State Of Attack

Thirty seconds later he watched another woman approaching him, her hair in a French plait. She was wearing a fawn skirt and pearl-white blouse. He declined the offer of coffee and was led into a meeting room nearby. Judging by the acres of glass at the NHB, he reckoned it was the only room without windows. It was roughly thirty feet square, with bare walls and a tiled floor. He sat on a chrome-armed chair at the oblong pinewood table and waited. The woman, a six-foot redhead, with flawless skin, a twenty-thousand-dollar porcelain smile and an Ivy League assuredness, had said that someone would be along shortly.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened without a knock and a heavy-set man in his early sixties entered. He wore a dove-grey suit and shiny loafers. Dan Crane, the newly appointed director of the agency’s National Clandestine Service, although that was classified.

He sat at the table and immediately began to ride the chair. “You look better than the last time I saw you, Tom,” he said. “But saying that, you couldn’t have looked worse if you’d been trampled by a herd of goddamned wildebeest. Those jokers in the DS handed you a medal yet? Saving the Secretary of State’s ass singlehanded like that. I told ya, come work for me.”

“You put weight on?” Tom asked. He didn’t like Crane’s jibe about the Bureau of Diplomatic Security and his back was up. Crane had a habit of doing that.

“Nah. Lost a couple of pounds in point of fact.”

“What’s this all about?” Tom said.

“Your father was the victim of a truck bomb in Ankara.”

Tom felt nauseous, his brain finding it hard to digest what he’d been told. He clenched his jaw and grimaced.

“You wanna glass of water? Something stronger?” Crane said.

Tom fought hard to hide his shock; his pain, too. “Just tell me he’s okay and then give it to me frame by frame.”

Crane stopped riding the chair, eased forwards a fraction and pinched his forehead. “He survived the blast, but the last I heard, he’s in a bad way.”

“You don’t have anything up to date? I heard there were two American casualties.”

“No. Sorry, Tom. He was there on an official visit to find out how the sectarian violence is panning out, and whether there’s a threat of civil war. Face-to-face is always preferable,” Crane said. “They hit him in a square. The bomb was likely Semtex. The Americans were a couple on a world tour. Pensioners by all accounts. Goddamn bad luck.”

“That it?”

Crane nodded.

“If you’re holding out on me, I won’t take it kindly.”

“I’ll forgive you that one, Tom, cuz of your old man and I like ya. But you keep pulling my chain, I won’t take kindly to that, either,” Crane said, and he began to ride the chair again.

Tom nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Crane smiled, his lips closed. “Okay then. The Pentagon is sending a medical team. If he’s up to it, he’ll come home where he belongs. I’m sending four CIA paramilitaries to make sure there ain’t a replay. You’re free to go along, too.”

“Who was it?”

“We don’t know. Yet,” Crane replied. “But I promise you this, Tom, when we do they’ll either rot in solitary, or the earth.”

Chapter 18 (#ulink_22ebb181-5a11-5770-9b1f-db6a8cfdd466)

Ibrahim had been driven for three hundred and forty miles due south on state highway D715 to Bozyazi, a journey that had lasted just over seven and a half hours. Bozyazi was a remote Turkish town on the Mediterranean. The roads from either direction along the coast or over the Taurus Mountains, which formed a monolithic backdrop to the town, were too hazardous for sightseers, and that was good.

From there he’d been put aboard a fishing boat that had motored the forty-seven miles to an isolated bay in the Karpass Peninsula in northern Cyprus, which the Turks had styled the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus following the military invasion in 1974. Not one country had recognized it as legitimate, yet it still existed.

Ibrahim had left the fishing boat in the remote bay and, with his head and face covered by a white linen scarf, had been rowed ashore the last half a mile, where he’d been met by two Turkish Cypriots who dealt smack for the mafia to European tourists and residents on the island. He hadn’t liked having to rely on these types, but the Afghan Taliban had been growing and trading heroin for years to fund their jihad and it had been a necessary evil, he’d believed.

He’d stayed hidden in a beach shack for several hours before heading south-east via the Mediterranean Sea for a further sixty-two miles. He’d travelled in the hold aboard a small freighter, with a cargo of fruit bound for Lebanon. It was the most religiously diverse country in the Middle East, albeit due to ongoing sectarian violence, it was the most segregated, too.

