Jihadi Bride, page 29
“Soon.”
“Well, let me know your timings. Can’t wait to get caught up.”
“Me too.” A brick formed in his gut. “I better give Stephanie a call.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” he said and then hung up. Part of him wanted to talk to Stephanie, to hear her voice, but another part dreaded it. At some point though, he’d have to take his lumps.
She answered on the first ring. “What took you so long?”
“Good to talk to you, too.”
“I have a report saying the Caliphate executed two Americans who were trying to extract a girl who’d traveled to the Middle East,” she said. “Know anything about that?”
He frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“Not important. Were you involved?”
“Yes.”
“What were you thinking?”
“The important thing is I’m okay,” he said.
“Was there a period when you thought you might not be okay? Why didn’t you call?” She drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’ve been worried.”
“It’s all right, Stephanie.” Warmth bloomed in his chest, the first in a while. “Thanks for being concerned.”
“Don’t feel too good about yourself,” she said, “you’ve got lots of questions to answer. Did you find what you were looking for?”
He cleared his throat. “No. Not really.”
“I’m sorry, Erik.”
“I know, but I had to take the chance.” He snorted. “I’m not even sure what to do next.”
“Come home. We could use your help.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s busy. Sahraoui’s study group has been a gold mine.”
“What?” It had been the farthest thing from his mind.
“Reyad Slimani was connected through the study group to a man called Sayyid Mubarak. Mubarak is linked to drug dealers in the US, as well as Mexican cartels, which is where we think the drugs are coming from.”
“Did you pick him up?”
“We’re still building the case, but this is consuming the entire Task Force these days. The cartels have well-established smuggling routes and if they can get drugs into the country –”
“They can get other things in as well.” He drew a deep breath. “What about Sahraoui?”
“Unconnected for now, but it’s early. Either way, he’ll probably sue. If I had to guess, I’d say that Mubarak and Slimani were using Sahraoui as cover because they knew his history would make it sensitive for us to investigate.”
“Great work.” A fragment of his conversation with Jordan tweaked him. “I don’t suppose Nathan Martel is linked with any of this?”
“Not so far as we know. He went to Sahraoui’s mosque several times, but he wasn’t a regular, and his follow never observed him speaking with Sahraoui.”
“I heard Wiggins pulled his team. Why?”
“I support that decision. His passport was pulled, and he’s been added to every watch list there is, so it’s impossible for him to leave the country. We have higher priorities.”
“What if I told you a Caliphate associate of Martel’s is working for al Kanadi?”
“Who?”
“Farah Xarbi. He’s a Somali-Canadian who traveled to the Caliphate over a year ago. We thought he was dead, but he’s not.”
“Should I ask how you know this?”
“Probably not. But would it elevate Martel’s importance for being followed? Jordan said Martel was planning on going to the airport to meet someone. Doesn’t that seem strange?” He was missing something here, something important. Al Kanadi had said he had teams able to reach out anywhere, what had he meant by that?
“It does, yes, but Martel doesn’t have any connections. His passport was pulled because of his social media activity and the fact he tried to buy a plane ticket, not because he’s linked to any domestic group.”
“But he does have connections,” he said. “He used to talk to Xarbi, who’s still alive.”
“We have no proof they continue to talk.” Stephanie sighed. “The truth is, we’re strapped for resources. Putting a team on Martel means pulling from another suspect, all of which have more compelling reasons. If you have an idea of how to surveil him, I’d love to hear it.”
“What about chatter? Any threat reporting?”
“I don’t want to discuss that over the phone.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed. “There’s a single source, ungraded report about an unspecified attack being planned out of Libya that could target several Canadian cities; Ottawa, Montreal, Calgary, Vancouver.” She sounded tired. “I hate to say it, but this is boilerplate stuff, Erik. Libya is a Caliphate haven, so it’s reasonable to expect that planning is going on, but the source has no reliability rating, and there’s nothing to distinguish it from any other threat reporting.”
“When is the attack planned for?”
“Erik –”
“Last question. I promise.”
“It didn’t say. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, you know how these go. This is why we need your help. When are you coming home?”
“Soon,” he said and ran a hand over his unshaven face. “Listen, one last thing you might want to look into, or at least pass on. I forgot to tell Jordan, but do you remember those geo-locators you gave me?”
“Of course.”
“I used a couple. Jordan should be able to download the tracks.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Where did you put them?”
“On a couple of al Kanadi’s trucks outside Mosul.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll explain when I’m back, okay? I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He hung up and leaned back in the chair. He needed to think. Al Kanadi had said Arielle wasn’t in the Middle East, which might have been a lie, except Xarbi had also said she’d gone to Africa. To Libya, as part of an attack. He sat forward, wide awake now. Martel was linked to Xarbi, who worked for al Kanadi, so if al Kanadi was indeed planning an attack, it wasn’t impossible that Martel was involved as well, even if he was a minor player as Wiggins thought. They needed to know what Martel was doing in the airport. Too bad all the surveillance teams were already tasked out.
