Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup Page 18

  "Shbat street!" Mufid raised his hands defensively.

  Ethan nodded. "Good. I will bring you thirty thousand pounds when next we meet. Now get in the car and give me a ride."

  He settled into the passenger seat, not entirely sure he would live long enough to make good on his monetary promise.

  twenty-five

  Ethan had Mufid drop him off two blocks from Raqqa Museum and then jogged the rest of the way. He slowed down as he approached, wiping the perspiration from his face using his scarf.

  Some of the militants had begun to notice him. He could tell from the somber faces that they suspected his involvement. He had listened to the two-way radio while in the Yaris, but had caught no specific mention of his name in the chatter. The overall impression seemed to be that the incident in Clock Tower Square was the work of rebels or a competing jihadist group like Al Nusra. Then again, maybe he had simply missed his name. He'd deactivated the radio since leaving the car, after all, as he needed it off for his alibi.

  Ethan steeled himself during those last few moments of his approach. He had to be ready for anything.

  All the members of Wolf Company were looking at him. Their faces were wary, distrustful, even among those he considered his friends such as Harb and Ibrahim. Several in the group fingered the triggers of their AKs.

  Abdullah said something inaudible into his two-way radio as Ethan closed the distance.

  Suleman intercepted him. "Where were you?" The anger was obvious in his voice. "I waited, but you did not return!"

  "Just filming some social media propaganda," Ethan said, doing his best to act casual. "Like you all told me to do. Here." He reached toward his pocket.

  Several of the men raised their assault rifles outright.

  Ethan lifted his hands, palms out. "What's going on?"

  "Step back," Abdullah said.

  Ethan retreated a few paces. Then it dawned on him. "You think I have a suicide bomb? Why? Whatever for?"

  None of them answered.

  "You all know me," Ethan entreated. "I wouldn't bomb you. You are my brothers. I'm one of you." He pointed toward his pocket. "Can I? I just want to get my phone."

  Abdullah nodded.

  Ethan slowly reached into his pocket and extracted the Android. He loaded up the tire-changing video and extended his hand toward the closest man—Suleman.

  The militant hesitantly advanced, and snatched the phone. He watched the video, frowning, then showed it to Abdullah.

  "Where did this take place?" Abdullah said.

  "Shbat street." Situated on a direct path between the current checkpoint and where Ethan had abandoned Suleman earlier, Shbat was far enough away from Clock Tower Square that Ethan could easily deny culpability for the incident. "The motorist I helped owns a shop. He gave me his address, and told me to drop by if I ever needed anything. We can talk to him if you want."

  Abdullah's two-way radio chirped to life. "Is he the one?"

  "I am confirming his alibi," Abdullah said into the two-way radio. He checked Ethan's phone for any incriminating evidence, but there was only the one video. To Suleman, he said: "Go with Abu-Emad to this shop the motorist owns. Confirm his story."

  Suleman glowered at Ethan, then walked to a nearby pickup.

  Ethan was about to follow him when Abdullah raised a halting hand.

  "Wait," Abdullah said. "Your weapons."

  Ethan handed over the Dragunov. He had already ditched the Makarov and had no more grenades.

  "The knife, too," the emir said.

  Ethan gave him the Voron-3 knife and then he jumped into the passenger side of the Mitsubishi L200.

  "Why didn't you answer your two-way radio?" Suleman said during the drive.

  Ethan was waiting for that question. He slid the two-way radio from his belt and pretended to inspect it. He rotated the volume knob to the right, activating the radio.

  "Apparently I forgot to turn it on," Ethan told him.

  Suleman shook his head angrily. "Did you not find it strange that none of your brothers were speaking over the airwaves this morning?"

  "I honestly didn't notice," Ethan said. "I was too busy helping the shopkeeper."

  Suleman curled his lip in contempt. "You are always conveniently absent when there is an attack."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Ethan said.

  "First the assassination of a very important civilian, and now this."

  "What do you mean, this? What happened?"

  "There was an incident. In Clock Tower Square. A woman escaped with a man. Many of our brothers died."

  Ethan shook his head. "I swear on the Quran I was not involved."

