A Cold Day In Mosul (20 page)

It seemed to have the desired effect, because the mujahid retracted his fingers as if bitten by a cobra. "I do not think I wish to see her face after all. Enjoy your meal." The man retreated.

Ethan thanked Maaz mentally.

When the fighter returned to his own table, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder and said, just loud enough for Ethan to hear, "She looks like a donkey."

His fellow mujahadeen erupted in laughter. "I thought you liked donkeys, Abu Osama."

That's right, laugh it up,
Ethan thought. Into his mouthpiece: "Will, stand down."

"Well played," Kareef told Ethan underbreath. "Though it was your chaperon who did all the work, special operative. What would you have done if the fighter had seen your face?"

Ethan smiled wolfishly beneath the veil. "I have a Glock 26 strapped around my ankle. If he saw my face, the mujahid would be dead now. Along with his six friends." Ethan was careful to look straight ahead: he didn't want the watching militants to know he was still directly conversing with the scholar.

Kareef raised an eyebrow. "I see. So that's all a special operative is, then. A killer. And I thought you were clever."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Ethan said. "An American intelligence operative in the heart of IS-occupied Iraq, speaking to you in perfect Arabic, unnoticed. I'd say that makes me clever."

Kareef pursed his lips. "A clever killer. Is that why you want me to arrange a meeting with Al Taaraz? So you can murder him?"

"He's more valuable to us alive than dead. In fact, we have specific orders
not
to kill him."

"That's somewhat reassuring," Kareef said. "I couldn't in good conscience allow myself to be involved in the murder of any individual, no matter how evil he or she may be. My faith wouldn't allow it."

Ethan barely repressed a nod, again for the sake of the mujahadeen. "Your conscience will rest easy then."

"So you're going to capture him, once he meets with me?" Kareef asked.

"Afterward, yes."

"And what about the meeting?" Kareef said. "Will you be listening in, and sending me instructions? With that high tech American gear of yours?"

"Unfortunately no. We can't risk planting any bugs on your person. You'll be on your own during the meeting."

Kareef tapped his chin. "As I said earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted, it is dangerous. He could have me arrested or killed if things go poorly. I will need monetary compensation as well. Simple French citizenship and a ticket out of Iraq won't cut it anymore."

"I'm prepared to offer you up to twenty-five thousand US dollars," Ethan said.

"Make it a hundred thousand," Kareef countered. "And I'll begin making the arrangements tonight."

Ethan pretended to hesitate. "I don't know, that's a lot of money."

"Take it or leave it."

Ethan paused a moment longer. "You're a hard negotiator, Kareef. Done." In truth, Sam had given him leeway to negotiate up to five hundred thousand US dollars, and he was happy to accept the lower amount.

Kareef appeared pleased with himself. "I am the hardest negotiator in this town. I will need you to send me these terms in writing over email."

"Of course."

"Good." Kareef clasped his hands. He seemed to be repressing excitement. "I will check tomorrow at the Internet cafe, when the power comes back on at noon."

"Which neighborhood is this?" Maaz asked. "I haven't seen power anywhere."

Kareef told him the neighborhood. "The electricity doesn't always turn on, but the cafe owner has a generator, so it doesn't matter."

Ethan very slightly tilted his head toward Maaz. "Give him the memory stick."

Maaz produced the local-bought USB stick that Sam had prepared. He surreptitiously passed it across the table to Kareef.

"Before sending any emails, plug this into the USB port of any computers you use," Ethan said. "It will allow you to subvert any spyware the Islamic State or their supporters may have installed. There's a readme.txt file included that's fairly informative."

The readme also contained a particularly nasty piece of cyberespionage spyware known as Regin. It would spread to every machine on the local area network, allowing the NSA to monitor all incoming and outgoing traffic from the infected location.

"There's a Gmail account indicated in the readme that you're to use from now on," Ethan continued. "We'll exchange encrypted messages in the draft folder. Have you heard of The Mujahid's Security?"

"Yes. I've been using it to communicate with your boss."

