The Insider Threat (21 page)

R
ashid read the direct message on Twitter and was astounded at al-Britani’s lack of security. Didn’t the man remember anything he was taught while working with Jabhat al-Nusra? Was the Islamic State so arrogant they no longer cared about operational compromise? How had Omar al-Khatami succeeded as long as he had with this example of leadership?

The message was succinct and to the point:
Attack delayed, possibly tomorrow or maybe the next day. Inside man’s work schedule changed.

Rashid put an email address from a service called ProtonMail into his direct message response. He ordered al-Britani to create his own account, encrypted end to end and anonymous, and send him a message tomorrow. He instructed al-Britani to set the encryption password for the body of the email the same as the subject line, which would come through unencrypted. It was a risk, as someone could conceivably crack the email with the hints given here, on Twitter, but they’d have to find the new account al-Britani created first, and ProtonMail—located in Switzerland—was outside the eyes of the prying NSA. Anyway, it was much better than talking over Twitter, and he would change the password after the first message.

He hit send, logged out of his Twitter account, then cleared the history of the browser. He stood and saw two police officers enter the café, sending a little shiver of adrenaline down his back. They went to the counter and bought time on a system, then walked behind him to a computer at the end of the row.

Rashid exhaled, realizing they were from the security of the US embassy next door, and more than likely just on a break.

Really need to find another Internet café.

He exited the dungeonlike shop, walking up the steps from the basement, leaving the gloom and entering the sunlight. He went down Rruga e Elbasanit, passing right in front of the United States embassy compound, threading through the local-national guards milling about. He kept his head down, and hid the smile on his face.

He took a left, going past the Tirana soccer stadium and leaving the embassy behind. Blending into the crowds, appearing more local than not, he continued on, looking for the small grocery/pharmacy his apartment was above. He saw the sign above the store and ruefully thought that at least the rejection of bringing his entire team had meant less rental space needed. Less coordination.

He’d convinced the leadership of Jabhat al-Nusra that his trip was to ensure the success of the Islamic State attack, but in so doing he’d cut off his ability to bring all the men he needed. After the crusader air strikes, he had five left who were fiercely loyal to him, and unquestionably lethal, but the al-Nusra emir had balked when he said he wanted all five.

Why?
he’d asked.
Why do you need all of them to fly to Albania? If you’re just making sure the transfer occurs successfully, from the outside?
Two will be enough to protect the transfer.

Yes, two would be enough to protect the transfer, but it made capturing Omar very, very hard. And there was no way he was leaving Tirana without Omar’s scalp hanging from his belt. Quite possibly literally.

He entered the small hallway next to the market and tromped up the stairs. Not wanting a surprise, he knocked on the door, paused, then twisted the key. He found his two men sitting at the kitchen table, looking at him expectantly. He smiled.

“So how did your day go? Did you find me another Internet café? One away from the crusader embassy?”

The first nodded and said, “Yes. Actually, there’s one about four blocks away.”

Rashid scowled, saying, “And you sent me to the lion’s den instead?”

The man recoiled, saying, “I . . . I didn’t know. I’ve never been here. I did the best . . .”

Rashid waved a hand, saying, “You did fine. I just don’t want to return there. How do we look for tomorrow? For the meeting?”

“We’ve both been into the garden. It will be hard. The meeting site is set back, in the glade, and there is no easy escape if we have to force a man to come with us.”

Rashid said, “We won’t take him there. We’ll follow to a more suitable location.” He saw the man had a further question, and said, “Yes?”

“Well . . . we were wondering . . .”

Rashid waited, but both were too respectful to talk. Rashid grew sick of the reticence. “What, Hashim? Damn it, don’t act like a woman.”

Hashim stiffened at the insult, then said, “Why aren’t we talking to the Albanians? You know the meeting, and you could contact the men. Why are we doing this risky operation? Just get them to put a gun on him.”

Rashid said, “That would seem to be easiest, but I don’t trust the Albanians. They are working for money. Don’t believe they have the faith, even if they’re Muslim. They would just as likely tell Omar what we planned.”

The second man said, “Why don’t we just kill him? Why do we need to capture him? We could shoot him from a distance before the meeting, then get the Albanians to give us the weapons. After all, they’re
our
weapons. They’re just holding them.”

“If all I wanted were the weapons, I wouldn’t even bother killing Omar. I’d just get them back.”

When neither man spoke, he continued, “The Albanians have no idea what Omar has planned. Only he knows that, which is why we will capture him. I want to know his plan, and, as I told our command, I want to facilitate its success. Only with our mantle. Our leadership. He will tell us what he’s doing, and we will deliver the weapon to his team. And then we will claim credit, as we are about to do in Jordan. We will be the undisputed leaders, regardless of the propaganda from that blasphemous caliphate.”

