Gauntlet (46 page)

Both Izzy and Ba’al sighed with relief as they pulled onto the highway. They were through another step of their plan and finally on their way. They were also totally oblivious to the extra passenger they were carrying, under the tarps, in the back of the truck. It was 8AM, Pacific Standard Time, September 1, when Izzy pulled out the satellite phone and dialed a prearranged number. In distant Islamabad, a telephone rang three times and stopped. Then four rings, then five. It was a signal that had been arranged months earlier. The explosive was going to be delivered on schedule. Time to initiate the next step in the plan.

A
T 8AM in Los Angeles, the sky was a smoky brown. While the pollutants were a constant source of irritation, they did produce beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Massoud and Javeed were facing southeast, toward Mecca. They were, on this penultimate morning of their lives, in a state of intense and focused prayer. They’d been told that there would be no pain. Only a blinding flash of light, and then they would enter Paradise. They would have struck a blow for the
jihad
that would eclipse any other terrorist strike ever made. Maybe Yousseff, Kumar, and the others had a collateral purpose, but not these two. In their minds, this was a mission for Mohammed, peace be upon Him. It would make their lives the most important of the day, in the service of their religion and country.

B
UCKINGHAM SIGHED IN FRUSTRATION. There was no way the Al Jazeera reporter was going to talk. He had personally spoken to Mahari after both the third and the fourth messages had been delivered. He’d tried everything he knew — begged and pleaded, threatened and yelled. But nothing had worked. “Reporter’s privilege,” was Mahari’s only reply. “Have to protect my sources. Don’t you do that in America?”

The Islamabad Al Jazeera station was being watched around the clock. Various Embassy personnel were taking turns recording car plate numbers and taking photographs of the visitors coming to and from the station. For the better part of three weeks now, various agents had also been trailing the increasingly joyous reporter, and it was during the course of this exercise that they found out about the second apartment, and the growing collection of Samsonite cases. This was reported back to Buckingham, who let the Intelligence Community back home know. That little bit of information left no doubt that Mahari’s contacts were drug dealers. A major drug exporter would have rooms full of unlaundered American currency, to fund Mahari’s growing collection; a religious leader, such as the Emir, would not. Turbee’s connection between the terrorists and the drug lords was once again reinforced. Not that it helped them much.

Mahari was careful when he went to pick up the DVD’s and the payments. He never used the same route twice. Over three weeks of following him, though, Buckingham had become convinced that the supplier of the messages was located somewhere within the busy Peshawar marketplace. That was the reason that he had suggested Richard’s involvement. Richard had practically grown up in the Peshawar marketplace, and knew every one of its twists and alleys. Twice in the week before, Mahari had made the trip from Islamabad to Peshawar, and each time he could be seen entering an area full of tiny shops. That was where he shook the tailing agent. Every time. He was always seen leaving the market area an hour or two later, with a happy expression on his face and a Samsonite case in his hand. It was obvious what was happening.

After this most recent message, Buckingham and his superiors had decided that, on the next trip to Peshawar, Richard, with Jennifer in tow, would follow Mahari. Buckingham reminded them both about the President’s orders. A light touch was required. No knocking reporters over the head, or mindlessly destroying a shopkeeper’s home and business. Al Jazeera was a station that was acquiring an enormous viewing audience, not just in the world of Islam, but throughout the world. They would delight in showing the world anything the Americans did wrong. More bad publicity was the last thing the American military needed.

Richard’s orders were to stand by, and be ready for a call from Embassy staff. As soon as it became apparent to the agents that Mahari was making another trip to Peshawar, Richard was to be contacted, and then report to the Embassy forthwith. An Embassy helicopter would whisk him off to Peshawar within minutes, since a motor vehicle would take a good two hours to traverse the clogged and overused highway. Richard would follow the reporter into the market area, and hopefully find out where Mahari was giving them the slip.

While Ba’al and Izzy were proceeding southward through the Flathead Valley in Montana, Richard, at his home in distant Islamabad, was receiving the call from Embassy staff. Mahari was on the move. He looked like he was heading toward Peshawar. It was time to put Buckingham’s plan into motion.

