Traitor (33 page)

NCTC

Within one minute of the first transaction, Frankie’s phone rang, along with many others in the center.
Frankfurt
. A hotel near the airport was being pinpointed as the location of the transaction. Frankie contained her excitement. All of the card numbers on the watch list were not Nick’s. Some belonged to innocents whose purchases coincided with Nick’s. Three false alarms had already been triggered over the last few hours. However, this was the first transaction on the watch list of cards outside the US. Frankie was still rubbing sleep from her eyes when the transaction details came through. A business class seat on US Airways Flight 701 to Philadelphia leaving at 11:00 a.m. which she quickly realized was in just over three hours’ time.

Flynn was already at her desk. “Ramstein Airbase is just 80 miles away,” he told Frankie while simultaneously talking into his cell phone.

“We’ve got a Defense Clandestine team there and…” he stopped talking, once again focusing on what was being said to him on his cellphone.

Reid moved across to hear what was happening. She watched as Frankie’s screen opened to reveal a copy of an e-ticket purchased for “James Smith”.

“Holy shit! Result!” he grinned as he relayed his news. “There is a full Marine Special Operations Battalion on the base. They’re on a stopover on the way to Afghanistan. That’s about two hundred and fifty kick ass Marines ready and itching for some action!”

“Let’s just make sure it’s not another false alarm before we go starting a war in Germany,” said Frankie.

“James Smith is one of the most common names in America. It’s about the best pseudonym he could use.”

“As you said, it’s also a very popular name which means it’s more likely to be legitimate,” cautioned Frankie.

Flynn squinted at her. “How does that make it more legitimate?”

“If more James Smiths exist than any other name, statistically, it’s more likely a James Smith will book a flight than someone with another name,” she explained.

“But it’s also the reason you’d be more likely to use that name,” said Reid.

“Exactly,” said Frankie, confusing Flynn further.

“So what we’re saying here,” said Reid, “is that we’re both right. There’s a good chance it is Nick using the common name. But there’s a good chance it is just somebody with a common name booking the flight.”

“Clear as mud,” said Flynn. “Am I sending the troops or not?”

“How quickly can they deploy?” asked Frankie.

“The DCS team can leave now and are about 45 minutes away. The Marines a little longer but they’re already gearing up and prepping the Hercules. I’d say they’re an hour and a half, two hours max, to have the full force on site.”

Frankie turned to Reid who, in turn, looked up at the gangway. Turner was appearing from his office, having been awakened at Reid’s request. He joined them, rushing to catch up with the last few minutes’ manic activity.

“So what do you think? Send in the DCS team and hold the Marines until we’re sure?” he asked, looking for thoughts.

Two nods from Frankie and Reid had Flynn hitting the speed dial button and shouting, “Go!” into his cell.

“Do you think they heard you okay?” asked Turner, rubbing his ear.

“Sorry, but they were in the chopper with the rotor blades on.”

Frankie’s phone rang again. The second purchase had just been made. US Airways Flight 705 to Charlotte, North Carolina, departing 12:0 p.m. It had been made on another card, which had been purchased 1,500 miles away from where the first card was purchased. The chances of an innocent having purchased two cards at the locations Nick had withdrawn funds from the Jacques Guillon account were so close to nil they were inconceivable. Both flight purchases had been made on the same computer IP address, the Sheraton Hotel at Frankfurt Airport. The name was once again James Smith.

“That’s definitely him!”

“Or at least someone with one of his cards,” corrected Reid.

Frankie didn’t want to say it but she just knew it was him. She felt it. The fact that they were business tickets just added to her intuition. Nick wouldn’t fly first class, no matter how much money he had at his disposal. She had found him.

Flynn looked at Turner, who was still soaking in the relief that they had found him or least someone linked to him. However, he was of the same opinion as Frankie, something was telling him it was Nick Geller.

“What?” he asked the staring Flynn.

“The Marines?”

“Send the Marines.”

London,

United Kingdom

Omar woke up for prayers just before dawn. It had been a terrible night’s sleep. More accustomed to the North African desert, the sound of the air conditioner chilling his room, much like the clear desert skies, was unbearable. The unit rattled and dripped with such irregularity that it wasn’t even possible to follow its rhythm. With the air off and the window open, there was nothing more than the noise of passing traffic and the temperature building relentlessly to the point that it, impossibly, was far hotter than the day had ever been. Even without the heat, it seemed that every other person in the hotel had taken turns to bang a door in the hall or stroll along the corridors talking excessively loudly.

Whether he would have slept anyway was another matter. The excitement about what was in store for him would surely have kept him awake. He had been chosen to fight for Allah against the infidel. His courage, bravery and fighting skills had been rewarded, as had his faith in Allah. He was one of the select group that had proven their faith to Allah beyond all others. Only the truly faithful and willing to die for Allah without a moment’s hesitation had been chosen and Omar was one of them.

He walked down to the hotel lobby and entered the small business center where a number of computers were provided for customers. It was 6:30 a.m. UK time, 7:30 a.m. CET. He checked his email. He stopped himself jumping for joy when he found that he had been selected to take the fight to America. He was a Fighter not a Protector. His job was to take the battle to America and show the Americans the strength of Allah and the jihad. He wondered how we would have felt had he been a Protector, ensuring the Caliphate was created and protected after the fall of America. He would have been disappointed but still proud. He checked the screen again, the booking was there, he was definitely going to America. United Airlines flight UA35, departing at 10:45 a.m. for Los Angeles, the home of Hollywood, the home of the Muslim haters. Their portrayal of Muslims was abhorrent. He smiled. They didn’t know what was about to hit them.