Except for him.
He poked his head out of the office door. “Ray, how soon can I get a flight to Canada?”
“Gimme a minute.” Ray turned to his computer and worked for a minute. “There’s a flight tomorrow. Want me to book it?”
“Yes, please.” He tucked back into the office and dialed Jordan’s number. If Wiggins wouldn’t take the chance on following Martel, he’d do it himself. But he’d need some help.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CROOKED PATH
Mosul, Iraq
02 June 15 – 1841 Local
Abu Noor al Kanadi gazed up into the large, open space of the Mosul Library’s main room. Light from the setting sun streamed in through thousands of holes in the roof and mingled with the shadows and the rubble to create an otherworldly scene. Footsteps crunched on the rubble behind him, disturbed his contemplation.
“Mamdouh sent word,” Yahya said. “He’s on the move.”
Al Kanadi nodded. “Finally.”
Yahya shifted from foot to foot.
Al Kanadi stooped to pick up a stone, felt Yahya’s gaze. “Something else?”
“With respect, Emir,” Yahya said, his tone deferential, “I think it’s a mistake not to tell Mamdouh about Petersson’s escape.”
“If he survived.” Yahya raised a good point, but breaking silence again risked the attention of the unblinking eye of western surveillance. It was one thing to communicate through a schedule, with purpose-built e-mail accounts discarded after each use, quite another to actively reach out to an operative in the field. He tossed the stone from hand to hand. “What would we gain?”
Yahya coughed. “He could interfere –”
“I can’t see how,” al Kanadi said. “He knows nothing of our plans.”
“With respect, Emir, he knows his daughter went to Africa. He also knows about an attack.”
A ripple of anger passed through him. “Who told you that?”
“Xarbi. He –”
“When?” Al Kanadi stalked toward Yahya.
Yahya raised his hands and backed up. “He was begging for his life.”
“What else did he say?” Al Kanadi paused, realized he’d almost yelled.
“Libya. He told Petersson she’d gone through Libya and that we were planning an attack in Europe and then I killed him. That’s it.”
“And you didn’t think to bring this to me sooner?”
“He was blabbering, and it seemed so vague.”
Al Kanadi stopped, bit back another retort. Breathed deep and struggled to re-exert control. Think. What else could Xarbi have said? His brow knit together.
The fact of the matter was that Xarbi hadn’t known much. The idiot had been kept out of the planning because he didn’t need to know. He might have pieced together that an attack was being planned – because that’s what we do – but he would’ve had no concrete details to pass on, which was obvious if he’d told Petersson it was in Europe. It would be a stretch for anyone to link the girl in Africa with an impending attack and what if Petersson did make that connection? He shook his head. “It has no bearing.”
“But Mamdouh –”
“Knew the risks.”
Yahya spread his hands as if to plead for patience. “Emir, the attack –”
Al Kanadi threw the stone into the dirt. “The girl will get into the country.” He held his anger in check, enunciated each word. “That is the mission. What happens after that is opportunity.”
“But I thought they were supposed to cross the border into America.”
He nodded. “That’s right, at Cornwall.” Crossing the St. Lawrence into the United States would be easy near Cornwall Island, where the Akwesasne Mohawk reserve straddled both sides of the Canadian-American border and where the local Mohawks had a history of smuggling people, drugs and other contraband across the border. From there, it was a short hop to Syracuse, then New York City, the biggest city in America. Al Kanadi waved a hand. “But the sole aim of this attack is to sow fear. Getting her into Canada accomplishes that, and it will happen. It doesn’t even matter if she infects anyone, we will have laid the western defenses bare for all to see. There will be panic.” People thought the security crackdown after 9/11 was bad when transport-trailer trucks had lined up for twenty miles at border crossings. It would be nothing compared to this. He paused, took a deep breath. “Once we’ve perfected the virus, there will be more, and those will use the cartels for more discrete, guaranteed entry.”
Yahya nodded, but his brow was furrowed in seeming confusion.
Al Kanadi grabbed Yahya’s shoulders. “If we contact Mamdouh now, we risk drawing attention at the most vulnerable time of the operation.” He smiled. “Besides, Mamdouh can handle whatever happens.” And if not, then the problem of Mamdouh’s ambition would be solved.
“As you say, Emir.” Yahya glanced at the pick-up trucks parked outside the library. “Then are we ready to go?”
“We are.”
“I’ll get our things,” Yahya said and then headed into the library.
Al Kanadi watched Yahya depart, then moved to the trucks. He stopped at the first pickup, rested his arms on the box and traced a finger in the dust that covered the roll bar. Things were going to turn out all right. He slapped the truck, then headed into the library after Yahya.
