Murray turned to Bob Burgess, the secretary of defense. “Bob, Staff Sergeant Wayne was . . .”
Burgess spoke with sadness tinged with unmistakable anger as he turned to the President. “He was Delta, assigned to Charlie Squadron. They just got back from ops in Turkey and Syria eleven days ago.”
No one in the room had ever seen the President’s nostrils flare in anger like they did now. Ryan said, “And the killers?”
Murray answered. “The assassins were stopped on the highway twenty minutes after the first nine-one-one call described their vehicle. They were heading north, out of Fayetteville. Like they were going to Virginia, up to the D.C. area, but that’s just speculation. Their vehicle was rented in Baltimore, so it’s possible they were heading there. Both of the killers detonated suicide vests, killing two North Carolina State Highway Patrol troopers in the process, and injuring four more.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ryan said.
Now Murray turned back to the secretary of homeland security, Andrew Zilko. “Three incidents in the three states over twenty-six hours. How do we connect the dots? How do we know this was part of a coordinated ISIS operation?” He nodded to the monitor. “This was broadcast less than two hours ago on an ISIS Global Islamic Media Front website.” Murray took a chest-filling breath and then let it out. “I warn you in advance . . . this will be hard to watch.”
Again he tapped the remote operating the audiovisual equipment, and a video began playing on the monitor. The setup was familiar to all in the room. It was an Islamic State–produced video; a recruiting plea dressed up like news. But as ISIS PR devices went, this one wasn’t particularly slick, well scored, or cleverly edited. It appeared to be something of a rush job.
But there was no question about it. What it lacked in polish, it more than made up for in raw, authentic content.
There was some music at the beginning, a title card wholly in Arabic, then the footage, clearly taken from a medium-quality camera zoomed in to the point of distortion. Still, anyone watching would be able to identify a woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun wearing business attire. She walked down a short driveway as she dug through her purse. She opened a mailbox, and then the entire conference room recoiled in shock at the sight of her death. Some words were superimposed over the frozen image of the carnage in Arabic, English, and French. In English it said, BARBARA PINEDA. AMERICAN MILITARY INTELLIGENCE AGENT SUPPORTING THE BOMBING OPERATIONS AGAINST THE MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN OF THE CALIPHATE. NOT ANYMORE.
The image switched to a dimly lit Starbucks counter and a large group of individuals there. The video wasn’t well centered, so a circle had been superimposed on one man standing in the group off to the side as he stirred sugar into his coffee.
Suddenly the shouts of “Allahu Akbar,” and two figures armed with pistols opened fire, their faces shaded out electronically. The man indicated by the animated circle stood flat-footed, and a large black man tackled him to the ground and began pulling him out of the way, but the two of them were riddled with gunfire.
More men and women cowered in terror, and a white man dove over the counter and out of view.
The video froze over the bodies, and writing, again in French, Arabic, and English, said, AMERICAN ACTOR DANNY PHILLIPS. PORTRAYING IN A MOVIE THE INFIDEL NAVY SEAL TODD BRAXTON WHO KILLED HUNDREDS OF THE FAITHFUL. NOT ANYMORE.
The next video was of a little street at nighttime with small homes at the end of long driveways. An armed man fired a rifle out of the passenger side of an SUV; the camera was right behind his head, so it was impossible to see either his face or what he was shooting at.
The audio cut out for several seconds, then the scene cut to the moving image of a dead man in a pool of blood lying on his back in a tiny kitchen. A voice spoke over the music.
“Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.”
The English caption read, DELTA FORCE OFFICER MICHAEL WAYNE, MURDERER OF WOMEN AND CHILDREN OF THE CALIPHATE. NOT ANYMORE.
A man with a British accent spoke off screen as the video images showed stock photos of U.S. soldiers, tanks, aircraft carriers, the CIA, the Pentagon, and the White House. “America. You have been fighting us from afar. But now the war has lost its distance for you. Your soldiers and spies can die at home as easily as they can abroad.
