Traitor (29 page)

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.

Nick had his army. The true warriors of Allah from across the Muslim world, irrespective of their individual allegiances— Al Qaeda, Taliban, Hezbollah, Hamas or any one of the smaller groups— had come together. The Caliph’s dream, eighteen months in the making, had been realized. A dream that would see all ten thousand men take the role of fighter. Nick would take all ten thousand jihadists with him, none would be left behind, fighters and leaders alike. This was a grand plan befitting Allah and the Caliph. To protect the plan, he had to keep the details of its scale as quiet as possible. Misleading the leaders meant none would know just how massive the attack would be until they were on their way to America. Compartmentalization of the detail was key to the success. The fewer people who knew, the less they could tell and the less chance the Americans would find out until it was too late.

Larbi had escorted Nick back to his SUV after the meeting and the waiting Walid. He had surprised them both when instead of guiding them out he had joined them in the vehicle. Larbi was to be Nick’s bodyguard and constant companion. Wherever Nick went, Larbi would watch over him. He was a highly experienced Mujahedeen fighter and was at home on the hillside.

Nick had never witnessed such a master at work. He blended into the hillside and followed the man above Krorez Beach with ease, remaining out of sight of his target.

When they disappeared over the hillside towards the next bay, Nick could only speculate as to the man’s fate. He grabbed his robe and slipped on his sandals to begin his own trek back up the hill towards the luxury villa that housed Nick and his many assistants as he planned the downfall of America and the rise of the Caliphate. The word ‘villa’ did not, however, do the property justice. Built into a hillside of commanding views across the sea, it was more of a complex than a villa. Stretching out across the hill, the walled perimeter offered complete privacy from the various buildings that made up the summer home for one of Walid’s many cousins. The main house was over twenty thousand square feet in size, with many smaller properties on the grounds for housing servants and guests alike, should the need arise.

Larbi sped up. He had spent hours walking the area over the last week and knew every stone and path that surrounded the complex. He knew the man was taking a route that offered a shortcut into the next bay. A narrow ledge with a treacherous drop deterred most walkers but to Larbi it was the second quickest route. There was another more direct route that was more suitable to mountain goats, the ledge so narrow that it was only possible to walk sideways, while looking down onto rocks over five hundred feet below.

Larbi walked along the ledge without a second thought of falling. His feet were as certain as they were walking a paved sidewalk. His shortcut would allow him to overtake the man and double back, in order to meet him coming from the opposite direction.

Gary was agitated. His plan for the day had been ruined by the swimmer. At that time of the morning, he should have had the beach to himself and the seals, he was sure, would have been there. He removed the camera from its bag and scanned through the photos as he walked. The images of the sun rising calmed him down. He had captured some great shots and was sure to get some fantastic comments from his Blipfoto admirers when he posted them online later that day. His Blipfoto followers were as close to friends as Gary had. Their comments, no matter how brief, always made him feel calm and more relaxed.

Pausing as he neared the narrowing path, he came across the photos of the swimmer. Photography was Gary’s only hobby, his only outlet outside of work. Therefore, the quality of his equipment was second to none. His zoom lens picked up every detail the naked eye could not see from several hundred yards away. The image viewer on the back of the camera was clear enough to zoom into the face of the man who had disrupted his day. The image was that of a face that Gary had seen many, many times over the previous three weeks.

He gasped at the realization of who the swimmer was. The face that had appeared from the water belonged to none other than Nick Geller, wanted terrorist.

Gary placed the camera back in the bag and with renewed purpose, strode towards his hotel room, a phone and the authorities. He hadn’t even noticed the man approaching him nervously, tucked against the inside wall of the path, as far from the drop as he could get. Gary had no fear of heights and was happy to pass the man on the outside, uncharacteristically smiling a good morning to him. He understood just how big a discovery he had just made. Finding evidence was his job. Finding evidence that would catch the man at the center of the largest manhunt in history was something he had really not expected.

Larbi approached the narrow pathway as the man stopped at the other side. He needed to meet him on the pathway. His plan was to fall into the man, making him drop his camera bag over the ledge while saving him. The camera would be lost but all the man would care about was that he had survived. However, he needed the man on the pathway for that to work.

He pushed himself up against the side of the hill, as far from the ledge as possible and began to edge across slowly, trying to show genuine fear of the drop just a yard or two in front of him. Larbi slowed almost to a stop as the man seemed totally entranced by whatever he was looking at on his camera. Eventually, he put it away and walked towards Larbi, only far quicker than before. Larbi was going to have to time his maneuver perfectly, just in case anyone was watching.