  Suleman compressed his jaw. Ethan could almost see the man's internal turmoil as he struggled to believe him. On the one hand, no devout Muslim would ever make such an oath unless it were true. On the other, an infidel would readily say something to that effect without fear of consequences.

  Finally Suleman sighed, and Ethan guessed he had decided to believe him. For the moment.

  A few moments later the Mitsubishi parked in front of the lingerie store. Ethan dearly hoped Mufid and Abdo had smuggled Alzena out by then. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to come there...

  He approached the door with Suleman. The sign in the window read "closed."

  Ethan shrugged. "Guess he took a break."

  Suleman tried the handle anyway. Locked. "We will wait. And if he does not return, you have no alibi and will sleep in jail tonight."

  A bright red Toyota Yaris abruptly pulled up behind the Mitsubishi pickup.

  "There he is." Ethan wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or worried at Mufid's arrival. He was risking both their lives by bringing Suleman there. If the shopkeeper made any mistakes...

  But Mufid corroborated the story perfectly, claiming Ethan had helped him on Shbat street, as instructed.

  Suleman walked to the rear hatch of the Yaris. "Open it."

  Mufid gave him a confused look. "Why?"

  "Do it!" Suleman's fingers twitched toward the Dragunov that dangled from his shoulder.

  Mufid went to the hatch.

  So Ethan's alibi was about to fail after all. When Suleman searched the cargo area he would discover that Ethan had not replaced the tire with the spare.

  Ethan reviewed several jujitsu moves in his head, and selected the one he thought would best incapacitate the militant.

  Mufid opened the hatchback.

  Ethan was about to attack, but he held back because apparently Suleman wasn't familiar with the design of the Yaris.

  "You didn't keep the old tire?" the militant asked, rummaging through the gym bag in the cargo space, seemingly unaware that the spare tire was hidden underneath the rear deck board. The handle was concealed from view by a dirty rag.

  "No," Mufid answered quickly. "I threw it out. Completely blown. Useless."

  Suleman gave Ethan one last skeptical look, then shook his head, turning away.

  Ethan frantically tilted his eyes toward the vehicle while Suleman wasn't watching, indicating that Mufid should shut the rear hatch as soon as possible. The shopkeeper readily complied.

  Suleman clicked the send button on his two-way radio and hesitated. Finally: "His alibi is sound."

  * * *

  When Suleman drove Ethan back to the checkpoint, Abdullah returned his smartphone and weapons. "Never run off like that before your duty shift again."

  "I won't," Ethan promised.

  That afternoon the occupying army of Raqqa was mobilized, and the mujahadeen, Ethan's unit included, carried out a series of raids and arrests in the suburbs beside Clock Tower Square.

  The army cordoned off the area where the fugitives were last seen on foot. The militants formed a series of roadblocks on all sides: it was assumed that someone in the neighborhood was harboring the criminals, and no vehicle or pedestrian traffic was to be allowed through in either direction, not even trucks containing produce and other foodstuffs, until the fugitives wer
e given up. The water and electricity to the area were unceremoniously shut off.

  It was the wrong neighborhood, of course, well away from where he had actually secreted Alzena. Apparently no one had discovered the stolen Hyundai Elantra, or interviewed the driver. Still, the roadblocks were a harsh reminder for Ethan that any operation he undertook, no matter how insignificant, could have serious repercussions. Operationally, he had done nothing wrong—by saving Alzena he had followed Sam's instructions to detect, deceive, disrupt, delay, and destroy—he just hoped the citizens didn't suffer overmuch for what he had done.

  Unfortunately, the roadblocks lasted five days and only ended when the overall emir of Raqqa, Abu Lukman, issued a statement blaming the Al Qaeda-affiliated Al Nusra Front for the "regrettable occurrence in Clock Tower Square." A Syrian citizen, probably chosen at random, was executed for the crime.

  * * *

  A few days later Ethan found himself aboard one of those familiar Islamic State buses with the words Dawlah Islamiyah al Iraq wa Shaam inscribed on the side. The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.

  Yes, you want to be a state so badly, Ethan thought. You can write it on your buses. You can put it on your compounds. But all you really are is a loosely connected group of decentralized command and control hubs manned by zealous, murdering goons who call themselves emirs.