“You think you are strong because you attack women and children in Iraq and Syria and North Africa. You wear your body armor, and your machine guns, and you surround yourself with the protection of your fellow killers. But back home you are weak, vulnerable.
“We know who you are, where you are. And now we are here, and we will come for you.
“War, total and complete. Everywhere. At all times. You are too afraid to confront us with numbers on the field of battle, so we will confront you with righteousness, wherever we can find you. And believe me, we do have the power to find you. Where you work, where you train, where you relax, where you play, where you sleep at night.
“We call on all other brave Muslim lions here in America, or those with the ability to travel to America. Now is the time. Now is the opportunity.
“The United States Army. The United States Navy. The United States Air Force. The United States Marine Corps. The FBI, the CIA, the Department of Homeland Security.” More stock photos, following along with the narrator.
“If you cannot find access to any of these forces, we call on you to attack state and local law enforcement. Your efforts, while seemingly small, will inspire others to join with you. If you are martyred, your martyrdom will be remembered. You will be at the vanguard of the war in America that we swear is soon to come.”
Again the images of the three dead. “The Prophet, peace be unto him, said our caliphate would reach Rome and Constantinople. This is true. But it will also reach Washington. New York. Los Angeles. This is only the beginning. Our soldiers are preparing more attacks against greater targets. Keep watching, and join the fight.”
A series of URLs appeared on the screen, and the screen went to black.
Dan Murray said, “Despite how they try to justify the killing on here, we feel certain Braxton was the intended victim. They screwed up but are glossing over it. Why would they let him live other than the fact they didn’t know he was there?”
Jay Canfield nodded. “ISIS is a death cult, and they killed someone. That’s good enough for them.”
Ryan asked, “How widely has this video been distributed?”
Mary Pat answered. “We saw it instantly, but twenty minutes ago I was told it’s been picked up by media all over the world. Suffice it to say that by the time we walk out of this meeting, this will be the biggest news in America, so there is no getting out in front of this.”
It was quiet for a moment, all eyes on the President. Finally Ryan said, “If ISIS has the home address of a Delta Force assaulter, then they could have anything.”
“Agreed,” answered Burgess. “Obviously the word will get out that Wayne was Army, at Fort Bragg. We can hide the fact he was a JSOC operator, maybe, but I’m not sure we want to get caught covering that up.”
Homeland Security Secretary Zilko said, “Killing America’s best paramilitary officers at the front door of their homes is a level of sophistication from ISIS that we did not think they had.”
Ryan shrugged. “Since we are flying blind on the assumption this is related to al-Matari and the ongoing multipronged intel leak of unknown proportions going on right now, I don’t think we can make any good judgments about how sophisticated ISIS is. Until someone in this room brings in actionable intel, either in the form of the ‘whats’ and the ‘hows’ of the military and intelligence compromise, or the ‘wheres’ in the case of Abu Musa al-Matari, we are going to sit here every damn morning and just talk about whoever has been murdered the day before.”
Bob Burgess said, “Mr. President, if ISIS is doing this, coming here with a few dozen operatives to kill our employe
es, I have to ask the question . . . Why? This isn’t a viable strategy. Nor is it tactically effective. No offense meant to Ms. Pineda, who I am told was doing a fine job, but there are thousands of other analysts of her rank and access or higher around the intelligence community. Why her? What makes ISIS think they can have any effect on the war in the Middle East by coming over here and targeting her, a single Delta sergeant, and a former SEAL? It doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
Mary Pat Foley spoke up now. “It’s for recruitment. They aren’t going to defeat us with mail bombs, but they might get enough copycats to be an important force multiplier.”
Ryan said, “I think Mary Pat is correct, but I think it’s possible something else is going on here.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “The Islamic State wants a massive overreaction from the U.S. A hundred thousand American troops in Iraq would be the single most effective way for them to grow as an organization. Sure, they’d lose Mosul, and maybe even territory in Syria, but they are losing that anyway, and they know it.”
Mary Pat said, “Are you suggesting al-Matari is over here trying to drum up your anger?”
