True Faith and Allegiance

25

Abu Musa al-Matari had spent the early morning watching the news out of Sicily on the television in the living room of his safe house, a brownstone on North Winchester Avenue in the Lincoln Square neighborhood of Chicago. Algiers and Tripoli sat with him, along with Rahim, the thirty-four-year-old leader of the Chicago cell.

The other cell members were all out in the city, buying items such as flashlights, phones, extra food and water, fertilizer and nails to build improvised explosives, and medical gear. It was busywork for the team, but al-Matari had nothing for them to do.

Although the others in the safe house celebrated the attack in Sicily, chanting “Allahu Akbar” with each new revelation about the death toll or image of the damage, quietly al-Matari was fuming. He knew this was the type of intelligence the Saudi had promised him, and the Saudi spoke nothing of a similar operation going on in Europe in concordance with the American attacks. This was important information for the operatives on the ground here in the U.S., and the Saudi seemed to be playing favorites by handing out intelligence to whomever he had operating in Europe before al-Matari had even been given his first target.

The Yemeni then spent the day trying to reach his contact, the man he knew only as the Saudi. Al-Matari and each of his cell members had loaded the application Silent Phone onto their smartphones, and with this app they could communicate via end-to-end encryption, using either instant messaging or voice calls, and they could also send files to one another.

Al-Matari, however, was the only one in America who had access to the Saudi, in theory anyway. And he’d been trying unsuccessfully to reach his shadowy benefactor all day long.

For some reason the Saudi wasn’t returning al-Matari’s messages or calls. With each passing hour, time where al-Matari learned more and more about the attack in Sicily from the local news while the man who was supposed to send him his attack orders here in America remained nonresponsive, the Yemeni’s anger grew. He knew the Sicilian attack was an Islamic State action — they’d proven it with social media posts of the attackers setting off from Syria — and even from the small bits of information he could glean from the twenty-four-hour news networks he could tell it had all the hallmarks of a targeted act, using specific intelligence on the whereabouts and histories of the victims, exactly as he had been promised.

Finally, at ten p.m. Chicago time, he looked down at his phone and saw he had a new message from the Saudi instructing al-Matari to call. He immediately stepped into his private quarters on the second floor of the safe house and dialed the man’s number. After taking a few seconds for the end-to-end encryption to be established, the Saudi answered.

“I received ten calls and messages from you. I am a busy man. What is it that cannot wait?”

“I see you are busy. Busy in Italy. You should have told me there would be attacks in Europe.”

The Saudi showed no contrition at all. “You have several cells under you, but you are just one part of the international operations of the caliphate. No one promised you full-scope knowledge of all worldwide operations.”

“Listen to you. You aren’t even a member of the Islamic State.”

“Don’t doubt my loyalty, or my resolve, brother.”

Al-Matari didn’t trust this Saudi one bit. He was about to snap back a retort when the man spoke again.

“Anyway, you should be glad the Americans have other places to focus their attention.”

“Well, I am not glad. I am here, my operatives are ready, and each day we wait to begin is a further threat to the security of our operation. You promised me targets!”

“And you shall have them.”

“When?”

The Saudi sighed, then said, “I understand your concern, but I have been very busy with other important affairs. Give me one more day. I will have something for you then.”

Al-Matari was not going to be led around by the nose by this man. “Perhaps I should begin choosing alternative targets.”

The Saudi shouted into the phone now. “One day! Do nothing for one day!”

The Yemeni in the Chicago brownstone replied, “If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, if you don’t have operations for my teams, then I will begin without your intelligence.” Musa al-Matari disconnected the cell, his hands shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was fury at the Saudi or the passion he felt to start his work.

More than 7,000 miles away, Sami bin Rashid looked at the dead phone in his hand, then out the window to his office at the Dubai skyline.

“Waa faqri,” he said. Damn it.