  His unit was headed to Kobane to reinforce the fighting there. Abdullah promised it would be an easy victory. They'd go in, slaughter the Kurds, and return in a few weeks. Somehow Ethan doubted the deployment would prove so simple. But he didn't mind really. He felt he'd overstayed his tenure in Raqqa. Also, it would be good to see William and Aaron again. Assuming the operatives were still in Kobane. And alive.

  The bus wasn't part of a convoy—the militants didn't dare travel in motorcades, not with Western drones potentially patrolling the skies. There were no women aboard, either. The wives and children of Wolf Company remained in Raqqa, waiting for their husbands and fathers to someday return. Making them stay behind probably served as a form of insurance, guaranteeing that none of the married fighters would ever defect or desert. That was the theory, anyway.

  Beyond the window, the low-slung buildings of Raqqa receded on his left. He had so many bittersweet memories of the place. It was a city of repression, and yet the people were resilient; he knew they would bounce back once the Islamic State was expelled. He only hoped that whoever replaced the militants proved a little more moderate.

  He wondered if Alzena had gotten out safely. He hadn't heard anything from her since that fateful day. He'd left messages in the accounts he shared with her and Mufid, but no reply had come from either of them. He hadn't had a chance to visit Mufid in person: when the neighborhood siege was lifted, Ethan's checkpoint duty hadn't brought him close enough to the lingerie shop during the day, and it was always closed at night. He still owed the man thirty thousand pounds, but Ethan supposed the IOUs he had written him were more than enough already.

  He had to assume Alzena got out. He wouldn't allow himself to consider any other possibility. Ethan had done what he could for her; she was a strong woman and could take care of herself.

  She'd have to.

  Because she, like him, was all alone now.

  The city faded from view, replaced by the dead, empty plain.

  twenty-six

  Four hours later, villages composed of boxy, one or two-story concrete homes began to encroach upon the road, like gray Lego blocks put together by the mad child of some giant. All of the buildings appeared deserted.

  Ethan noted that there were fires burning on the rooftops of several houses in each village, sending plumes of smoke skyward. He wasn't sure if those fires were an aftereffect of the invasion, or set purposefully in the hopes of hiding the villages or supply lines. The thermal imaging cameras on drones and other surveillance aircraft could readily penetrate the smoke, though it did make it difficult for laser-guided ordnance to maintain a lock. GPS-guided payloads still worked fine, but that wasn't good enough for moving targets.

  The small towns appeared with increasing frequency the further north the bus traveled, until the low-slung buildings flanked them at all times. The bus driver abruptly took a detour and Ethan began to see signs of activity. Soviet Ural-4320 6x6 military trucks. Weary fighters. Blast damaged buildings.

  The bus parked beside a ramshackle gas station. Mujahadeen darted forward and opened the baggage hold to retrieve the munitions and food supplies the vehicle had transported from Raqqa. Someone dropped a cage and live chickens flew out, whooping madly.

  "Good luck, brothers," the bus driver said, opening the doors. "I will see you all again in paradise." He gave them the fist with the raised index-finger salute.

  Ethan and the others unloaded; Abdullah spoke quietly into his two-way radio and a moment later a man joined them. He looked the typical mujahid: curly Abe Lincoln beard, camouflage baseball cap, green fatigues, AK-47 slung over one shoulder. He carried a clipboard in one hand.

  He and Abdullah shook hands and kissed each other on the cheeks, then Curly Beard led the unit deeper into the village. The militant conferred quietly with Abdullah the whole time.

  Black standards hung from the walls of some buildings, proudly proclaiming the Shahada. Some houses displayed additional flags, these containing emblems chosen by the units assigned there. Skulls, scimitars and AKs seemed the most prevalent.

  As in the outlying villages, there were large conflagrations on several rooftops, sheathing the sky in smoke; Ethan passed close to a few of them and realized tires fed the flames. The heat raised the already sweltering temperature by several degrees.