The man drew alongside him and smiled. Larbi feigned a slip and fell forward into the man, grabbing out for him as the man fell towards the ledge and the five hundred foot drop.

Gary felt the weight of the man against him as his footing gave way. The ledge loomed and he felt sure the man was reaching for him but he continued to fall. Gary felt a weight pull against him and realized it was the shoulder strap of his camera bag. The leather strap stretched and strained but the weight exerted against it was too much and it gave way.

Gary reached out but it was too late.

Larbi watched the man plummet to his death. He was certain that from the landing on the jagged rocks below there was no chance the man had survived but he had to be sure. From five hundred feet up, it was too far to be certain. He unzipped the camera bag and used the camera’s zoom lens to check. He decided against taking a picture; the sight was too gruesome to be seen again. The man was most definitely dead.

Whether Larbi had saved the camera or the man was irrelevant. He had to protect Nick Geller. Seeing the recognition on the man’s face of whatever he had seen on the camera was what had resulted in the camera being saved and the man dying.

Larbi grabbed some loose twigs and spent a few minutes wiping away any sign of his footprints. If they did have anyone check the scene, only one set of footprints would show up. A tragic accident would be recorded.

Unfortunately Larbi was not aware of how advanced modern cameras were. If he had been, he may have noticed, on the camera’s viewfinder, a bar on the upper right of the screen showing the upload progress to Gary Truman’s Blipfoto account.

NCTC

Frankie produced a sheet of paper, placed it on Turner’s desk and beckoned for Reid to join them.

“Remember Nick’s French bank account?”

“Monsieur Jacques Guillon, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that name,” said Reid.

“I’ve been going through the detail of all his transactio—”

“Dead end,” Turner cut in.

“Maybe not,” said Frankie.

“He’s never going to use that account again, he knows it’s burnt,” agreed Reid.

“Not the account but what about the cash he withdrew?” she said teasingly.

“Unless the French have developed some super GPS impregnated paper that we know nothing about, how in the hell do we track cash?” asked Turner.

“It’s what he bought with the cash that we can track,” she said triumphantly pointing to the sheet of paper on the desk.

“What’s that?” asked Reid looking at an array of numerals written across the page.

Turner stared at the page before recognizing what they represented. “Are those credit card details?”

“Yep,” announced Frankie, struggling to hide her excitement. “Pre-paid credit cards.”

“But there must be millions of them, tens of millions,” said Reid, wondering how that could help them.

“I know. I thought they held about a hundred bucks maybe five hundred max but no, you can put thousands on them, a few even take fifteen thousand dollars and that was the breakthrough.”

Both Turner and Reid stared at the numbers on the sheet as Frankie talked. There were four card numbers, one with a tick at the end.

“The transaction history for the account was either ten or fifteen thousand dollar transactions at each location. Not all at once but when you add them up, they’re always around that amount. I had a chat with some of the specialists at Treasury and they told me about these high value pre-paid cards.”

“And this one with the tick?” asked Turner.

“The proof. Transactions on the Guillon account amounted to fifteen thousand dollars in the Chicago area where a pre-paid card was loaded with the same amount. That card was purchased in Chicago at around the same time and that card has just recently been used in Algiers.”

“Nick Geller was in Algiers! He took those cell phones in Algiers a couple of weeks ago!” said Reid excitedly.

“Wait,” cautioned Frankie, “I’ve checked. Nick didn’t use the card. I It was used by a pilot who is known to the authorities as a smuggler. They have his image from the aircraft leasing company where he just put down a payment on a plane he needs to rent.”

“Because we blew the shit out of his in the desert in Sudan, I’ll bet!” Turner chuckled.

“Which means that even though he knows we know about the account, he thinks the prepaid cards are still safe,” said Reid, looking at the other three card details. “Do you think that’s all there are?”

“No, but this was just taking two locations. Two of these are probably innocent or, according to my friends at Treasury, not Nick. As far as they’re concerned, anyone with a pre-paid card with fifteen grand is trying to hide something. But anyway, not many people have the cards loaded to the max and if we tie withdrawal locations to the dates, we just need to find how many pre-paid cards were loaded to the max in that area and get the numbers from the companies.”

“Have we asked the Algerians to pick up the pilot?” asked Reid.

“No, I thought if we did, Nick might guess that we know about the cards,” replied Frankie.