He hurried back to his room and dressed in the Chinos and polo shirt that had been waiting for him on arrival the day before. The socks and boating shoes completed the look and Omar stared into the full-length mirror at a stranger. His beard had been removed two weeks earlier for his passport image. The whiteness of the skin underneath the beard had initially been covered with make up for the photo but after two weeks, the skin had blended to hide any evidence of a beard. Omar stared back at an infidel, not a proud Arab warrior, but not for long. The pretense would soon be over and, armed with his trusty Kalashnikov and as many explosives as he could carry, he would be taking the war, at last, to the streets of America.

It was now all about timing. His instructions were clear. He should remain in his room for as long as possible, minimizing his contact with the outside world. If he were to leave the room, it was only to be for a few minutes after 7:30 a.m. CET to pick up his travel details. Once at the airport, he was to proceed directly to his gate, keep to himself and not talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary. Once on board the plane, he was to take his seat, strap himself in and close his eyes as though he were sleeping. Sleeping, it was advised, was the best thing to do. Whatever the case, he should avoid interactions with other passengers wherever possible and under no circumstance should he acknowledge any other jihadist that may be sharing the same flight.

At 7:05 a.m. (8:05 a.m. CET), Omar found out why he needed to remain in his room. A knock on the door initially panicked him but when it was announced in hushed Arabic that there was a parcel to sign for, Omar opened the door. Omar accepted the parcel and opened it carefully. A small vial sat protected in a stainless steel case. Omar couldn’t have been prouder, he had not been chosen as a Fighter, he was an Infector. He was going to kill
millions
of infidels, not just a few hundred. He jumped about the room as though he had just discovered the last golden ticket and then remembered how fragile the vial was.

A small note described in detail how he was to administer the injection and when – the when being the most important. It was imperative for the safety of Islam that the injection be administered as near to his departure time as possible. He would be contagious within four hours of injection. The contagious stage must happen while airborne. Otherwise, the disease could spread across Europe and the Middle East and beyond. The details even described what he should do if his flight were delayed to the point that he would still be in Europe at the point of contagion. He read the detail but was sure that Allah would ensure it was not needed. Omar had a destiny that Allah had pre-ordained along with forty-eight other lucky jihadists who would share his honor in taking the virus into the heart of America.

Across Europe, the other ten thousand jihadists who would take the fight to the streets of America were discovering their fates, unknown to each other that they were all selected as Fighters or Infectors. Nick was leaving nothing to chance. He was taking every man who met his criteria into the battle. In hotels in Paris, Amsterdam, Zurich, Rome, Madrid, Barcelona among many others, those same ten thousand jihadists were preparing for their flights and a day that would see them immortalized in the history of Islam.

The UH-72 helicopter touched down as close to the terminal as possible while remaining out of sight of the public windows. It was on the ground for less than six seconds while the eight-man Defense Clandestine team disembarked. The UH-72, although slower and smaller than the UH-60 Black Hawk, was far less recognizable as a military helicopter. Based on the extremely popular Eurocopter EC145, the UH-72 would not raise any concerns from its shape in the sky.

Dressed casually to blend in with the passengers in the terminal, the team members were armed with MP7A1 submachine guns hidden under their jackets, along with their side arms. Silencers were available for both should the opportunity for a quiet takedown occur. The Team Leader signaled for the men to speed up; it had only been fifty minutes since the transactions had occurred and there was still a chance to take Nick down in the hotel that was located directly across from the terminal building.

The security door opened as they approached the terminal building and the head of Airport Security introduced himself. He was a former commander in the German Federal Police Service and was very accustomed to dealing with Special Forces. He kept his information short and to the point, talking while he walked.

“Karl Brunner,” he said, shaking the hand of the Team Leader.

“Simon Klyne.”

“We’ve identified the room from the internet connection and the images that have been sent to the hotel,” said Karl, walking briskly towards the airport exit and hotel entrance.

“Excellent, let’s hope he’s still there.”

“We’ve checked the hotel lobby footage since the transactions and he hasn’t been seen. I have three men stationed in the lobby.”

“He is extremely dangerous,” cautioned Simon.

“They are former GSG 9 officers,” replied Karl. “Their orders are to follow and detain only if absolutely necessary.”

“Well, whatever the situation, we can handle it. We even have a Marine Special Forces battalion coming in behind us, should we need any more back up,” said Simon.

Karl stopped walking, causing the DCS team to stop abruptly to avoid walking into him.

“I have not been told about that. Who authorized it?!” asked Karl angrily. “I have called in the GSG 9 team. If there is any fighting to be done in a German airport, it will be done by German officers.”

“Time is of the essence,” argued Simon. “The Marines are probably thirty minutes behind us.”

“The GSG 9 team is based in Bonn, only eighty miles from here. They’re due in the next ten minutes. I’m only letting you attempt the hotel takedown since you are already here,” informed Karl curtly.

“Well let’s hope
he
is,” said Simon to the team behind him as Karl began walking once again, engrossed in an angry-sounding phone conversation.

On entering the busy hotel lobby, Simon and the team spread out. Wandering aimlessly amongst the hotel guests, they all headed in the same general direction but to the casual person did not appear to be together. Simon noticed the nod Karl gave his three men. He had to hand it to Karl, they were good. None stood out as overly observant to what was happening around them, although on closer inspection, they were totally attuned to everyone around them.

Four men waited in the lobby while Simon and three of the DCS team members joined Karl in the elevator. Karl hit button ‘4’.