  The distant echo of gunfire and mortars occasionally floated on the air; it was like listening to Fourth of July firecrackers from the suburbs. Located somewhere outside Kobane, the village was obviously the equivalent of a forward operating base, though Ethan refused to label it a FOB in his head. The Islamic State didn't deserve that honor—they lacked the proper organization and foresight required to build a proper FOB. This was just a bunch of militants crammed helter-skelter into a backwater town.

  Weary-looking mujahadeen moved past with downcast eyes. Some walked with obvious limps. Others sat in doorways or on rooftops, cleaning rifles, reading Qurans, or texting. There weren't all that many—Ethan suspected most were fighting in the city proper.

  Out of curiosity, Ethan checked his own cellphone, wondering if coverage from TurkCell penetrated into the border region. Nope.

  But a glance at FireChat told him the offline mesh network brimmed with activity. Mostly the usual inane chatter regarding the intricacies of the Quran and its applicability to sharia, but there were also a few heated discussions regarding what should be done with civilians captured in Kobane. The participants seemed limited to the village, which made sense—the mujahadeen wouldn't string themselves out between here and Kobane just to form Bluetooth repeaters for their cellphones. Those situated on the front lines were probably having very different FireChat arguments, if they were even using the app, or their smartphones, at all.

  A decrepit Soviet-era T-55 ambled past. Ethan was a little relieved to see the tank—he was worried the militants might have Abrams and Bradleys, given all the other US military equipment purloined from Iraq. Taking US-made weapons and gear was one thing, but stealing our Abrams and Bradleys, too? Well that would've been sacrilege.

  Curly Beard halted beside a house, scribbled something on his clipboard, and turned to address the unit.

  "Mecca is there," Curly Beard said significantly, pointing to the northeast. "Understood?"

  The men nodded solemnly. Curly Beard seemed satisfied with the gravity of their response; he shook Abdullah's hand one last time and left.

  The house proved unoccupied, though it was strewn with all manners of personal belongings left behind in the rush by the former occupants to flee. Clothes, photos, newspaper clippings, magazines, furniture. Abandoned memories and lost hopes.

  Ethan paused
beside a portrait on a desk—a young woman wearing a hijab. Oddly, she reminded him of Alzena.

  Suleman rudely knocked over the picture so that it lay facedown on the table; he seemed pissed off that he had been forced to look at a strange woman's face.

  Ethan moved deeper into the house and chose an inconspicuous, out of the way spot for himself in a hall outside one of the bedrooms.

  Shortly thereafter the call for prayer came over the two-way radio, sung by a dulcet-voiced muezzin plucked from the jihadist ranks. The call was sorrowful: it seemed almost as if the singer wept.

  Though the unit had passed a mosque on the way, Abdullah ordered everyone to pray in the house. Probably a good idea. Mosques were obvious targets for bombers.

  Twenty minutes later an announcement came over the two-way radio, indicating that supper was ready for the units residing in "Section C" of the camp.

  Abullah sent Yasiri to retrieve the food, and the youth returned with a canvas bag stuffed full of rice and chopped chicken.

  After eating, Ethan returned to the area he'd picked out for himself and sat down. In the bedroom beside him, he saw Harb in one corner, actively engaged on his smartphone, likely using FireChat. That was probably the only place where the thirteen-year-old really felt he belonged. There he had no age, and as far as the other participants knew, he was a seasoned jihadi.

  Ethan thought of the smartphone serial numbers he had sent Sam. JSOC was likely operating with the rebels in the area—before he left, William had hinted that Doug was embedded with the Kurds. And if Doug had those serial numbers, he would know precisely where the mujahadeen of Wolf Company were, courtesy of his Stingray. Though if Sam had indeed passed the serial numbers along, it would have been with the caveat that important operatives were still embedded with the owners of said phones. Doug wouldn't send those coordinates to the bombers.

  At least, Ethan hoped he wouldn't. Wolf Company was probably out of range of the cellphone-intercepting Stingray anyway.

  He turned to the side, shielding his own smartphone with his body, and retrieved the USB stick from his backpack. He placed his Quran on the floor nearby, open to a random page for show, then extended the RF antenna on the USB and plugged it into his phone with the adapter. He launched the DIA's encrypted messaging app.