Stony Man

A counterterrorist unit so secret that only the Oval Office knows it exists, Stony Man takes action when a crisis too vast or virulent for official channels threatens. While the nation may never know about the elite commandos dedicated to protecting peace, as long as terror has a foothold in the free world, Stony Man won’t stand down....

Terror Trail

An extremist group is launching a full-scale attack to bring death to America’s streets. The plan is all-out destruction—in malls, schools, streets and public venues across the land. Stony Man puts a man undercover in the enemy training camp, while the other team members race to uncover the identity of the group’s powerful financier. Facing relentless fire in their grim assault against the soldiers of hate, Stony Man fights back with everything it’s got to keep innocent blood from flooding America’s communities.

In the computer room data flashed across the monitors

There was a palpable sense of urgency in the air. Each member of the team understood how quickly things could change and the critical need for relevant information.

Carmen Delahunt, ex-FBI, sat upright, a soft yes passing her lips. She gazed at her monitor, rereading the lines displayed there.

“DCRI,” she said out loud. “French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.”

The Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, founded in 2008, was responsible, among other things, for monitoring threats to France and had built a database of suspect individuals. Using one of Kurtzman’s programs, Delahunt had penetrated the DCRI. She had keyed in Sahar Muran’s name and had found his file and known associates.

The list threw up a number of other names, with brief biographies.

The one that stood out was Shaia Kerim. Now associated with Hand of Allah. When Delahunt read through the French-compiled list she saw that at least three other names were coupled with Hand of Allah.

And one of them was Sahar Muran.

Stony Man had their connection.

Terror Trail

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Oval Office

Washington, D.C.

“Is your man up to this?” the President of the United States asked.

Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, understood the question. The President was asking through genuine concern. The SOG was ultimately the man’s responsibility. Stony Man, the ultrasecret covert-operations group, ultimately came under the President’s purview. He alone knew of its existence, understood and accepted what it had to do and gave his blessing.

Stony Man operations were off the books. In many cases they might have been deemed illegal, because to get the job done the SOG operatives needed to bend, twist and often totally ignore the rules. The missions, aimed at combating enemies of the U.S.A., were not conducted against saintly, reasonable individuals. There were no opportunities for sit-down discussions, no openings for compromise. When faced with ruthless threats and out-and-out terrorism, Stony Man responded with the instinctive reactions of a mother lion protecting her cubs. In this instance they were hitting back against enemies who wanted nothing less than to inflict death and suffering on the citizens of the U.S.A.; in the past Phoenix Force and Able Team had encountered insidious plots aimed at bringing terror and destruction to America. Stepping up to the firing line was the SOG’s mission objective. They accepted that mandate without question. The President understood and was eternally grateful to his small, exceptionally courageous teams.

Which was why he asked the question.

“Is your man up to this?”

“Yes, Mr. President. In fact he was the first to volunteer when the subject came up.” Brognola allowed a brief smile. “I believe he was ready to fight anyone who tried to talk him out of it.”

The President sighed, leaning back in his seat behind his Oval Office desk.

“This is different from a full team effort,” he said. “One man in a foreign environment, surrounded by people hell-bent on some violent mission, and the only backup miles away if anything goes wrong.”

“We don’t have much of a choice here, Mr. President. The background we have on Hand of Allah is damn thin. So thin we’re having to go this route. Right now all we have is some electronic chatter. Couple of cell phone snatches.”

“Yes, I know, Hal. Don’t forget I was the one who passed it along to you because it was so thin. Have your people managed to pick up any more data?”

“The cyber team have been on it around the clock. Hand of Allah is pretty low-profile. Up until now the group has been considered little more than a bunch of talkers, not doers. If they are planning something drastic they’ve decided to hold back from advertising it too much. The Stony Man cyber team have been monitoring every source they have. Luckily for us they came across some loose chatter about Hand of Allah planning a strike against the U.S., by setting loose its martyrs on the streets. Looks like someone got excited over the prospect and had to broadcast it.”

“We were lucky to get what information we did, Hal. That gossip tied in with our other break. Information from a Yemeni national working undercover for the CIA. Behin Jahir is the one who came up with solid evidence that Hand of Allah is planning something. And he gave us the name of the group’s facilitator here in America.”

“Shaia Kerim. Kurtzman’s team worked up his profile and it’s given us a way in.”

“What would help is also identifying the Hand of Allah leader,” the President said. “Unusual for one of these people to stay invisible. They normally want to step into the spotlight. Just so they can tell us who they are and why we’ll never catch them.

“A shy terrorist,” Brognola said. “Maybe he’s creating a new trend.”

“What’s the next move?”

“Able Team has been briefed on what we have here. I’m going to cut them loose and let them work on that. The rest of Phoenix Force will follow up with Behin. Go to Yemen.”

“I hope we’re not sending a man to his death, Hal. Alone in the enemy camp. It’s a risky exercise. Maybe too risky to expect it to succeed.”

“Mr. President, if anyone can pull this off it’s Calvin James.”

“I hope you’re right, Hal. If anything happens to that boy, I’ll have a hard time forgiving myself.”

“You and me both, Mr. President. You and me both.”

War Room

Stony Man Farm

“I STILL THINK IT’S crazy,” T. J. Hawkins said.

“I’m not all that pleased with the idea myself,” David McCarter added.

“Nobody said it was perfect,” Calvin James pointed out, “but since no one can come up with a better idea, I say we go with it.”

“Cal, I hate to bring this up again, but you could be putting yourself in harm’s way,” Brognola said.

“I understand. Look, every time we head out on a mission we’re doing just that. Risk is what we live with. Five or one, it makes no difference.”

“In a team you have backup, close and personal,” Rafael Encizo argued.

“I know that. And a bullet could still find me with all you guys around.”

“Still a risk,” Barbara Price said. “A big risk.”

“What’s the alternative?” James said. “Go in like the heavy mob and blow the chance of picking up the intel we need? We need pinpoint information. Shaia Kerim is the only name we have belonging to Hand of Allah. He’s the point man. The only other detail that’s come to light is they have a working plan to put their people on U.S. streets. Right now, according to Behin Jahir, Hand of Allah is somewhere in the Yemeni desert. A training camp. We need to locate it because that’s where this planned strike is being masterminded. Rest of the information is so skinny you can see through it. So we need someone to get close to harden up our knowledge. That’s me.”

This was their third roundtable meeting on James’s proposed undercover mission, and the concern of his Phoenix Force teammates was the reason for the ongoing discussion.

“Remind me again why you?” Aaron Kurtzman asked from his wheelchair on the opposite side of the conference table. He was directly across from James, his intense gaze centered on the Phoenix Force warrior. “Why not any of the others?”

“One, I’m black and thus more likely to be accepted by the Muslim community. I also speak French. We know Kerim speaks the language, so we have something in common.” James paused. “And face it, brother, I’m the only one around this table who is really cool.”

McCarter raised his hands in surrender. “Well, that bloody does it for me. He’s cocky enough to pull this off.” The Brit leaned over and slapped James on the shoulder. “Be nice to the rest of us and maybe we’ll be around to cover your back.”

“No question there,” Brognola said. “You guys will be ready to jump in once Cal blows the time-out whistle.”

“You’ve got that,” Hawkins said.

“Aaron, can you push on with that character file for Cal? Give him a life so that if anyone does some electronic trawling he’ll exist,” McCarter said.

* * *

STONY MAN WANTED Shaia Kerim to believe he was safe, that his association with Hand of Allah was not known by anyone outside the group. The fact he was an active member had been carefully guarded, and he continued to operate under a false sense of security because the Stony Man team had decided to allow it to happen while they built their case, infiltrating Hand of Allah so they could take the group down. Stony Man accepted that simply removing Kerim would be a hollow victory. One man down would not destroy the entire cell. They needed a show of force that would remove Hand of Allah’s power base and neutralize its command structure. They needed information on other members of the organization and ultimately the reclusive figure who headed the group.

The identity of this shadowy figure was important. His whereabouts remained a secret even from active members of Hand of Allah. His exposure and removal from power would deal a devastating blow to the cell. Cutting off the head of the snake would hopefully destroy the body.

The members of Stony Man’s cyber team, under Aaron Kurtzman’s direction, were giving all their assistance to the combat teams. They were also working around the clock, using every skill they possessed and searching electronically for any clue, small as it might be, that could point them in the direction of the man overseeing Hand of Allah.

Kurtzman was fully aware of the importance of the operation. He always gave one hundred percent to any Stony Man search. Without any kind of overt command he made it clear to his team how he expected them to push even harder than usual. It was to Kurtzman’s credit that his people responded without exception, pushing themselves as hard as he did himself.

Stony Man had an unwritten declaration that came with the territory, and it was behind everything they did; for all of them it was to give everything they had to every assignment. Their missions were always on the edge, looking into the abyss. Failure would lead to deadly results. Their scope of operations was endless because the enemies they faced were legion. Stony Man undertook missions that were beyond the reach of regular security agencies due to rules of engagement, interagency overlaps and even information leaks.

Stony Man, through Phoenix Force, Able Team and even Mack Bolan, had no agency connections. The SOG was responsible, on a daily basis, to Hal Brognola. Above Brognola was the single figure of the SOG’s commander—the President of the United States. They deferred to him alone. In essence they were his last line of defense—his ultrasecret weapon—charged with stepping in when there was nowhere else for the Man to go.

Since its inception, Stony Man had been under the cloak of the presidency. With each new Commander in Chief, the baton had been passed along. Each new President had been told by his predecessor of the SOG’s existence, and the mantle of responsibility had been transferred. Given the state of the world, the existing threats and the possible future threats to the nation, each newcomer to the Oval Office had acknowledged the need for such a group. As each new President settled into his office and was updated by Brognola, it soon became clear to the man in charge that Stony Man was a vital weapon in America’s fight to survive. Although the President was at a distance from the Stony Man teams, he realized just how much they put into their missions, how many times they risked their lives and how many times they pulled the country back from the brink. All arguments aside, the President’s covert teams had a place in the ongoing struggle to maintain America’s security. And that struggle required, on occasion, that they fight down and dirty when the enemy dictated the terms of combat.

Aaron Kurtzman and his team were more than aware of the need to get down to ground level in order to assist the teams. Kurtzman would sanction anything to gain information. He had no qualms when it came to breaching other security agencies for intel. He understood the paranoia that gripped these agencies when they were in possession of data they claimed as their own, refusing to pass it along to sister agencies because it might weaken their own dominance. Interagency rivalry became paramount. Career building and personal grandstanding could withhold vital information, and the bickering that was tied to these matters often blocked progress.

Aaron Kurtzman used the cyber team’s combined skills to override these failings. His people were the best of the best. Unchallenged experts in the use of cyber tactics, they could, and would, bypass firewalls and encrypted systems to reach in and filter out data. Kurtzman and Akira Tokaido, the young systems wizard, devised and perfected the most intrusive programs in existence. They used them to worm their way through the most sophisticated computer shields to take what they needed, all without the knowledge of the breached systems.

Deeply immersed in the cyber universe, Kurtzman’s personnel increased their knowledge with every mission. Kurtzman understood the complexities of the electronic war he was fighting—and a war it was—and he devoted his waking hours to overcoming the challenges thrown Stony Man’s way. His cyber team’s reach extended across the globe, using any and all databases they breached. Electronic chatter filled cyberspace with a continuous flow. It never stopped. Day or night, filling the void with talk and information, the ceaseless river of human verbiage was there for the taking. It required specialized equipment and trained people to filter out the small snatches of useful information. Stony Man’s team were such people. In their hands such snippets of information could open up a channel that might provide the link they needed to bring them closer to a current enemy.

