Pandora's Legion

11

“No photos, man.”

“Why not?”

“Because… when you take them to get developed, the store could get suspicious. That’s why!”

The photographer, Marcus Garvey Jefferson, was a good-looking hustler in his late twenties. “Wow, man. Haven’t you heard? This is, like, the twenty-first century.”

“Say what?”

“Digital, my man. Di-gi-tal.” When away from the sober, austere influence of the imam, the two brothers still lapsed into street jive.

The driver of the Honda Accord grasped the significance. “Oh. Right. No film.” Hakeem put away his sketch pad.

“Riiight. We’ll plug the disk into the computer when we have the briefing.” The shooter double checked the exposure, framed the brick and glass facade in his viewfinder, and tripped the shutter again. By extending the zoom lens, he brought the shaded window into better view. He could now read the blue and white logo. Strategic Solutions, Inc.

Ali knew that no plan worked to perfection. The Marburg operation was no exception.

Sitting with Kassim and two other al Qaeda operatives, the doctor considered his options. “It is as we expected in the beginning,” Ali began. “The best way to begin our biological attack would have been with several hosts simultaneously. But volunteers are rare, and to wait until we had six or more would have posed security dangers.” He frowned in concentration. “Besides that, most volunteers have limited life expectancy, so we are forced to launch them as they become available.”

The other two men were recruiters, members of Ali’s small cell who looked for potential jihadists burning with the desire to achieve Paradise — often before their own bodies burned themselves out. They had not been successful thus far. The youngest member, who adopted the alias Sted Nisar, worked as a hospital orderly. At nineteen he had found two prospects but one had died prematurely and the other became bedridden.

The second man was Farrukh Awan, who had helped send the vestal virgin on her journey. Ali accepted him because Kassim relied on him. It appeared that there was nothing the twenty-four-year-old carpenter would not do to please the cynical Syrian. Sometimes Ali wondered about that — what hold did Kassim have on the young man? Do not look too closely unless you truly wish to know. But Dr. Ali was a pragmatist as well as a theologist. Results were what mattered. Thus far both young men had done everything asked of them.

That made them valuable. Ironically, it also made them expendable.

Ali faced the pair across the rough table. “My brother Kassim has devised a plan to expand our attack against the Americans. But I wish to seek your counsel.”

Ali caught Kassim’s sideways glance. Ali hardly ever sought others’ opinion. In fact, the plan was Ali’s, but Awan would be impressed, and both leaders especially wanted to impress the carpenter.

Kassim took the hint. “I have studied the situation in Islamabad and Quetta. The Crusaders know that we are aware of them, and we cannot expect to strike them in their nest.” He gave a wolfish smile. “So we shall draw them to us.”

Nisar immediately saw the advantage. “Excellent! They will not expect a trap.”

“That is what we hope. Certain information has already been planted with the infidels. Enough of it is accurate to attract them to a site of our choosing. Then it is a simple matter of devotion… and explosives.”

Nisar asked the logical question. “When do we meet the sacrificial warriors?”

Ali’s brown eyes bored into Nisar’s. “My brother, Kassim and I are asking you and Awan to pledge yourselves to that task.”

Nisar’s guts turned to ice. He tried to think of a response.

Awan was more composed but remained silent.

Sensing that the mission lay in the balance, Kassim used his leverage to shove one or both of the young men over the brink.

“Hina bint Ahmed never balked at the chance to serve God. Farrukh, you watched her leave on her mission.”

“But… but, she was already dying!”

“So are we all,” said Ali. “So are we all.”

“There’s Carlito,” Marcus said.

From the parking space, Hakeem Jefferson looked toward SSI’s entrance where a well-built young Hispanic man entered the double doors. He was groomed for the occasion: high and tight haircut, polite, businesslike manner. What you would expect of a former Ranger looking for work with a PMC. At least that was his story. He hoped for a look behind the security door and perhaps a tour of the facility. With a pledge to return with appropriate documentation, he would tell the Jeffersons what he saw and then drop out of sight. No connection could be made.

The scout approached the desk, ignoring the uniformed security guard by the window. He nodded to the receptionist, being careful not to touch anything. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m interested in work with a military contractor and wonder if you have any openings.”

Mrs. Grayson sized up the young man. He looked like a good prospect. “Well, I don’t know if we’re hiring right now but you could leave a resume. We’d be glad to put it on file.” She picked up a pen. “What’s your name and address?”

Carlito Espinoza was ready for that. “I’m Rafael Castillo but I didn’t bring any papers with me. You see, I’m from out of town and didn’t know about your business. A relative mentioned it to me.”

Emily Grayson picked up a business card and an SSI brochure. “Here’s some information. You can send the required documents to this address.”

Espinoza accepted the items without looking at them. “Thank you, ma’am. Ah, while I’m here, would it be possible to talk to someone? You know, so I could get a better idea of what’s available.” He flashed a white smile. “It’d sure save me a long trip back here again.”

“Oh. Where do you live?”

“New Mexico, ma’am. Up near the Colorado border.” Carlito Espinoza had never seen the Land of Enchantment but he knew enough to run a bluff.

“Just a moment, please.”

Mrs. Grayson picked up the phone and buzzed personnel. In a few minutes Sallie Kline came through the security door with the keypad. She introduced herself, explaining, “I’m here part time, but I’m handling most personnel matters until our director returns.” It wasn’t entirely true but it was close enough.

After a few preliminaries, Sallie decided to invite the applicant into the anteroom. He followed her through the portal, admiring the way she moved. In other circumstances he would have pinched her in an act of machismo “valor.”

“Sit down, Mr. Castillo.” As they settled at a table Sallie produced an application form. “These are mostly self explanatory. It might help if I knew what sort of work you’re looking for.”

