the desert.

He glanced around the cavernous lobby of the Grand Hyatt, seeing a woman at the reception desk stealing furtive glances his way. Soon enough, one of the security guards manning the metal detectors at the door would ask him his business, then ask him to leave.

He stood up, thinking he’d go to the restroom just to quell the heat of the glares, when he saw a man coming across the lobby. He stared, trying to remember, peeling back layers of vague recollections from a lifetime ago. Trying to reconcile the person walking with a wrinkled, yellowed photo of his father taken fifteen years earlier. The only one he’d ever seen.

He thought it might be him. When the man looked him dead in the eye, he knew it was. He waited, shifting from foot to foot and running through in his head what he had come to call “The Speech.”

As he got closer, Hussein saw he was well groomed and immaculately dressed, with a pair of crossed gold keys on his lapel.

He’s the concierge. He never mentioned that in our emails.

Before they’d fled into the desert from the training camp in Syria, Omar had located his father and had had Hussein initiate contact. They’d emailed back and forth twice, but beyond Omar knowing that he worked at the Grand Hyatt—because that was the email address Omar had found—he’d never mentioned being a concierge. Which was both good and bad. Good in that it meant that his father had worked his way up from the bottom, and was valued by the hotel management, but bad precisely because he would hold his reputation before anything else.

The stranger stopped in front of him, and Hussein was at a loss for what to do. He tried a smile, which came out as a grimace, and his father said, “Ali.” The stranger stared at Hussein for a moment, overcome by emotion. He said the name over and over again, as if to convince himself it was real. “Ali, Ali, Ali, I never thought I would see you again.”

Then his father embraced him.

Hussein was shocked. He plumbed the depths of his memory, trying to remember anyone showing him true affection. He could not. Even the love he’d experienced with women had all been paid, either in dollars or drugs. He was unsure what to do, his arms in the air looking for a place to go.

His father drew back, holding both of Hussein’s shoulders at arm’s length. Hussein actually saw a tear in his eye. Unable to come up with anything else, Hussein said, “Hello, Father.”

Which caused another round of embracing. The entire episode was confusing to Hussein. He’d expected to cajole or beg, knowing that his father wanted nothing to do with him. After all, if he did, why did he leave so long ago? He had so many questions.

His father said, “Come, come,” leading him to a table in the foyer, away from the front door. “Sit, sit.”

Hussein did so. His father said, “How did you come here? How is your mother?”

“She’s in jail. Drugs. I haven’t seen her almost as long as you.”

The smile faded from his father’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.”

Hussein had a planned speech. A quick way to get what he wanted, the same act he’d used to get through most of his life. A plausible lie wrapped in a pit of treachery. What came out surprised him.

“Why did you leave us? Why did you leave
me
?”

His father glanced out the window, staring but not seeing the street beyond. Reflecting. He said, “I always intended to come back. I never wanted to leave. I was on a visa when I met your mother. She became pregnant, and I began to apply for citizenship. Then she became hooked on drugs.”

His eyes teared up again, and Hussein felt his conviction falter. His mission began to dissolve. His father continued, “I was a taxi driver. I made no money, and she began to burn through it all. I tried to get her out, but failed. Then, the terrorist attack in New York happened. The World Trade Center fell, and everything changed. She was arrested one more time, and my visa was revoked. They said I was involved in her crimes, then accused me of planning attacks against America. They threatened me with jail, and I saw the news about the detention centers in Cuba. They couldn’t prove anything, but I was so scared. They just deported me as a nondesirable. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t fight it.”

He began to cry, and Hussein rubbed his arm, reeling with the truth that obliterated all of his pent-up loathing. “It’s all right, Father. It’s okay.”

His father looked up and said, “I am ashamed that it is you who had to find me, but I’m proud at the same time. You are what I would like to be. You look good.”

Hussein laughed and said, “No, I don’t.”

“That’s true. You don’t, but you look good to me.”

They sat in silence for a moment, his father drinking in the visit and Hussein conflicted about why he’d come. Eventually, his father said, “So, what can I do for you?”

Snapped out of his thoughts, Hussein gave his speech. “I’m only here for a month. I traveled a great distance to see you, and I’ve used up all of my funds. I have a place in east Amman. It’s paid for, but I need work to live. I need a job.”

His father said, “Nonsense. You’ll come live with me. Leave that place behind.”

Which was the complete opposite of what Hussein had expected. He thought about it. Freedom, tantalizingly close. Then he remembered Omar. Remembered that Omar knew where his father worked. Knew everything, including how to punish.

There was no easy way out.

“No, no. I want to make my way. I want to work. I want to establish myself. Let me do this my way. All I ask of you is a job.”

His father leaned back and said, “I wish I could do that. I can give you my home, but I can’t give you a job. You are probably too young to remember, but terrorists blew up this hotel in 2005. I was working, and it was horrible. Since then, they’ve become very, very strict about hires. Background checks and everything else.”

“I’ll do anything. Clean rooms, maintenance, whatever. I’m not looking for a cush job. Just one that lets me survive.”
And gives me a key to a door away from the security.

He banished that thought as something to deal with later. When he could analyze where he was.

His father said, “It’s not the position. Everyone gets the same scrutiny.”

“But I’m an American citizen with a well-respected father. Right? Surely that counts.”

His father reflected for a moment, then said, “There’s an opening in the kitchen. It’s a cleaning position. You’ll have to spend your time scrubbing ovens and hauling trash out of the building, but I think I can get through the red tape because of the unique circumstances.”

Hussein said, “I’ll take it.”

His father patted his arm and said, “Let me get the applications. Help you fill them out.”

He left to gather the paperwork, and Hussein wondered again at his father’s love. Wondered if he had it in him to use that love to kill.