The main religions, Ibrahim knew, were Muslim and Christian. In terms of percentages of population, there was an equal split between the Sunnis and Shias, closely followed by Maronite Christians. The Sunnis primarily occupied West Beirut, the north of the country and the southern coastal regions. Given his ultimate destination, the Gaza Strip in the Palestinian territories, the freighter had travelled down the coast to the ancient Phoenician city of Sidon, a major port about twenty-five miles south of Beirut.

Sidon was the third largest city in Lebanon. If a man wanted to stay hidden, Ibrahim had learned, he had two choices: go somewhere remote or somewhere teeming with humanity. But their network was growing after the death of bin Laden. Apart from Hamas and the Islamic State group, there was al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, Al-Shabaab in East Africa, a dozen more smaller affiliated organizations. Even the hawks in Washington, he’d been told, were admitting that al-Qaeda and militant jihad generally was on the rise.

After docking, he’d been met by a local Sunni fighter, who’d driven him in a rusted Mazda to Sidon’s walled medieval city. It was located on a promontory jutting out to the Mediterranean, a veritable maze made up of a plethora of narrow alleyways. After resting up in a first-storey room a hundred yards from the Sea Castle, and eating a meal of fresh fish, bread and citrus fruit, he’d linked up with a two further Islamists and had been hidden in the back of a truck beneath a pile of cardboard boxes and a filthy tarp.

He’d been driven to within six miles of the Rosh HaNikra Crossing between the small coastal city of Naqoura, Lebanon, and the northern Israeli kibbutz that bore the name of the international boundary. But he hadn’t been able to cross over there as the terminal was operated by the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon and Israeli Defence Force, the IDF, and forbade the passage of tourists or visitors. Instead he’d been led along a narrow goat track to the outskirts of the city.

The Gaza Strip was surrounded on two sides by Israel, and travelling in what Ibrahim considered to be the most anti-Muslim country on earth was just too dangerous. The routes into Gaza were either open or closed and the situation changed regularly, depending on whether or not Hamas and Israel were at war. Even entry by sea to Gaza was a hazardous lottery.

A land, air and sea blockade had been in force by Israel since 2007. This was in direct response to Hamas winning legislative elections there the year before and their victory against Fatah, the largest faction of the Palestine Liberation Organization, in the subsequent battle for the city. The Israelis had long memories and, despite the promises, things remained the same, especially after the intermittent kidnapping of Jewish settlers led to violent IDF incursions into the West Bank and the Gaza Strip.

Israel maintained the blockade on the basis of preventing rocket attacks and to curtail Hamas’s ability to obtain ordnance for skirmishes. Following international pressure the blockade had been lessened in 2010, with Israel allowing civilian goods into Gaza. But the damage had been done. The economy hadn’t recovered and unemployment was at forty per cent, with manufacturing decimated, and the restrictions on people entering and exiting the region continued unabated. The war that took place in the summer of 2014 had brought about such enmity between the two sides that a lasting solution appeared to be hopeless.

The naval blockade was secured by Israeli patrol boats that fired on Palestinian fishing vessels, which strayed beyond the designated three nautical miles’ demarcation line from the shore. Despite the Turkish Prime Minister threatening to use warships to protect aid reaching the Gaza Strip, the position remained fraught to say the least.

Still, Ibrahim knew that it was the only way in, apart from what was left of the tunnels that connected the Egyptian town of Rafah to the south with the Palestinian refugee camp of the same name. But the Palestinian border with Egypt, like that on the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, which together with Gaza made up the Palestinian territories, was heavily fortified, albeit lacking the West Bank’s high barrier. Besides he’d suffered from claustrophobia since childhood, and he knew many of the tunnels could be precarious, so it had been agreed that entry by sea was the only option.

The coast around Naqoura was rocky, the sea a tantalizing kaleidoscope of emerald, turquoise, silver and gold. The distance to the Gaza Strip was just over two hundred and twenty miles. After struggling into on a full-body wet suit, including a balaclava-type hood, both to keep the sun from his head and to add to his disguise, Ibrahim had been put aboard a sixty-foot luxury motor cruiser, with a gleaming white hull, the interior finished in pale oak and leather upholstery. The boat had been supplied by a Lebanese businessman who was sympathetic to the region-wide Sunni jihad.