It was such dedication that enabled Kurtzman’s team to isolate a seemingly innocuous cell phone call and expand it into something useful.

Through the investigative skills of the cyber team, Shaia Kerim’s background biography had been established, giving the SOG a basis of fact. Kerim moved back and forth between Yemen and the States, his position in the Yemeni cultural administration allowing him access to museums and art galleries. His credentials were impressive. On the surface he was a moderate Muslim, his status as a mediator well-known. Now he had been identified as a Hand of Allah follower by Stony Man, his position had shifted. A probe into his past had uncovered his knowledge of the French language, attained during three years as a student in Paris. It also came out that he frequented a mosque in New York. The frequency of his visits gave Phoenix Force a way to allow James to make contact. It was a risk the warrior was willing to take.

Using his wide skills, Hunt Wethers worked on the bio information he had created for “Ibrahim Hammid,” aka Calvin James. Using his fertile imagination he came up with a plausible set of facts and figures, cleverly manipulated photo images and even background details on Hammid’s dead parents. The information was inserted into a number of databases to authenticate Hammid’s existence. With the same expertise, he built and inserted the details of Calvin James’s alter ego into the national criminal databases, knowing that Hand of Allah would check up on him if he made a worthwhile contact.

“We already have everything in motion,” Kurtzman said. “New identity. Family background. Paperwork. End of today we’ll have Cal vanish and Ibrahim Hammid will take his place.”

Price nodded. “Cover job and place to stay is already up and running. Background department has worked some heavy string-pulling to get this online. Cal, you’re only going to have a few days to get into character. Learn your back history so it’s word perfect and natural.” She peered along the table at James’s face. “That stubble and the longer hair is coming along fine. By the time you hit the streets you’ll look the part. We just need to outfit you in some hand-me-down clothes.”

“No problem,” James said. “David is going to lend me some of his.”

“And this is the bum who expects us to cover his arse out there,” McCarter said.

A crackle of laughter circled the table until Brognola held up his hand.

“Okay, let’s work on specifics. Able Team is all ready to work on the domestic scene. The information we were handed suggests Hand of Allah is negotiating the purchase of weapons to be brought into the country for use in this upcoming campaign. Intel we have points to the border country in the Southwest. Most likely coming up through Central America and into New Mexico. Our problem is the lack of real information. The who and where. The difficulty along that stretch of country is the groups already involved in trafficking drugs, people and guns.”

“Carl will sniff ’em out,” Hawkins said.

“I hope so,” Brognola said.

“David, if Calvin gets in with Hand of Allah and they move him to the training camp in Yemen, you guys will need to be on a following flight. I don’t want him out there on his own. The President has authorized a standby plane to take you across to Yemen so you can get yourselves embedded in Sana’a. The only solid piece of luck we have is that the Hand of Allah camp is believed to be around fifty miles across the border from Oman. That will give you somewhere to evacuate to if needed.”

“Aaron, give us what you have and we’ll move,” Carl Lyons said. “Anything. A name. Location. Something for us to work with.”

“We’ve been monitoring cell phone and email chatter. Using Echelon and the Zero station,” Kurtzman said. “Sifting through all that stuff is like looking for a particular grain of sand on a beach.”

Blancanales grinned. “Go ahead and tell us you found that grain.”

“What can I say? Carmen found something through the FBI network. Came up with two names. Carlos Gallegos. He’s a middleman who works both sides of the New Mexico border. He has past connections for the other guy Carmen came up with. Jack Regan.”

Every head around the table turned in Kurtzman’s direction.

Regan was a name known to them all. He had shown up in a number of previous Stony Man missions. The man was slippery, always managing to walk away even though deals he had been negotiating had been shut down. He would vanish but reappear somewhere else, and was known as a wily and persistent dealer in weapons.

“I wondered when that bugger was going to raise his head again,” McCarter said. “Been awhile since he showed up on the radar.”

“We did some deeper digging into his recent business dealings,” Kurtzman said. “He’s been busy wheeling and dealing. Latin America. Horn of Africa. Asia.”

“Busy lad,” McCarter said.

“And likely a wealthy one,” Brognola said. “Regan does nothing for chump change. Aaron uncovered some information that goes way back. Seems Regan has done deals with the CIA and even the Russians years ago. He’s nothing if not generous with his favors.”

“How do you figure he fits into this deal?” Lyons asked.

“We picked up on a cell phone call from Kerim to Gallegos.” Kurtzman shook his head. “These jokers will insist on calling each other thinking they’re safe using cells. The more technology improves, the more these idiots figure they can get in under the radar. Once we had Kerim’s cell ID it was simple enough to pull up his call list. Akira had his program run a breakdown on cell numbers. Gave us the ID of his contacts. Carlos Gallegos has been a busy boy. Last few weeks there have been at least a dozen conversations with Kerim. And Jack Regan’s name cropped up. Okay, the calls were nonspecific in content. But once you listen to them a few times, isolate key words, it’s plain they’ve been talking weapons purchase and delivery. There’s a deal in the pipeline and Regan is heading it up.”

“New Mexico and Carlos Gallegos,” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz said. “Sounds like a kick-off point.”

“Sounds like we need Grimaldi Air to fly us across to New Mexico,” Lyons said.

“You got it,” Price said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Lyons pushed to his feet. “Watch your backs, guys,” he said to Phoenix Force.

“And you, pal,” McCarter called as Able Team left the war room.

CHAPTER TWO

Jack Regan wore a creased white linen suit and a well-used white Panama hat. Those items were his trademark. He had been wearing a similar outfit the day he scored his first big deal and considered them his lucky dress. Over the years he had replaced the outfits as each one wore out, but always favored the same style and color.

Jack Regan dealt in weaponry of all kinds. Whatever the client wanted, Regan could usually supply it. He had clients and contacts across the globe, and in his circle he was considered one of the best. Regan had the knack of walking away if a deal went sour, and some had. It was part of the business. At the first sign of trouble he would turn around and leave. He hated to lose on a deal because Regan did not like losing money. But when push came to shove he valued his skin, and there were always other clients and other deals.

Right now he was negotiating with Shaia Kerim’s point man for the deal. Jamal Ryad was a shrewd, cold-eyed individual Regan would not have entertained for a split second if he hadn’t worked for Kerim.

Jamal Ryad glanced across the table, toying with the spoon in his cup of lemon tea. He caught Regan’s eye. “So it is possible?” he asked.

“To supply this ordnance? Deliver it to the locations?” Regan smiled as if he’d been asked to take on a simple task. “I just wish all my contracts were this simple, bubba.”

“Perhaps I am offering too much money, then,” Ryad said. “If the work is so without risk maybe we should renegotiate the payment.”

Regan didn’t flinch. “I didn’t say it would be without risk, Jamal. It’s just that I have a damn good crew and the organization to back it.”

“And moving these weapons within the U.S.A. will not be difficult?”

“Not for me, bubba. Not for Jack Regan.”

“I have to ask how soon you can have the consignments in place.”

“Few more days.”

Ryad showed surprise. “That quickly?”

“Hell, I thought you were about to go off on one for a minute.”

“No. I am impressed.”

“When you come to the best, bubba, you get the best.”

“And the word I have on you, Mr. Regan, is you are considered one of the best. My brother Kerim speaks highly of you. He still remembers the handling of the sale of the helicopter you acquired for him. An extremely satisfactory arrangement.”

“Hell, not one of the best. The best. And I’m not being a smart-ass here. My reputation speaks for itself. I make a deal, I deliver. Look, Jamal, I built my business over a long time. I don’t like disappointing my customers.”

“But you have had your failures, Mr. Regan. Yes?”

Regan threw up his hands. “First to admit it. Few of my deals have fallen through. I won’t deny it. But my successes outreach them by a golden mile. You have to realize this is a high-risk business. Things can go south. But what business is totally risk free?”

Ryad sipped at his tea. He watched Regan for a moment before asking, “It does not concern you where the weapons are used?”

Regan grinned. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to that. Look, like I told your boss man, Kerim, I buy and sell a commodity. I don’t care what the end user does with them. Hell, I’m no different to other sellers in the business. Goes against my religion to pick and choose where my ordnance ends up. Governments do it all the time. It’s big, big business, so why shouldn’t Jack Regan get his cut?”

“But America?”

“I ain’t lived on home soil for longer than I can remember. I move around. Go where my business takes me. Today I’m operating on home ground. Shit, Jamal, America has more guns floating around than even I could supply. People are blowing themselves away all the time. Don’t shoot me all that patriotic bullshit. Only thing I ever had in common with the U.S.A. was the race for the almighty dollar. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I do not aim to go hungry.”

Ryad smiled. “You make it almost sound romantic, Mr. Regan.”

“Hey, cut the mister crap. The name’s Jack.” Regan placed both hands flat on the table. “Okay, let’s talk numbers. We get this all worked out I can start filling your order and getting my people set up.”

* * *

LATER, AFTER RYAD had left, Regan switched on his sat phone and punched in a number. He waited until his call was picked up.

“Carlos, hola, mi amigo.”

“You sound in a good mood,” Carlos Gallegos said.

“Why not, bubba? A man is allowed to be cheerful when he’s just negotiated a nice fat contract.”

“The Muslim guy?”

“Yes. So we can start to pull things together. You know what to do?”

“Of course,” Regan’s liaison for the deal said. “We working to a deadline here?”

“I told him around a few more days.”

“We don’t even need that long,” Gallegos said.

“You and me, bubba, we know that. But he doesn’t, so we can cruise this deal without raising a sweat. You get moving and keep in touch. I don’t want any fuckups on this, Carlos.”

“No problems. Where will you be?”

“I have to tie up a distribution deal so I’ll be busy a couple days.”

“You using Sebastian for this Arab deal?”

“Always done right by me before,” Regan said. “He’s in the right area and he has secure storage. I’ll head along to see him when the delivery is due. We can easily work out the schedule.”

“I’ll get things rolling this end. Talk to you, Jack.”

Regan cut the connection, then immediately made a second call.

“Jason? It’s Jack. The deal is on. Terms as we agreed. Merchandise is being organized as we speak. I’ll make contact once Carlos gives me the okay. You all set at your end?”

“I’m always ready, Jack,” Jason Sebastian said. “Crew and vehicles ready to roll.”

“Okay, I’ll be at your place in a couple of days.”

“You sure you need to make the trip?”

“No way I’m letting this deal out of my hands. Has to be a man-to-man handover. Too much riding on it to risk any other way.”

“No sweat, Jack. I’ll see you soon.”

“That you will, bubba. That you will.”

CHAPTER THREE

New York

Calvin James had waited, watching the coming and going of the worshipers. This was his fifth day lingering near the entrance to the mosque. He was expecting Shaia Kerim. After scoping out the mosque for the past few days, Calvin had the man’s habits logged in his mind. Kerim visited the mosque at the same time every day. James saw no reason why he shouldn’t do the same today. It was time to make a connection. Time to see if his new identity would get him recognized as a believer, and a possible recruit for Hand of Allah.

The Stony Man warrior had allowed his hair to grow out. He hadn’t shaved for a few days. He wore washed-out chinos and a long cotton tunic under a faded, much abused jacket. His pockets held a few crumpled bills and some change. He had no cell phone or wallet. The only other item he carried was a well-thumbed copy of the Koran.

