“We’ll put these on our websites and distribute them through our chat rooms,” said the associate in a strong, throaty voice. “Everyone will know about the success Allah has granted us.”
Kaziyev nodded slowly. His face remained serious. He moved a bony hand in front of his face. “Why didn’t the metro bombing go as planned?” His words came out in a harsh tone, and his eyes pierced the courier.
“Our man was unable to reach the station,” the courier replied in a timid voice. “He completed his first task, but then was shot and fell out of a window.”
Kaziyev grunted. “Hmmm, he should have done better. This mission was prepared carefully a long time ago. The Russian government will increase their security measures. We’ll be hunted down even more by their security forces.”
The courier was tempted to open his mouth to say that the Russian Minister of Defense had been assassinated, and that was a big victory for their organization, but knew better than to disagree with the leader. He nodded and tried to appear as upset as Kaziyev.
“What else do you have?” Kaziyev asked.
“Our man arrived safely in America today. It was a smart decision to send him before the attack. The Russians have tightened their airport checks and have locked down the highways. Your judgment was sound and wise.”
Kaziyev dismissed the not-so-subtle flattery with a hand gesture.
“His new contact information is in the flash drive,” the courier added. “He sent an e-mail and left a message for you. Of course, I haven’t read them.”
The courier’s curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he had read the e-mail, but had made sure he checked its “unread” feature. Learning bits and pieces of intelligence beyond his station in the IDM was his tactic to climb up the ranks. In case of capture by Russian counter-terrorism forces, that intelligence might prove useful to save his life. But he needed to make sure the IDM leaders did not find out, otherwise the Russians would be the least of his worries.
“Good,” Kaziyev said. “We have a package for you to take to Moscow.” He motioned toward his associate, the one who had not yet spoken a word. “You need to deliver it to an address we’ll give you when you arrive in Moscow.”
The associate picked up a heavy duffel bag next to his armchair and gave it to the courier. “Be careful,” he said. “If you’re caught with these explosives…”
No need to finish the sentence. The courier understood. He nodded.
“That’s all,” Kaziyev said.
They exchanged embraces and greetings, and the courier left.
When he was gone, Kaziyev fired up a small laptop and went to the e-mail account set up for communications with their man in America. The message was in the inbox. Kaziyev began to read it:
I arrived an hour ago. The flight and customs checks went without any problems. I’ve already made contact with two of our groups. They’re very excited to get to work. We’re moving toward our goal. I’ll send more information tomorrow.
Kaziyev closed his laptop and grinned. He liked his choice for this mission. His operative in America was a man of few words but a lot of action, a man who had never disappointed him. May Allah bless our cause, so we can teach the infidels in America they’re not beyond our reach. We can and will deal them a strong blow in their own homeland. They will not expect it and will not believe it until they shed their own tears and their own blood.
Chapter Two
Highway M16 cut through the mountainous terrain covered with dense coniferous trees, snaking around the jagged rocks and carving hairpin turns. Justin Hall and Carrie O’Connor, two agents with the Canadian Intelligence Service, were positioned at a hidden vantage point at the edge of the forest. They controlled the zigzag section of the highway below them and could see as far as two miles away in both directions. The second team, composed of Nathan Smyth and Dragan Traskovic, was stationed down below, a mile to the east. They were going to be the first to lay eyes on the oncoming “guests,” which were expected to arrive at any time.
The snow had stopped about fifteen minutes ago. A soft blanket had covered the ground, and it gave the entire landscape a calm, peaceful feel. Almost a Christmas postcard. The temperature was about thirty degrees, and the sunrays bounced off the icy slopes across the highway. It was a perfect day to enjoy nature, go horseback riding or hike through the trails that led to a mountain lake a couple of miles down south. A good time to relax and unwind.
But Justin and his team were not here to relax and delight in the great outdoors.
They were here with a mission.
They were here to kill.
Their target was Razaq Hakim, an Afghan man who had been a member of the mujahedeen—guerrilla fighters engaged in a holy war — during the bloody ethnic conflicts in the Balkans back in the nineties. A horde of mujahedeen from all over the world had flocked into Bosnia to help local Muslims who were being slaughtered by the Serbian and the Croatian regular armies and paramilitary forces. The mujahedeen had amounted to almost three thousand fighters, and they had provided vital help in defending Muslims and training recruits for the Bosnian army.
Most of the mujahedeen had returned to their countries after the end of the conflicts, but a small number, including Hakim, had stayed in Bosnia and had married local women. Along with their combat skills, the mujahedeen had brought their extreme Islamic views and their jihad — holy war against infidels — which they had begun to spread among the local population. Hakim in particular was believed to have participated in a few terrorist acts in Eastern Europe over the last few years.
Justin’s team had been dispatched to assist the Southeast Europe Station operating out of Croatia’s capital, Zagreb. The CIA and the MI6 had provided solid evidence to the Canadians about Hakim’s terrorist involvement. He was financing a terrorist camp to be built in north-east Bosnia, near the village of Gornja Maoca, home of a radical branch of Islam. He had been behind an attack against the American Embassy in Sarajevo the previous year and had channeled almost a million dollars to Islamic rebel fighters in Syria.
The local station in Zagreb had gathered intelligence about Hakim’s current location, future plans, and impressive security detail. He never left the country and always travelled surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards in a small convoy of armored vehicles. They had been with him for a long time, and he paid them quite well with money made through alleged pillaging and black market trade during and after the Balkan conflicts.
The police authorities of Bosnia had no appetite to mount a small war against Hakim’s private army, which removed the option of his arrest. Plus, some of the political leaders of the country considered him a war hero, despite his recent track record. The CIA was not interested in a covert operation to capture Hakim and carry out a prolonged trial against him in the US. Not so soon after the elections, which had given the incumbent President a second term in office. So that eliminated the snatch and grab option and left Justin and his team with one final scenario: an authorized kill.
Justin disliked stepping into another station’s territory and taking charge of its affairs. He would have resented it if agents from other stations came to the scorching hellholes of Egypt, Libya, Sudan, and Somalia that fell under his area of operations and told him how things were done. But he had been given his marching orders, and he was going to follow them.