Hashim smiled at his words, nodding and looking at his partner. He said, “I thought so. I said as much to Kamal.”

Kamal bowed his head to Rashid and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question. We have the weapons you requested. We can do what you say. Insha’Allah, it will be done.”

Rashid said, “Look at me. Both of you.”

They did.

“Are you prepared to find martyrdom tomorrow?”

The both nodded, with Hashim saying, “Of course. It would be our honor.”

“Are you prepared to do so without accomplishing our mission? Do you want to meet Allah and tell him failure?”

Confused, they both slowly shook their heads.

Rashid stood, walking to the small kitchen and opening a bottle of water. He took a sip, reflecting, then said, “Allah will help us on our path, but make no mistake, He won’t protect us from the Chechen demon. I’ve met that man once before, and it wasn’t pleasant. Underestimate him, and you’ll meet the afterlife sooner than you want.”

O
mar al-Khatami said, “Destroy the phone we’re talking on as soon as we hang up. Use that email to communicate. Nothing else. Do you understand?”

He heard Jacob say, “Yes. It will be done. See you in four days.”

Omar said, “As-salamu alaykum.”
Peace be with you.
He clicked off the satellite phone he’d been given by Adnan, finding no irony in the farewell. He stared at the phone in his hand, considering. He had the meeting time and place, but this phone was the one link should anything change. It was the only way the Albanians knew to contact him—but now it was connected to al-Britani like a cancer, and Omar was sure, since he hadn’t called back, that the British fighter was dead.

Al-Britani had called him in a panic, shouting into the phone that he had been tricked and was moving the assault up immediately, then had said he’d call back later. That had been twelve hours ago, and he’d heard neither from the Brit nor seen any news relating to a spectacular attack in Amman. He had to assume the worst: The attack in Jordan had failed—or, thinking with the glass half full, the planned diversion had succeeded—which meant someone could be tracking this phone right now based on the last call al-Britani had made.

And Omar had seen what happened when the hated crusaders found a phone. He glanced unconsciously out the window, as if he could hear the vapor trail from the Hellfire missile.

The vision made the decision for him. He separated the phone from the battery, dropped it on the floor, then smashed it with his boot. If the Albanians changed the meeting time or place, he’d have to deal with it. Best case, when they couldn’t contact him, someone would show up to tell him the change. Worst case, they would have to reassess their attack plan without the special explosives and detonators.

The explosives were really the least of his worries. They were critical, but he could get other means of attack and still use the Trojan horse Jacob was building right this minute, but such planning would fail if he couldn’t trust Jacob. Al-Britani had said that Hussein was a traitor—and Hussein was a Lost Boy. In fact, he was the man who had recruited the entire team of Lost Boys now executing the mission in Venice.

That idiot Brit had killed Hussein in a rage, not even bothering to question him, so there was no way to know who Hussein was working for or what he had divulged. Maybe he’d simply been compromised by Jordanian authorities. After all, the entire purpose of the Jordan mission had been a diversionary attack designed to suck in the crusader’s intelligence apparatus and camouflage the primary mission. Maybe that had happened, but Omar couldn’t ignore the ramifications of the Lost Boys.

Carlos and Devon had embraced the strictures of the Islamic State much like the multitude of Western foreign fighters pouring into Syria, but Jacob was different. He’d shown commitment, but he had always been aloof. He’d sworn allegiance to the Islamic State, but had refused to change his name. He followed orders, but questioned them.

Omar thought about it, then decided such actions alone tended to show he wasn’t a traitor. If he were truly sent as a spy, if he truly intended to destroy the very attack he was working, would he act in such a manner?

Omar couldn’t see it, which made him turn back to Carlos and Devon. They acted as he would expect the traitor to act. Perfectly in accordance with the Islamic State. But they were also simpletons, showing no subterfuge or higher-order intelligence.

Jacob had sounded fine on the phone, asking about Hussein after he was told of the failed attack, but not overtly upset. He’d also detailed an elaborate plan to accomplish the mission, the pride at his work seeping through the phone. The target set had grown from just the group to some unknown female as well, a touch that sounded genuine.

But Jacob was smart. No doubt if he wanted to trick Omar, he would have woven a tapestry to cover his treachery. In fact, his nonallegiance to the Islamic State may be just that—a double-blind performance designed precisely to protect him from scrutiny, because nobody planning a traitorous operation would act that way.

Omar snorted at his own paranoia, rubbing his face in frustration. He was doing nothing but spinning himself into the ground, his theories sounding more like the rantings of a crazy man than a leader of all external operations for the Islamic State.

He wished he could travel to Venice to see just what Jacob was up to.