At this point in time Calvin James had become Ibrahim Hammid, devoted follower of Allah and totally disenchanted with the U.S.A. Stony Man’s detailed profile, available for anyone who wanted to check him online, had Hammid as a potential troublemaker with leanings toward extremism. The false identity placed Hammid on the edge, isolated and angry at a world he felt alienated from. The intention was to get James accepted by Kerim and eventually by Hand of Allah. It was a long shot, but the only possible lead in to the radical group.

James spotted Kerim as he came into view, heading in the direction of the mosque. The man was tall and lean, clad in Western clothing. A neat beard adorned the lower half of his slim face. His thick black hair was stylishly cut. As Kerim came closer James crossed the street, the Koran clutched in his hands, head down as he recited verses from the holy book. To any onlooker it would appear to be an accidental collision as James shouldered into Kerim, then stumbled awkwardly and allowed the Koran to slip from his grasp. James immediately began to apologize, offering Kerim his heartfelt words.

“Assalam alaikum, my brother. If my clumsiness has offended you it was only my eagerness to seek the solace of the mosque that blinded me to your presence.”

“Wa alaikum al salam. You are of the faith?” Kerim asked. He spotted the Koran lying at his feet and bent quickly to pick it up, examining the worn leather cover and inscription. Le Coran, translated by Muhammad Hamidullah and Michel Leturmy. “This is a rare copy. Where did you get it?”

“My mother gave it to me when I was a child. And schooled me in French so I could understand.”

“Where was she from?”

“She was Algerian. My father was African-American. In the French Legion. He brought us to this place when he left the military. Made my mother leave her home and live in America.”

Kerim sensed the despair in James’s voice.

“You do not like America?”

James took the offered Koran, clutching it to him. He shook his head.

“It has brought us only but despair,” he said. “A godless wilderness populated by corrupt people who mock Allah and all he represents. My father died a year ago. An alcoholic who beat my mother until she died of shame because he could not make anything of himself in America. I have nothing but hatred for this country. It has given me nothing. If I had the money I would leave this place of Satan.” James raised his hand. “I found the mosque and I want to go inside to pray for the comfort Allah can offer me. He will not turn me away, will he, brother?”

“I have seen you here before. Yes? On the sidewalk. But you have not entered. Why?”

“Because I was not sure my faith was enough to allow me to step inside such a holy place.”

“Did you not say you were of the faith? Then that is all you need.”

Kerim laid his hand on James’s shoulder and led him to the entrance.

“Will Allah accept me?” James asked.

“The faithful are never turned from his path, brother. Walk with me and we will talk together after I conduct my business. I am Shaia Kerim. And what are you called, my brother?”

“Ibrahim Hammid.”

* * *

AT THE FAR END of the street, Rafael Encizo lowered the binoculars and picked up the transceiver on the seat beside him.

“He made contact,” he said. “Have to give it to him. He worked it smoothly. Spoke to Kerim, then went inside with him.”

“Stay on watch,” David McCarter said. “If you get a clear opportunity when they come out, see if they leave together and follow. But don’t get made, Rafe. Slightest doubt, back off and we’ll have to wait for Cal to contact us.”

“That’s what I worry about,” Encizo said. “What if he can’t contact us?”

“We understood the risks right from day one. So did Cal. I don’t bloody like the way we’re having to go, but there’s no choice. Call if anything goes down.”

* * *

THE INTERIOR WAS cool. The tiled floor was smooth under James’s bare feet after he left his shoes at the entrance. The silence was broken only by the murmur of praying voices.

“Come with me,” Kerim said. “We will find a place where we can talk.”

In keeping with his character, James held the Koran open, reading in a low voice, speaking French as he quoted from the verses. He portrayed a humble man, someone carrying much unrest inside him.

Kerim paused at a closed door. “In here you can rest in solitude for a time.” He closed his hands over the book in James’s hands. “Seek the truth the Koran holds for you. Allow its strength to become your strength. Let Allah embrace you in all His glory. When I finish my business we will talk, my brother, and with Allah’s guidance we will find your path.”

Beyond the door was a plain room, empty except for a pair of wooden chairs set around a table. As James entered his eyes wandered around the walls and ceiling, but he kept his gaze low-key. He spotted a small video camera in the angle of the wall and ceiling, the lens trained on the table. He suspected there was also an audio link.

“Sit,” Kerim said. “I will be back soon.”

The door closed, leaving James on his own. He understood the restrictions the room placed on him, so he remained as Ibrahim Hammid and maintained his persona. He sat at the table, the open Koran laid in front of him, and began to recite one of the passages. If he was going to convince Kerim of his true faith he was going to have to remain vigilant. One slip and his cover would be gone. If that happened Calvin James would be forced to make a swift return.

James didn’t try to fool himself. If his cover was blown he would find himself in a fight for his life for as long as it took the rest of Phoenix Force to show up. He had no doubts his partners would come for him, but it would depend on how close they were at the time, even anticipating they knew where he was. It might turn out to be a close thing. The time it took Phoenix Force to show up had to be calculated against how long it took for someone to pull a trigger. Calvin James was no fatalist. He simply looked at the facts and took it from there.

Between a rock and a hard place didn’t allow much room to maneuver.

James figured around twenty to thirty minutes had passed before the door opened and Kerim stood there.

“My business took me longer than expected,” he said. “Now we must see to your needs, Ibrahim Hammid. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“My hunger is for enlightenment. My thirst for knowledge.”

Kerim smiled. “All well and good, Ibrahim, but even the most devout must nourish his body as well as his soul.” He stepped outside the door and called to someone to bring tea and bread. “Here in the mosque we have only simple things.”

“Thank you, brother. Your kindness overwhelms me.”

Kerim sat across the table, his lean hands flat on the surface as he studied Calvin James. His gaze was fixed, his dark eyes fiercely penetrating. James held the man’s scrutiny, aware he was being assessed.

“I sense there is much conflict within you, Ibrahim Hammid. Is this true?”

“As much as I am able I wage my personal struggle with America. But I am one man. Alone. I have neither money nor support, so my battle with this nation is little more than within my thoughts.” James gripped the Koran until his knuckles whitened with the tension. “But if my thoughts were reality, America would lie in smoking ruins.”

A tray was brought into the room. It held a copper pot of tea that allowed a rich, aromatic smell to fill the room. There was a plate of bread and a bowl of grapes and figs. Kerim reached for one of the two cups and poured the tea, passing one to James. He took his own cup and sipped the hot brew.

“Eat,” Kerim said.

James took the food. He acted the part of someone who had not eaten well for some time, while trying to keep his hunger under control. He knew Kerim was watching him.

“Here,” the man said, refilling James’s cup. “Tell me, where do you live?”

“I have a place in a rooming house. In the cheapest part of town.”

“Work?”

“In the kitchen of a large hotel. My responsibility is to make sure all the waste is taken outside. A menial job. The wage is small, but it helps pay for my room.”

“Are you treated well enough?”

“It depends on your interpretation of well enough.”

Kerim smiled at that. “Je comprends. Yet such an answer could be considered as paranoid.”

“If you are asking do I sometimes look over my shoulder to see if I am being followed, then yes.”

“And are you?”

“If I could identify them they would not be doing their job.”

“My brother, America is not as free as they make out. Democracy comes at a high price. The ones in charge view the world with suspicion and they feed that insecurity down to the streets.”

“To be directed at us. At Islam and everything it stands for.”

“The Americans want our oil. To get it they declare illegal wars that give them an excuse to invade. They send in their military. Their tanks and warplanes. Against what? Against civilians. Women and children. They destroy our cities. Our sacred mosques. Their disregard for our holy places is outrageous. I have seen the destruction. The death. The heavy boot of the American aggressor crushing everything we hold dear. The infidels want to wipe us out.”

Kerim never once raised his voice. He spoke with absolute control. Calm. Considered. And that made his words more powerful.

“How dedicated would you be to the cause?” Kerim asked, eyes fixed on James’s face.

“As dedicated as necessary.”

“Without question?”

“Yes.”

“To the death?”

“To the death. However Allah sees fit to use me. My devotion to Him has no bounds. If He requires my sacrifice then I am willing.”

“Have you heard of Hand of Allah?”

James shook his head. “I have little contact with anyone, or anything. What is Hand of Allah?”

“We oppose all things American. Our dedication is toward the glory of Allah. In whatever way we can manifest that dedication.”

“A great and good cause.”

“Hand of Allah may have the answer to your prayers, my brother.”

“Give me the opportunity to prove myself. If I can do something, anything, for Allah, then my life will not have been in vain.”

“There is a plan, Hammid. One that will bring much pain and suffering to this place of Satan.”

“Then allow me to become part of it, brother. Let me be one of those who will deliver Allah’s wrath to this godless place.”

“I am in need of believers such as yourself, Ibrahim Hammid. True followers of Allah who need a purpose in life.”

James clutched his Koran. “Where you go I will follow, Shaia Kerim. There is nothing here in this place for me. This desolate land of the infidels is dead to me. I have never been in the military, but if I had a gun I would strike out against the Americans.” He raised the Koran and held it to his chest. “This is my only weapon, but against the American war machine it is powerless.”

“What would you say if I offered you a chance to strike at America? To make a difference?”

“How?”

“By joining a group who are going to visit Allah’s vengeance against the Great Satan. In a way that will bring home the pain of war to Americans at large. Here on their own streets.”

James held himself silent for a heartbeat, studying Kerim’s face. “This can happen?” And when Kerim simply nodded, he asked, “But how?”

“Put your trust in me, Ibrahim Hammid, and I will make this happen.”

James smiled at Kerim. “Allahu akbar,” he said. “Then if He wills it I will follow you.”

“Then go and gather your belongings. Return in the morning and I will take you to a place where you can wait until I make arrangements.” As James stood, still clutching his Koran, Kerim added, “Tell no one. Stay faithful.”

They moved out of the mosque together. James walked away, aware that Kerim had remained at the entrance, taking out a cell and making a call. He did not look back but simply went down the street, maintaining his cover role as Ibrahim Hammid.

* * *

WATCHING FROM his car, Encizo reported in.

“Cal is leaving the mosque. Kerim saw him out and now he’s making a cell call.”

“Check no one is following Cal. T.J. can tail him. Cal should be going back to his room. If it’s safe he’ll call in and update us.”

“You want me to stay on Kerim?”

“If he leaves the mosque.”

Encizo saw Kerim complete his call, then turn and go back inside the mosque.

“Kerim has gone back inside.”

“Stay there. If you see anyone interesting try to get some shots.”

“I’m on it.”

Nothing further happened until Kerim left the mosque a couple of hours later. By then Encizo had been informed about what had happened inside the mosque. He started the car and made his way back to the hotel Phoenix Force was using as a base.

Hawkins had tailed James back to his rooming house. No one else followed James, Hawkins determined. The black Phoenix Force pro went inside and used the cell hidden in his room to update McCarter on what had taken place. He hung around inside his room until it was time for him to start his afternoon shift at the restaurant.

Gary Manning, the lone Canadian on the team, was observing from a distance, watching to see if anyone made contact. No one did, but Manning noticed a lone figure keeping an eye on James, even taking a number of photographs. He called that in.

“Looks like they’re checking up on our mate,” McCarter said. “Probably want a picture for identification.”

“Good thing Aaron had that fake background planted on the internet.”

