On Scope

13

“I warned you.” Mercedes Sarra Bourihane was not a person for small talk, and her sharp words fell like lashes on the sensitivities of Yanis Rebiane. Despite being a devout Muslim, the woman seldom knew her place. He bristled at her criticism and fought to keep his voice down, his outward manner unruffled. She had been in Morocco and he was in New York, a distance that Rebiane deemed adequate, but now here she was in his downtown Manhattan hotel suite, barking at him like a common bitch dog. She should have stayed over there!

Bourihane was seated comfortably on the long sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, and a glass of lemonade in her hand reflected the brilliant sunlight coming in from outside. “We were making good progress until Barcelona,” she said. “Making concrete proposals to help them restructure their economy is complex, but we were winning converts within the government by forcing the European Commission to take an even harder line.”

He said, “The Americans needed to be shown that we are serious and will not be intimidated in reaching our goal, Mercedes. Even you agreed to that.” Yanis had a vodka over ice. He was somewhat loose with religious rules: Sharia law was a tool to control the masses, not the elite.

“It was to be done in a civilized manner with diplomatic and financial pressure, Yanis. Spain is not Afghanistan, but you decided to turn your thug son loose and attack America directly.” The woman snorted, a sound that reminded Yanis of a grunting horse.

“When we all met in Geneva, I was given a unanimous vote to take forceful action to put pressure on Washington. You did not object at the time.”

“None of us agreed to a full military-style attack on the consulate and that massive loss of life — none of us!” Her voice was harsh; then she took a deep breath and calmed herself. Mercedes Bourihane was famous for her unwavering charm throughout intricate financial negotiations at the highest levels, and here she was lowering herself to scold a man who was steering the opportunity of a generation toward the rocks of failure. “We told you then that there were limits and not to take it too far. You made the decision on your own.”

Yanis rose and walked to the line of windows looking down on Manhattan. “Do not call Djahid a thug. My son is a hero who has fought the infidel Crusaders all of his life. His military skills are invaluable to our cause.” Thirty floors below, he could see lines of automobiles, trucks, and taxis swarming through the city streets, and he knew that somewhere among the traffic was Djahid, truly risking his life by pretending to be a bicycle messenger.

She did not apologize. “What happened in Barcelona also guaranteed a violent retaliation. Two of our number are now dead. Why didn’t you foresee that?”

“Every time they strike back, they mobilize more support for our cause,” Yasim replied. I just did not anticipate their choice of targets; instead of going after the low-level gunmen, they are aiming higher.

Mercedes put down the glass and unwrapped her legs, sliding her toes into stylish high heels. “You must understand, my friend, that Juan de Lara was much too valuable to be expended as one of your car-bomb martyrs.”

Ah, he thought. She’s finally getting to the point. She is afraid.

He pressed onward, bringing up another sore subject. “We do not know for certain that the Americans killed them. Men of such huge appetites for wealth and power as Bello and de Lara have many enemies.”

“Of course they did it,” she said. “Now the rest of us are at risk.”

“I agree that the United States is the most likely party, Mercedes, but we have a whole field of opponents. The U.K. and NATO are perfectly capable of doing such operations, and who would benefit more than Washington if the current regime is left in place? The Spanish government itself may be at the front of the line in order to squash the very idea of an Islamic takeover, no matter how it is camouflaged, and tens of millions of ordinary Spaniards would not lift a finger to help us. Last, but not least, are our brothers in Allah, the Shia. They were already unhappy that the Six are controlled by the Sunni, and they are always ready to shed blood. That is why there are no anti-American riots right now; nobody knows exactly who to blame.”

“No matter,” she replied. “It’s the Americans, and you know it.”

“I urge everyone else to be cautious and make their personal security as tight as possible.”

“We might have drones circling our heads right now because of your stupidity. You are guarded by your Rottweiler son and can disappear at will, but I cannot.” Another deep breath and a faraway look. “I spoke to the others before I flew over last night, Yasim. We cannot continue our work very well if we are dead, and although we willingly sacrifice our bodies, our brains and positions make us irreplaceable in this task to reconquer Spain in the name of the Prophet.”

Rebiane wanted to slap her impudent face. “I am pursuing those responsible, Mercedes. If the Americans are the ones, we will find out soon. A United States senator is already badgering the White House and the State Department to solve that puzzle. We will discover and deal with them.”

