“I want to be one of them.”
“Maybe you should wait to hear what it is you’re volunteering for before jumping off the ledge.” Massina got up from his chair and began to pace around the office. When he spoke, he sounded as if he was talking to himself as much as to her. “I need two people who can handle a variety of things. One would be more on the operational side, watching our stuff and making sure the bots are deployed correctly. The other person has to be a jack-of-all-trades, someone who can code and look after the computers.”
“That’s me.”
He looked at her without speaking.
“I’m going,” she insisted. “I was in the Ukraine.”
“This is a little different. And the hotel—”
“What happened in the hotel doesn’t bother me.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
Massina stopped walking. “You want to get this guy?”
“You know I do.”
“So do I. You’d stay behind the lines? Do what Johansen tells you?”
“Of course.”
“Be ready to travel Friday. Just personal items. The weather will be warm, and there shouldn’t be much rain.”
Massina watched Chelsea as she left.
She was happy. Not jumping-up-and-down happy, but determined, set — he hadn’t seen her like that since the attacks.
Was he doing the right thing?
There were many reasons she should go: she knew the equipment they would need; she was one of the best if not the best on-the-fly developers he had; she could code with just about anyone; she’d worked on and invented many of the systems that Johansen needed.
She’d already been exposed to a dangerous job in the Ukraine and handled it without a problem. There was no question that she was motivated.
Extremely motivated.
But maybe too motivated.
No. If anyone was too motivated it was him.
The phone buzzed. It was his assistant, telling him he was due downtown, at the event Jimmy had asked him to attend.
“The car is waiting,” she said.
“All right,” he said, rising. “Call Yuri Johansen. Tell him I have the volunteers lined up.”
31
By the time the first of his men arrived in the morning, Ghadab had hooked the television screens to the external satellite, allowing them to monitor the international news. By nightfall, they had the command room set up, along with sleeping quarters and a place for making tea and reheating meals. The men had been assigned rooms throughout the city, but Ghadab knew from experience that they would more often than not sleep here while work was being done. The group would gather preliminary intelligence, researching likely targets, potential recruits, and methods. When all was ready — weeks perhaps, though he would push to be finished as quickly as possible — they would disperse to finalize plans and begin arrangements, returning at intervals as the project progressed. While encrypted and coded messages were important, the in-person meetings and planning sessions were vital forums, and Ghadab emphasized that truly critical information should only be passed in person.
The last of his team — Po, a refugee from Britain who’d studied at Cambridge before receiving the call to jihad — arrived an hour after dark. Ghadab elected to return to the city and the restaurant where he’d been given quarters so they could share a meal.
He was surprised to find it overflowing. The place was popular with the Caliphate elite, and there was a long line outside the door when he and his eight companions showed up.
They were about to turn away when one of the waiters ran to Ghadab and urged him and his group inside.
“The house’s special room is at your disposal,” said the man. He looked Syrian, but his Arabic was stilted and his accent so difficult that Ghadab suspected the man was some sort of spy.
“Where are you from, brother?” asked Ghadab.
“France, your honor.”
“How are you here?”
“To join the struggle.” The man beamed. “Today I work as a waiter, tomorrow I will be a soldier, God willing.”
“Yes, God willing,” said Ghadab.
He waved at the others to follow. The waiter brought them through the dining room to a large back room, dimly lit, where two other men were in the process of pushing small tables together to form one big enough to accommodate Ghadab’s group. The room had been used as a private club room under the Syrian imposter; despite the Koran’s strictures against alcohol, it had served liquor freely until the arrival of the Caliphate. All of the bottles had been removed, of course, but there was still a long bar at one end. Two large urns, one for coffee and one for tea, had been placed at the center, but these were flanked by glasses in various sizes and shapes, stacked at regular intervals as if they were waiting to be called to action.
A cloth was spread over the table, and chairs assembled. Ghadab’s crew found their places as dishes and tableware were set. Before Ghadab could order, trays were brought: bread with tabbouleh and dips, an eggplant dish and some relishes.
“The lamb is being prepared,” said the waiter. “It will be ready presently.”
The waiters were pouring water when Khalid of Portugal got up to examine the televisions behind the bar. Khalid was a soccer fan and hoped to see some European game, but instead stopped at Al Jazeera news channel, recognizing the video they were showing.
“Boston!” he said.
It was a video showing the immediate aftermath of the attack Ghadab and most of this group had planned. Surely this was a sign — Ghadab rose and led the others to the bar to watch the broadcast.
The video was a compilation of scenes Ghadab had seen in Libya, but that did not lessen its impact. The images flipped by quickly — the burned-out restaurant, bodies in the street, smoke pouring from the hotel.
“God is great!” shouted one of his men as the montage ended and a newscaster appeared on the screen.
“Hush now,” said Ghadab. “Let us hear the infidel.”
The journalist said they were going live to Boston, for a press conference with the President and the Governor.
An image of the U.S. President filled the screen. Khalid spit at the television.
“The devils speak!” said another of Ghadab’s men.
The camera stopped on a man who was walking to the podium. He was short, dressed in a suit.
Words appeared across the bottom of the screen, English with Arabic below.
Louis Massina, CEO/President Smart Metal
The television announcer explained who he was: an inventor, a man who made robots, prominent in local affairs.
“He lost his right arm as a young man,” she continued. “The prosthetic he uses is made by his company. It is just a sideline, but the artificial limbs they manufacture are among the most advanced in the world.”
Ghadab looked at the arm with interest. It was impossible to tell the limb was fake, at least from the television.
The American looked directly at the camera.
“I have a message for the Daesh,” he said bitterly. “We are not defeated. We will hunt you down and dispose of you.”
A few brothers started to laugh.
“Quiet,” commanded Ghadab. There was something about this man, something that angered Ghadab — something dangerous as well.
“We’re going to get those bastards,” said the American. “We’re going to wipe them from the face of the earth. We will. And no one will mess with us again.”