Текст книги "The Insider Threat"

Автор книги: Brad Taylor

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

83

Omar shook Jacob’s leg, saying, “Get up. It’s time to get ready.”

Jacob groaned, gingerly feeling his groin, his eyes still puffy from the pepper spray. He peeled down his pants and saw an ugly purple bruise on his hip. He said, “What time is it?”

“Seven in the morning. You have to be in position at nine. We need to get Carlos and Devon dressed.”

Jacob sat up, scratching his head. “Have you thought more about the attack? You still want to go?”

“Yes. I’m convinced that they don’t know what our target is. If they did, they wouldn’t have put your faces all over the screen. They’re trying to scare you away because they can’t predict where it will be. They don’t know, but they’re looking. Which is why I’m changing the plan.”

“How?”

“As we discussed, you won’t be the martyr. I’m taking the final martyr vest with me. I’ll create a diversion. A strike that will draw the police and deflate their fear. They’ll think the attack has occurred.”

“You’re going to be a shahid?”

“No, young lion. I’m going to kill infidels. We’ll still meet as we discussed. Take the ferry to Tunis. I’ll be waiting.”

“But how will we get inside? Even if they don’t know our attack plans, the Lost Boys’ faces are all over the news. Surely they’ll stop us.”

“I don’t believe so. Have some faith. Remember when we discussed the attack? The threat of the security?”

“Yes.”

“Vatican City is not Italy. Yes, they talk, but the target is not an Italian citizen. You are all over the news in Italy, but that means little for the Vatican. I studied it extensively, and the Vatican coordinates with the Italian police, but does not fall under them. Maybe they have the bulletin, but they might not.”

“Maybe isn’t a way to plan for success.”

“Look at it this way: Those pictures are over six years old. You don’t even look like them, and your passport information isn’t for the Lost Boys.”

“How will we get in without you? You’re Chris Fulbright.”

“Wake up Carlos and Devon. Let’s get them ready. While they shave and shower, I’ll call my contact. I told him you were sick before. I’ll tell him I’m now the one who’s ill. I’ll get a feel for him and tell him it wouldn’t be in the best interests of the rest of the church groups for me to come contagious.” He smiled. “A sacrifice on my part.”

Jacob went to the other sleeping pallets, shaking the legs of Carlos and Devon. They woke up and Omar stood above them, projecting the aura of the first time Jacob had met him, his power absolute.

“It’s time. Prepare yourself for martyrdom. Cleanse your body and clear your mind. Your greatest triumph lies ahead.”

84

I got one more negative contact from Knuckles and began to wonder if the phone was turned on. I said, “You sure you’ve got the right IMSI in the box?”

Piqued, he came back, “I got what you gave me. Maybe you’d better ask the Taskforce asshole who sent the information.”

I looked at my watch, feeling the time slip away. It was now past seven thirty, and our opportunity to find the bed-down site with the phone information was growing smaller and smaller. Soon, it would be on the move, and we would lose the chance to hit them together, at a place of our choosing. I feared the next hit would be the one of their choosing.

The Taskforce intel analyst had given me the information on the handset purchased in Venice, a so-called drop phone bought at a train station kiosk. They’d gone into high gear and hacked the database of the phone vendor, learning the serial number and—more importantly—the international mobile subscriber number, or IMSI, attached to the phone. This was the unique identifier the phone would use to communicate with the network, and something that could be tracked.

We’d done the large-scope search, and seen the phone had only been used a few times. Some of the calls had been placed in Venice, one had been in between Venice and Rome, but the latest were in Rome itself, telling me the phone purchased with the suspected credit card was now running around the capital. All I had to do was find it, which I most definitely had the capability to do.

We had the general location of where the phone had been due to its constant talking to cell towers, but that wasn’t enough of a refinement for a surgical assault. It did show me a pattern that proved hunting the IMSI was worth the effort, because the phone’s last tower contact had been in the vicinity of our gunfight the night before.

I’d awakened the pilots and Knuckles, telling them what I had and getting them moving to the rock-star bird.

In addition to transporting my team around in style and hiding our equipment, the Gulfstream had a suite of surveillance capabilities nestled among all of the electronic gear that allowed the aircraft to fly. One was the ability to geolocate a cell phone down to a ten-digit grid. Basically acting as a flying cell tower, the aircraft would suck in and reject thousands of cell phones, searching for the correct IMSI. Once that was found, the phone would be locked and we’d trace the signal straight-line to a location, taking three readings and finding where they intersected.