Drinking a glass of fresh orange juice now, Ibrahim waited for the cruiser to head off and plough through the calm coastal waters of the Mediterranean at a rate of thirty knots. The plan was to cut the engines four nautical miles out from the shoreline of the Gaza Strip, and allow Ibrahim to swim to the demarcation line, whereupon he’d be picked up by a friendly Palestinian fishing boat out of Gaza City.

But a crew member came up to him as he was sitting cross-legged on the deck, feeling the salty sea spray on his face. Ibrahim thought the man looked about twenty, with sparse facial hair and bat-wing ears. He handed Ibrahim a secure satphone. Somewhat perturbed, he took the call. It was from a Turkish brother, who spoke fluent Arabic. It was bad news.

A flotilla of aid boats out of Bodrum, Turkey, was converging off the coast of the Gaza Strip. The Israeli Navy had sent all of its patrol boats in Squadron 915 out of Eilat, its southernmost city, together with Shayetet 13, an elite naval commando unit specializing in counterterrorism and boarding, and a couple of corvettes, to intervene.

As a result of this and what turned out to be empty threats by the Turkish Prime Minister, Ibrahim knew he could either wait until it was over, which could be a few days if there was a standoff, or go to Egypt. Due to the urgent need for his presence in Gaza City, the Turk stated that, if he was up for it, arrangements had been put in place for him enter the Gaza Strip via Egypt.

“Egypt it is then,” Ibrahim said.

The motor cruiser would not be wasted, he thought, and would be used to transport him out of eyeshot of the coast all the way to the northern Egyptian coast on the Mediterranean. But he shivered involuntarily, kidding himself that it was down to wind chill, even though the sun was high and white. Walking over to the sheltered cabin, he knew with a rising sense of unease, if not horror, that Egypt meant the tunnels.

Chapter 19 (#ulink_064cad5f-ed88-5cbc-b05a-49a37d4fc6a8)

It was midmorning in Lafayette, Louisiana, and the Somali had to be taken alive. Dan Crane had flown down aboard one of the CIA jets that were on standby 24/7 for just that purpose. The FBI had informed him that they had intel that pointed to the Somali having links with Al-Shabaab, the militant jihadists in the Horn of Africa, who carried out major terrorist attacks in neighbouring Kenya. Crane was there because they also had evidence that he’d travelled both to Syria and Iraq.

But more importantly the man had been sleeping with a CIA woman, a PA, who had been caught downloading a file on the agency’s investigations on Ibrahim, and, as soon as she’d been taken into FBI custody, she’d wept and admitted her treason. Crane thought of her as a rather pathetic and flawed individual, a minor player to be sure, but he was hoping for more from the Somali. He hadn’t been in the field for years, but due to the calibre of the suspect, he’d wanted to make sure there were no fuckups when he was taken, and no hitches after it.

The detached bungalow was set back about twenty-five yards from the residential street. It was surrounded by a rusted mesh fence bisected by a small, wrought-iron gate. The bungalow was wooden, painted olive green. There was a large porch, with a roof, supported by pillars built from cement and inlaid with large smooth stones.

The bungalow had been under surveillance via satellite imagery for three days and nights. Two seasoned counterterrorism agents had spent alternate twelve-hour shifts checking it out on a computer screen in DC, monitoring the comings and goings. A physical stakeout had been put in place as soon as the man’s identity had been confirmed.

The front yard was unkempt. A mass of yellowing grass, clovers, dandelions and wild azaleas, as well as bunches of purple thistles and all manner of weeds. A large Ford pickup truck was parked on the uneven driveway to the right-hand side of the building. There was no garage. The truck was painted metallic red, with customized dragons breathing fire along the doors. The twin exhaust pipes gleamed in the humid heat of the day. Faint, intermittent laughter could be heard from the front room.

Despite Crane’s status and skills, the law stated that the CIA didn’t have jurisdiction in the homeland, something that was frequently ignored, especially when national security was threatened. He crouched now beside an FBI SUV, just far enough away to be outside of the peripheral vision of anyone within the bungalow.

Both ends of the street had been cordoned off by the local PD, with squad cars, rolls of yellow tape stating POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, and half a dozen officers at either end. A black FBI SWAT truck was moving up the other side of the street to Crane, at about five miles an hour. It stopped and the helmeted, black-clad seven-man team disembarked, carrying bulletproof shields, pump shotguns and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns. They hunched down, and followed the line of the adjacent property’s low brick wall, which abutted the sidewalk.