“Too bloody true,” McCarter said. “Keep a sharp watch, Gary. Let me know if anything happens that shouldn’t.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“He is of African-American descent,” Kerim explained. “His mother was Algerian. She taught him French and instilled in him a respect for the faith. Since he was brought here as a young child he has had nothing but disappointment. He feels nothing but resentment toward America. His life is nothing. I had one of our people check his background on the internet. The man has clashed with the authorities many times because of his disillusionment. Twice he has been arrested for disturbing the peace, so it was possible for his police records to be accessed. He has never been placed on the American watch list because his actions have always been low-key. He is considered a nuisance rather than a threat. But his presence on record shows he is far from content with his life and does not like America.”

“Will his feelings allow him to take that step to becoming an active dissident?” asked the man they called the Prophet.

“I believe so. Only his faith in Allah allows him to survive. He wants to leave this country but even that is denied him because he is penniless. Without papers. His frustration makes him angry. His only crutch is his Koran. He carries it with him at all times. Reads it constantly. It gives him comfort. But he desires to make his mark. To strike out.”

The Prophet considered what Kerim had said. “Why this man?”

“I have listened to him. He is ready. Given training he will fit into our operation. Being African-American he would be able to move around the country less conspicuously than some of our Muslim brothers. He would be able to get into areas without arousing suspicion.”

“Can we trust him? Does he have what we need?”

“I believe so, Prophet.”

“How would you proceed with this?”

“Take him out of the country. Directly to our camp in Yemen. Give him time with our people, as we have done with the others. Instruct him in the use of automatic weapons. Grenades. Return him to America and give him the necessary clothing and finance. Place him in a chosen location and let him wait until it is time. Then unleash him on the American public on the day we choose. Like all the others he will only have knowledge of his individual mission.”

“And if he proves not to be with us?”

“At the camp we will be able to observe him closely. In Yemen he will be under our control, so if he is false we can deal with him easily.”

“Have you spoken of your intentions to him?”

“Only to gauge his reaction. And he has spoken that he wants to join our cause.”

“Then perhaps now is the time. Where is he now?”

“He returned to the mosque as instructed. He was moved directly to the safe house.”

“Talk to him again. If you are sure he is willing then we can make the arrangements to take him to Yemen.”

Kerim nodded, excitement welling as he thought of the interesting time ahead. His protégé would prove to be a vital asset. His indoctrination into Hand of Allah would show how well Kerim had carried out his task. Even the Prophet would not be able to deny his procurer’s skill. It would raise Kerim’s standing within the organization. The plan to infiltrate American cities with his armed martyrs had been mostly Kerim’s, and the Prophet had agreed on the plan.

Drawing Hammid into Hand of Allah would involve some financial outlay. But that was no problem. The group had funding from a number of sources, including al Qaeda. People backed such organizations because it furthered their needs. Encouraged the ongoing war against the infidel West. When the Prophet had once detailed the amounts of money that had been funneled into the Hand of Allah coffers, even Kerim had been surprised. The funds were banked in a number of accounts and were readily available to the Prophet, so any financial outlay was easily deployed. It was a comfort to know the financial needs had been taken care of. Planning an operation was hard enough without having to struggle to gather enough money to fund it.

With the monetary security behind him, Kerim was able to concentrate on gathering his people. The ones who would actually carry out the planned strikes on the streets of American cities. There was no shortage of willing volunteers, but Kerim wanted those who could walk the U.S. streets with confidence, able to restrain themselves until the chosen moment arrived. He did not want trigger-happy martyrs who might easily allow their eagerness to push them into acting too soon, breaking the orchestrated plans of attack. That meant he had to choose carefully, taking his time.

Over the long weeks he had selected his people. Each candidate had been quietly taken from America, some from London, a number from Paris. The thing they all had in common was their knowledge of big-city life. The ability to fit in and move around with ease. That was important. It would have been fatal to simply pluck some individual who lacked social graces because he came from a small town, a village in Afghanistan, the desert of Yemen or the banks of the Bahr al-Arab river in Sudan.

Kerim wanted his people to understand the pace and the attitude of city dwellers. He needed people who could walk and talk on the streets of New York or Washington, D.C. Casually traverse Boston or Chicago, dressed in similar clothing as the masses around them. They had to be able to walk into a Starbucks and order coffee. To sit at a table and look and act as though they were part of the surroundings. That demanded a degree of confidence, of familiarity. And that was why Kerim selected his team with care.

At the training camp the selected ones would be put through an extensive course designed to plant within them knowledge of how they must present themselves in America. There would be a waiting period while every member of the team was established. That was an important part of the mission. Making certain each team member was settled and unobtrusive. Providing each individual with identification and money to sustain them during their waiting period was another obstacle Kerim had to oversee. It was an intensive period, but one he undertook with his usual enthusiasm. His dedication to the task was unstinting. He let nothing deter him from it. And while he went about Allah’s work he presented himself to the world a picture of a moderate Muslim, a quiet man practicing his religion and offending no one. He blended into the background, inoffensive and compliant.

He looked on the plan as his greatest achievement. When it was put into motion there would be such an impact on America. The clever part was the plan required minimal setting up. No massive technical input. Just men who were prepared to undertake the mission, inserted into America and finally sent out on the streets to mingle with the public until the moment they took out their weapons and opened fire in a crowded area. Striking in such a way, against unarmed and bewildered people, the Hand of Allah martyrs would be able to inflict heavy casualties before they were brought down. If they managed to evade death or capture, each man would move to a prearranged location where he would eventually be taken to another place and the plan would be repeated.

The weapons for use were being brought into the country by Jack Regan’s organization. The weapons would be distributed to central points across America, so that Kerim’s people would have easy access to them. In this way there would be no need to purchase weapons within the U.S. There were too many restrictions on buying guns. These varied from state to state and created delays, and also suspicions if too many were requested. Regan had no such problems. He simply took an order and filled it. No questions. No paperwork. No violations of gun laws.

Money was the universal opener of doors, from Regan to the individuals prepared to carry out other tasks required in setting up the overall plan. Kerim had to smile whenever that item crossed his mind.

Money.

It was entirely true that in America money could get you anything you wanted.

Pay out enough and the problems went away.

Although in this instance America’s problems would only be increased. The money Kerim was handing out would create panic, death and blood on the streets.

CHAPTER FIVE

Yemen

True to his word Shaia Kerim took Ibrahim Hammid away from America. From a private airfield they took a flight to Ireland and changed planes. Although James was not privy to the arrangements, a great deal of money had passed between parties to ensure the flights were not interrupted, or even checked. The second part of the trip was from Ireland to Yemen. Once there the party transferred to SUVs for the final leg of the journey—the Hand of Allah training camp in the Yemeni desert.

They arrived at the camp while it was still dark, somewhere between midnight and two o’clock. James saw little except the black shapes of tents and a pair of prefabricated huts. The moment the SUVs stopped a pair of armed men took charge of James. He was marched across the dusty ground, thoroughly and intimately searched, not for the first time, and then pushed inside a steel cage. The door was secured and a large canvas sheet was draped over the cage, shutting out even the faint light. He had nothing except the clothes he was wearing and his leather-bound Koran.

Whatever James might have been thinking about his treatment, he knew there was nothing he could do, so he made himself as comfortable as he could and slept. The ingrained capacity to resist, from his SEAL training, clicked in and James shifted his perspective. He woke to the sound of activity outside the cage. He heard men moving about, the distant rumble of a truck motor. Later, as the sun got higher and the heat penetrated the sheet, James picked up the sound of auto-fire. The rhythm of the gunfire suggested target practice rather than the sound of real combat.

Sometime during the day the front corner of the sheet was raised. A plastic bottle of water was pushed between the bars, followed by a foil-wrapped portion of food. James took off the cap of the bottle and took a sip of water. It was fresh and chilled. The meal was boiled rice and meat. James wasn’t sure what the meat was but he ate the food anyway.

No one came near him after that. James couldn’t be certain why he had been imprisoned. As long as he was still alive he decided all he could was go with it. Not that he really had much choice in the matter.

Beneath the canvas cover the cage became increasingly hot. Sweat drained out of James even though he didn’t move. He used the water sparingly, not knowing if he would get any more. He drank a little and used some to wet his face. The chill water had become increasingly warm as the time passed. He recited some of the prayers he had learned in case he was being observed.

Daylight faded. James spent another long night in the confines of his cage. The temperature dropped and it turned cold. James slept fitfully, spending his time going over his cover story to keep his mind active.

He also allowed some time trying to figure out why he had been locked up. Stony Man had spent time and effort creating his Ibrahim Hammid biography. He found it hard to accept his cover might have been blown. His only contact since taking up the Hammid role had been Phoenix Force before he had met Kerim. He couldn’t imagine any might have pointed the finger at him. James backtracked, admitting it was not written in stone that he might have been identified as someone other than Hammid. But he didn’t go for that.

So why the cage?

Was Kerim still digging into his fake life? Had he found something that had aroused his suspicions?

James wrapped his jacket tight around his lean body. The stifling heat of the day would have been welcome right then. He didn’t like the cold.

James was kept in the cage for three more days. Given water and food, but no human contact. In the end it made little difference what he thought. He was under the control of Hand of Allah. He would have to take what they handed to him and play their games.

On the morning they took away the canvas sheet and sunlight poured over him, James stared out on the camp, blinking in the harsh light. A half-dozen figures surrounded the cage, eyes watching him closely. One stepped forward as the cage was opened. It was Kerim. He spread his arms, palms exposed as he smiled at James.

“Come, brother. Join us now.”

James stumbled from the cage, limbs stiff from inactivity.

“Assalam alaikum,” Kerim said.

“Wa alaikum al salam,” James replied.

“Did I not say this is how it would be?” Kerim said to the other Hand of Allah men. “That our brother would accept what Allah decreed? Did I not say he is worthy of our respect?” Kerim embraced Ibrahim Hammid. “Tell me, brother, were you not concerned for your safety? Did your faith not waver?”

James turned to face the man. “Why would it? If Allah was testing me I would not be afraid. His strength gave me strength.”

“Then you have proved yourself worthy, Ibrahim Hammid. You are among brothers.” He pointed in the direction of one of the huts. “Come, we will see to your needs.”

As he entered the hut behind Kerim a cool stream of air could be felt. It came from an air conditioner in one corner of the hut. James stood for a moment and let the flow wash over him.

“A generator behind the huts provides the power,” Kerim explained. “It is needed to keep the temperature down to cool the environment.” Kerim smiled. “Even out here the trappings of the modern age are needed.”

James made no comment as he eyed the top-of-the-line laptop computer sitting on the plain wooden desk. There were a number of cheap plastic office chairs ranged around the desk.

“Allah provides,” Kerim said, ‘but even He cannot give us everything we need.” He gestured to a seat. “Sit, Ibrahim, and I will provide.”

Kerim brought James a cup of black coffee from a thermos flask. He watched as the first cup was quickly drained and refilled it. He sat behind a plain wooden desk and studied his new recruit.

“You are still puzzled. Yes?” James nodded. “A simple test we put every new man through,” Kerim said. “A test of resolve. A way of assessing inner faith. And to satisfy those who may have suspicions as to the character of someone they know little of.” Kerim laid his hands flat on the desktop. “I chose you, Ibrahim, because what I saw and heard when we first met convinced me you were a true believer. A man with the will to make your stand against the true enemies of Islam. If I had not had enough faith then I would not have chosen you. I would have walked away and you would still be on the city streets. A lost and wasted soul. Others have been brought here, put in the cage, and many have broken quickly.” He smiled again. “But you, Ibrahim Hammid, lost nothing of your faith. The doubters will be satisfied now.”

