Terror Trail

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.”