“Pagan,” interrupted Lightfoote.
Rideout flashed her an annoyed look.
“Well, trader-man, they are pagan, not occult,” she countered. “There's, like, a huge difference.”
“Fine. Pagan symbols,” said Rideout. “This is all Wizard of Oz, if you want my opinion. Some real bombs and guns, and a lot of some ivory tower magician's hocus-pocus to rattle all the cages.”
“Rattling the cages is only scary when you're in a cage,” said Lightfoote.
Rideout rolled his eyes, his fatigue showing through. “This is what I left seven figures for? What the hell does that mean?”
“Look, enough!” said Miller, steering things back to the topic at hand. “From my vantage point, we have a string of murders and bombings that, even if not related, require our concerted efforts. The question is, what do we do now?”
Matt King answered in his nasal twang. “We track down all the shipments of this material, try to ID the lot used. Mira told us that each lot gets a different ratio of the additives that tag the explosives; we just need to get this material more thoroughly analyzed and figure out where this stuff went.”
“Forensics is on that, Matt,” said Savas. “But we don't have the equipment for that here. We need some really top-flight mass spectroscopy to ID these batches, and that's got to be farmed out. That takes time.”
Rideout sighed and threw his pen onto the notepad before him. “Look, what's the pattern here? I know it's embassies and Middle Eastern oil countries but specifically New York, Washington — I get that. That's front-page material. But Venezuela? I mean, what's that all about? Why not Europe, or China, or the Middle East itself? What's the pattern in these attacks?”
“Well, with only these three bombings, that may be a hard thing to identify,” rumbled Jordan.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Rideout, “but I think we need to spend some time looking at this. The embassies, the people. Do they share something that we are missing? They must have chosen these targets for a reason.”
“OK, J. P., why don't you work with Manuel on that? Let's compile all the data we can on these places, cross-referencing everything.”
“We're missing the point here, my friends,” boomed Jordan. He looked tired, frustrated, and deadly serious. “We have a good lead that could bring us to contacts that could be one or two steps away from the men we are looking for. This should be our priority.”
Savas suppressed an urge to tell the man that, as group leader, he would decide what Intel 1 should and shouldn't be doing. “So, what would you do, Agent Jordan?” he said somewhat tensely.
“This is where my position in the CIA allows me freedoms you do not have. I have reached a decision, Agent Savas. It is a hard one and will ruin years of work, as well as cost tax payers millions of dollars and perhaps some agents their lives. I am going back to Sharjah.”
“Sharjah?” asked Savas over the silence. “Why?”
Jordan stared forward, as if glimpsing something in the distance. “You can remember from my presentation — we have established inroads into two of Viktor Bout's primary centers of operation: Belgium and the United Arab Emirates. Bout was pressured out of Belgium in the late 1990s as the press uncovered his shady dealings. His organization never closed up shop there. But the heart of it moved with him to Sharjah in the UAE. There he was coddled by many members of the royal family and developed deep connections to international companies playing with money laundering and terrorism, civil war, and murder. He left behind a well-organized machine.”
Cohen took her glasses off and stared at the CIA operative. “Husaam, what do you plan on doing there?”
Jordan paused a moment and took a deep breath. “I may be in the minority, but I take quite seriously the intentions of this terrorist organization and the hypothesis put forward by Agent Savas. Perhaps I have to — after all, it could be a declaration of war against my faith. I believe we must take whatever action we can in order to find out who these people are and how to get to them. I'm going to take my team undercover into Sharjah, as we have before, but this time to set up a major arms purchase and use that opportunity to break into their organization and seize any records they have on the sale and distribution of Semtex-like explosives.”
A heavy silence fell over the group. Rebecca's eyes flashed upward toward Savas. Rideout whistled, adding, “You're likely to end up buried in the sands out there. That's either really damn brave or really damn stupid.”
Jordan smiled grimly. “It is written, ‘What God writes on your forehead, you will become.’”
PART 2
MERCHANTS OF DEATH
24
A begrimed Caucasian stared across a dusty wooden table at the three Berbers. It was a blistering day, and the sands from the northern Sahara that seemed to invade so much of Algeria bordering on the desert dug into every crevice of his body. His face was deeply bronzed from his time in the sun — time spent coaxing, bribing, and leading these barbarians along the path required. It was one thing to work an act of public violence in a Western nation, or even in a South America nation like Venezuela. Even there, freedom to move around and the mixed-race nature of the population made planning and executing a mission far simpler. But here, in Northern Africa, surrounded by Berber Arabs in a strongly Islamic nation, where custom and language differed far more markedly, he could not work alone.
What one could always count on with these people was that they were as murderous toward each other as toward the West. He had been patient and resourceful. The young Ibadi radicals they had primed were perfect for achieving the mission. Better yet, this splinter group was so ignorant and detached from the rest of the world that the events of the last two months were not known to them, and the plan he proposed had not aroused their suspicions.
The Ibadi were a minority sect of Islam, centered in Oman with pockets in Algeria, with radically different interpretations of Heaven and Hell. They thought of themselves as the only true Muslims. All others were, as he had come to learn with amusement, kuffar, “unbelievers.” In the last ten years, increasingly radical groups had found inspiration from terrorist organizations like al-Qaeda, and now they desired to exert their violent influence over the world, to establish Ibadi rule. That this meant executing terrorist acts against other Muslims was exactly what he required.
“You will have the trucks ready on the night of the fifteenth,” said the American in his poor Arabic.
The older of the three men laughed and smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth. “My friend, you must learn to speak the language better. Without us, you would get not five steps. Yes, we will have them to transport your men. We will provide real clothes for you,” and he laughed again, “not these womanly things you have tried to wear and hide yourself under.”
“Then we are agreed, Aziri?” he pressed.
Another spoke. “We do not like that the Ibadi People's Army is to be kept so far from the attack. We are not to be considered children who cannot fight!”
“Aban, I have explained this as clearly as I can. My team works alone. You will bring us into the site. We will complete the mission, and then you will get us out. We are providing the funds, the expertise, and risking our lives for this. We won't do it another way. It is our way or no way.”
The three men looked at each other. Aban was angry, but his older brother put his hand on his shoulder. He spoke softly in a local Berber dialect. A back-and-forth ensued, but the older brother held the day. Over the reproachful look of his brother, Aziri continued. “We will accept your offer. The materials you will provide for us. With these things, we will strike again and again into the heart of the kuffar abomination. It will begin with what you will do. You are ignorant, but you do the work of Allah, unbeliever.”