“Thank you, brother,” James said. “Your faith in me makes me humble.”

Kerim began to speak in French, his voice soft, persuasive.

“You will rest and refresh yourself today. Tomorrow your training will begin. Weapons. Handguns. Automatic rifles. Hand grenades. The use of the knife.” He paused. “Forgive my indulgence but it is not often I am able to converse in French. It is a language I enjoy. Do you mind, brother, if we speak it together?”

James shook his head. “It was my mother’s tongue. It reminds me of her.”

They spent some time together. Kerim had food brought in for James. Gave him more coffee. James ate sparingly. Gorging too heavily after four days of very little food could have made him ill.

Finally Kerim said, “Forgive me, brother. You need to rest.”

He led James outside and took him to an empty tent. Inside was a low cot and blankets. Then he took James to where he could wash and dress in provided clean clothing.

“I will leave you now. Rest well, brother. Tomorrow we start your education.”

* * *

JAMES SLEPT WELL that night. In the morning, after prayers and breakfast, Kerim took him on a brief tour of the camp. James counted well over two dozen Hand of Allah followers. Every man was armed. Outside Kerim’s hut was a satellite dish and antenna. A mobile generator stood some distance away, a power cable connected to Kerim’s hut. The hut next to Kerim’s was the weapons center. James saw a number of vehicles some distance behind the huts. The dusty and much-used Toyota pickups were equipped with wide, deep-tread tires for negotiating the desert terrain.

James noticed that every snatch of conversation he picked up was in English. There was no other language being spoken. He mentioned this to Kerim.

“You will hear only English being spoken around the camp,” Kerim said. “I want every man to converse in English once they reach the U.S.A. Just another way of lessening suspicion. For our people to fit in. To make the Americans feel more comfortable. So while they are here only English is allowed.”

“Did that make your choices harder?”

“Not really,” Kerim said. “Just that much more selective. But not impossible. English is a widely used language so we had enough people to bring in.”

“Is that why there seem to be American objects around in the tents? I saw American magazines and newspapers. Candy bars. American coffee.”

“I was right about you, Ibrahim, in what I thought. You are very observant. You talk very little but you see everything. And you are correct. I want our soldiers to learn about American life—the habits of the people, the way they act, go about their daily lives. We have videos we show the teams. How to follow the rules in American cities and towns. The use of American currency. Some may be small things but they will accustom our soldiers how to behave once they reach America and walk the streets. They must not stand out. They must blend in. Be invisible so that when they strike no one will be expecting it. In the time they have they must be able to inflict maximum damage.”

James simply nodded in recognition of Kerim’s revelations. Despite his revulsion of the man’s concept, there was no denying the brilliance of the terrorist’s plan.

And it made the Phoenix Force warrior all the more determined to do everything he could to make certain the Hand of Allah kill teams did not carry out the mission they were training for.

After the tour, James was taken to the hut where the ordnance was stored. He was given an AK-47 with a loaded magazine and a Beretta 92F, also ready for use. There was also a matte-black Gerber combat knife.

“Carry these with you at all times,” Kerim advised. “Yes, we have protection but it is not wise to allow complacency to make us weak. You understand? If there was an attack on the camp we must be willing to defend it.”

James handled the weapons as any novice would. His Phoenix Force skills were going to have to be denied until Ibrahim had gone through his “training.”

They moved away from the camp and came to the firing range. The sound of auto-fire had been noticeable for some time. There were a half-dozen shooters using their weapons on the selection of targets set up at different distances.

Kerim gestured for a lean figure dressed in military fatigues to join them. The man, dark skinned with fierce eyes, wore a hard expression on his scarred face.

“This is Anwar. He will train you. Listen well to him and do as he instructs. He also speaks English.”

Anwar studied James for a moment.

“He looks fit,” he said. “Have you ever fired a weapon?” he asked James.

“Never.”

“At least you won’t have any bad habits, then. That’s something in your favor. Come with me and we will begin.”

“I will leave you in Anwar’s hands,” Kerim said and walked away.

There was a trestle table set up at the side of the range. Anwar pointed to it.

“Place your weapons on the table.”

James did as he was told.

“AK-47 assault rifle,” Anwar said. “Still one of the best. Caliber 7.62 mm copper-jacketed bullets. Has a punch that will knock a man off his feet and go right through him. Magazine holds thirty rounds. Once you get the feel you should be able to change a magazine in seconds. Selector lets you use full auto, or fire one shot at a time. The weapons you will be given once you reach America will be without the stock to reduce the length. This will make it a little easier to conceal. The automatic pistol is a Beretta 92F. Solid, dependable 9 mm weapon. Magazine holds thirteen shots. A man with a few extra magazines will carry a lot of firepower. Quick magazine changes mean you can get through a large number of shots quickly. More shots, more results. In a crowded place people will panic once the shooting starts, so you’ll be able to pick a lot of targets in a short time. Now, first we’ll go through each weapon. Strip down and reassemble. We will start with the Beretta… .”

CHAPTER SIX

Los Angeles

Doug Castle saw his partner emerge from Starbucks with a coffee cup in each hand. He watched as Larry Shapiro crossed the street, heading for the parked cruiser, weaving between the pedestrians milling around the town square. Shapiro was no lightweight but he maneuvered the crowd like a trained gymnast. Castle was grinning as he stepped out of the cruiser to meet his partner.

The two cops had been partnered for almost five years. They were good cops, though not promotional material. They liked the way things were. Steady and uncomplicated. Let the ambitious guys go for the higher ranks, even plainclothes in the detective division. That might bring in more pay, but it also brought more responsibility, longer hours and fractured lives. Castle and Shapiro preferred their street-cop existence. The younger guys could have all the pressure.

Through the open door of the cruiser Castle could hear the click and hiss of the car’s radio. The dispatcher’s voice came and went, issuing instructions, keeping track of the city’s patrol vehicles. He hoped nothing would come through to break into their midmorning coffee halt.

“Hell of a crowd in there,” Shapiro said. He handed Castle his paper cup. “Watch out, it’s hot.”

“You don’t say.” Castle felt the scalding brew leeching through the waxed cardboard. “Hey, you forgot the protector.”

“They ran out,” Shapiro said.

A couple of young children ran by, yelling and screaming excitedly.

Castle took off his uniform cap, sleeved his forehead. “Hot day.”

The sky was open and cloudless above the rooftops. No breeze to cool the temperature.

“Good thing they fixed the climate control,” Shapiro said. He kicked one of the cruiser’s tires. “It was an oven in there last week.”

“Hey, you and Helen fixed your vacation yet?” Shapiro asked.

Castle shook his head. “She still can’t decide between going to stay with her mother in Florida or booking that Caribbean cruise… .”

Shapiro didn’t hear the rest of his partner’s words.

Things began to happen quickly.

Someone screamed. A high, shrill sound that carried above the general hum of the crowd.

A split second later the scream was drowned out by a sound Shapiro had never expected to hear on the streets of his city.

The hard, brutal crackle of auto-fire. Not individual shots from a handgun, but the continuous, chilling rattle of an automatic weapon.

“Jesus,” Shapiro said, dropping his coffee cup and not even noticing that most of it splashed his shoes and the legs of his uniform pants. He reached for his holstered issue Beretta 92F pistol. “Doug, call it in. Now. And bring the shotgun.”

The gunfire was coming from the square Castle had walked across only a short time ago.

He cleared his pistol as he moved forward, left hand reaching to ward off people who were already scattering away from the source of the shooting.

As a gap opened Shapiro saw bodies down on the ground. His mind tried to gather it all in. The victims were spread around, some writhing in agony, others still. And there was blood. On the bodies. On the paving slabs. And then there was the lone figure at the epicenter of the panic. A tall, lean guy in dark pants and a bright shirt. A ball cap on his head. He had a sports bag slung across his body and an AK-47 in his hands; Shapiro recognized the weapon’s configuration from the training sessions they received in the academy classrooms and on the firing range. He did notice this one had the buttstock removed. The AK-47 was the favored weapon of—terrorists. The word stopped him. One of the classic assault rifles in existence. Known and used the world over. Millions had been, and still were being produced. A deadly, reliable and accurate weapon.

His mind snapped back to the moment. His Beretta lifted and he aimed at the shooter.

Shapiro had never raised his pistol in anger before. The only time he had fired was on the range at stationary targets. He held back for an instant because people were still milling around, crossing his firing zone. He couldn’t risk hitting a civilian.

He realized the shooting had stopped. Wondered why.

The shooter had let the AK-47 hang by a shoulder strap. His right hand reached into the sports bag, came out holding a spherical object.

What the hell?

Realization struck Shapiro as the shooter pulled the pin on the fragmentation grenade and threw it in the direction of scattering people. He shouldered aside a screaming woman and stepped forward, his Beretta settling on the shooter.

The grenade detonated with a harsh sound. A flash of brightness, a swirl of smoke. Bodies were thrown aside by the blast.

Shapiro fired his weapon, felt the pistol kick against his palm. He knew he had missed. His finger had jerked back on the trigger instead of squeezing in a steady motion.

Then he heard the second grenade go off, felt the shock wave. Something tore at his left hip. A searing rush of pain and he was down on the ground, trying to suck air into his lungs. When he glanced at his hip he was shocked at the sight. There was a ragged mess of a wound where his solid flesh had been lacerated by whatever had hit him. His black uniform was shredded and he could see chunks of torn flesh and shattered bone. Blood was welling up out of the wound.

The third grenade exploded.

More screams. People shouting for help.

The AK-47 started firing again, spraying slugs back and forth.

The whole area was a jumble of frantic people, smoke, blood, and in the distance the sound of approaching police sirens.

A dark figure loomed up beside Shapiro. He looked up and saw Castle, the cruiser’s Mossberg shotgun in his hands.

“Larry. You stay down,” Castle said.

“Go get that bastard,” Shapiro managed to say before he slipped into shock.

He never saw Castle crouch and run forward, the Mossberg rising in his steady hands as he cut across the square.

The shooter swung in Castle’s direction as he ejected the empty magazine from the AK-47 and snapped in a fresh one.

The rifle was turned on Castle a fraction of a second too late.

The Mossberg began to jack out 00 buckshot. Castle had never fired on a human target, either, but he triggered as he moved and kept on triggering. The shooter shuddered under the impact of the Mossberg’s full magazine. His right arm was severed above the elbow, bloody chunks of flesh and bone misting the air. His torso, from the waist up, took the brunt of the fusillade. Flesh disintegrated, ribs splintered and internal organs were reduced to mush. The shot-ravaged corpse slumped to the ground in an ungainly heap, nerves shivering to a stop as the body settled.

Doug Castle lowered the smoking shotgun and keyed his shoulder mike.

“Castle here. Situation under control. Perp is down and contained. Just get as many ambulances to the scene as you can. Multiple casualties. One of our own among them. Larry Shapiro took a hit from a fragmentation grenade to the hip. He’s bleeding badly.”

The screams and moans from around the square filled Castle’s ears as he made his way back to where Shapiro lay. He concentrated on his partner for the moment. Shapiro was pale, semiconscious.

“Hang in there, Larry. Help’s on its way.”

Castle took a quick look at Shapiro’s wound. He’d seen enough body wounds, from road accidents, to know it was serious. He dropped the shotgun and leaned over Shapiro. He could see where blood was pumping continuously from a severed artery. He reached into the wound and clamped his fingers over the tear, trying to clamp it off. The heavy flow lessened after a short while.