"Good. You'll use it to encrypt and decrypt any correspondence. My boss' new public key is located in the root of the USB file system. Generate a new public key for yourself, and leave it as your first message in the draft folder."

"Complicated," Kareef said. 

"Clandestine operations usually are," Ethan said.

"One thing I've been wondering," Kareef said. "Why The Mujahid's Security? Doesn't the NSA have anything better than a knock-off program written by jihadis?"

"Plausible deniability," Ethan explained. "If the USB were ever confiscated from your person, which would you prefer the militants found? An encryption program written by the NSA, or The Mujahid's Security?"

"I see your point." Kareef pocketed the USB stick.

"How do you plan on initiating contact with the emir?" Ethan said.

"I will attend a certain radical mosque for evening prayers. I am known there. Other citizens can vouch for me. I will spread the word among Dawla supporters and any mujahadeen present that I have an offer for the emir. I will leave them my public email and the emir will contact me shortly, inshallah."

"All right," Ethan said. "Good luck, and thank you."

"No, thank
you
."

As Ethan left the restaurant with Maaz, William's voice came over the earbud.

"Sounded like things got a bit tense in there," William said.

Ethan laughed softly. "Tense
.
Understatement of the year, bro."

"Well you said it yourself," William returned. "Don't leave home without your Depends."

* * *

Sam, Ethan, and the other two operatives lurked in the shade of the partially rebuilt Adad Gate, one of the original entrances to the ancient city of Nineveh, which modern Mosul had engulfed. Before them lay the empty plain where the ruined city had once flourished. A flock of sheep grazed on the pasture. Beyond the animals, the broad, twenty-meter tall Kouyunjik "tell" could be seen, pocked by the holes of archaeological excavation.

Tells were mounds that formed over ruins as several generations of people rebuilt on the same spot. Since mud brick, the preferred building material of the ancient Assyrians—and many modern Iraqis—disintegrated relatively quickly, much of the mass associated with any given tell could be attributed to dissolved bricks. Archaeologists would have to chip away at the sandstone-like material in order to excavate any intact ruins.

All items of value in the Kouyunjik tell had long since been looted or transported to nearby museums—though the Islamic State had of course smashed any artifacts it could get its hands on. Luckily most of the local museums contained only replicas of the original artifacts.

Ethan returned his attention to the shade of the fort-like Adad Gate, where Othunan and two of his deputies were meeting with Sam. Other members of the resistance guarded the exterior of the concrete and mud brick structure, with some of the men providing overwatch from the upper levels. Ethan would have preferred to be up there on watch with them, but Sam wanted him with her.

She held her laptop open in front of her with one hand; a map of the city was displayed on screen. Three days earlier, Al Taaraz had finally contacted Kareef and agreed to listen to his proposal. The map indicated the location of their intended meeting place.

"A street corner?" Othunan said in disbelief.

Sam nodded. "That's right."

Othunan shook his head. "They obviously intend to grab him off the street and blindfold him, then take him to some reinforced location."

Sam nodded. "Which is why my team is going to follow him from a safe distance."

"And what do you want us to do?" Othunan said.

Sam explained the plan and the resistance's role in it. Othunan agreed, but only after negotiating for more arms and funding.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Othunan grinned toothily and said in broken English, "You have, how you say... twisted my arm." He saluted in a manner that was both mocking and self-satisfied, and then he left with his men.

Sam, William and Ethan lowered their niqabs, hiding their faces. All three of them were dressed as women, of course. Doug continued his role as male chaperon, with ID to match, though it was mostly for show, as the four of them had no intention of interacting with mujahadeen. Not when Doug's face was probably in the smartphone of every militant in Mosul.

They left the ancient plain behind, making their way through Mosul proper via the closely-packed alleys and side streets, circumventing the sole Islamic State checkpoint between them and their forward base. As they neared it, the four of them ran a surveillance detection route to ensure no one was following.

Ethan walked with Sam, behind Doug and William. Leaning close, he told her: "I'm still not sure how much I trust this Othunan."