It was obvious al-Matari thought the Saudi was holding out on him, but the truth of the matter was that bin Rashid’s contact, the man who had promised to pass him intel on American military and intelligence targets inside America, was holding out on bin Rashid. Yes, he’d passed on the intelligence about Sigonella air base, and a few more European-based targets, and these bin Rashid sent on to ISIS’s Foreign Intelligence Bureau. Most all of their operations against the West had been in Europe, and bin Rashid knew enough about their organization to know that the head of ISIS’s FIB himself was born in France to Tunisian parents and raised in Paris. Clearly from yesterday’s news, active European cells had been called in to execute the Sicilian attack, but Sami bin Rashid had no command and control over this operation at all.

He wasn’t Foreign Intelligence Bureau of ISIS — as al-Matari had said, he wasn’t even ISIS.

What he was, however, was the guy with the money and the intelligence to craft the American operation. Or, at least, that was how he had sold himself.

But up till now he had failed to come through, and the reason bin Rashid did not have the targets was also the reason he was not forthcoming to al-Matari about the delay.

The bastard who did claim to have the real-time targeting intelligence was putting more money on American-based packages. He’d sold the intel on a Navy pilot in Italy, and on other men and women in and around other bases in Europe involved in the attacks on ISIS, but he’d recently doubled his fee for American intelligence inside America, citing his own security. It was a ridiculous claim. The man had spent the past four months promising to Sami bin Rashid to deliver that which he now refused to deliver, and all the while he knew his security was just as good, or just as lax, as he made it for himself.

Bin Rashid knew this was just a shakedown for more money; the man was an infidel with no god, and this was to be expected. But bin Rashid had worked on the outskirts of the business and intelligence worlds for his whole career, and knew he needed to push back against the greed. He had been in the game long enough to know that acquiescing to a source’s demands often only led to more demands, and he’d argued more than once with the unknown man he knew of solely by his code name, INFORMER. But now time was running out. Al-Matari was a strong-willed man, of this bin Rashid had no doubt. If he didn’t get targets immediately, the man staged in the Chicago safe house would start attacking sites across America, and he and his cells would be lost without maximizing their impact while alive and operational. Bin Rashid knew the only way America would come to the Middle East in massive numbers would be if the President of the United States had his back to the wall with his own military and intel leaders, and this would happen only with a real military and intelligence threat.

Bin Rashid needed targets, and he needed them right now. He’d ask Riyadh for the approval to pay INFORMER what he wanted, and he’d make it clear to the man with all the information that there would be no more negotiations.

Four hours later Sami bin Rashid finally had his approval from the intelligence director of Saudi Arabia, the money had been moved into covert Dubai accounts, and bin Rashid was ready to purchase quality intelligence.

Now the Saudi in Dubai held his phone to his ear and waited while a secure connection was established between himself and INFORMER. To his relief, the call was answered quickly.

INFORMER, whoever he was, spoke English with some sort of an accent that bin Rashid did not have the ability to discern. He wondered if the man was Russian, but that was one hundred percent conjecture.

INFORMER said, “Good day, my friend. How may I be of service?”

The Saudi had spoken to INFORMER a few times over the phone, and now, as always, he found the man lighthearted and almost charming, as if everything was calm and going according to plan, no matter the topic at hand.

Bin Rashid’s patience had worn through, though, so he did not repay the kind tone with friendliness of his own.

He said, “I need specifics from you. I need you to provide what you promised, and I need you to do it now.”

INFORMER said, “I am ready to begin funneling you information. But as I have made clear many times, I can well imagine what you are doing with this information, and this will make me one of the most hunted men in the world.”

“We have had this discussion before. You are safe. I won’t be connected to the end users of this information. And I don’t know you, how to get to you, or anything about you. Obviously you will be even more removed than I am. I just need information, and I need you to not concern yourself with whatever news you hear, news you might somehow think related to the intelligence you sold me.”

INFORMER replied, “Again, I am ready to proceed, but as I mentioned in my message to you last week, the price has doubled. You can take it or you can leave it. But as I am certain you have had time to prepare things on your end to exploit the information, I imagine you have already gone to great lengths and great expense to move your assets into place. I think you have to agree that even at my new terms, you have no suitable option but to go forward.”

Bin Rashid wanted to reach through his phone, grab the other man by the throat, and rip it out. This shakedown had been planned from the beginning, he had no doubt. This bastard had bin Rashid on the hook, and now he was reeling him in. Every fiber of Sami bin Rashid’s being was telling him to tell this man to take his information and shove it up his ass, but he could not do that. He had to acquiesce.

