“Strange how?” asked Frankie from the doorway.
Startled, and a little embarrassed, Turner said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Secret Service training. We open doors very quietly,” she said before pressing her question. “Strange how?”
“Quiet,” said Turner.
“After what Frankie’s been through?!” Reid snapped.
“No, he’s right. I have been a bit off this week,” Frankie admitted. “I’d be buried under a blanket! I can’t tell you how in awe I am of how you’ve coped,” said Reid, patting the sofa next to her for Frankie to join her.
“I appreciate that but I’m not here for sympathy,” she said. “I’m here because I’ve got something.”
Chapter 62
Gary Truman grabbed his camera and headed out. Daylight was still a half hour away but he planned to hike north into the hills and capture some dramatic early morning shots as the sun crept over the hills that framed the Adriatic Sea below. Albania was still relatively untouched by tourism, certainly from a European perspective, and offered miles of deserted beaches and coves that elsewhere in Europe would have been crowded during the summer.
A keen photographer and wildlife enthusiast, he was also hoping to catch a few shots of the Mediterranean monk seals, one of the most endangered mammals in the world. Thanks to the tranquility afforded by the quite coves and bays of the Albanian coastline, the seals were residents in some of the underwater caves just to the north of Sarande, the tourist town in which Gary’s hotel was located.
Gary walked out on to the street and followed the road as far as it took him into the hills, which wasn’t far. Albania was a country with a checkered history. During the communist era, it had all but closed itself off from the rest of Europe and due to successive regimes favoring a rail network for the people, roads were neglected and private transportation even into the 1980s was mostly limited to a horse and cart. Albania had come a long way in the two decades since the fall of the communist regime but had a lot of building to do to compete with other European countries and economies.
Whatever the case, Gary was delighted when the road disappeared to be replaced by a dust track. It meant that he was travelling the less trodden path and the chances of catching a shot of the seals increased.
He couldn’t have been happier. The warm air of dawn was promising another beautiful day ahead. He was alone in the world. His view from the hillside stretched down into the deserted coves and along the coastline. The only sounds he could hear were his footsteps brushing through the dust. This was in stark contrast to his working life. Although being armed with a camera was no real change, the subject of the photos was somewhat different. He was a crime scene investigator with the Metropolitan Police Force in London. His work shots were not ones he would ever care to share on his Blipfoto account, unlike his holiday snaps.
Gary witnessed daily what one human could do to another. Fortunately, he had always preferred his own company, and had always been regarded as a bit strange by his colleagues. However, no one doubted his diligence when it came to work. Gary Truman was a perfectionist and noted the tiniest of details that many others in his profession would miss. Mildly autistic, Gary was blissfully unaware of any of the idiosyncrasies that set him aside from the rest of the team.
Having captured his sunrise shots, Gary trekked down towards Krorez Beach. He had heard from a local that the seals sometimes spent the early morning swimming in the bay. Snapping off shots as he went, it was only as he neared the beach itself that he noticed for the first time that he wasn’t alone. Still on the hillside above the beach, he spotted something in the water.
What he had initially thought might have been a seal’s head when it emerged around the headland was, when he zoomed in, revealed to be that of a man, a swimmer enjoying an early morning dip in the warm seas. Gary had snapped a couple of shots before he even realized it wasn’t a seal. Slightly irritated, he packed his camera back in his camera bag. Any chance of seeing the seals had been thwarted by the selfishness of the swimmer. Gary turned and headed back for Sarande. He would just manage to catch breakfast if he hurried.
Nick Geller felt invigorated as he walked out of the waters and onto Krorez Beach. His sunrise swim was his one outing each day. The deserted coastline offered a beautiful change from swimming laps in a pool and with the added current, a lot more of a workout. Swimming with the dolphins and seals that had accepted him as a non-threatening addition to their habitat was a very welcome bonus.
He grabbed his towel and spotted the man in the distance, halfway up the hill. He was too far to be able to make out Nick’s features but he was climbing up the hill so had been closer when Nick swam ashore. The man’s pace was normal which suggested he was not rushing away after identifying Nick but he was, nonetheless a risk. Nick swept the hillside. The man was alone, or at least not with anyone he knew. Nick noted a slight movement a few hundred yards behind the man.
Larbi, his ever-present companion since the meeting in Parachinar, was on the man’s trail. The meeting had gone exceptionally well. His arrival at the farmhouse had been marked by the sacrifice of a goat, expertly and ceremonially killed by the executioner armed with the scimitar. A celebratory meal in Nick’s honor had been prepared and a lavish feast was enjoyed by all. Leaders from across the jihadist world had congratulated him and offered their undying desire to be part of the Caliph’s plan.
Nick had been exceptionally pleased to see two men in particular — the first was the highly reclusive leader of Jabhat-al-Nusra, the Syrian wing of Al Qaeda, a man with thousands of battle hardened and experienced men under his command. Whether they all fit Nick’s exacting criteria to participate in the Caliph’s plan Nick did not know, but the leader’s presence was a massive boost to the cause. The other man was the leader of the Iraqi wing of Al Qaeda, another man with thousands of jihadists under his command. Between just those two of the many leaders in the farmhouse that night, Nick would have been more than able to deliver for the Caliph.
Nick had warmly greeted them all, again emphasizing that only the truly devoted were welcome. The point, it seemed, had been well made. The leaders, ready to produce lists of names there and then were stopped in their tracks. Once again, Nick made the point. The Americans had to be kept in the dark as to the scale of the attack. Names would be collected after the meeting, in secret and each leader should keep the list to themselves. That way, even if they themselves were captured, the greatest damage they could do was give away their own group. They all agreed, appreciative of the diligence with which Nick was protecting the plan.
Nick explained how each man would receive information to be at a set location at a set time. Each jihadist would receive his own instructions. Only on the morning of the attack would they learn their final destination and role within the plan, fighter, infector or protector. The fighters would be taking the fight to the infidels, a great honor. The infectors, the chosen few, were given the even greater honor of taking the virus into the heart of America, killing it from within. And finally the protectors, they would protect the future of the Caliphate. As for numbers, he refused to be budged. He would not disclose a number. If the Americans caught anyone, they would have no chance of understanding what they faced.
In all, over the previous two weeks, the leaders had offered over ten thousand names from across their groups of highly trained and experienced soldiers who had pledged their lives in support of the Caliph’s plan and were ready to take the war to the American streets.