C
hris Fulbright hustled about his small room, moving one suitcase to the bed to get him access to the minibar. Right on the water on the southern edge of the island city-state, the Hotel Savoia e Jolanda was pricey, but still adhered to the Venetian rules of lodging. The room was the size of a postage stamp. Not that he’d be doing anything but sleeping in here anyway. He’d laid out cash from a tax-deferred mutual fund for his love nest, two thousand dollars dropped into a pay-as-you-go credit card. He’d pay the penalty to the IRS, but his wife would never know.

He popped a beer, not caring that it was probably twelve dollars. He’d find some way to claim it. Fax from the business center, Internet usage, something. After all, he was chosen for this excursion precisely because his company did business in Italy. For the boys, this was the trip of a lifetime, but for him, it was work. Well, he’d call it work, anyway.

His company had aggressively attempted to gain an entry into the European continent, and through his efforts, they’d found a possible Italian contract for their services. While the Italian company was based in Rome, the key player of that endeavor lived in Venice. The perfect cover for his planned tryst. A little work, and a little head.

He thought again about the gondola ride, and took a swig of beer, wondering if the boys could see through his excuse for tonight. Tomorrow was taken care of. The boys knew he’d be working all day, but leaving each night was a risk. He was still crafting his story when he heard a small
snick
under the door.

He saw an envelope on the hardwood floor, as if he were checking out. He padded over to it in his socks, picked it up, seeing nothing on the outside. He opened it, unfolding cheap printer paper stained with poorly reproduced images.

He saw the first one and collapsed on the bed, feeling his world sucked into a black hole.

He flipped through them until he came to a grainy picture of him kissing Christine on the gondola, the most damning thing in the stack. He felt faint.

Chris returned to the photo and thought,
Why, why, why? Who would do this? Why
did I
do this? What was I thinking?

Chris Fulbright was a comfortably happy forty-five-year-old man in charge of a small marketing department for a start-up company developing 3-D printers. Originally fighting tooth and nail for survival, they’d managed to cut a pretty good niche in the market, with foreign buyers wanting their services. Tax breaks in Florida had brought the company there, and he’d followed, believing in the inherent success about to be achieved. He’d worked hard, and had made a name for himself by landing the overseas accounts in Italy.

Now, all of that would mean nothing. He loved his wife. He loved his kids. He truly did . . . and then he’d met Christine, at, of all places, a Staples graphics center.

In a crunch for time, he’d needed to buy unforeseen posters for a launch of a product. His usual supplier had had no ability for a quick turnaround, and, in a panic, having run out of options, he’d walked into a Staples business store near his office. And seen Christine. Or, more correctly, had seen her breasts.

She was a community college dropout, fully fifteen years his junior, but she was vivacious and engaging. More to the point, she was interested in him.

They’d laughed at the similarities of their names, forming a connection that had led to a longer visit than his order took, and he’d then gone on his way, but he’d developed an itch. He’d found himself going back to that store more and more often. Eventually, he’d broached a date. Nothing but drinks, he’d promised. A little small talk, since it was closing time and all.

It had become a weekly habit, and he’d dared think about the next step. As a leader of the youth group in his church, he’d landed this sweet gig of chaperoning three altar boys over to Europe to meet the pope, and he’d hit upon a bold idea. A once-in-a-lifetime vacation for Christine, in a place where nobody knew either of them.

On their sixth “date,” having done nothing but enrich the same bar, he’d broached the trip. Surprising him, she’d agreed. Nothing was said explicitly. There was no overt discussion of payback, but in her acceptance, he knew it was understood.

He had intended to close the deal tonight. Break his marriage vows forever by dropping into the abyss of Christine’s lily-white breasts. Instead, he had a pack of pictures on his lap that would explode his world.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

He looked at the images again, and began focusing more clinically. Who would do this? They had a single competitor for their 3-D services on the European continent: a group out of Germany that had threatened them with all manner of European patent infringements. Because the technology was so new, it was open season, with the patents up for any number of attacks, and Chris had convinced the CEO that they were bluffing. But now it looked like they were playing hardball.

He crumpled the pictures on the bed, thinking of how he could extricate himself from the situation. Clearly, European operations were no longer in the equation. What he needed to do was ensure that the competition was willing to delete his transgressions. Permanently. A note accompanying the pictures gave instructions for a meeting, but nothing as to a demand. He’d have to determine that tonight.

He remembered Christine, but no longer felt any excitement. He only wanted to get her on the first plane back to the United States. At the end of the day, Chris was a married father of two. There was no way some copy girl from Staples could interfere with that.

He sent her a message saying he would have to delay their date tonight, and thought about just breaking up with her in the email, but he knew he couldn’t. She’d have questions, and he’d need to meet in person to answer them. He realized she might not take it well, and was another possible leak. At that thought, he put his head into his hands.

He sat on the bed for the rest of the day, alternately squeezing his fists until his knuckles were white and unabashedly weeping.