He controlled his breathing, and said, “I accept your terms, assuming you can give me the latest updated targeting information today.”

INFORMER did not hesitate. “Of course I can. You simply place an order on my dark website, just as we discussed.”

Sami bin Rashid opened the page on his computer. While he did this, INFORMER said, “So to recap, my terms are as follows: packages on field intelligence operatives are $500,000, as are military officers over the rank of major. Officers below the rank of major, or intelligence analysts or support personnel, are $250,000. Any general, admiral, intelligence community executive or the like will cost you one million dollars. Special operations military enlisted personnel are $250,000, unless they belong to Joint Special Operations Command. This is the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Development Group, otherwise known as SEAL Team Six, or the Army’s Delta Force. Targeting packages for these elite enlistees will cost $500,000.”

They then spent the next few minutes discussing what sorts of targets were available with the latest updates on their whereabouts, and then Sami bin Rashid, for all intents and purposes, placed an order on the e-commerce webpage on INFORMER’s site.

Bin Rashid then transferred Bitcoin to INFORMER’S dark web address while the two men were on the phone. Five million dollars, for a total of one dozen targets, many of them lower-tier individuals. The Saudi knew his fight in America would cost him an average of one million dollars a day, at least, plus significant operating expenses from al-Matari’s cell, but if the end result meant America came to Iraq with boots on the ground, pushed back the Iranian hordes encroaching toward the south, ended pro-Iranian Alawite rule in Syria, and brought the price of oil back up to a level that would protect Saudi Arabian leadership’s domestic security… well, then, Sami bin Rashid would have done his job, and the King would reward him for life.

A moment later INFORMER confirmed he received the money, and he told his customer to watch his mailbox in the dark web portal on his computer, and to wait for the files to come through.

True to his word, INFORMER’s files began popping up, one by one. While bin Rashid clicked on the attachments, a smile grew inside his trim gray beard.

First, the name, the address, and a photograph of a woman. A map of the area around where the woman lived. A CV of her work with the Defense Intelligence Agency, including foreign and domestic postings that would have her involved in the American campaign in the Middle East. Real-time intel about her daily commute, including the house where she would be watering the plants and checking the mail all week for a friend.

Incredible, bin Rashid thought to himself. Where the hell is this coming from?

The next file was all necessary targeting info on a recently retired senior CIA operations officer, who continued to work on a contract basis in the intelligence field. He spoke Arabic, trained others in tradecraft, counterintelligence, and counterterrorism, and consulted on security affairs at a pro-Christian D.C. think tank.

The file after this was of a former Navy SEAL with a high profile and a record of missions against Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State. At first bin Rashid didn’t understand why this man had been selected by INFORMER, but after skimming down through the dossier, a rare smile formed on bin Rashid’s lips, and softly, to himself, he said, “Yes. Perfect.”

One by one bin Rashid went down the list of a dozen targets. These weren’t admirals or generals or top operatives of the CIA, but he wanted Musa al-Matari’s cells to begin their actions with less well-protected victims. The leaders of America’s military and intelligence would be worthy targets, of course, but at the outset bin Rashid wanted victories for al-Matari, lower risk for moderate reward. He wanted… he needed new recruits to flock to the cause, and he knew this would happen only if the operation registered some early wins.

He called INFORMER back after reading through the last of the dozen files.

The man with the curious accent said, “Hello, friend. I trust you are satisfied with the products I sent you.”

Bin Rashid replied, “How certain are you of this… this information?”

An audible sigh over the line. “This is what I do. As you see, all the targeting data is completely up to date. Some of the information I updated this very afternoon.”

“I noted that, yes. When will I get more? More like these?”

“When you pay for more. That’s how all this works.”

“I know that. I mean to ask… are you prepared with more? Of this quality, or perhaps of higher-quality targets?”

“There are an unlimited number of products I can sell you. They all will be different, some perhaps you will find more… interesting than others. Some you will unquestionably find more expensive than others. The limit to this is your ability to process your way through the targets and your ability to pay.”