* * *
Mosul, Iraq
02 June 2015 – 2314 Local
The convoy left Mosul a couple of hours after night had fallen. There were two trucks, each with two people, and they drove west-north-west along Highway 1 until Qaryat al Ashiq, a trip of fifty kilometers in ninety minutes. At Qaryat al Ashiq, the trucks turned onto Highway 47 to head due west, through Tal Afar, through Wardiya. Another ninety minutes and ninety kilometers went by, quicker on this leg as the road was in better condition except for a stretch of highway near Sinjar, where Mount Sinjar loomed to the north, more felt than seen in the near pitch black.
The vehicles continued west across the imaginary border between Iraq and Syria, a line whose greatest impact on the travelers was to change the highway name to 715. The town of Ash Shaddadi was next, where they got onto Highway 7 and drove south, then south-west, to arrive in Deir al-Zour two and a half hours later.
The trucks made a short stop to refuel and let the occupants conduct their morning prayers, the Fajr, and then the drive continued. They left Deir al-Zour as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon and the reddish-orange light chased them down Route 4, parallel to the Euphrates River toward Raqqa. The drivers went slower now, and the occupants enjoyed the greenery of the Euphrates valley whether they would admit to it or not. The trip from Deir al-Zour took three hours, and they arrived at the outskirts of Raqqa around mid-morning.
The trucks wound their way through Raqqa’s downtown, through twisting streets and rubble on an inexorable path into the suburbs. A few minutes after noon, the convoy stopped outside a compound, indistinguishable from many in the neighborhood. Two young boys played in the courtyard, and when the trucks stopped, their mother herded them inside. She stood at the entrance to the residence while a man got out of the lead truck and opened the compound gates to let the vehicle into the courtyard. The driver exited, clasped hands with the man who’d let them into the compound, and then cross-loaded into the remaining truck, which drove away. The man who’d stayed behind closed the gates, hugged the woman, then entered the house.
The truck stayed in the courtyard, the hisses and pops from the engine heard by no one and nothing as the metal and fluids cooled. And on the truck’s roll-bar, indistinguishable from the layer of dust that had already grown thicker, a tiny GPS tracker continued to emit its signal.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JUDGEMENT
Montreal, Quebec
04 June 15 – 1444 Local
Erik stared at the frosted glass doors of the international arrivals section in the Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport. It had been nine years, three months and six days since he’d said good-bye to Audray in almost this exact spot. He could still picture her on the far side of security screening, a forlorn, eleven-year-old Arielle held at her waist. He’d never once dreamed it would be the last time he saw her. He felt for the ring hanging from his neck. Still with him, after all this time.
“You okay, man?” Jordan asked.
Erik cleared his throat. “Just nervous.”
“I’m supposed to be the nervous one, remember? The one with no field experience?” Jordan smiled, but it was fleeting. He nodded at the arrivals gate. “So, how do we handle this?”
Once again, Erik glanced at the overhead screens with flight information, tried to pick out ones that might be of interest. They’d searched all the flights arriving this afternoon, the time Martel had said he’d be at the airport, and found only a few flights from African destinations. Yet it was nearly impossible to determine how many had connected through Europe or the United States and likewise, a search of the passenger manifests had resulted in nothing.
He took a breath. “We watch for Martel. You take the entrances, and I’ll stay close to the gate in case he slips by.”
“Do you think he’ll show?”
“All we can go by is what the surveillance tapes said.” Erik’s gaze locked onto the gate. “If nothing happens, all we’ve lost is our afternoon.”
“I might be okay with that.” Jordan’s face was pale. “And what do I do if I see him?”
“Call me. Keep your distance and take pictures.” Erik gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Chances are, the worst thing that happens today is we get stuck in Montreal traffic on the way home.”
“Either way, you’ll owe me a few drinks when this is over,” Jordan said and then headed for the nearest entrance.
Erik leaned against a cylindrical pillar and did his best impression of a bored man waiting to meet a traveler. It wasn’t long before he stifled a real yawn. He’d hardly slept in the scramble of the past days, and he alternatively felt like he was about to have a heart attack or pass out. He hated all the loose ends, losing Arielle’s trail, the possible attack, but he had to start somewhere. He shook his head and scanned the crowd for Martel.
His gaze settled on a man halfway to the nearest exit who would have fit into any souk in the Middle East. The man wore a traditional white abaya for men and towered almost a full head over the athletic, bald man who stood just behind him. The man in the abaya’s face seemed familiar, his olive skin and long, neat beard not unlike so many faces Erik had seen in Iraq.
Erik blinked, realized the man in the abaya was staring back, then faked a cough and looked away. Christ, he was getting paranoid. The frosted doors slid apart, and he peered through the crowd. A single male traveler in tracksuit pants and a cellphone stuck to his ear exited through the doors. Erik settled back into place, forced his hands into his pockets. Several other travelers exited, and the sequence repeated, and he went back to checking out the crowd. He studied the man in the abaya once again. The athletic, bald man had moved up to stand beside him, and for a second Erik felt he was missing something, and then the arrival doors opened, and he tore his gaze away.