Uniformed cops appeared, weapons out, faces paling as they surveyed the scene around the square.

“You can put the guns away, fellers,” Castle told them. “We need medics. Where are the responders?”

“Right behind us, Doug.”

Someone shouted and a way was cleared as the first paramedics showed.

“Over here,” Castle yelled. “My partner took a grenade fragment. I think it severed a main artery. I got it slowed down.”

The paramedic, a pretty young woman with short blond hair, knelt beside Castle. She surveyed the scene with calm eyes. “Looks like you did a pretty good job, Officer Castle,” she said, reading his name off his shirt tag. “Now you let us look after your partner here.”

She eased Castle’s hands away and took over, reciting orders to her own partner and into the shoulder mike that connected her to the hospital base.

Castle rose to his feet, unsteady until other cops reached out to grip his shoulders.

“Come on, Doug. Let the people do their job now.”

Castle saw his hands and lower wrists were red with Shapiro’s blood. His uniform was spattered too, but none of that seemed to matter.

One of the uniformed cops came back from checking out the dead shooter.

“Christ, Doug, you sure as hell shot that mother good and dead.”

Castle stared at him for a moment. He blinked his eyes as if he had just woken from a deep sleep.

“I did?” His voice was shaky. “I guess so,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sana’a,

Yemen

Henry Lang had been the CIA man in the region for two years. He ran his operations with a firm hand. The business he operated, dealing in locally made carpets, handcrafted woven baskets and pots, and jambiyas, the traditional Yemeni daggers, allowed him fairly free movement around the country. Lang was careful with his movements. Yemen was a volatile place, internal politics always tumultuous. Lang was a good agent. He kept his thoughts to himself, never made any moves that could be construed as suspicious and maintained a low profile. The money he made from his business was mostly spent on looking after the local authorities and paying his informers.

Lang understood the rules of the game. He played it close to his chest. Never took a thing for granted. Never fully trusted anyone. There was an undercurrent running through the country and Lang sensed it even more strongly lately.

In his capacity as a CIA field agent it was part of his job to observe and report. To keep Langley apprised of matters that might concern them. And the present offered him plenty to observe and report. The political scene in Yemen was touchy to say the least. Although the current regime tended toward a democratic stance, opposition groups were doing their best to destabilize the country. To top that there were definite signs that al Qaeda had a toehold in the area and was helping fund terrorist training camps. Lang had not been able to pinpoint where these camps were located. The city of Sana’a lay in the western part of Yemen, and beyond the city the country was all desert. Desolate and empty bar a few isolated villages.

Lang’s only helper was a deep-cover agent named Karam Samir. He was half Yemeni, and had spent three years in the States before being assigned to the job. He knew the language and local dialects. He blended in and had provided Lang with valuable intel. Right now he was devoting his time to searching for everything he could on the one lead he had to locating one of the suspected jihadist training camps.

Through his own local contacts, working on various information sources, Samir had uncovered a name. He had told Lang that the man, named Ariq Taj, could be a member of Hand of Allah. The troubling thing was Taj’s occupation. He was an inspector in the local police force but was connected to one of the terrorist camps in the eastern section of the country. Samir’s last contact with Lang had been two days ago. He had advised Lang he was closing in on Taj and was about to trail the man to a meeting. Lang had voiced his concern, but Samir had told him to stop worrying. He would come back to Lang once he had something to report.

Following procedure, Lang had used his encrypted sat phone to inform Langley what was happening. It meant there would be a record of the event for future reference. The CIA liked records. It would give the suits something to mull over at one of their frequent update meetings.

Off the record Lang wished Samir would make contact. The longer he was out of touch the more Lang became concerned. He didn’t doubt Samir’s competence. He just didn’t feel right being out of the loop, sitting around in his pokey office, waiting.

A few minutes later Lang’s phone rang.

Before he answered it he had a premonition it would be Samir, and he also had a feeling it wasn’t going to be good news.

* * *

KARAM SAMIR MOVED quickly because he knew without a doubt he was in danger. The mistake he had made was getting too close to Taj. He regretted it now, but it would make no difference to the outcome if he did not get away. He had no idea where to go. The last thing he would do was lead his pursuers to Lang. He owed that to the man. Any decision would have to come later, once he was clear of the city—if he could actually achieve that. As he hurried down the stairs from his apartment, after grabbing his shoulder satchel, he became aware of how time was slipping away with frightening speed.

He reached the ground floor, the dim passage giving way to the bright glare of the sun. He paused, his mind calculating the fastest escape route. As he looked right and left along the crowded, dusty street he saw a black SUV sliding into view from around the intersection.

Big, shiny SUVs did not belong here in this part of town, and he knew whoever was inside the vehicle had come for him. He turned right, hearing the squeal of tires as the SUV powered along the street, scattering pedestrians and knocking aside stalls lining each side. There were angry protests. The SUV kept moving, raising a cloud of pale dust.

There was no way he was going to outrun such a powerful vehicle, so he took the only way open to him. He turned into the first narrow alley he saw, hearing the SUV slide to a halt. He kept running, shouldering aside anyone who stood in his way and trying to avoid the piles of trash that edged the alley. He knew his pursuers were still following when he heard the slam of car doors. Shouts reached his ears but he ignored them, increasing his speed, splashing through pools of stagnant water and rotting food.

The first shot startled him. He heard the bullet thud into a wall only inches from his head. The realization he was being fired on spurred him on. The far mouth of the alley seemed a long way ahead. He loosened the fastener on his satchel and groped inside for his cell phone, dragging it out and raising it so he could see the numbers. He thumbed the speed dial number he wanted to call and put the phone to his ear, hoping the number would connect. For once it did quickly.

“Samir?”

“Listen,” he said. “They made me. It is Taj.”

“Where are you?”

“Out on the street near my place. They are chasing me. Shooting.”

“What can I do?”

Samir almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“Nothing. Just remember Taj is a cop. And Hand of Allah.”

Then he stumbled. It saved him as more shots rang out. The cell phone slipped from his fingers as he fell against the wall, skinning his knuckles down to the bone. Samir ignored the pain as he pushed away from the wall and continued running.

The end of the alley loomed. As he burst from the alley the black SUV roared into sight, the front corner clipping him hard. The impact lifted him off the ground and he spun over and over, smacking down with a solid shock, skidding along the dusty street. Pain blotted out the world for long seconds. It would have been too easy to simply lie there, but instinct took over and he staggered upright, fighting back against the lethargy. He moved on, knowing that the impact with the SUV had injured him. His left arm hung at his side, the sleeve of his shirt shredded, exposing the ripped and bloody flesh. A length of splintered bone jutted from the open wound. He could feel blood streaming down the side of his face from a pulsing wound in his skull. Already the blood had soaked the front of his shirt, turning it into a sodden mess.

He heard more shouting behind him and ignored it, still running. Ahead of him lay waste ground. An expanse of irregular mounds of rubbish. The detritus of existence. Moldering waste and debris. Samir’s flight had taken him to an area where there was no hiding place.

He thrust his hand back into his satchel, closing his fingers around the butt of his 9 mm Beretta 92F. He pulled the pistol free and began to twist his upper body around.

The first burst of auto-fire sent slugs through his legs, blowing out his kneecaps. Samir felt the tearing effect of the slugs as they shredded flesh and shattered bone, bursting out in glistening spurts of red. Before he had time to fall, more auto-fire exploded, the bursts from multiple weapons coring through his body, sending him twisting forward in agony. He was hit again as his ravaged body tumbled, the bloody spray trailing behind as he went down. He hit the ground, crying out in pain, and felt the continuous, raking fire that hammered his flesh. As his body rolled he caught a glimpse of his attackers, advancing as they emptied their weapons into him.

One of them was Ariq Taj, his face wreathed in a cruel smile.

There was a brief pause as they reloaded and then the brutal assault continued, the relentless chatter of the SMGs as they pumped bullet after bullet into the blood-soaked form on the ground. The firing only died away as the weapons exhausted their magazines, leaving a body so riddled from groin to head it would be hard to make identification visually. Samir’s Beretta lay on the ground beside him, having slipped from his grasp. It was unfired.

The shooters returned to the SUV. As they climbed into the vehicle the man called Taj spoke.

“Now Lang,” he said, “and then Jahir… .”

* * *

LANG HEARD THE FIRST shots over the phone, then silence as Samir’s cell hit the ground and shattered.

He considered the implications. Taking it to the worst conclusion, he saw his cover blown, too. Which left him with a single option. He needed to get out before they came for him. That was a given. If Samir had been taken down Lang would be next.

Taj?

Hand of Allah.

So Ariq Taj was a cop in the Yemeni police force. Lang experienced momentary surprise. Being a local cop would give Taj access to intelligence files and the ability to send information to Hand of Allah. Lang might have been surprised at the revelation, but he had been too long in the CIA to be shocked.

Lang had never divulged his real reason for being in Yemen. His cover as a dealer in local antiquities had hidden his CIA affiliation. The same with Samir. They were dealer and assistant. And that had lasted for Lang’s entire time in the region. So where had it gone wrong? What had given Taj his connection? He admitted Samir, or even himself, might have made a slip. Enough for Taj to draw his own conclusions.

Lang and Samir had been trying to track down Hand of Allah and their training camp. Perhaps their covert investigations had been exposed. Perhaps through Jahir inadvertently. Now it seemed the roles had been reversed and Hand of Allah had tracked him.

Son of a bitch.

He considered his options.

There were no options.

No options at all.

He had to get clear. He was one man. With no backup. If Samir was dead there was nothing Lang could do. Not now. He needed to place himself on some safe ground, with the Agency behind him. Then they could put out feelers. Try to find out what had happened to Samir. If he was still alive, Hand of Allah would use him as leverage in some kind of propaganda exercise. The radical Muslim groups never wasted an opportunity. They would parade Samir in front of their cameras. Put on a show painting themselves as beleaguered freedom fighters and threatening to publicly execute Samir as a puppet of the Great Satan. The Islamic terrorists were nothing if not relentlessly predictable.

So Lang needed to get out of Yemen and take it from there, because Hand of Allah would want him for the same reasons they would want Samir.

To show him off. A CIA agent would be one hell of a prize exhibit.

He took a breath. He didn’t panic. It wasn’t in his makeup.

He made his way to the small, dusty office in back. There was an old iron safe where he kept his briefcase. The case held his passport and identity papers. There was also a substantial amount of U.S. dollars. He took the case and placed it on his desk. Next to it was his CIA-issue laptop, a powerful machine. Lang powered it up and logged on the local internet. He tapped in the code that would link him to Langley through a series of remote servers that fed into a satellite system. Once he had his connection, Lang downloaded the hard drive’s content to the CIA master databank. The data listed his latest reports and observations. When the download was complete Lang sent an email to his department chief, letting him know what had happened and requesting a retrieval operation. The email was answered within a couple of minutes. There was also a link to a CIA procedure that would, when initiated, strip out the laptop’s contents. It would wipe the hard drive and then enter a virus to virtually kill the machine. Lang hit the key and saw the program start to work.

He took out his phone, deleted all call logs and numbers. He opened the phone and took out the chip card, snapping it in two and crushing it under foot. He had a clean cell phone in his desk. He kept it charged, though he had never used it. It was single-use burn phone. Untraceable. Right now it was his connection to Langley if he tapped in the number carried in his head.

He wasn’t sure what made him pause, turning his head to pick up the noise from the yard at the rear of the warehouse.

Then it hit him.

There was no noise.

It had been the absence of sound that had drawn his attention.