The Saudi understood that by “process,” INFORMER meant kill. It was clear to bin Rashid that INFORMER knew he was providing targets for assassination. But it was also clear to bin Rashid that INFORMER had already seen what happened in Italy, so the man clearly did not possess a weak stomach.

“Very well,” bin Rashid said. “I will wire additional funds to the account next week, enough for another dozen files. When I am ready for more, perhaps in another week’s time, I will be in touch. You have done good work.”

INFORMER said, “I am happy that you are happy, my friend. I wish you much success with your endeavors.”

Twelve hours later, and just before the twenty-four-hour deadline he’d given the Saudi to provide him with the intelligence he needed to open with his waves of attacks on America, Abu Musa al-Matari sat in his office in his Chicago safe house and read carefully over a batch of dossiers sent to him via Silent Phone. Intelligence officers, both current and former, men and women employed in the fight against the Islamic State. There was a file on a U.S. Special Forces operator in North Carolina, a bar frequented by a Navy SEAL platoon in Virginia Beach, along with photos of four of the men and their bios.

There was no other way to look at it; this was incredible material. He’d successfully had people killed in foreign lands with one-twentieth of the information he was being provided with here.

He focused on the dossier of a former Navy SEAL who had come to prominence in the past few years due to a book he had written and several television appearances he’d made chronicling his days in the teams.

Looking through the dossiers, and then looking through Google on his laptop, al-Matari realized this man had become an actual American celebrity.

The man was staying for a month at a five-star hotel in Los Angeles, overseeing the shooting of a film about his exploits on a raid in Libya against the ISIS affiliate Ansar al-Sharia.

Al-Matari knew instantly that this would be a perfect target for the Santa Clara cell. They were currently based in San Francisco, but could send a couple of cell members down to L.A. tomorrow, to be ready to act the next day. A retired military man moving between a film set and his hotel sounded like a ridiculously easy mark, and the man’s prominence here in America would give al-Matari a large return on the relatively low risk to his mission.

In the next dossier he found an immediate operation for a couple of members of the Fairfax cell and then, a few files into his reading, he found another worthy target located within a day’s drive of Detroit.

With a lot of moving his men and women around the map of the United States, there were immediate, attainable targets for every last one of his cells. He decided he would keep Chicago out of the first round of activity. He needed them to serve as his protection force, to keep his safe house secure, and to continue providing Algiers and Tripoli with the raw materials for explosives they were constructing for the teams.

But the other four would go to work now.

He decided, after some time looking at his cleanskins and the locations of the targets on the map, that the biggest move of the first wave of attacks would be the Detroit cell. He’d need a few of them, three or four to be safe, to get on the road to the D.C. area, because he’d have the Fairfax team working on two other missions in that part of the country.

After al-Matari had decided on his initial victims and those assigned to terminate them, he picked up his mobile and opened Silent Phone, which allowed him to send files to the secure mobile devices held by each of the other cells, and he went to work. He delivered individual targeting packages and orders to Fairfax, to Santa Clara, to Detroit, and to Atlanta, along with orders to each unit leader to choose the right number and mix of cell members for each job. They would act at first opportunity, and they were to communicate with him if they had any questions, concerns, or information he might need.

At the end of each message, he typed in additional orders. Just before beginning each mission, al-Matari ordered the operators on scene to broadcast live video of the action through another app that allowed end-to-end encrypted live streaming. He told his leaders he wasn’t expecting Hollywood-level films, but he wanted some record of the events so that the Global Islamic Media Front, the propaganda arm of ISIS, could use the clips to whip up the frenzy of excitement for the operations here in America.

Abu Musa al-Matari did not mention any other reason that he wanted to see a live broadcast of each operation. But there was a second reason, and it was much more important than the first. He’d keep that to himself, for now, and with luck, none of his twenty-seven cell members would ever need to know that the suicide vests they wore could be command-detonated by al-Matari if a cell member was captured and decided against detonating the vest themselves. This would ensure a higher body count when first responders came upon a scene, as well as an additional level of operational security for the mission.

The twenty-seven cleanskins should have had enough fervor for the cause to martyr themselves, but if they hesitated for an instant, al-Matari would do it for them from afar.

His plan in America did not allow for any of his people to be taken alive.