Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 18

The attack on the American Secretary of Defense had been spectacular. Everything had gone perfectly.

Baseyev had been prepared to lose all of his men. Instead, he had only lost three. That meant he was left with some cleaning up.

When the men gathered back at the warehouse, they were still jacked up on the new drugs he had given them that morning — pills to make them aggressive and hyperalert.

Drugs to mellow out the night before an attack and drugs to get amped up the day of executing an attack had become prevalent in terror circles. Now, Baseyev explained, it was time for them to come back down and relax. If they were nervous or overexcited, they would never make their escape.

He passed out bottles of water and tiny paper cups with a single pill in each. The men were smiling over their victory and chanting “Allahu’akbar,” God is great!

They asked Baseyev questions about what life was going to be like in Syria, in the caliphate. He painted a rosy picture in return.

The men would be lauded as heroes, as lions. Already, word had traveled back to the Caliph himself about their success. Lavish apartments and wives had been chosen for each of them. Men would be placed under their command. They were nothing short of Islamic rock stars.

Even more important, Baseyev explained, Allah himself was not only pleased, but had blessed their performance today. He had protected them. He had made them victorious in battle. It was to him that all of the glory was due.

The men halted their self-congratulatory fervor and asked Baseyev to lead them in prayers. He agreed, then made sure everyone had swallowed their pills.

Once they performed their ritual cleansing and had rolled out their prayer rugs, Baseyev began.

Muslims were not allowed to fidget or look around. They were to recite their prayers as if they were in the presence of God. It demanded a state of total concentration.

Where he was allowed to contribute additional verses from the Quran, Baseyev recited the longest ones he could remember.

Throughout their prayers, the men performed all of the required postures from bowing their foreheads to the ground in Sujud to rocking back and sitting on their haunches in Tashahhud.

Eventually, their movements began to slow and become more languid. Eyelids grew heavier and eyes began to glaze over. Baseyev slowed his speech and lowered his volume.

When the prayers were finished, he asked the brothers to remain sitting. Without explaining to them why, he began a lecture about one of the fathers of one of the wives of Mohammed. It was one of the most boring subjects he could think of. Soon the men’s heads were bobbing as they fought off sleep.

Standing, he continued his lecture and walked around behind the men. None of them noticed. Their blood was saturated with the heavy narcotic he had given them. The only thing easier than stealing candy from children was handing it to them.

He removed a .22-caliber SIG Sauer pistol from beneath his shirt and attached its suppressor. The Mosquito, as it was known, was ninety percent of the size of its famous big brother, the P226, but Baseyev didn’t need that much firepower. He didn’t need the noise, either.

With the suppressor attached, the only sound anyone would hear would be the movement of the Mosquito’s slide as it ejected spent shell casings and seated each new round.

It was time.

Praising the wisdom and glory of the prophet Mohammed, he walked the line, shooting each of the men in the back of their heads. After the last one, he turned and looked at his work.

All of the men were dead, slumped forward on their prayer rugs, facing Mecca. Baseyev glanced at his watch. He was right on schedule.

After prepping the explosives, he then conducted one final check of the warehouse before leaving.

When his private jet had been cleared for takeoff, he placed a call from his cell phone and initiated the countdown.

On the climb out from the airport, he got to see the warehouse explode. It was an amazing sight.

A gigantic fireball rolled up into the night sky over Turkey. The authorities could comb the site for months, but all they would find was what he wanted them to find.

Settling back in his seat, he reflected on what lay ahead. The best, most dramatic attack was yet to come. But the stakes were going to be much higher, the margin for error narrower. With each step forward, the risks and the danger would compound.

Baseyev was unafraid. In fact, he welcomed the opportunity. Operating on American soil was going to be his greatest achievement ever. And hopefully, it would bring the mightiest military in the world crashing down upon ISIS.