Lang made his way through the shadowed warehouse and out the rickety rear door.

When Lang stepped outside, the utter silence struck him as odd. There should have been a labor crew noisily filling the rear yard.

But the yard was deserted. Only a faint misting of dust hung in the air, showing where the crew had hastily departed. To his right was the crude metal brazier where the crew hung their large tea kettles. Lang could smell the brewing tea. Saw the enamel mugs scattered across the dusty ground, spilled liquid soaking into the parched earth.

He slid his right hand under his jacket, reaching for his holstered pistol. It was then he heard a faint whisper of sound behind him and felt the undeniable pressure of a weapon’s muzzle grind against his spine.

“Not a wise thing to do, Mr. Lang.”

Lang took his hand away from his pistol. He held both hands away from his body, offering no resistance.

“I know you.”

“Yes. Ariq Taj, Mr. Lang. To be precise, Inspector Ariq Taj, Yemeni police.”

Taj moved around to face Lang. As he did another weapon was pressed against the American’s spine.

“What has happened to Samir?” Lang asked.

Taj shifted from one foot to the other, shrugging his skinny shoulders. He was overly thin, his clothes hanging loosely from his bony frame.

“He has joined all the other traitors who betray our cause,” he said.

“Son of a bitch,” Lang said. “You call him a traitor.”

Taj actually smirked, like a schoolboy in on a joke.

“Of course. He worked for you, Mr. Lang of the CIA.” He saw the recognition in the American’s eyes. “Oh, yes, we knew. Do you think we of Hand of Allah are just ignorant Muslims? That we know nothing?”

For a moment Lang forgot about the gun pressed to his spine. He lunged forward, toward Taj, but the man was faster. His right hand swept up from where it was partially hidden. He was holding a large stainless-steel .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. The weapon looked too large for his slim hand. He slammed the heavy pistol across the side of Lang’s face, flaying the cheek open to the bone. The blow was brutal, dropping Lang to his knees. Blood welled up from the deep gash, streaming down Lang’s cheek and dripping from his chin. With a soft, almost gleeful exclamation, Taj lashed out with his booted foot, crushing Lang’s nose and causing more blood to gush.

Taj turned and swept his arm to draw in more of his team, who had been waiting at the far side of the yard. They descended on the dazed American. Rough hands hauled his arms behind him and his wrists were lashed together with coarse rope. He was seized by the arms and dragged out of the yard to one of a pair of waiting SUVs. Lang was manhandled to the lead vehicle and flung inside. A black cloth hood was yanked down over Lang’s head.

One of Taj’s men held up Lang’s laptop. Taj nodded.

“I am sure he has wiped the memory. Bring it anyway. Anything else in the office?”

“His safe was open. It was empty. His briefcase has money and papers in it.”

“Then let us go. Lang wanted to find our camp. We will show him.”

The crew piled into the SUVs and they moved off.

A few minutes later the warehouse was demolished by an explosion. Flames engulfed the wrecked building, thick smoke rising above the surrounding rooftops.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lang had no idea how long they had been traveling. The foul-smelling hood over his head left him in total darkness. His injuries had caused him considerable pain, and in addition to those, his captors had punched and kicked him into near unconsciousness. He lay now on the floor of the SUV, aware of his predicament. Taj and his Islamic thugs were in full control. They could do what they wanted to him. Beat him senseless. Even kill him if they decided to.

Lying there, he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead they could have done it in the warehouse yard. Taj’s remark about him seeing the camp gave him some hope. Yet even that had a double ring to it. Taking him to the camp could simply end in him becoming one of those videotaped victims of torture. His head hacked off for the benefit of the Hand of Allah rank and file. Broadcast on some obscure Islamic TV channel for the world to see, while a ranting proclamation denounced him and the U.S.A. as an enemy of the peace-loving Muslim world. The other side of the coin had Lang as a simple pawn in the global game of one-upmanship. A challenge to the American administration as he was paraded around by gloating radicals.

Either way, Lang decided, he was well and truly screwed.

The inside of the SUV was musty with the sweat and body odors of his captors. He had ceased moving some time back, because each time he did move a hard boot would slam into his body, adding more pain. The Hand of Allah boys were enjoying themselves. What would he give for a GPS unit upload, so he could ask for an armed drone to unleash an HE missile on the SUV. He managed a smile at the thought of the white-hot blast that would reduce them all to minuscule fragments in a second.

The ride became rougher, the SUV leaving reasonably smooth terrain to start traveling across hard, uneven ground. Despite the vehicle’s excellent suspension the SUV rocked and bounced over some unforgiving surfaces.

Lang’s Arabic was reasonable and when his captors started a conversation he concentrated on what they were saying. The talk was about an upcoming mission that was being prepared. Chosen brothers were being trained to travel to America, where they would bring down Allah’s vengeance on the streets of the Great Satan. The infidel pigs would be slaughtered by the martyrs of Hand of Allah.

Lang heard references to the Prophet and Shaia Kerim. The two top guys in the group. Maybe he would get to meet them when he reached the camp. Ironic that after all the time he had been trying to get a lead on them it could happen now. Not that he was going to be able to do much about it. Unless he got his hands on a weapon and took them out in a blaze of glory.

Some time later, again after a long, uncomfortable stretch, Lang felt the SUV rolling across a softer, smooth surface. He felt it swing around and come to a stop. Doors were opened, fierce desert heat sweeping into the SUV. Lang was dragged out and thrown to the ground. He felt baking sand beneath him.

Around him was the babble of many voices. Arabic greetings were passed between the men. Lang lay still, not wanting to draw any unwarranted attention to himself. The heat was brutal. Sand filtered through the hood over his head and, despite being careful, he breathed the grit into his mouth and nose. The sand irritated his crushed nose and caused him more pain.

A voice in English silenced the others. The tone was hard. Commanding.

Lang was hoisted to his feet. The hood was dragged from his head. He screwed up his eyes against the savage glare of the sun. He felt unsteady and might have fallen if hands hadn’t kept him upright. Lang blinked away the tears and the world settled down and came back into focus.

“See what we have, brothers,” the English voice said. “See what, by his mercy, Allah has delivered into our hands. Here is our enemy. An infidel. But not just an ordinary infidel. This one is an American spy. An agent of the CIA. Look on him well, my brothers. This American pig kills for his masters. He seeks out the innocent and has them kidnapped and taken to hidden places where they are tortured and debased.”

A figure moved into Lang’s vision.

Tall, dark skinned, with a trimmed black beard, his thick hair well cut. He wore a white cotton shirt over loose combat pants, and his boots were of supple leather. This was a man who refused to give up his sartorial style even in the desert.

“Look around, Lang. This is what you have been searching for and never found. I have granted your wish. My name is Shaia Kerim. Welcome to the Hand of Allah camp. It is unfortunate for you that it will be a one-way visit. Understandably you may never leave alive.”

Lang stared around at the sprawl of tents. The pair of wood huts. A number of vehicles were parked on the site, and behind the tents he spotted a helicopter. The camp was home to at least a couple dozen men. Most of the ones not busy with chores had come to see their visitor. Every man was armed. Some wore traditional Muslim clothing. Others were in combat fatigues. Many wore kaffiyeh headdresses, while there were U.S.-style ball caps showing, too.

Lang detected an undercurrent of dissent among the men around him. It was pure hostility. As far as these men were concerned he was their mortal enemy. The representation of the Great Satan. Infidel scum in their obsessed thinking. Lang didn’t rate his chance of survival as being very high.

“Welcome our American guest,” Kerim said. “Show him how we respect him. But do not kill him yet.”

The mob closed in with a vengeance, screaming at him in shrill Arabic, using fists and feet to beat him. When he fell they dragged him upright. Two of them held him while others struck him. Blood spattered the attackers. Lang was awash with it. The blood soaked his clothing. One eye was already swollen shut. His mouth was puffy and torn.

“Enough,” Kerim shouted above the din. “Put him in the cage like the animal he is.”

The supporting hands were withdrawn. Lang collapsed, falling facedown in the sand. He struck the ground hard because his hands were still tethered. He lay motionless, numb against the pain that would hit him later. Nothing seemed real to him at that moment. He barely felt himself being dragged across the sand. He was not aware of being rolled inside the metal cage, the door slammed and locked.

* * *

KERIM SMILED. The episode had pleased his men. The CIA agent, the focus of their rage, would be a constant reminder of why they were here. He was the true enemy. Not just an American but an agent of the reviled secret agency that was dedicated to the killing of true Islamic warriors. He would play on that each time he spoke to his men. He would build on the anger already instilled in them so that when they were sent to America and unleashed, their fury would be that of a thousand devils.

“Tell me, Ibrahim,” he said, “how should we use this CIA murderer?”

Calvin James, who had been at Kerim’s side during the entire incident, considered his answer.

“We should benefit wisely. Be certain to gain the most we can from him. Use him to embarrass the American government. Seeing him captured and not being able to do anything to save him will leave them in an awkward position. Their opponents will use this against them, too. Washington will feel the backlash from all quarters.”

“Wisely said, my brother,” Kerim said. “I was right to choose you. Understanding the way the Americans think is half the battle. He smiled. “Like our CIA friend, I will use you wisely, as well, Ibrahim Hammid.”

James was glad his thoughts were not available to Kerim. The way he was feeling right then would have exposed his true hostility toward Hand of Allah and everyone associated with it. The way the terrorists had reacted filled James with revulsion, even though he knew this was the only way they could have reacted. Lang was a living example of what Kerim had been preaching to his men, so they had shown their contempt by savagely beating him while he was helpless to resist. The Phoenix Force commando was not so naive that he didn’t expect something like this to happen. Even so it was hard to take. Having to stand there and watch had been difficult. As James had decided earlier, this was not the time to act.

Not yet.

But it was coming.

He realized Kerim was speaking to him again.

“My brother, do you not hear me?”

James snapped out of his thought process.

“I hear you.”

“Is something wrong?” Kerim asked, staring at James.

“My thoughts were elsewhere, Kerim. I ask your forgiveness. I was still marveling at Allah’s gift of the American. Delivered into our hands at His choosing. May His blessing be upon us all.”

Kerim nodded. “Our day is coming.”

“Inshallah,” James said.

Kerim began to walk away. He stopped and turned around.

“Do this one thing for me, Ibrahim. Take charge of the American. Look to his injuries. Minister to him. Feed him. If we are to follow Allah’s intentions, then we need to keep this pig alive. Our brothers have had their thirst quenched for now. I will give the order that Lang is under your protection and he must not be harmed until I give the order. Allah is a compassionate God, so we must abide by his example.”

“But he stays in the cage,” James said. “He must not be allowed the opportunity to escape.”

“Again, wise thinking, my brother,” Kerim said. He handed James the key to the metal cage’s lock. “I trust you, brother. I know you will not disappoint me.”

James watched Kerim cross to his hut and vanish inside. He hefted the key in his hand.

Believe what you want, Kerim, he thought. In the end I am going to disappoint you big-time.

CHAPTER NINE

One of Kerim’s followers was the camp’s medic. Through Kerim the man was ordered to tend the beaten American. The terrorist did as he was told with a sullen attitude. He was of the opinion that Lang should be left to die, but his allegiance to Hand of Allah dictated he obey whatever Shaia Kerim instructed.

