They had left the Ibadi drivers with the vehicles beside the foul-smelling piers. His team headed under cover of what darkness remained toward the Great Mosque of Algiers, Jemaa Kebir, a structure over one thousand years old. Two members of his team were posted to keep watch on their collaborators. The IPA members wanted credit for the destruction of this landmark of Sunni Islam. They had fought to be a part of tonight's efforts on several occasions in his presence. He would not have them interfering in what he and his men had to do.
Five commandos from his team were dispatched to the mosque. Among them were two weapons specialists, a communications officer, and two demolition men. They carried enough S-47 to take down five buildings this size. The explosion would ensure a level of carnage that would make a statement the world would notice. The men checked off with their leader and sprinted toward the historical shrine.
The rest had another plan. The American turned and gathered together the remaining seven of his team. This was the team that would be responsible for an act of terrorism even greater than that at the mosque, an act targeting an Algerian symbol of independence from Western powers that even the Ibadi held in high respect. They would never have allowed such an action. Had they known of his plans, they would have likely tried to kill him.
His team searched along the roadway hugging the coastline. Several blocks from the Great Mosque, they found what had been left for them: a van with keys inside, left by “tourists” that evening. They loaded into the van, each man with large packs of S-47, gripping automatic weapons. A driver started the engine and pulled out, heading nearly due south along the road. After a few minutes, they took a southeasterly turn through the nearly empty streets of the city and, within five minutes, pulled up several streets before coming to the square.
At night the structure was an awesome sight. Bright lights bathed the curving concrete arches, inverted so they turned inward, giving the imposing structure a solid and yet otherworldly presence. Maquam E'chahid, the Martyrs Monument, was constructed in 1982 to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of Algeria's independence from France. It took the abstract interpretation of three standing palm leaves, forming in their center a shelter beneath which the “eternal flame” burned. Statues of soldiers adorned the front of each leaf where it rested to find support on the ground.
He checked his watch. They were nearly late. In two minutes, team Beta would kill the power to this portion of the Algiers power grid, darkening the lights across a portion of town for a short period of time. Before technicians had located the problem and dispatched crews, their job would be done and the power restored, leaving nothing to trigger suspicion at the site.
Right on cue, the powerful searchlights went dark, and the lights in buildings and streetlamps for many blocks around them went out. The site was nearly totally black but for the light leaking its way over from other portions of the city. The team strapped on their night-vision goggles and sprinted to the monument.
With five minutes to spare on their tight schedule, they piled into the van, backpacks empty, magazines full, the job a silent success. They drove north, back toward the site of the Great Mosque, where they parked the car and left the keys. They sprinted back up to the rendezvous point where they were met by the remaining members of team Alpha. The news was good from both groups, and they returned to find their Ibadi friends waiting impatiently for them.
“This took too long!” whispered Aziri, his eyes flashing. “You are lucky no police came!”
“Relax, Aziri. The job went well. It is best to be sure about these things and take your time.”
The Berber grunted and started the truck as the rest of the team settled into the back of the flatbed. He pulled out along the road, taking the American and his men to the airport for the first flight of the morning. The light of dawn began to break on the horizon. “Yes,” he noted, “you are right. It is written: ‘Haste is of the Devil.’”
“Indeed, my friend,” replied the American, beginning to remove his robes and glancing over to the towering form of the monument silhouetted against the pale sky.
28
The three gray BMWs pulled into a parking lot behind a row of small sheds, which resembled the sort of structures that an army would throw up — cheap, easy to raise, easy to break down, and yet highly functional with amenities like electricity, heat, cooling, running water, and, in this case, Internet lines. The small buildings were in a fairly undeveloped region of Sharjah, with construction surrounding the lot and the ground dirty and paved only with gravel. Little traffic came in or out. It was a perfect location to escape notice and yet to be as completely connected to the world as any high-rise in Dubai.
Jordan marveled at the arrogance, or ignorance, of these dealers. Did they really believe that Viktor Bout had been apprehended at random, through some stroke of luck by the international community? Did they never consider that their entire operation may have been compromised? Yet they maintained their same base of operations, known for years now to the CIA through Jordan's efforts, and now also known to several international agencies when the CIA worked with them to apprehend their former boss.
He stepped out onto the gravel, hearing it crunch beneath his shoes. On the other side of the car, Kharitonov rose slowly, a pistol pointed at his head, and maneuvered awkwardly with his hands wired together behind his back. Two black men in white robes shepherded him toward the back entrance of one of the small structures. He glared at Jordan.
“I cannot feel my hands, you bastard!” he spat.
A gun tapped against his temple reminded him to speak more quietly, and more politely.
“Mika, let's go over this to make sure you don't make us have to kill you,” said Jordan, looking around the area. Thankfully, the building had few windows, and the back entrance was not easily visible from within. He stared at the Russian coldly. “You will enter as if nothing whatsoever is out of the ordinary. You will speak to us as clients, making up whatever excuse you have to as to why we are here. You will then take us to where you keep your records.”
Kharitonov squinted and eyed him darkly as Jordan's men untied the Russian's wrists. “You are police?” he asked.
Jordan nodded his head to one side, and a large man next to the Russian punched him in his right kidney. Kharitonov groaned but kept quiet as Jordan put his finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. No, we're worse, my friend. And that is the last I expect to hear from you except for what I have explained. If you alert anyone, if you take any action, or if the air in there doesn't smell right to me, I'll paint the walls with your brain. Understood?”
Kharitonov grunted between painful gasps of air. Jordan gave him a minute to regain his composure, then issued instructions for his team to conceal their weapons. The additional time allowed for the return of his Harvard Men, who had ditched the rentals, bringing Jordan's team up to full strength.
They all made eye contact, and Jordan turned toward Kharitonov. “The guns are out of sight, but don't let them be out of your mind. You saw what we did to your men. We'll do it again. Remember, my Russian is better than your English, so don't get stupid.”
He nodded toward the door, and Kharitonov pulled out a security card and held it up to a reader that beeped at the same time a metallic sound could be heard from the door as the lock clicked. He stepped inside, followed closely by Jordan and the other men.