First, however, Richard had some requirements to see to. He opened his medicine cabinet. It had been an incredibly difficult week. He didn’t feel up to another mission, and especially not one where he would be responsible for another agent’s life. But he hadn’t been given a choice, and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to offer anything less than his best. In his current state, his “best” would require reinforcements. The Vicodin was necessary, of course. He had three bottles, from various Internet drugstores. Maybe 100 pills. He also found a small amount of Ativan. Before he left the house, he took three Vicodin and one Ativan, downing the pills with a tumbler of scotch. He pocketed the rest and headed for the door, ready to take on the bad guys.

P
ESHAWAR. The city of flowers. It was only a short journey from Islamabad, and the scenery was beautiful. After returning to the Islamabad Embassy and moving back into his childhood home the week before, Richard had made several visits to this very marketplace. He had practically grown up among these shops, and was naturally drawn back. Sometimes nostalgia brought him here, to walk the streets and reminisce about safer times, when his father and Zak had been at his side and his mother had been waiting for them at home. Sometimes it was just an attempt to escape the house and neighborhood in which he’d experienced the death of his parents. Now, dressed in a Pashtun
dishdash
, with a beard tacked on, and with his dark complexion, he came here on a mission for his country. He had learned the languages spoken here as a boy and knew that his speech would mark him as a local, if his complexion didn’t. The only possible problem was his blue eyes, but he solved that with a pair of dark sunglasses.

The mission was almost ridiculously easy. Jennifer was waiting for Richard in the chopper, and when they got to Peshawar they had almost an hour to wait for Mahari. They had been briefed on where he would park his vehicle. Once the reporter arrived, they picked up the tail easily, and since Richard was as familiar with the marketplace as Mahari, it was like tailing someone through a basic shopping mall — and not even a large or busy one. The path meandered a bit, and Mahari even tried the “in the front, out the back” trick a few times, but Richard was able to follow without being detected. Eventually Mahari entered a small shop, located in the older section of the marketplace. The shop seemed to sell pipes of various kinds, along with the different substances one would use for those pipes. Richard and Jennifer stalled in the street behind him, doing their best to look like casual locals.

I
T WAS 4PM on the late and rainy September 1 afternoon. Ray was sitting in room 237 at the Day’s Inn in Glendale, with his friends Sam, Hank, and Ted. These were the other men the Emir had sent to Los Angeles as part of his cell. They’d been little more than boys when they made the trip over, and had spent months huddled up together in a single house, trying to regain the feel and comfort of home. Now they were older and had all started living like real Americans. They’d long since lost the religious fervor that had driven them into the Emir’s service as children. None were happy about being called into action. They sat across the room from Massoud and Javeed, who had been personally delivered by Kumar. In keeping with the central rule of cutout cell organization, no one in the ever more crowded motel room had even noticed Kumar when he came in. Ray had given the two boys a short, cynical stare. He didn’t need to say what he thought of their involvement.

The air within the room, now filled with seven people, three of whom smoked, was sullen and heavy. Ghullam was giving instructions in short, staccato Urdu monotones. Each participant was given specific and detailed direction as to his role. Both Ray and Sam were truckers, and had spent most of the past ten years hauling eight-axles across the vast USA. Both loved the open road, and neither wanted to be in this tense, cramped motel room. However, they both had a healthy fear of the Emir. They warily took note of Ghullam’s steely gray eyes, his size, and his movements. They’d seen his type before, and knew what his role was.

They were each given maps and diagrams. For three hours they went over the plan again and again, tackling each possibility. Ray was secretly relieved. Even after all the talk of details, his only responsibility was to drive a truck from point A to point B, and back again. No crashing into fuel dumps or refineries, no blowing things up in the middle of Los Angeles. Just drive the truck to the middle of nowhere and assist with some minor details. That was it. He’d be working with Ted as his wingman. Hank and Sam would be working together, and were taught how to use the television camera and the satellite uplink that came with it. They were told that it was absolutely necessary to have a video broadcast of what was about to happen. Hour after hour, day after day, the American networks would replay it. The coming events needed to be embedded in the American psyche, in the way that previous attacks had been. It was part of the terror.

In the middle of what seemed like their tenth time through the plan, Ghullam’s cell phone rang, and he answered. Yes, he would be there he said. He would get a taxi. He turned to the six. “You must stay here. Do not talk. Do not leave. Wait for me.”