Ryan said, “My anger, the military’s anger, the voting public’s anger. It’s a shrewd move if I’m correct. Think how many in Congress are getting phone calls right now from constituents saying how mad they are about this. How weak America looks. Think how many enemies this administration has in the press who will say ISIS is now beating our government in street battles in America.”
Mary Pat said, “If I thought for a second al-Matari’s operation was complete now after these three incidents, I’d frankly be thrilled. But I don’t. Not by a long shot.”
Ryan agreed. “He’s got twenty-five to fifty trained operatives, minus the two who were killed in North Carolina. They are here in America, and they are spread out from one coast to the other. They have guns and bombs and suicide vests that we know of, and they are targeting military and intelligence personnel.”
Ryan looked around the table. “This is just the beginning, and it will go on until we stop it.” He set his gaze on Dan Murray. “Dan, you and Andy are in charge of protecting the homeland. The enemy is inside the wire, so you are the front lines now.”
31
John Clark arrived at La Madeleine café on King Street in Old Town Alexandria a few minutes before eight a.m. The place served a full breakfast, and he looked at the menu longingly, but for now he just ordered two of the simplest coffees he could find on the menu and took them to a table in the front window.
A minute later a white-haired but healthy and energetic-looking man of around seventy arrived, wearing a white polo shirt and khakis. He smiled when he saw Clark, and marched over to his table with a hand extended.
“Good to see you, John!” he said with a firm handshake.
“Eddie Laird! It’s been a while. You’re looking good for a retiree.”
The men sat down across from each other. “You kidding? I’ve been out of the agency for a year and a half and my blood pressure is down to normal levels for the first time since college. Feel younger now than when I was fifty-five.”
Clark said, “They’ve still got you training at The Farm, right?”
“On a contract basis. It gets me out of the house, but just a couple days a week. That’s plenty for me, and frankly those hopeful young minds of mush don’t need to hear a grumpy old cynic like me every day.”
Clark laughed and said, “Can’t thank you enough for helping me out this morning.”
The white-haired man lifted one of the coffees and took a sip. “Glad to.”
Laird had been CIA ever since graduating from Yale; he’d first met Clark in Vietnam when they were both part of MACV-SOG, the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam—Studies and Observations Group, a black ops task force that Clark served in as a U.S. Navy SEAL. Laird had been a very young CIA case officer in the program, and while Clark didn’t get along with many of the Ivy Leaguers at the Agency as a rule back then, he saw quickly that Laird had a real appreciation of the work the SEALs did and, for a Yalie, he was just a regular Joe out there in a shitty situation doing his best.
The two men ran into each other frequently after Vietnam, which was no great surprise, because Clark joined the CIA himself. In Berlin, in Tokyo, in Moscow, and in Kiev, Laird and Clark worked together here and there, and Clark had only greater respect for the man as the years passed.
In the eighties Laird was in Lebanon, and he was one of only a few CIA officers to survive the bombing of the U.S. embassy. He became an expert on Afghanistan in the nineties by working for two years in-country with the Northern Alliance, so after 9/11 he was on the first CIA Russian helicopter into the nation, tasked with enlisting the support of the fracturing alliance and helping them move south as an American proxy force.
Laird had done a magnificent job in pushing Al-Qaeda out of the nation and rolling Taliban forces south and west, better than anyone’s wildest dreams, and he was soon rewarded with a senior position in the National Clandestine Service, where he managed case officers in the Near Eastern Division, including for then CIA Director Ed Foley.
After a decade at Langley he began working as a trainer at Camp Peary, home of the CIA training facility known as The Farm. By then he had grandchildren and wanted to shower them with the attention he’d never been able to give his own kids because of his life in the field. He tried to retire a handful of times, but his wealth of knowledge was so crucial to the young recruits that Ed Foley, and then his wife, Mary Pat, had always managed to convince Eddie to stay on. Even when he officially retired, he continued as a contract trainer.
