The Ragnarok Conspiracy (13 page)

 

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.”

“Then make sure it is settled,” he said standing, eyeing the three men. “Because we also will not hesitate to inflict a lesson on anyone who tries to interfere with what we do.” The three men nodded, convinced by what they had seen of his team to date that he meant what he said.

The American walked out of the small building and into the blazing summer sun. The fools would comply. They were young and
filled with fire to strike at the majority Sunni population. This was a chance to do so in a way they could never have imagined before: in the heart of Algeria, at the Great Mosque of Algiers, Jemaa Kebir, built more than one thousand years ago. They dreamed to establish their Berber culture and small sect of Islam, and thereby opened their nation to a worse strike from within. He was happy indeed to hit the mosque, but the goal had been greater, and the Ibadi People's Army would soon find that they had opened Algiers to an attack on another landmark, one dear to all Algerians as a symbol of the defeat of the West. As such a symbol, Mjolnir would hammer it and crush it to the ground. He would see to that. He knew how much was being entrusted to him. He would not fail.

The winds blew, etching sand grains mercilessly over his face. He looked across the desert into the distance, seeing beyond it to the greatest goal ahead.
Another step. Each step brings us closer.
It was all coming together, despite setbacks and delays. He smiled, turned toward the main road, and began walking.

 

The flight to Sharjah was a rough one, far more turbulent than usual, so much so that even Jordan had passed on a recent offer of a meal. The triple-sevens of Boeing were usually smoother rides, and he wondered grimly whether it was a sign of things to come. It had taken him weeks to secure permission for this risky venture, putting his reputation on the line at the CIA. As July ended, he had finally gotten the needed permission, and he prepared his team for what was to come.
As much as they can be prepared.

The trip was long, more than twelve hours in the air from New York to Dubai City, then a car ride from Dubai to Sharjah, and that was assuming nothing went wrong in between. Right now, his main concern was his team. They were men from every walk of life, from the street to the Ivy League, each a trained CIA operative. All were black; all dressed in Arab garb: white robes and a white African kufi with Muslim-style beards. They looked out of place alongside the Arabs onboard, some of whom were in traditional clothing, many in Western-style business attire; all very different than the African American men sitting together in a group in the middle of the aircraft. These were the men he had trained and honed for the last three years, who had traveled overseas countless times, risking their lives, leaving their families, to build piece by piece, deal by deal a reputation as trusted customers in a black market arms world where there truly was no trust. But where trust could not be found, money and arms did in their stead.

In the facade presented to the arms world, he was Yusuf Abdul-Rauf, leader of a new Muslim extremist group centered in the United States and composed solely of African American members. “A Muslim
Black Panthers,” he had explained on several occasions, focused on the liberation of the black people from the oppression of the white Christian power structure “by any means necessary.” He sought arms and explosives through deals untraceable by investigative agencies in the United States. He planned to build an army, make a mark with terrorist attacks across the nation. Of course, the dealers cared little why he wanted their merchandise, only that he paid in full and on time. Jordan doubted they believed his organization would do much anyway. They were impressed, however, with his cash and clearly wondered who was bank-rolling his purchases. He only hoped none of them had begun to guess that it was the US government itself behind him.

He traveled with six others. Four of them were muscle, necessary for his real purpose as well as for this well-developed facade. His bodyguards in both worlds, these were operatives expertly trained in combat and defense, and Jordan was always glad to have them around on these missions. All but one were former gang members he had personally recruited. Two were his “money men,” operatives trained in finance who had studied the international arms market thoroughly. His Harvard Men, as he called them in jest. Jordan, or Yusuf, was the visionary, the leader who brought these men, and the imaginary hundreds back in the States who followed him, together under a unifying purpose and will.

This team had patiently worked to build respectability as a client in the illegal arms markets, focusing on the one led by the now imprisoned ex-KGB agent Viktor Bout. His team had played a crucial role in the capture of the Merchant of Death, although he had not mentioned this to John Savas and others at the FBI. It was the greatest success of his young career and had earned him respect and authority at the CIA. His infiltration of these networks promised to deliver much more than that over the coming years. Now he was asking his team to travel again and risk destroying years of work, placing all their lives in danger on a hunch that this new terrorist organization was something so threatening that it required drastic action. For all that he was doing, he had better be right. He remembered the prayer in the Koran, in the sura Maryam:
My Lord! surely my bones are weakened and my head flares
with hoariness, and, my Lord! I have never been unsuccessful in my prayer to Thee.
He hoped Allah would hear his prayer now.

The final descent toward Dubai was always spectacular, as the golden-brown of the desert and the blue of the sea established a strong contrast, punctuated by the amazing sights of the Palm Islands. These enormous, human-made islands of nearly filigreed projections of sand were clearly visible from the cruising altitude of the plane and upon descent carved out a magnificent decoration in the Gulf spanning nearly three miles in diameter. Close by were hundreds of small sandy islands comprising “The World,” an artificial archipelago that re-creates the shape of the continents of the earth, and on which vacation homes, resorts, estates, and communal lands were still being built—a product of endless oil money, some imagination, and what Jordan considered entirely too much time on the hands of the populace.

Jordan and his team disembarked, completely jet-lagged, a strange troop of black Muslims walking like a pack through the Dubai International Airport to pick up a rental car for the drive to Sharjah. It amused him to see the familiar names and icons of Hertz, Avis, and Thrifty rentals amid all the flowing and ornate Arabic script. This part of the trip would be short, at least, and Jordan knew that he and his team would need to get some sleep soon. Tomorrow they would begin a most dangerous gambit.

They were mostly silent driving through Dubai City, each wrapped up in his own thoughts, each fatigued from the trip. Within half an hour, they had crossed into Sharjah proper and were approaching the Millennium Hotel on Corniche Road, its blue-glass face reflecting the bright Middle Eastern sun and the waves of the sea. Check-in was quick. Jordan's Arabic was extremely fluent after many years of training and practice on foreign soil.

In the hotel room, he dialed the number he kept security-locked in his smart phone. After three rings, he heard a tone and then entered a long eight-digit code. A second set of rings was heard, and another tone prompted a second code. A third set of rings was interrupted by a woman's voice speaking Russian.

“Yusuf Abdul-Rauf calling for Mikhail Kharitonov,” he replied in the same language.

“A moment,
Puzhalsta
,” said the voice. Jordan glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was eleven in the morning. He had called ahead of schedule.

“My American friend,” said a strong male voice in heavily accented English. “Happy for you to arrive very good.”

“Thank you, Mika. We are glad to be here. I hope things are on schedule for our meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, sounding almost amused. “We have all as you requested. It is very big order, my friend, and means Mika must work very hard to see all is delivered.”

“We understand, Mika. This is important for us. We have all that you asked for. Do not worry.”

The voice on the other end of the line laughed. “Yusuf, Mika always worry. That why Mika still alive. Tomorrow, as planned, time and place. You bring and I bring. All is then good, no?”

“Yes, Mika. All is good.”

Jordan closed the connection and took a breath of air. The madness would soon begin.