Knuckles came back on, the connection from the aircraft to my computer making him sound like he had a head cold. “We’ve lapped Trastevere twice, with no joy. I’m recommending a grid pattern search.”

The Trastevere area had the longest stay of the phone, according to the cell tower data, and I was hoping it was the bed-down location, but nothing had registered. The cell was either off or already on the move to a different location.

The IMSI grabber in the aircraft was limited in range—it couldn’t suck in every phone in Rome—and thus had to be targeted at a specific area. Knuckles was asking to start flying over Rome like he was mowing the lawn, but that posed its own problems—namely the air traffic control over the airspace of Rome. They’d want to know why we wished to fly willy-nilly across the city.

I said, “What’s the pilot’s take?”

I waited, then heard, “He’s saying he can do it, but it’ll be short. He thinks he can convince them that we’re sightseeing, flying over the Colosseum and the Vatican before we get on our way. We won’t get the city.”

I thought about it, knowing it would be the last thing we did. I was about to give them the go-ahead when Jennifer came into the room, holding my Taskforce phone. “Analyst on the line. He’s got a lead.”

Into the computer I said, “Stand by. I got the Taskforce on the phone. Head out of the city and loiter.”

I took the cell from Jennifer, put my hand over the mic, and said, “Christine?”

Jennifer said, “Nothing yet. Doctor says she’s still out from the sedatives and the trauma. Her vitals are good, so he thinks she’ll come around soon.”

Not what I wanted to hear. Well, I mean I was glad her vitals were good, but, Jesus, couldn’t she wake the hell up already? I put the phone to my ear and said, “What do you have?”

I’d given the analyst the mission to identify all the calls our target cell had made, and I was hoping they had something I could use to broaden my search.

“We think we have the bed-down location. One of the contacts made by the handset was to the Hotel Imperiale. It’s the only hotel they’ve called, and the same one of your linkage target. Our evaluation is they’re staying at it. We recommend penetrating through cyber and getting a guest readout. We can analyze for anomalies if they’re using an alias.”

Not a bad bit of analysis, but unfortunately way off. This analyst was dedicated to finding linkages through electronic tethers, and not an all-source guy who could provide predictive intelligence based on multiple inputs. He had no idea what had transpired last night, but at least he was trying.

I said, “Thanks for the information. Who else has that phone called? Do you have the other IMSIs?”

I could hear the deflation over the phone. “Yes. There are a few other numbers, most mundane. We’ve got one other pay-as-you-go cell, bought in Rome. But I really think you should focus on the hotel.”

I said, “I might. Give me the IMSI.”

He did and I relayed it to Knuckles, telling him to put it in the system, re-attack Trastevere, and if that was a bust, to conduct his limited grid search. It was all I could do.

Jennifer said, “It’s now past eight.”

“Thank you for that reminder.”

She took my sarcasm in stride, waiting. I said, “What?”

“Shoshana. She says she can find Omar. I think we should let her try.”

“Jennifer, that is fucking crazy. I may not have a lot of leads, but I’ll be damned if I’m resorting to calling the psychic network for answers. We let her loose and she’s just as likely to burn the operation as facilitate it.”

“Pike, talk to her. Give her your mission parameters and she’ll execute. I’ll go with her. I’ll keep her in check.”

I thought about it. Kurt’s conversation with me last night had driven home that a slaughter was coming. All indicators were putting the attack as imminent, and the Islamic State had shown a barbarity unlike anything seen since the Middle Ages. They’d put enormous effort into this plan, and the end result would be commensurate. Something more horrible than the burning of the Jordanian pilot.

Kurt had inserted the Lost Boys into the Italian system, and the United States was blaring from all classified agencies to every liaison in Europe, but hoping some cop stumbled across them was not a means for success. It was like 9/11 all over again, with everyone warning of the punch, but nobody knowing how it was coming.

But waiting on Christine to wake up was doing little as well. In truth, I hated sitting on my hands. I wanted to be proactive. To be doing something.

I said, “Go get her. But you’re going with her.”

Jennifer smiled and raced out of the room. She came back in almost immediately, making me wonder if Shoshana had been waiting right outside.

Shoshana said, “I appreciate your trust.” No witty sarcasm. No playful banter. She was all business, but the dark angel was hidden.

I said, “Don’t appreciate anything just yet. I don’t trust you. I have some parameters. First, Jennifer goes with you. Is that an issue?”

Without hesitation, she said, “No.” And I knew they’d been conspiring.

“Second, you pinpoint him, you call. No direct action, period.”