V
IJAY MET GHULLAM at one of the many airport hotels in the vicinity of LAX. He had already checked out and was waiting by the hotel’s front doors. They didn’t delay, but went first to Ray’s apartment, then to Hank’s, and then to Sam’s. Ghullam had equipment for picking the locks and gaining access to each apartment. Vijay marveled at Ghullam’s almost magical skills when it came to entering almost any apartment. In a way, Vijay thought, those skills were similar to his own abilities to break into computers and networks of any sort. He and Ghullam plied the same trade, albeit in different domains. Ghullam’s role was to gain entry to the apartments of Hank, Ray, Sam, and Ted. Vijay’s was to gain access to their computers. His job was to rework the computer hard drives of each of the four men. Ray and Hank’s apartments had posed no problems. The break-ins were quick and easy, and the computers they found had off-the-shelf set-ups. Nothing quirky. All he did was slip a CD into the appropriate bay and let the programs load. It took less than ten minutes to sabotage Ray’s computer, a 20-minute taxi drive, and a similar process at Hank’s small home. A brief reference to Nooshkatoor in one email, to various members of the Karachi government and police force in others. Occasionally, mention of one or two Afghani drug lords — rivals of Yousseff’s. Messages that were encrypted, but not too highly.

He was in the middle of repeating the same steps at Sam’s house when the front door opened and Sam’s girlfriend, a vivacious, high-striding beauty named Julie, appeared. She was carrying a bag of groceries, which she dropped in shock when she saw them.

Ghullam pulled out his gun, a small copy of the Silenced Mag Ruger, modified by the gunsmiths of Darra Adam Khel. He looked at the girl sternly, and placed a finger across his lips, motioning for her to be silent. He smiled when she nodded in compliance, as she stood, rooted to the ground. Then he approached her and, unencumbered by conscience, and a broadening smile, shot her twice in the head and once in the heart.

He turned to Vijay as though what had occurred was as inconsequential as swatting a fly. “Reconfigure the computer,” he ordered. “Then we go to Ted’s home. Quickly.”

“Yes, Ghullam. Let me work here,” replied Vijay, feeling a little faint at what had just occurred. He had witnessed Ghullam in the act of murder. What was particularly chilling was the calm, almost serene manner in which the assassin had done it, and the smile that appeared to be playing around his lips afterward. Vijay shuddered and continued with his work, hoping never to be on the wrong side of Ghullam’s gun.

He quickly gained access to the operating system and loaded the contents of his CD onto the computer. Ghullam busied himself with wiping the door handle clean of all fingerprints. He left the body where it was. It would confound the investigation that was to come.

Within minutes, the job was done, and they were off to the last apartment. Ghullam had the lock open in under a minute, and they entered. Another 15 minutes passed, and the fourth computer was reconfigured. Ghullam had Vijay call a cab.

“Day’s Inn, Glendale,” was all Ghullam told the taxi driver. “Hurry.”

The driver eyed them nervously in the rearview mirror. Ghullam was weighing the pros and cons of killing him too, just for being nosy, but he thought it best to leave the matter alone. The driver dropped Ghullam off at the Day’s Inn, and was instructed to take Vijay on to LAX. He would be taking a transatlantic flight to Schiphol later that day. From there, he would catch a connecting flight home to Karachi. His work was done.

It was 9PM before Ghullam returned to room 237 at the motel. Ray, Sam, Hank, Ted, and the two teenage
jihadists
were waiting anxiously. Ghullam extended a gloved hand toward Ted, giving him the Mag Ruger. “You may need this. Hang on to it,” he said.

“Sure, Ghullam. Not a problem.”

“Watch it. Keep the safety on. It’s loaded,” added Ghullam, watching Ted place his fingerprints all over the weapon.

The plan was for the six of them to head out in two vehicles. Ray was to drive one, Sam the other. They took cabs from the motel, and by 11PM they had reached a series of warehouses just off the I-15. Two vehicles were parked in one of the warehouses — a five-ton van and a large semi. A number of unusual modifications had been made to the vehicles while they had been in storage at the PWS facility at Long Beach. The van had, stashed inside, a satellite uplink station, set to an NBC carrier frequency, compliments of Kumar and his technicians. The van also carried the Ark, while the semi carried the modified submersible. The men were not told what the equipment was for, or who had provided it; it was not their place to worry about such details. Sam slid behind the steering wheel of the smaller vehicle, while Ray stepped into the cab of the semi, still thankful that his role was only that of transporter. Ghullam stayed behind in the warehouse. His job was to sanitize.