Pick one. Kyle Swanson had the three color photographs lined up on the table before him, each atop a file folder containing the subject’s history. Three human beings: Pick one. Who would be allowed to live a little bit longer; which would die at his hand first? He stacked them one atop another, then rearranged them into a new line and studied them some more. Nothing jumped out. Eenie-meenie-miney-mo. Did it make a difference? Trident was going to kill them all anyway. If they had been wearing military uniforms or carrying weapons, or if they even looked threatening, the choice might be easier, but the result would be the same.

He got up and walked to the coffeepot and poured a refill, then stood before a map of the world. There sat Spain, hanging off the southwestern end of Europe, buffered along the Atlantic by Portugal. Gibraltar guarded the choke point for the Mediterranean and was just across the watery street from Africa. The country’s strategic position was undeniable, and it was over that strait that the Moorish Muslim armies invaded and conquered in the eighth century, holding power until the thirteenth century. Five hundred years is a long time, Kyle thought. The United States hasn’t even been around for three hundred.

Spain was only about the size of Oregon, and while that state contained only four million people, the Spain of today was crowded with a population of more than forty-seven million. The economic collapses of the past thirty years had left many of them distrusting their government and doubtful of a secure economic future. Change was hurting, and the thinly disguised Islamist rescue package seemed attractive when looked at solely as a business deal with favorable basis points and almost nonexistent interest rates, unaccompanied by harsh demands to change their accustomed way of life. The obvious power grab was unseen by the public.

Wars have been fought over less, Swanson thought as he drifted back to his chair. Left unchecked, within a few years, Spain might become the first domino in Europe to fall to Islam. It would be like allowing al Qaeda a vote in NATO military planning and EU economic policies. That’s what the Group of Six had in mind, and it was why the guy on Mallorca was popped and the fat banker was taken out in Madrid and why the woman financier was on the chopping block and why the other three men had to die. He was cool with that.

A sniper prefers not to know the name of his target, for that anonymity drains emotion from the shooter. In a combat situation, that is easy, for it is a rough-and-tumble business that spreads over a wide front and you engage targets of opportunity. Then comes the stalk attack, in which you are after one specific target, such as a colonel in a headquarters area, and a personality is unnecessary. As for Kyle the victims he would be harvesting over the next few weeks, he knew their names, their histories, and much more about them. The Lizard was amazing in compiling information.

He leaned back, both hands around the thick porcelain coffee mug. If security teams for the bankers were any good at all, they would now be anticipating another sniper hit and spreading out the protective perimeter. Kyle would lay aside the rifle this time in favor of collapsing the security pocket like an offensive line in football trying to prevent the vulnerable quarterback from being sacked.

Instead of working his next target by himself, or with Coastie as his only backup, this time he would overwhelm that offensive line by employing a full fourteen-man MSOP, a Marine Special Operations Team, from Camp Lejeune.

That meant planning for more of a footprint and better logistics than just sneaking into a construction site as he had done on the previous one. The target had to be convenient, so they could get in and get back out in a hurry. They needed distraction. He shuffled through the stack, pushing aside two folders.

Winner: Daniel Ferran Torreblanca, chairman of the Spanish holdings of the Islamic Progress Bank, based in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and run in accordance with Sharia law. Where: Seville, home of his wife and parents. When: Next week, during the Feria de Abril, the April fair. How: Slash his throat.

Djahid Rebiane was happy to safely dismount from the SquareBuilt fixed-gear bike when he reached Union Square West. He had ridden only a few blocks from Eighteenth Street, with the alleycat race cards whirring in the rear spokes, just far enough to establish some authenticity as a bicycle messenger and more than enough to make him pray to Allah for protection, particularly after almost getting doored by some man getting out of a yellow cab. He got off at the edge of the open park and walked the bike the rest of the way to the building on Fourth Avenue.

For only a few hundred dollars, a bald, skinny kid named Bobby had given him a quick lesson and the use of the scarred bike for an hour. Bobby said bike messengers were a dying breed, and Djahid believed it, not because of the influence of faxes and the Internet, but because he felt that no one could survive long on the streets of Manhattan. Bobby made more money in that moment than he would make all day hauling garment bags around the fashion district uptown, and asked few questions.