She glanced at Jennifer, then said, “Pike, that will depend on him.”

I went to Jennifer as well, almost calling it off. She gave a slight nod. I said, “No. I want your word. No unilateral action.”

She clenched her jaw, staring at me. Finally, she said, “Okay. You have my word.”

I saw Jennifer relax at her statement, then my computer came alive.

“Pike, Pike, this is Knuckles. I got a hit on that second phone. It’s in a two-story flat in Trastevere. Looking at it through optics. Photos coming.”

85

Jacob watched Omar check the placement of the explosive vest. After he was satisfied, Omar said, “How does it feel?”

Carlos said, “Same as it always does. It’s actually a little lighter with the Kevlar ball bearings instead of the steel ones we practiced with in Syria.”

“You need to look natural at all times. People will be studying everyone who arrives. Anything that sets off an alarm in someone’s mind could result in a physical search.”

Carlos nodded, saying, “It’s no different from stealing from a store. They always have people wandering around looking for suspicious characters.”

Omar slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Listen up, both of you. You aren’t taking a candy bar without paying. You’re killing the most revered Christian on Earth. They will be looking, and you need to be flawless.”

Jacob said, “I’ll be there. Don’t worry. Yeah, it’s a killing, but we’ve done things like this before. Devon once walked out of a store with a complete car stereo, and when he was stopped, he convinced the security guard he’d already paid. Trust me, they can remain calm.”

Omar said, “Devon, how does yours feel?”

“Same.”

“Put on your shirts and jackets. Thread the detonating tube down your sleeve, but wait on the neckties until we do final adjustments.”

They did so and Omar had them turn in a circle. He nodded his head in approval. “You can’t even tell they’re in place.”

Devon and Carlos smiled at the praise. Omar said, “Okay, where do you put the detonator?”

In unison, both said, “Right front jacket pocket.”

“And your cell phones?”

“In our hands at all times.”

“And you can remove the blasting caps and initiation chemicals from the phones? You should be able to do that blindfolded by now.”

Carlos said, “Yes, we worked with the real cell phone yesterday. It’s not the same as the blocks of wood we used in Syria, but not that much different.”

“They are charged? Look real?”

They nodded in unison. Omar said, “Remember, you have to make sure that lever on the side locks up. And to both press and release the button. Don’t forget the dead man’s switch. I don’t want to see a picture of you on the news running forward, waiting on it to go off, only to be shot.”

Jacob said, “Our time is running short. We have to meet Father Brimm in less than forty-five minutes.”

Omar said, “First, the videos. The evidence supporting the Islamic State.”

Jacob said, “Omar, we should have done that earlier. You’re going to make a video that most likely won’t even be found.”

Omar said, “They’ll find it. Eventually, they’ll figure out everything we did and they’ll come to this house. Even if they don’t, you and I can speed things up by telling them where it’s hidden. Unless you’d rather make the speech inside the basilica. Be the martyr.”

Omar had called Father Brimm earlier, giving him his fabrication of being sick. He’d asked for the Father’s help with his boys, and Brimm had agreed, telling him that all three were cleared. Which meant Jacob could be back in play with the original plan. Outside of earshot of Devon and Carlos, Jacob had reiterated what he wanted, refusing to take the martyr’s role and stressing the value of the planned diversion. Omar hadn’t fought him then, and Jacob wasn’t going to start the argument all over again now.

Jacob said, “Let’s get it over with.”

Time was running short, but truthfully Jacob didn’t want to watch his friends make a martyr tape. Didn’t want to participate in the macabre ceremony. Even given what he was about to do, seeing his two best friends bragging about killing themselves seemed obscene.

Omar set up the same GoPro camera he’d used in Tirana, Devon and Carlos against a wall, grisly smiles on their faces. The scene reminding Jacob of the forced Christmas photos he’d taken at the school. The ones sent out as postcards for donations, proving the “good” the Christian evangelists did for the downtrodden and misguided.

Standing together, both Carlos and Devon read from a prepared speech, highlighting their detonators and their original, true-name passports. After an enthusiastic denunciation of infidels and the proclamation of infallibility of the Islamic State, it was done. Carlos and Devon’s conversion complete.

Omar left the camera in plain view on the kitchen table and said, “You know where to meet Father Brimm?”

Jacob said, “Yes. Left colonnade outside of Saint Peter’s Square at the first aid station. I looked on Google Earth.”

“And the restroom?”

“Just past security, right side at the facade to the basilica.”