Laird had been read in on The Campus since the early days, so he was happy to make the three-block walk up to King Street from his home this morning to help his old friend with some training.
Clark asked after Laird’s daughter, herself a CIA officer, and though Eddie couldn’t say much, he did say she was at Langley at the moment, and he was seeing plenty of her and his grandkids.
Laird in turn asked Clark about his family, which included Ding Chavez’s family, as Ding was married to Clark’s daughter Patsy.
“Everybody’s doing great,” Clark said. “Although I’ve got Ding working like a madman, since we’re short on personnel.”
Laird looked out the window at the sunny day. “Yeah, about that. On the phone you said you needed me for a few hours of role-playing to help you whip a couple of new trainees into shape. What did you have in mind?”
Clark said, “Just a basic surveillance evolution for my two new operatives. I’d like to send you out into the neighborhood here. Pick up a copy of the Post, to keep under your arm, and then I’ll call them. They are just up the street at the office now. I’ll give them your description, and have them try to acquire and tail you. For the first hour I just want you to take it easy on them. Do some window-shopping, maybe stop for another coffee, walk around. We’ll start slow, so make no attempts to ID them. After a while I’ll call you and ask you to begin an SDR. At that point I’d like you to do what you can within normal parameters to slip surveillance, but I’d also like you to actively try to figure out who is on your tail.”
“Got it. You want me to take this into the District or stick around here?”
“We’ll keep this exercise confined to Alexandria. There’s no way anybody on earth could tail a man with your experience unless I make the game table nice and small.”
Laird smiled. “Thanks, John, but my hair is so damn white now, a cosmonaut could ID me from space with his naked eye.”
John pointed at his own head of silver hair. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are a bunch of us around. You’ll fit right in. Anyway, I’ll see how long they can tail you, and then, when I call time on the exercise, I’ll see if you can describe the two people I have on the foot-follow. Sound good?”
“You kidding? I used to have to do this in Moscow in ten-deg
ree snowstorms. An eighty-degree morning walking around a few blocks from my house trying to ID a couple of eager young guns sounds like my idea of a good time.”
—
Across the street and half a block north on North Pitt Street, four men sat in a Nissan Pathfinder and watched the two white-haired men in the coffee shop through binoculars.
They’d remained silent for a few minutes, but now Badr, the man behind the wheel, asked the question they were all thinking. “Who is the other old guy?”
Next to him, Saleh answered. “It doesn’t matter. Laird is our target. That doesn’t change.”
In the backseat, Chakir lowered his binoculars. “Do we do it right now? Just drive by and fire into the window? They are sitting right there. It would be easy.”
Next to him, eighteen-year-old Mehdi, the second-youngest of all the operators from the Language School, nodded eagerly. “I’ll shoot both those motherfuckers right now.”
Saleh looked up and down the street. Pedestrian traffic was relatively heavy on the sidewalks already and the streets were active, if not crowded. Saleh knew what had happened to the two men in North Carolina the evening before from watching the news and seeing the new ISIS video just distributed. He didn’t know which cell they belonged to, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were mujahideen he’d met at the camp in El Salvador.
It was also clear to him they’d successfully taken out their target, and then had been caught by police during the getaway.
Saleh and the other three were operatives of the Detroit cell. They were right in the middle of Fairfax’s turf, but they didn’t know that. Al-Matari had known from the beginning that the D.C. area would be ground zero in targeting the types of prey he was looking for, so he’d always planned on sending various groups into the area.
These four men had arrived early this morning, but they missed Laird when he left his house at seven forty-five, a mistake by Badr, the driver. They’d been parked in a metered space on Duke Street within sight of Laird’s house on South Royal, but when a police car drove by slowly, Badr spooked and drove off. Saleh, in charge of this four-man sub-unit of the Detroit cell, had chastised his driver; they had been doing nothing wrong, they all spoke excellent English, and Saleh had a cover story ready. Still, they had to find another place to park with a line of sight on the Laird home, and by the time they’d gotten into position, Mehdi notice Laird walking on South Royal, halfway up to King Street.