James unlocked the cage and Lang was brought outside and propped against the bars. The binding cord was removed from his wrists. He was still barely conscious and the beating had left him slightly concussed. In the time since the assault his face and body had begun to show the extent of the attack’s brutality. When the blood and sand was cleaned from his face James was able to see how badly bruised the man was. Great blue-and-yellow swellings distorted his cheeks and eyes. His flesh had split in a number of places. When the medic opened his shirt Lang’s body showed similar discoloration. The way he winced when his ribs were checked suggested some were either badly bruised or possibly cracked.

As he worked on Lang the medic carried on a mumbling litany of Arabic. James was unable to understand what the man was saying. The vicious tone in the man’s voice told James it was nothing pleasant.

His work completed, the medic gathered his kit and left James with Lang. James had brought food and water for the CIA man. He raised a flask and tried to give Lang a drink. Most of the water dribbled down Lang’s chin, but some slid down his throat. When James leaned back he saw that Lang’s eyes were open and staring at him.

“What’s this for?” Lang asked. “Strengthening me up for round two?”

“No. I want you ready for when we get out of here,” James replied.

“You want me to run so you can shoot me in the back? What is it with you bastards? Not enough guts to kill a man face to face?”

“I can’t answer for Kerim’s men. I’m not one of them. Name’s Roy Landis. Undercover while I try to dig out information on Hand of Allah.”

The CIA agent offered a cynical smile that looked all the more grotesque because of his swollen face.

“Sure. And I should take your word for that?”

“They see through my cover we’ll be sharing this cage.”

Lang’s gaze flickered over James’s shoulder, and James picked up the sound of someone coming up behind him. He saw a shadow on the sand to his right.

“Is he still alive, my brother?” James recognized Kerim’s voice.

“By Allah’s good grace the infidel has not died. Praise be to Allah the merciful.”

Kerim made a sound in his throat and strode by.

“So why is everyone speaking English?” Lang asked. He stared at James through his good eye. “Is this some kind of psychological trick to get me on your side?

“They’re all speaking English to get familiar with the language. There’s a series of strikes being planned by these guys on American soil. I need to find out about them.”

James maneuvered Lang back into the cage. He placed food and water next to the CIA agent.

“One of us is crazy,” Lang muttered. “I’m still trying to figure out whether you’re screwing with my head.”

James managed a quick grin through the bars as he locked the door of the cage.

“The rest of my team is waiting for a call to bring them boiling in here. You want to see crazy? Wait until that happens.”

“What agency are you with?”

“Not one you’ll find on any list,” James said. “But we get the job done. Lang, be patient. This might take time.”

“Well, you’ve given me plenty to think about. Not like I’m going to have much else to do.”

CHAPTER TEN

Stony Man Farm

“Is Hal back yet?” Kurtzman asked as Price approached his workstation.

The urgency in his voice alerted her. “Not yet,” the mission controller said. “What have we got?”

Wall-mounted plasma screens flashed up messages. Kurtzman used a pen-size laser pointer to highlight the sections he was interested in.

“These are from Langley,” he said, offering no apology for the fact his information was from CIA data streams. “Been coming and going over the past couple of hours. Something’s gone wrong. And the other bad news is it seems to have originated from Sana’a in Yemen. A message from there, then acknowledgment from home. Since then no further contact with the Yemen source.”

“Could you intercept the email from Yemen?” Price asked, feeling the question was irrelevant.

Akira Tokaido swiveled his chair around and fixed her with a rueful stare. “Say what?” Then he laughed. “No problem.”

He tapped his keyboard and the last email Henry Lang had sent flashed up on a secondary screen.

Price scanned the text. Something about cover broken and a need to get out of Sana’a. And a reference to someone called Samir being compromised.

“We ran a back trace to see if we could link up with the computer,” Tokaido said. “Couldn’t get a peep out of it. Server links are there but the terminal is gone. No connection. My guess would be whoever operated that computer has purged it.”

“Probably after downloading what was on it to Langley,” Kurtzman added.

“We’re searching for the most recent data dump,” Tokaido said. “May take awhile before we find out who sent it.”

“I can tell you that,” a familiar voice said.

It was Brognola. He had entered the room unheard while they were all focused on the wall screens.

“Hal?” Price said.

“The field agent in Sana’a was Henry Lang. Been there a couple of years. His front was as a dealer in regional antiquities. Local goods. Ran a genuine business and had extensive contacts in Yemen. The guy named Karam Samir was his partner. Part Yemeni. One of the assignments Lang was handling had to do with locating Hand of Allah. Week or so back he came up with a thin lead and went after it. From what we now know it looks like that lead turned around and bit him.” Brognola helped himself to coffee and perched on the edge of a desk. “That call I got was from the Man. I just spent an hour with him. He was updating me on the file he’d just had from Langley, informing him of the loss of a CIA team in Yemen. Sana’a in fact. He thought we ought to know because of the Stony Man operation in the area. Gives us a chance to let Phoenix Force know.”

“We picked up CIA scuttlebutt,” Kurtzman said. “Yemen field office. A guy called Samir compromised.”

“Local news source from Sana’a reported a killing that corresponds with the time of Lang’s email. Guy shot to pieces in some backstreet area. Identified him as Karam Samir. He was confirmed as Lang’s partner in the CIA file the President had.”

“We can send a text message to Phoenix Force. Let them know what’s going down,” Kurtzman said.

“Okay,” Brognola said. “Do that. And let them know a name cropped up in Lang’s last email. Behin Jahir. The informant who gave us the initial information on the Yemen situation. Jahir supplied information to Lang’s guy, Samir. He’s a local information source. Lang passed along Jahir’s location in Sana’a. There’s a warning about a local cop named Ariq Taj being involved. Looks like he’s involved with Hand of Allah. Tell Phoenix to stay sharp.”

“It’ll be a help,” Price said. “They need something to get a grasp on things out there.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to go in with practically nothing,” Brognola said. “Jahir could point the way for them to locate that camp and Cal.”

* * *

AARON KURTZMAN called a meeting in the war room. Brognola and Price joined him as Kurtzman brought up images on three of the plasma screens.

“These flashes started coming in around an hour ago. I had the team scour all our sources. Checking other agencies for background. Pulling in everything we could. Even news reports from the scene.”

Brognola and Price checked each screen as the images were played and replayed.

The scenes showed what looked like a massacre. Bodies lay strewed around the location. Some lay still while others moved, wounded but still living. There were bullet wounds in evidence, while other bodies showed evidence of what could only be grenade damage. Among the casualties were a number of children.

“This is what we have,” Kurtzman said. “Los Angeles. Lone shooter. Suddenly opens up in crowded area. It’s been confirmed the weapon was an AK-47. There was no warning. Guy fires indiscriminately into the crowd. Threw up to three fragmentation grenades. It all happened quickly. Open area with no cover. People panic. Shooter has no problem hitting targets. There was a police cruiser nearby with two officers. One gets caught by the blast from a grenade but the other gets his shotgun from the cruiser and takes down the shooter. Cop empties his full magazine into the guy. Cuts him to pieces.”

“Good for him,” Brognola murmured. “Casualties?”

Kurtzman sighed. “Thirteen dead. Close on twenty wounded. A number extremely severe so there could be more deaths yet. The media is having a field day over this.”

“What’s the feeling about the attack?” Barbara Price asked in a quiet voice. Her shock at the images being displayed was noticeable. “Was this some crazy loner, or was it part of a deliberate terrorist attack?”

“Jury is still out on that,” Kurtzman said. “We checked agency databases but no one has a valid opinion yet.”

“Any ID on the shooter?”

“We may have a break there. Just before I came down, Akira picked up on an image posted on the internet. Somebody took a cell phone photo of the dead shooter before the cops cleared the area. It was a pretty clear image. One of those fluke shots. We’re running it through every database we have. Domestic and foreign. We may get lucky.” Kurtzman paused. “Are we thinking this might have a link to the current mission?”

Brognola leaned his hands on the conference table. “We expected some kind of strike from Hand of Allah. No prior warning on exactly what it would be. The only tie-in is the fact that son of a bitch Jack Regan is involved. His business is weapons.” He glanced across at Kurtzman. “Aaron, make contact with Able Team. Update them on what’s happened. Let’s work on the assumption this incident has something to do with what Hand of Allah is planning. Hell, I know it’s supposition at this stage, but we have to stay with the ball.”

Kurtzman picked up one of the telephones and connected with the cyber unit.

“Aaron, give Able everything we have. Advise we might, only might, be looking at what Hand of Allah is planning. Okay, send it through.” Kurtzman put down the phone and swung his chair around to face the plasma screens. “Facial recognition made an ID of the shooter.”

A face flashed up on one of the screens. Full frontal and profile. A lean, dark-complexioned man in his early thirties. Thick black hair, his angry gaze fixed on the camera.

“Hussein Muran,” Kurtzman said. “Born in Pakistan. Spent time in Europe. Associated with a number of Islamic groups. Pretty vociferous in his condemnation of the West. He’s been on the move the past few years. Wanted by the French. Kicked out of the U.K. because of his extremist views. Mossad even have a file on him and the latest update on him suggests a link with Hand of Allah. At the moment that’s all it is. A suggestion.”

“Damn well better be more than a suggestion,” Brognola said.

“Suggestion or not,” Price said, ‘he still shows up on a U.S. street, spraying bullets into a crowd and throwing grenades around? It’s too convenient not to be connected.”

“I’d like to know the answer to that,” Brognola growled, letting his anger show in his tone.

“It seems he flew into LAX just over a week ago,” Kurtzman said, working the plasma screens. “That was his entry point. Came in on a false passport along with a party of tourists. It’s only just been tagged. He wasn’t on any watch lists because he hasn’t been here before. There was a glitch in the system so the foreign interest data wasn’t made a relevant issue. No one made a connection. Muran walked through customs and hasn’t been seen since. His image has only just been verified through the FBI running his picture through their database. His papers have him using a false name.”

“Jesus,” Brognola said, “I hope someone gets his, or her, ass kicked for this.” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table. “We have all these damn agencies and screening procedures and still let these bastards into the country. How many more times are these crazies going to slip into the U.S. before we shut the gates?”

“It’s going to take more than we have right now,” Kurtzman said. “Sheer volume of passengers in and out every day. Airport staff overworked. Bound to be slipups. A percentage of the wrong individuals are going to get through, Hal.”

Brognola sat down. He rubbed his face with his big hands.

“Can we at least confirm he’s with Hand of Allah?”

“Working on it,” Kurtzman said. “Hal, we’ve only been in the loop for a short time. Information is coming in slowly, and we have to get it secondhand.”

Brognola held up a hand. “I know, Aaron. Not your fault. Just keep me updated, huh?”

* * *

IN THE COMPUTER ROOM heads were bent over keyboards, fingers tapping, data flashing across the monitors. There was a palpable sense of urgency in the air. Each member of the team was aware of the situation. They understood how things could change in a short time and how the need for information became increasingly relevant with shifting scenarios.

Carmen Delahunt, ex-FBI, sat upright, a soft “yes” passing her lips. She gazed at her monitor, rereading the lines of data displayed there.

“DCRI,” she said out loud. “French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.”

The Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, founded in 2008, was responsible, among other things, for monitoring threats to France and had built a database of suspect individuals. Using one of Kurtzman’s programs, Delahunt had penetrated the DCRI. She had keyed in Hussein Muran’s name and had found his file and known associates.

The list threw up a number of other names, with brief biographies.

The one that stood out was Shaia Kerim. Now associated with Hand of Allah. When Delahunt read through the French-compiled list she saw that at least three other names were coupled with Hand of Allah.

And one of them was Hussein Muran.

Stony Man had its connection.

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