“Remember, don’t ask to use it until you’re through final security. If you do it before, they’ll direct you to one outside of security. And that would do no good.”

“I got it, I got it. We need to go.”

Omar picked up a small duffel bag, the canvas cloaking the final vest. He drew himself up to his full height, his eyes showing fire. Jacob expected him to make a speech, but all he did was shake the hands of both Carlos and Devon.

He said, “Time to make history.”

86

Crammed into the Fiat with four other people, I really did feel somewhat like a clown. I would have driven, or at least called shotgun, but I had way too much coordinating to do. Jennifer was behind the wheel, with Shoshana in the passenger seat acting as navigator. Shoehorned into the bench seat in back with me were Brett and Aaron, all working through the assault.

Knuckles was still in the aircraft overhead, with orders to loiter until I called him again. Retro, with his leg wound, had been given the unenviable task of acting as the headquarters element, doing LTC Alexander’s job with Kurt Hale and the Taskforce.

He’d bitched, of course, but given the stakes of the attack, I needed someone switched-on talking to the Taskforce. I told him he shouldn’t have been a bullet magnet.

I’d thought long and hard about going unilateral on this mission instead of alerting host-nation security forces, and decided it was the only way to solve the problem. I knew I could have passed the target information to Kurt, and he’d in turn get it to the Italians, but the time lag was just too great. In my mind, all I could think about was duplicating the Charlie Hebdo massacre in Paris, with a bunch of Italian police blundering in without the right information, then Omar and Jacob escaping and slaughtering everyone they met on a bid to flee.

I knew the target and the threat they posed. And my team was one of the best on Earth.

I decided to act.

In the middle, Brett held a tablet with the photos taken from our eye in the sky. Knuckles had given a 360 to the target, with multiple digital images showing the building, as well as the roads around it.

Brett said, “It’s a stand-alone, thank God. We won’t have to bust into a hundred different apartments looking.”

The phone lock was good, but not pinpoint precise. If the target had been four stories tall and a block long, that would have left a lot of real estate to cover. Brett was happy it was a small two-story, meaning it probably didn’t have any sublets, and whoever was using it was all bad.

I said, “How many breaches?”

“Not counting windows, looks like two. One in front, and one in back, near the alley with the trash cans.” He handed the tablet to me, showing me the roof of what looked like a slice of pizza, the crust end butting up into the refuse alley, but the front getting narrower and narrower as it was hemmed in on two sides with cobblestone streets.

Brett pointed to the right side of the building, “That’s Via del Moro, the road with the main entrance. The other road just runs down brick, then the alley cuts in between both of them.”

I said, “How can you see a back breach? It’s hidden by the buildings. Are you guessing?”

He leaned over and ran his finger over the screen, flipping through twenty pictures, trying to find the one he wanted. Eventually, he did, a long-axis shot of the alley from above. You couldn’t see exactly what was down it, but you could see a light fixture and a row of garbage cans. Which meant a breach. Nobody puts a light fixture on the back side of an alley wall unless there’s some reason for a person to use it.

I privately thanked my lucky stars I’d made Knuckles get in the plane. He knew what we needed, and hadn’t quit taking photos until he had it.

I studied the image a little more, building a plan. Knowing what I thought we should do, but wanting input, I said, “What’s your call?”

Brett said, “Low-vis entry, back door. No knock-knock on this one. Stealth. Get on them before they realize we’re there. Koko and Carrie lock down the front if we screw up.”

Which is exactly what I thought. I said, “Aaron?”

Before he could answer, Shoshana said, “Who the hell is Carrie? What am I doing?”

Brett grinned at me and said, “Uhh . . . it’s your callsign for this mission. For on the radio, you know, when we have to talk in the clear.”

She said, “I don’t get it. Why Carrie? Is this some joke, like calling Jennifer a talking gorilla?”

I cut above the fray, speaking sharply. “Enough of this shit!” Everyone got quiet and I said, “Aaron, what are your thoughts?”

He said, “Brett’s plan is sound. As long as we don’t get into a gunfight on the street out front.”

“I’m good with that. Carrie and Koko should be able to lock them inside as long as we give them a heads-up we’re compromised. If we push them out, and they choose to fight, it’s their bad luck.”

Piqued again, Shoshana rotated around and said, “What is Carrie? Why am I that?”

Aggravated, I said, “It’s just a callsign, but it fits. You scare the shit out of me and my team. You are Carrie. She’s a character in a book that slaughtered half a town with her mind. Killing everyone because she was slighted, using her brain alone.”