R
ashid al-Jaza’iri said, “Play the tape again.”

The man to his front clicked the digital button on the computer, and the conversation came out anew. A voice discussing a meeting, and another voice agreeing. The second man on the recording was the one that intrigued him.

He said, “That isn’t Adnan.”

“I know. We believe that Adnan was killed in a crusader air strike. Everyone is talking about it. Much like happened to us.”

The man speaking was an emir of Jabhat al-Nusra, and the one who had bankrolled, sheltered, and championed the Khorasan group. He had a direct line to the heart of al Qaida, and wasn’t someone to trifle with. Even so, Rashid—known as the Algerian—understood the respect he commanded. As Rashid was one of the few remaining Khorasan members, and a man who’d served faithfully in both Afghanistan and Syria, Jabhat al-Nusra listened to what he had to say. He’d fought valiantly on all fronts, but that wasn’t what made him special. Like many before him, he’d come from a European state, but unlike them, he brought with him some specific skills.

He’d defected from French intelligence, the highest-ranking man in any country to ever do so. He’d served in the belly of the beast of the DGSE—Directorate General of External Security—learning the dark arts, and then had decided to use those skills in the fight for Allah. He hadn’t been instructed in the ways of tradecraft and treachery at some camp serviced by camels. He’d been trained by the best, in a first-world country, and everyone knew it.

A fact he could now use, even as he was talking to an emir in Jabhat al-Nusra.

“So, this new man is the go-between to get the explosives we developed? He’s the new contact?”

“Apparently so.”

Rashid hit the play button again, just to be sure. When the conversation ended, he said, “What, exactly, is the Islamic State planning?”

“We don’t know. Only that it will be big. After our members were martyred, Adnan reached out, saying that he had an attack against the West, and could succeed.”

“Yes, yes. I know all of that. I’m the one that agreed. When it was Adnan.”

At a loss, the emir settled for “It’s still Adnan. The mission was already put in motion, with some Amriki that are without scrutiny. Completely clean. This man is the one who is leading them.”

“Amriki. Americans. It sounds tempting, but I’m not so sure.” He said it offhand, hiding his true feelings. Hiding his hatred. He needed to be convincing.

“Adnan called them the Lost Boys. They are undetectable. In fact, one is in Jordan right this minute. He’s planning an attack there, with some of our members.”

That picked up Rashid’s interest. “What members?”

“Remember al-Britani? The one who relishes being in the propaganda? Delivering justice?”

“Yes. I do. I used to lead him. He’s not that impressive. He fought when he had to, but spent more time in front of the camera after the fact. He has half the world chasing him because of it.”

The emir said, “Not this time. He’s in Jordan right now, and he has one of the Lost Boys with him. They’re planning a synchronized attack with the man you just heard. A significant blow that we can claim with the Islamic State. It will be our joining. Showing the world that our fight from the past is done.”

“Really? And why wasn’t I told about this?”

Rashid saw the pique in the emir’s face, and knew to back off. If only to get what he wanted.

“Because you were with the Khorasan group. Tasked with the very attacks they are conducting. Yet you failed.”

Rashid heard the words and felt the sting. He wanted to lash out, but he was too close. Too close to getting his hands on the man who had humiliated him.

Two years before, in response to al Qaida siding with Jabhat al-Nusra over a question of legitimacy, the Islamic State had declared them an enemy, slaughtering al-Nusra as easily as the regime’s soldiers in a vicious bloodletting that rivaled the civil war itself. Al-Nusra should have mopped up the Islamic State in short order. Would have beheaded all of them for their treachery, as they had the better men and skill, except for one soldier: Omar al-Khatami. The Chechen. Fighting for the Islamic State, he had proven to hold a battlefield prowess like none other—even the Syrian army—and had laid waste to huge swaths of al-Nusra terrain. The culminating point for Rashid was a battle in a village outside of Aleppo.

Terrain cut off, no supplies coming in, men beheaded or shot on sight, al-Nusra had collapsed, and Rashid had fled, escaping dressed as a woman, his face hidden by a niqab veil, his body cloaked in black. He’d been stopped at a checkpoint, and had known he was dead. The only question was how slow it would be.

Omar had interrogated him, searing his voice into Rashid’s brain. Omar had punctuated each statement with the blade of a knife, then, inexplicably, had left the room without killing him.

Lying in a pool of spit and blood, Rashid had feigned weakness, lulling his captors. When he’d seen a fleeting opportunity, he’d seized it. Using his skills and a healthy dose of luck, Rashid had slaughtered the guards holding him with a steel spring torn from a mattress, fleeing into the dark still dressed as a woman.

A shameful woman.

The rage that memory brought could never be calculated, and now he had the means to deliver retribution.

If only he worked this right.

He said, “Okay. Let’s give him the contact in Albania, but tell him the meeting is twenty-four hours later. Tell him we’ve had issues.”

“Why?”

“I want to vet him. I want to be sure he’s who he says he is. I know Adnan, but I don’t know this man. I’m going to Albania personally.”

The emir smiled and said, “That’s not necessary.”

“It is to me. I’m going. And I’m taking my men with me. I need support assets. I need passports and clean money. Credit cards and cash.”

The emir considered him, seeing the conviction, and said, “The fight is here. Now. If they succeed, they succeed. If they don’t, nothing has been harmed. Let them continue.”

Rashid nodded and said, “I have the skill to blend into the population. The intelligence training to evade the crusader net. I want to help him, and this is the best way.”

The emir pursed his lips and sat back. “You feel this is necessary for success?”

Rashid smiled, saying, “Yes.”

But he failed to articulate what he meant by
success
.