Imminent Threat: A Fast-Paced Espionage Thriller Page 2

  “Thirty,” a girl near the front offered.

  Akil stepped back behind the lectern and gripped it with both hands. “Let’s say that over the next ten years twenty separate groups will try to get a biological, chemical or radiological weapon into the country, and that each one of these groups will have a one percent chance of success in any given year that they try. That seem like a reasonable assertion?”

  A few students acknowledged the point.

  “If we do the math, and I’ll save you the trouble,” he said, smiling, “the chance that just one of these groups will succeed during the next ten years is about seventy percent.”

  The lecture hall erupted into a low rumble again.

  “But let’s alter the formula slightly,” he offered. “If we think that in this day and age of technological advancement and terrorist savvy, that each of these groups reasonably has a two percent chance of success, the probability of a single group unleashing a WMD rises dramatically.

  “How high? Mr. Sobel?”

  Akil watched the young man as he struggled to come up with an answer. “Ninety percent, Mr. Sobel. It rises to approximately ninety percent over ten years.”

  A collective gasp rose from the audience.

  Bingo!

  Akil stopped talking because his students were no longer listening. They’d broken into a frenzied debate amongst themselves as to whether or not the numbers could actually be true. It was precisely the reaction he’d hoped for. The extent of America’s vulnerability was a well guarded secret, but not for the terrorists. They knew the odds better than anyone. The threat was real. Hopefully the passion his students were exhibiting now would carry forward into the coming weeks of more academic-based study.

  Akil glanced at the clock on the wall to his right. It was half past nine. “Now that I’ve adequately alarmed you all,” he said, “next week we’ll begin studying the root causes behind this upsurge in extremism and touch on the socio-political history behind it. For now, you’re free to go.”

  And with that, Akil turned and left the stage, file folder in hand.

  4

  The man sitting at the back of the theatre watched as the professor darted out the stage-side exit. The door opened onto an interior hallway that eventually led outside. He knew this, not because he was a student at the university—he wasn’t—but because he had checked every entry and exit point hours earlier.

  Getting to his feet, buttoning his jacket, the man started to make his way down the aisle. He cut a clean path through the stream of students traveling in the opposite direction, taking his time, not wanting to follow too closely.

  He’d been sent to deliver a message, and it was a message best conveyed in private.

  5

  In New York City, Sayyid al-Rashid Ibn Muhammad sat in his rented apartment eating a late breakfast of pita bread, hummus, and labaneh drizzled with olive oil. He sat on a wool blanket spread out on the floor instead of using the table and chairs the apartment had come with. Eating like this reminded him of mornings spent with his father back home in the occupied territories.

  As he poured another cup of tea his laptop chimed to life on the nearby kitchen table. The soft harmonic tone signaled the arrival of the email he had been waiting for. Only one person had been given the address, so he already knew who the message was from. What he didn’t know, is what the message said.

  Getting up, Sayyid placed his dishes in the kitchen sink, then hurried over to the computer. He had bought the laptop online two and half weeks ago, then set it up himself. He’d made sure not to surf the internet or contact anyone—not yet—making only the necessary preparations. Then he’d waited patiently, knowing how important it was to stick to the plan and not be lulled into a false sense of security. The watchers had increased their numbers threefold. They were relentless. He had to be cautious.

  The subject line of the email was straightforward: Good News. He smiled, then wondered if he was being premature.

  Clicking on the subject line, the email popped open. It was blank, as expected. He downloaded the attachment the email had come with, prompting the computer to ask for an encryption key. Without the correct key—a sequenced combination of 16 numbers and letters—the contents of the attachment would remain locked, an impossible scramble of symbols with no discernable meaning.

  Kamal had followed his instructions well.

  Summoning the key from memory, Sayyid typed the numbers in to their respective boxes, each combination representing a surah from the Holy Qur’an. The light signifying hard drive activity pulsed green for a few seconds as the email was transformed into readable text. A moment later another window opened with the message inside.

  He read the text carefully, then exhaled. It was good news indeed. The council had agreed to let him carry out his attack without restriction, and with its full support. He would strike the first blow on Thanksgiving Day, less than forty-eight hours from now.

  “Insha’Allah,” he whispered to himself.

  God willing.

  6

  Akil exited the theater and headed cross-campus to the Leavey Center parking lot. Outside, a late November snow storm was gathering force and threatening to lay siege to the city. The bitterly cold winters along the east coast had taken a lot of getting used to and he still missed the warmth of the Mediterranean and the handful of cities he’d lived in and operated out of. The Mid-East had become a second home and it’s where he’d made a name for himself with the Agency. In fact, his last year overseas, in Lebanon, had been one of the most enjoyable and productive assignments of his career.

  News of the transfer had reached him in Khartoum just after Easter. He was to be stationed out of Beirut in early May with orders to recruit as many assets as possible. His family had fled Beirut when he was still a child and he had not been back since. The civil war that had torn the country apart was long over and the city had undergone an impressive renaissance. Arriving on the precipice of the summer months, he quickly reacquainted himself with the city, spending time in and around the cafes, always with his ear to the ground, getting to know its inhabitants. Its operators. And when he could find time, he traveled north to Tripoli to do the same.