She took that in, then said, “So no talking monkey.”

I looked at her, incredulous. “It’s a bad callsign. It means you’re a telekinetic psychopath.”

She turned back around, happy, saying, “Koko and I can lock down the front.”

Aaron was grinning, and Brett looked like he’d just created a monster. We crossed the Tiber River, entering Trastevere, and Jennifer said, “About two minutes out.”

I said, “Okay, Jennifer, do a drive-by of the front of the house, on Via del Moro. We’ll take a quick look, then roll out at the alley. You park, then provide squirter control on the front breach. You and Carrie position close on the door if we call. Any questions?”

I got none, and the pizza house came into view. Jennifer rolled around the point, us staring at the front door like it would tell us something. It showed nothing. Just another Roman house on a street full of them.

She left Via del Moro, turning onto the other leg of the triangle, and I cracked the door. She reached the alley, and we rolled out, scurrying into the small, rat-infested lane. I unhooked my PWS, flipping out the buttstock and whispering, “Brett. Your door.”

He and Aaron did the same with their weapons, and we advanced, making sure not to kick cans or other refuse. He reached it, and Aaron pulled security on the far side while I took the near. Brett knelt down, pulled out an old-fashioned pick kit, and set to work, going very, very slowly.

He felt the lock release and turned to me. I raised my weapon, caught eyes with Aaron, then nodded. He swung the door open, and I flowed in, rifle high.

I entered a small anteroom, a stove visible through another door. I went in enough to allow space for the rest of the team, then took a knee, listening. Brett slowly allowed the door to close and we all paused, straining our ears. I heard nothing. I glanced at Brett, letting him know I was moving, then took a position on the door that allowed me to pie off the room. I saw nothing. Brett came up behind me and squeezed my arm. I entered the room, going left, feeling him go right, both of us still moving gingerly.

The room was empty.

We continued through the small house, but it was deserted. Nothing.

I called in Jennifer and Shoshana, and ordered site exploitation. While that was going on, I called Knuckles, saying, “We got a dry hole. Need another lock for the phone. Get overhead.”

I got acknowledgment from him, then Brett brought up a GoPro camera, saying, “You have to see this.”

He turned it on, and I watched the other two Lost Boys chanting a bunch of crazy shit, exposing suicide vests.

A martyr tape. And they were gone.

“Fuck! Give me something from this place. Right now.”

Aaron came up with a hand-drawn diagram of some sort of ceremony. Nothing identified where it was, but it was big. A lot of people. It had sketches showing where to target and who to kill, confusing marks that had been erased and redrawn, as if whoever had made it had been in a discussion with others, changing the plan.

I said, “Any idea where that is?”

“None. Brett’s still looking. Their luggage is here, so this is the endgame. They aren’t coming back.”

Knuckles came on my earpiece, saying, “I got the phone. It’s on an island in the middle of the Tiber, close to Trastevere, headed north. Whoever’s got it is on foot. It’s moving slow.”

I said, “What’s north? What’s the target?”

I got nothing for a minute, then, “The Colosseum. That’s the biggest thing around.”

I looked at Brett. “What time does that place open? Find out.”

Jennifer came back downstairs, Shoshana behind her. I said, “They’re on the move. It might be the Colosseum; it might be something else.”

Brett said, “It opened at eight thirty. It’s open right now. According to this, worst crowds are between nine and ten.”

“That’s it. Pack up. We need to go.”

I called Retro, relaying what I had and telling him to contact Kurt. It was time to get the Italians involved. Let them know the threat. We might be able to stop it, but I couldn’t live with myself if we failed and hadn’t given some notice.

Retro tried to interrupt me several times, until I told him to shut up and start taking notes. He did so. When I was done, I said, “Get that out right now. Tell Kurt we’re on the move, but we may be too late.”

He said, “Roger all. Pike . . . Christine’s awake. She’s talking. I got her information.”

I was on the verge of hanging up the phone when what he said penetrated. “What did she say? What does she know?”

“Nothing, really. She was screwing some guy from America. She’s a mistress, but she was here with a man hosting a church group. The man hasn’t been seen in days. It’s why she came down to Rome, to find him. I’ve run his name, and he’s from Florida. He was here leading three boys on a Catholic church group trip.”

“So? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“The three were in Venice last week. Same as the Lost Boys. And today, they’re having a personal audience with the pope at a ceremony. But they never checked into their hotel here in Rome. Their trail ends in Venice.”

His words hit me like a lightning bolt.

Jesus Christ. They’re going to assassinate the pope.