That day, Mahari aired the first message on Al Jazeera. Within minutes it was picked up by Reuters, CNN, and the other world media giants. The communiqué was immediately analyzed in great detail, again and again, by the reporters of these news agencies. But that analysis was nothing compared to what the US Intelligence Community did with it. The mathematicians and engineers of the NSA examined every pixel of the video. Psychologists and doctors considered every nuance of expression. An army of translators and linguists replayed every tone and syllable. Backgrounds, shadows, eye reflections, and the warp and weave of fabrics were dissected to molecular levels. Hundreds of memoranda, reports, and opinions blossomed in the Intelligence Community almost immediately. All were, in due course, directed to and digested by Blue Gene/L. While there was extensive debate about some aspects of the recording, there was certainty about one thing. The man in the footage was the Emir. The Intelligence Community had seen him before, and wasn’t surprised. Thanks to the message, it was now a face known by billions.
The footage contained the usual salutations to the holiness and glory of the jihad. It consisted of all the usual praises for the martyrs — the young men who had gladly given their lives for the prophet, Allah, and Islam, all for the standard promises of Paradise and an unending supply of virgins. And, of course, it contained the usual fulminations against the Great Satan and the Lesser Satan.
But this message differed from earlier missives in two respects. The first was that it was video — high-quality, high-definition video, shot with a digital video recorder. This gave the message considerable impact. While analysts had verified that prior audio recordings were those of the Emir, to see the man himself, with his coal-black eye and the shadows of a deeply crevassed face, was disconcerting. It was apparent to anyone who paid attention to a TV set for longer than 30 seconds that the face radiated power, strength, and, to Westerners, absolute evil. This was no feeble or dying revolutionary living in a culvert somewhere.
The second frightening aspect was the promise made during the message. Not a possibility, or even a probability, but a certainty. The words were delivered in an emphasized, sharp, staccato style. There was no ambivalence. There was no room for confusion. That was what was so disquieting about the whole thing. Why would a high priest of terrorism make a promise, a guarantee, of a massive strike, if he could not in fact deliver? If he failed, the loss of face would be irreparable. But if he succeeded, his stature would be elevated to God-like among his own people. The comparison to other major terrorist attacks was especially unnerving. The bureau offices of the CIA, FBI, and NSA, the offices of the major military Intelligence Agencies, the Department of Homeland Security, the boards of the DDCI, the DI, and the Cabinet, and the office of the President all played the same extract of the message over and over.
…the soldiers of Allah are in place. The weapons of Allah are positioned. The means of delivery has been secured. Within 30 days the great terror will strike, somewhere on this globe, in a manner that will make prior attacks on the Western powers seem insignificant. The holy jihad will make a mighty strike upon the Great Satan and her allies throughout the world. Praise be to Allah, and to His prophet. Within 30 days, the terror will come…
Is this the real McCoy?” the President asked his security advisors in the White House Situation Room. “Do we take it seriously? Is it a threat to use a nuclear weapon?”
The response around the room was unanimous. This was the real thing.
A long debate ensued as to whether or not to raise the threat level status from its present “Green” (careful monitoring) to “Yellow” (some concern). Because of the great cost to local economies, airports, police payrolls, and a host of other security-conscious industries, the President decided to keep the threat level at Green. The message, after all, suggested that the attack would take place somewhere on the planet. Not necessarily in the United States. However, bulletins went out to all embassies, and travel advisories were issued for some areas.
15
It was 4am when Ghullam climbed the steep and narrow stone steps that led up from the dungeons of Inzar Ghar. He walked slowly toward the row of Jeeps parked in the lower courtyard. There he found two burlap rice bags, each containing approximately 90 pounds of grisly cargo. He threw the bags into the back of one of the waiting Jeeps, then paused to light a cigarette and survey the moonlit, rocky slopes of the Sefid Koh, stretching into the distance. Behind him loomed the stone walls of Inzar Ghar, with its huge stores of heroin, weapons, and cash. Below him were the dungeons and cells reserved for those who had come down on the wrong side of one of Yousseff’s operations.