  The ancient city had seduced him the first time he laid eyes on it, with its natural beauty and understated grace. Tara, unfortunately, had the same effect on him.

  Tara Markosi.

  No matter how hard he tried he could not purge her from his memory, even now. He had tried, more than once. He couldn’t think of Lebanon—or his current circumstances—without conjuring her image. He had engineered their first meeting to look like an accidental run-in, but it was she who had found him first, cornering him at a diplomatic reception. She asked him what he did for a living and he’d lied, the way he’d been trained. He told her he worked as a freelance journalist because that’s the cover he’d been given. The conversation, which went back and forth for nearly an hour, ended with a promise to meet for coffee the following day, and it wasn’t long before the two of them started seeing each other on a regular basis.

  She was a pleasure to talk to—charismatic, intelligent, her eyes warm and inviting. The affair was consummated a few weeks later on a hot and humid Saturday afternoon, the sound of a nearby market filtering in through the shuttered windows of his rented apartment. Soon they were spending their weekends together, taking refuge under the shade of Eucalyptus trees or wiling away their afternoons holed up inside the apartment. He had known she was trouble that first night—knew, even then, that he should walk away. Better yet, run. But she fascinated him. That was the problem.

  Eventually, he’d recruited her as one of his agents, which had always been the plan—the impetus for their relationship from the very beginning. In the end, he had broken the rules for her. Because of her. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that then and he knew it still. Would he have done it differently, he wondered, knowing what it had cost him?

  A powerful gust of wind broke Akil’s reveri
e and he pulled his coat tight around his neck and shoulders to keep out the wind. A moment later he felt his body tense ever so slightly. Years spent in the field had given him a highly tuned sixth sense, and something or someone had just set it off.

  Raising his head, Akil conducted a quick sweep of his surroundings, moving only his eyes from left to right. He spotted nothing unusual, but the uneasy feeling was still there. He reacted by not reacting.

  Thirty feet up the stone path he turned left and headed toward the new administration building. As he turned, he checked his peripheral and spotted a possible tail out of the corner of his eye. He had been trained to spot surveillance, avoid it too, but that was when he was still part of the Agency. As an associate professor he was no longer in the habit of running counter-surveillance.

  Not wanting to let his pursuer know he’d been spotted, Akil cut across the grass and approached the administration building at an oblique angle. Running the length of the building’s south wall was a massive slab of tempered glass. The architectural feature, which he’d admired on more than one occasion, acted like a giant mirror under the right conditions. Tonight, with snow already on the ground, those conditions were ideal. The glass allowed him to see nearly fifty yards over his shoulder without turning his head. The harsh angle at which he was skirting the building limited his scope of vision, but the move was necessary to prevent his tail from figuring out what he was up to.

  He managed to catch sight of his pursuer for a precious few seconds. More than enough time. The man carried himself like a trained professional, but had ventured too close. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, lean, tall, wired. Fair-haired. Akil didn’t know him, but he recognized the face, recalling it from the lecture. Back row, third chair in from the aisle. He’d figured him for another curious grad student, possibly someone on an athletic scholarship.

  Akil continued on as if he were unaware he was being followed. He was trying to figure out who would want to surveil him, but with no easy answer and no time to speculate, he put it out of his mind.

  It was time to seize control of the situation. Edging past another building, Akil spotted the entrance to the underground parking lot forty yards ahead and quickly slipped into the gap. Although out of sight, he forced himself to maintain a regular pace. His footprints were clearly visible in the snow, and if it appeared he had started to run, his pursuer would know he’d been detected.

  Instead, Akil walked as fast as he could without breaking stride. His heart pounding, he calculated seven or eight seconds until the man following him rounded the corner and regained line of sight.

  Three…four…five…

  On the count of six Akil reached the reinforced metal door that led down into the parking lot. He slipped inside, the smell of urine engulfing him. Was this guy running a passive surveillance operation, and if so, why? How many were there?

  Akil held the heavy metal door open just a crack, waiting for his tail to rush around the corner. As soon as he saw his pursuer, he let the door close and bounded down the concrete steps two at a time, hoping he’d be followed. His limbs vibrated with the sudden rush of adrenaline his body had dumped into his bloodstream. His fight or flight responses were at their peak now. Despite the danger, he felt loose. He knew he was out of shape and out of practice for this kind of thing, but he couldn’t help relishing the thrill of it. It was something that had been absent the past two years of his life and he missed it.

  Controlling his breathing the way he’d been taught, he opened the door to P2 and dug a pen out of his file folder. He gripped it tightly in one hand like an ice pick and looked around the parking garage. Square concrete pillars stretched off into the distance. The garage contained a handful of cars, but as far as he could see there was no one around.

  A floor above him he heard the exterior door being jarred open. On cue he let the door he was holding slam shut, then moved around the corner to his right. Standing in an empty parking stall, he placed his back against the cool concrete and let the file folder he was carrying drop to the floor.

  Listening to the man rush down the stairs, his feet hitting every step in a tippety-tap rhythm, Akil quickly slipped off his own shoes and waited.