Rebiane pedaled downtown anyway to see a money-grubber named Peter McNamara. The office was on the tenth floor of an address that had been prestigious in the boom times, then slipped to third-rate status with the banking crisis. He locked the bike with a chain to a lamppost. Bobby would retrieve the bicycle in one hour. Djahid removed his plastic helmet, shifted the one-strap bag on his shoulder, and did a little squat. He thought the narrow bike seat might have crushed his testicles. He wore old running shoes, a pair of cargo shorts, and a brown, forgettable T-shirt.

The elevator was claustrophobic as it clanked up the shaft, shifting from side to side along the way as if being blown by the wind. Finally the door opened, and he stepped onto the cracked linoleum squares of the tenth floor. Two doors were on each side, and he knocked on the one that had the name MCNAMARA GLOBAL INVESTMENTS in gold paint on a pane of frosted glass.

“Come in,” called an impatient voice, and Djahid walked through. There was a smell of fear in the room that was as overpowering as a bowl of rotten fruit. The skin of the man inside was pale.

“I got a delivery for a Mr. McNamara. That you? Somebody gotta sign this receipt.” Rebiane was trying for a Brooklyn accent. He held out a pad on which was written: You called Mr. Blanco. Why?

McNamara’s eyes flicked up at the tall biker. “Yeah. That’s me.” He took the pad, which trembled a bit in his hand. “I want to see the man who sent this package.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about none of that,” said Rebiane. He tugged at his ear and raised an eyebrow. McNamara shook his head. No listening devices? Hard to believe. “I got a call to pick up this package and bring it here. I hustled my ass through heavy traffic for you, man. A tip would be good.”

Being face-to-face with the messenger sent by Carlos Blanco scared him. This guy didn’t have the usual vacant slacker look of most bike couriers. Instead, he had a catlike style of moving, and although he spoke in slang, his voice seemed uncomfortable with the American idiom. Whoever he was, he brought Peter one step closer to getting the spooks off his back. They were probably recording this conversation somewhere. Remembering the big guy who had grabbed him in Central Park helped some of the fear evaporate. That spook could take this messenger without much problem.

If anything, Peter McNamara knew how to hustle a client. Show strength and confidence, even a touch of arrogance. He straightened his sky blue tie.

“OK. OK, pal. Enough with the bullshit. I want you to take a message back.” He unscrewed the top of a brushed silver pen and scrawled a note of his own: Set up a meeting now! Something has happened! Others have contacted me! Urgent!

The messenger took the paper, read it, then nodded understanding and folded it once before putting it into his shoulder bag. “You want the package or not, mister?”

“Yeah. Give me the damned package and go get back on your wheels.”

Djahid removed a cream-colored shoebox from the bag, took off the top, and laid it carefully on McNamara’s desk. His father had told him to make his own decision after seeing the young man, so Djahid came prepared for any eventuality. That scribbled note and anxious manner were tantamount to a confession from McNamara that he had talked to somebody else about private affairs. That could not be allowed.

The silenced pistol came out of the box smoothly, and Djahid Rebiane whipped McNamara hard twice across the face with it. The broker was on the floor with a crushed nose, and a wide gash along one cheek was pouring blood. Djahid reached back into the box and retrieved an old-fashioned butcher knife with a blade thirteen inches long and honed razor sharp, and a bag of plastic ties.

“Tell me everything that happened,” he said after stretching out the broker and securing him to solid points. He moved the knife slowly before Peter’s frightened eyes. Then it flashed downward and Djahid began to flay McNamara alive with a blade so sharp that the victim at first did not even understand what was happening. He kept the pistol handy in case the police burst in, but he had seen none outside and figured he had some time yet to spend here.

Rebiane flicked the point around McNamara’s left elbow, circled the wrist, and then made a quick, effortless slice down the forearm between the two cuts. He worked two fingers beneath the flap and pulled. The skin of the arm peeled away with a few jerks as the epidermis layer and the underlying stringy, fibrous dermis parted with the fatty subcutis beneath. Djahid held the skin before his victim’s face, and that was when Peter McNamara understood the correlation between truth and pain. His screams were muffled by a pillow, which was loosened occasionally so he could speak.