When his cigarette burned out, he started the Jeep and drove down the steep canyon road. He was humming a nameless tune, smiling as he thought of the devilish little stunt that he was about to perform. These orders came from Marak rather than Yousseff — a consideration that made them more pleasing to Ghullam. Yousseff didn’t have the stomach for this kind of work, so his orders, in Ghullam’s opinion, lacked the creativity of Marak’s. Today’s plan was a welcome diversion from the norm. When he reached the main highway west of Peshawar, he headed toward Islamabad. It was still dark when he reached the city, threading his way through the empty streets of Pakistan’s capital and coming to a halt in front of the American Embassy, at Ramma 5 of the Diplomatic Enclave. He deposited the two burlap sacks in the middle of the driveway, and searched his pockets for the GPS transmitter that had dropped from the spy’s chapan two days earlier. He turned it on, deposited the device on top of one of the sacks, and sped off into the night, still happily humming to himself.
The signal was quickly picked up by a Global Hawk drone and relayed to a Milstar satellite. The Milstar system circled the globe, and the electronic signature of the GPS was bounced from satellite to satellite until it reached the Air Force Space Command headquarters at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. From there it was relayed via ground signal to the large monitoring center beneath the Pentagon. The junior officer in charge of a section of screens immediately reached for the phone and called his superior.
“We’ve found him,” he said. “Zak Goldberg has re-established contact. Looks like he’s back in business.”
“Where is he? What are the coordinates?” asked his supervisor. He was vastly relieved, as he knew others would be. Zak’s long silence, in such a dangerous situation, had been nerve-wracking.
The junior officer read out the numbers. There was a perplexed silence. “Are you certain? That’s the location of the Embassy in Islamabad. He must be standing just in front of it. I’ll make the call.”
Twelve time zones away, the world was just beginning to stir at Ramma 5, Diplomatic Enclave, Islamabad. Morning dew was weighing down the grass, and the eastern sky was crimson. Corporal Tucker of the Marine Corp was on guard duty, along with his friend of many years, Corporal St. James.
“Yo, Tucker,” said St. James. “What the hell’s that out there?” Beyond the second perimeter, past the concrete antitank obstacles and the tire shredders, and outside the main gate, just becoming visible in the gathering light, were what appeared to be two large cloth rice bags. Just sitting there.
“I think they’re bags of some kind, Ronnie,” said Tucker. “They’re rice sacks or something.”
“Bags don’t just appear in front of American embassies, Tucker. Especially not in this Islamic hell-pit,” replied St. James nervously.
Tucker could tell that St. James had been away from South Carolina too long. He had been edgy for the past three weeks. He’d had a “premonition,” he said. A “premonition of doom.” And maybe this was it. There had been rumors yesterday about stolen Semtex being taken from that crazy situation in Libya. Maybe a couple hundred kilos were now sitting here, less than 100 feet away, with some crazy Paradise-obsessed Mohammed ready to push the button. “Maybe we should use the Rover,” he suggested.
“Yo. Good idea. I’ll radio it in,” said St. James.
A few minutes later, two Marines showed up with a contraption that looked like a cross between a miniature excavator and R2D2. It was the Rover 3, the latest robotics toy from Raytheon. It came with a sophisticated remote control panel, and had two video eyes at the end of cantilevered, multi-jointed arms. It had two other arms with rotating pincers that could pick up, lift, and turn objects. It came on a set of crawler tracks. High tech all the way. Langley was in the process of equipping every embassy with one of these devices.
“I want one of those for my house,” said St. James. “You could get a beer while watching the Super Bowl. Never have to get up again.”
“That’s what wives are for,” joked Tucker.
“Yeah, dream on, I guess. This puppy cost half a mil. We’re po’ boys,” St. James said.
“No way. It’ll be $49.95 at Future Shop within three years. Now, let’s see what we have,” said Tucker, as the Rover 3 approached the gray, shapeless bags.
“It is a bag… I mean a couple of bags,” said St. James. “Tucker, see if you can pull it back a bit. Use one of the pincers, like this…” St. James grabbed the controller from Tucker. “Here, let me do it. I have more experience with it than you do.”
“What the hell?” asked Tucker, giving up the controls and moving over to fiddle with the focus on the screen. “That looks like… Jesus, it is. Ronnie. It’s part of a body. It’s an arm. It’s a body. It’s… oh Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, showing St. James the small video screen.
“Shit,” said St. James. “Damn good thing we’re Marines. A Navy guy would be puking by now.”
“Yeah, never mind some tech at Langley.”
As if on cue, another Marine yelled at them from the front doorway of the compound. “Hey Tucker. Some big shot asshole’s on the line from the Pentagon. He’s saying something about some guy standing right outside the front gate. Needs to talk to you.”
“Well,” said Tucker, “we’ve got news for him. Nice to know it’s a guy, but the poor bastard sure as hell ain’t standing. He’s not going to be standing ever again.”