"He's proven his worth so far," Sam said. "I have no reason not to trust him. Money is a powerful motivator."

"Maybe, but what about his men? Can we trust them all? How do we know there isn't an enemy mole in their midst?"

"We don't." Her voice sounded tight.

Ethan slid a hand under his veil and rubbed his eyes. "The Islamic State has planted moles throughout every other group in the region. Al Nusra. The Free Syrian Army. Hell, it's how they subverted the rebels in Aleppo; their moles pretended to join the rebel ranks, and after a few days they assassinated the leaders and claimed the territory for the Caliphate."

"What are you saying?" Amusement crept into her tone. "One of you is an Islamic State mole, and you're going to assassinate me?"

Ethan didn't smile. "No. Although it wouldn't exactly surprise me at this point."

Sam sighed beneath her veil. "You're right about the resistance, of course. We should assume moles have penetrated the cell at some level. Which is why I haven't told Othunan all my plans. He knows nothing of why I want Al Taaraz, for example."

"Good." Ethan realized something, and felt his face tighten. "You haven't told me all your plans either, have you?"

"It's called operational security." From her sly tone, he could almost imagine the mischievous grin she must have been wearing.

twenty-two

E
than sat beside William in the backseat of a parked Kia Rio. In the front passenger seat, Sam had her laptop open on her knees. A long wire running from the machine to the window terminated in a thick antenna, similar to the kind found on a SINCGARS or Satellite Phone. The MQ-1 Predator flying far overhead relayed a top-down version of the street to her laptop via that antenna. It was like a real-time version of Google maps, replete with moving vehicles and pedestrians.

The three operatives were dressed in niqabs, with headsets hidden beneath the veils. Maaz, who played their brother, perched behind the wheel. He had procured fresh IDs for himself and the others so that his last name would no longer be mistaken for that of a local pop star.

Doug, also dressed as a woman, resided in the passenger seat of a second Rio just behind them. His driver was another member of the resistance.

Ethan was glad for the warmth the abaya provided, as it was cold out there—the city had awakened to a light dusting of snow that morning, which had melted by the second call to prayer.

He stared at Kareef, who stood one block to the north on that busy street corner. Hawkers offered knock-off clothing and street food to the constant stream of pedestrians.

Ethan fidgeted nervously.

"How are we doing on time?" he said.

"Al Taaraz is five minutes overdue," Sam said, her voice echoing over the earpiece.

Another five minutes passed.

Ten.

"Looks like he's going to be a no-show," Sam said.

Just as the words left her mouth, a black Land Cruiser swerved out of the traffic and screeched to a halt beside Kareef.

Ethan and the others perked up.

Armed militants clad in balaclavas streamed from the vehicle. Four of them set up a perimeter around the SUV, while two more went straight to Kareef. He raised his arms as a fighter patted him down; another militant slid a metal wand down the front and back of his body. The higher ups in the Islamic State were paranoid—for good reason—and often gave their security men metal detectors such as these, which was why Sam hadn't dared bug Kareef. Any listening device or tracker would have meant the scholar's life. Indeed, Sam was so worried that she wouldn't even allow him to swallow the gastro-friendly version of the tracker.

Ethan had tried convincing Sam to let him tag the kidnapping vehicle with a tracker instead, but she had considered the necessary walk-by far too risky. Looking at the four fighters guarding the perimeter of the SUV, he realized she'd made the correct call.

The men forced Kareef into the vehicle and piled inside after him. One mujahid lingered outside, scanning the streets a moment longer; apparently satisfied that nobody watched, he too entered the vehicle and it sped off.

Maaz started the Rio.

"Hold," Sam told the driver. She followed the Land Cruiser on her laptop. Tense seconds ticked past.

"Now," she said. "Operation is hot people."

Maaz forced his way into the oncoming traffic and accelerated. There was no sign of the Land Rover up ahead. Sam would have to guide him.

"Left," Sam said.

Maaz took a left at the traffic light.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder and saw the backup Rio follow close behind.

"Another left at the second light," Sam said.