Carlito glanced around the room, taking a peek through the window of the next door. He noticed there was no keypad. A glance at the ceiling revealed no surveillance camera. He did not notice that Ms. Kline caught his visual sweep.

“Well, ma’am, I was in the Rangers. I’ve done all the light infantry duties but I’d be glad to do security work almost anywhere. I speak fluent Spanish.”

“Any combat?”

The abrupt question took him aback. He blinked, thinking hard. Sallie waited two heartbeats, then knew that whatever he said would likely be a lie. “Well, you know.” He grinned the white smile again. “I can’t talk about it much.”

“I see.” Let him sweat, she told herself.

The awkward silence stretched into five, then six seconds. Espinoza’s eyes went to the table top as he lost the staring contest.

“We’ll need your DD-213, of course.”

Nobody had briefed Carlito on DoD discharge papers. He merely nodded.

Sallie stood up. “Well, then. We’ll wait to hear from you. Oh, where are you staying? Maybe we can arrange a follow-up interview while you’re here.”

“Uh, thank you, ma’am. But I’m leaving day after tomorrow.”

“Very well, Mr. Castillo.” She extended her hand. He accepted it and she squeezed gently, sensing his pulse with her thumb. “Goodbye, then.”

As Espinoza left the lobby, Mrs. Grayson asked, “What do you think?”

She rubbed her chin. “He’s a phony.”

Grayson looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, he puts up a good front. But he’s an imposter. He didn’t know about the DD-214, even though I gave him a chance to correct me on it. But he’s also too smooth for some gonzo wannabe. No, he’s up to something. Trust me.”

“How can you be sure, dear?”

Sallie looked down at the older woman. “I saw it in his eyes and I noticed that he didn’t touch anything — no fingerprints.” She shrugged. “Besides that, I just know, Emily. I just know.”

“Intuition?”

Sallie smiled. “We women do have it.” She grasped a pad and scribbled some notes for Derringer. Uncle Mike probably would want to know of the peculiar visit from the mysterious young man.

With cross-border operations a possibility, Frank Leopole convened another briefing. He wanted to impress the SSI teams with what they might face, and he knew just the man to deliver the message.

Omar Mohammed did not require notes. He lived with his subject every waking minute, which is why Leopole asked him to address the operators. As always, Mohammed chose his words carefully.

“Gentlemen, I believe that you should understand something about our situation, the environment in which we will work. Though we will remain in Pakistan, you should remember that much of what happens there is driven by events across the border. Afghanistan is not only a Muslim nation, it is the Muslim nation. True, there are other nonsecular Islamic countries, but only the Afghans defeated the Soviet infidels. Nowhere else have Muslims defeated a western power in eight hundred years. How many of you ever gave that a thought?”

Mohammed allowed the rhetorical question to hang in midair. Knowing he had made his point, he continued. “You see the importance now? Well, the same point has been absorbed by Islamic peoples for nearly thirty years. They detested the Soviets as atheists who were harsh and tough. But you know what? They regard other westerners as infidels — not quite as bad as atheists — but less tough, even pampered.”

Steve Lee interjected. “Doctor, what about Pakistan? Isn’t that the center of gravity in this movement?”

“Yes, Major. Your war colleges do in fact identify Pakistan as the crucial player. If it goes fundamentalist, the cap is off the genie’s bottle. From that point, it would probably be impossible to stem the rising tide of Islam. At least eighty percent of Pakistanis already are hostile or indifferent to America and the west. Now consider even an uneasy alliance between Afghanistan and Pakistan, with Iran sharing a common border. Imagine Pakistan and Iran with nuclear or biological weapons. I don’t know about you, but that thought keeps me awake at night.”

Seated to one side, Leopole allowed his door kickers to absorb that sentiment. Scanning the audience, he reflected that his squared-away career leatherneck attitude irked many of the operators. They were all technically competent and then some — otherwise they wouldn’t be on the payroll — but several of them flaunted their civilian manners and dress. Neither was calculated to impress a former lieutenant colonel of Marines. He wanted to reinforce the seriousness of what SSI might face abroad, and interjected, “Doctor, I believe you have other intel to share with us.”

Mohammed knew exactly what Leopole meant. “Certainly, Colonel. The following passage was lifted from an al Qaeda training manual found in a safe house in London. It provides as good a summary of radical Islam as I have seen anywhere else:

“ ‘In the name of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.

“ ‘To those champions who avowed the truth day and night…

“ ‘And wrote with their blood and sufferings these phrases…

“The confrontation that we are calling for with the apostate regimes does not know Socratic debates, platonic ideals, nor Aristotelian diplomacy. But it knows the dialogue of bullets, the ideals of assassination, bombing, and destruction, and the diplomacy of the cannon and machine gun.

“ ‘Islamic governments have never and will never be established through peaceful solutions and cooperative councils. They are established as they always have been: by pen and gun

“ ‘By word and bullet

“ ‘By tongue and teeth.’”

Omar looked around the room, meeting every gaze. “I cannot state it more clearly than that.” Then he added, “Mohammed fought twenty-eight battles and organized sixty-four raids, of which he led about half. Therefore, Islam is the only major religion founded and spread by the sword rather than by conversion.”

Breezy raised a hand. “Doctor, I’ve heard that Muslims don’t believe in suicide, like Catholics. So why do all these young guys blow themselves up?”

“That’s a complicated question. The Prophet makes it clear that self-destruction is an offense against God. But He made allowances for the ignorant — those who had never received The Word. I don’t know, but I suspect that the impressionable youngsters who become suicide bombers either have been misinformed by their leaders, or have intentionally been denied that knowledge.

“Either way, my friends, a naive enemy can kill you just as easily as a dedicated one.”