  There was a brief moment of silence followed by the sound of metal on metal as the door to P2 opened. Akil resisted the urge to peek around the corner as he counted off the seconds.

  One-one-thousand…two-one-thousand…

  The telltale sound of rubber-soled shoes gripping the polished concrete was scarcely audible, but it was enough to tell him what he needed to know. The man was moving away from him.

  Akil edged forward—readying himself—then peered around the corner. He could see his pursuer, six, maybe seven feet in front of him. In his stocking feet, Akil lunged forward without making a sound. He locked his left arm around the man’s neck from behind, pulling back hard. Next he drove his fist into the man’s kidneys, delivering two rapid-fire blows, then shifted his weight and swung the man across his hip—using his body for leverage—bringing him down on the bare concrete with full force.

  The man landed on his back, the air trumpeting from his lungs. Without hesitation, Akil spun around and jammed his knee down on the man’s chest, holding the ballpoint pen to his throat.

  “Who are you and why are following me?”

  The young man struggled to catch his breath, but Akil kept his knee in place. An inch lower and with a little more force he could easily sever the sternum and kill him.

  “You have three seconds,” Akil said.

  “I’m with the Agency,” the young man stammered.

  The Agency?

  “You’re lying.”

  “Check for yourself.”

  Akil looked around quickly, half expecting more assailants. There was no one. He dug around in the man’s jacket for his wallet. Finding it, he looked inside. The guy was telling the truth. He was CIA.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Your name’s Akil Hassan, right?”

  Akil pressed his knee harder onto the man’s chest, feeling the rib cage compress. “Answer my question.”

  “Bill…Bill Graham sent me,” the man shot back, pain accenting his words.

  Akil instantly recognized the name. Bill Graham was Director of the CIA’s Clandestine Services and his old Chief of Station in Cairo.

  “Why’d he send you?” Akil asked, staring into the young man’s eyes.

  Before he could answer, the young man broke into a coughing fit.

  Akil eased his knee off the man’s chest so he could breathe. “Go on.”

  “He said he wants a word with you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He wants to meet tomorrow at The Blarney Stone. It’s—”

  “I know where it is,” Akil said. “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. Nine PM. He said it was important.”

  The young man was still struggling to get up as Akil retrieved his file folder and shoes. His car was one level down. As he opened the door to P2, the young man called after him. “What do I tell Bill?”

  “Tell him he’s lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  7

  Jalal Mahmoud stood shivering outside a Wal-Mart in Jersey City.

  Stomping his boots on the ground to generate body heat, he slipped his hand inside his ski jacket, resting it on the Qur’an he carried with him. He asked himself the question again: Am I ready to kill for God? It was not an unusual question to ask in his situation, though tonight there was a new urgency to it. For a long time, he had felt ready. But could he carry through with it? Could he actually do it?

  When he was seven, Jalal changed his name to Jordan—like the basketball player—in order to fit in with his friends at school. Back then he had been small and somewhat shy. The other kids had teased him and called him names. Bullied him. But they were the only friends he had, so he’d done what he could to fit in. That was then. Now he was proud to call himself by his Muslim name.

  He
wasn’t afraid anymore. He had new friends.

  Born and raised in Brooklyn, Jalal was the only son of Yemeni parents who had emigrated to America shortly after their marriage. They were loving parents, hardworking and determined to make a good life in their new country. His father, Aziz, drove a cab while his mother took care of the house. They sent him to public school along with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, and on weekends they took him to the local mosque to learn his faith. His parents were happy to be Americans, proud even, but they didn’t want their son to forsake his religion. His heritage.

  As Jalal grew into adolescence, he became more and more isolated from his classmates at school. They didn’t understand his religion, and he didn’t understand their contempt for its traditions. They taunted him, but he didn’t give in. He felt frustrated though, his religion demanding one thing and his friends another.

  Growing more despondent, Jalal was befriended by a local sheikh at the age of thirteen. The sheikh could see that the boy was vulnerable and he’d reassured him with kindness. He treated Jalal as a peer and not as a child. He took an interest in Jalal’s ideas and encouraged his adherence to the laws set out in the Qur’an and the Hadith. Because of this, the two had grown closer as friends. Eventually, the sheikh had taken it upon himself to personally instruct Jalal in the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad.

  More and more Jalal began spending his free time at the mosque. After school, he and the sheikh would sit and discuss questions of faith over tea in one of the mosque’s back rooms. In the company of the sheikh, Jalal slowly acquired the sense of belonging he had longed for. The new refuge was in stark contrast to the suspicion and scorn Jalal sometimes experienced as a Muslim on the streets of New York. The racial slurs. The not-so-subtle discrimination. The message he heard was loud and clear. He didn’t belong.

  As his hostility toward the United States grew, his sense of isolation was tempered only by his mounting faith in Allah and the kinship of his Muslim brothers. It wasn’t long before Jalal began defining himself not as an American-Muslim, but as a Muslim living in America. When Jalal’s parents saw their only son taking an interest in his faith, they encouraged him. They were happy to see him embracing his religious heritage. But they had no idea the extent to which their son had turned against their new home. Had they known, things might have been different.