Violence of Action, page 31
A cylindrical shape moving in the shadowy gap between the TV panels.
The enemy sniper’s suppressor coming up . . .
A glint of light from inside the slot: the spotlight reflecting off the front lens off his opponent’s optical scope.
In a sniper dual, any number of variables in any number of combinations could tip the scales to determine the winner. Experience, distance, position, covering geometry, lighting, weapon characteristics, optics, spotting skills, the element of surprise . . . these things all mattered. But if there was one commodity Saw would trade for all others, it was time.
Time was the advantage he would never cede.
And right now, he had a one-second lead.
He squeezed the trigger and the Cross kicked into his shoulder. The 6.5 Creedmoor round sailed across the convention hall at nearly three thousand feet per second. He’d assumed the sniper was a right-handed shooter and placed the round just to the right of the glint off his opponent’s scope which would send the bullet through the shooter’s left eye.
“Lights on,” he ordered and dropped low behind the desk, taking his rifle down with him. He’d fired his last round and needed to swap magazines.
Kaaf flipped the same nine switches to turn the lights back on in the exhibition halls.
“Get down,” Saw barked, looking over at the maintenance technician who was standing behind his panel.
Kaaf dropped to hands and knees on the floor behind the light control console. “Did you get him?” Kaaf called.
“I think so,” Saw said. “But I need visual confirmation.”
“God, Three,” Riker chimed in. “Enemy sniper appears to be down but stay frosty. By my count, we still have one possible tango in play.”
“Check.”
Saw swapped magazines and cycled the bolt handle to eject the spent cartridge and chamber a new round. Then he brought the Cross back up and scanned the mini Jumbotron to validate Riker’s report. The primary indicator of victory was seeing the terrorist’s sniper rifle muzzle sticking out and unmoving at the bottom of the vertical slot between the display panels. His secondary confirmation was blood dripping from the near corner of the standing platform.
“Kaaf, I need you,” Saw said as he lowered his scan to sweep the crowd below for targets.
“I’m ready.”
“Keep an eye on the muzzle of that sniper rifle sticking out of the Jumbotron. Do you see it?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Watch that muzzle like a hawk. If the weapon moves, you tell me.”
“Okay, I understand. I got your back,” Kaaf said with commitment.
A smile curled the corners of Saw’s lips as he scanned left. The maintenance tech had turned out to be one hell of a wingman. It had been years since Saw had had a dedicated spotter, and truth be told, it was kind of nice.
A blood-chilling scream reverberated in the exhibition hall below. He pulled his eye off the scope and scanned in the sector where his ears had triangulated the cry. There he saw a man dressed in a catering uniform walking down the aisle in front of the anchor exhibitors—a pistol in each hand—shooting at a handful of fleeing civilians.
Saw leaned into the buttstock, placed his crosshairs on the murdering jihadi’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger.
“Tango number eight is down,” he reported with calm detachment.
By the numbers, it was over, but he would remain overwatch until Chunk secured him. Until that happened, he continued his scan. Just in case they were wrong . . .
CHAPTER 39
world trade exhibition and convention centre
sheikh zayed road, trade centre 2
dubai, united arab emirates
0915 local time
Qasim leaned his head against the giant British Aero logo that spanned the back wall of the booth, feeling dazed and sick to his stomach. Convincing security personnel that he was in shock would prove easy, as he realized he actually was in shock. The feel of the sticky, drying blood on the side of his face, along with other substances too horrifying to think about, brought on a wave of nausea and he vomited.
His stomach now empty, he stole a glance at the corpse on the floor beside him.
Merrell Thompson stared up at the ceiling with his one remaining eye. The entire right side of his head was missing from just above the brow. A cavernous hole gaped open to reveal the parts of his brain not spattered on the wall and Qasim’s face and inside his left ear. The smell of excrement hit him an instant later, undoubtedly from Thompson relieving himself of the previous night’s debauchery at the moment of death.
Qasim heaved again, but little came up except bile.
“Over here,” someone shouted in Arabic, and moments later uniformed men surrounded him, one carrying a large orange box that he set on the floor between Qasim and Thompson. The man stole a glance at Thompson and let out a raspy sigh. “This one is gone,” he reported.
“We have two dead back here,” one of the man’s colleagues shouted. “Both shot through the head.”
“Can you talk?” the man asked, turning his attention to Qasim.
“What?” Qasim said in English, magnifying the level of shock he felt. “What did you say?”
“I am a medic,” the man said in English. “Are you hurt?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Qasim said, looking down at his gore-stained clothes. He wiped his forearm across his face and looked at his shirtsleeve. “Is this my blood?” he asked, his voice quivering as tears spilled onto his cheeks. “Am I shot?”
He felt gloved hands running over his body, then pulling his shirt up to inspect his torso. The medic shined a light into his eyes and asked him to open his mouth, which he did. The man looked inside, though for what reason Qasim could scarcely imagine.
“You are not shot, sir. This is not your blood,” the medic said and pinned a green square of paper to Qasim’s shirt. “What is your name?”
“Qasim Nadar,” he said through a sob. “I need to call my wife.”
“Stay here. Security personnel will come to help you,” the medic said and rose.
He reached out and grabbed the medic’s arm. “You’re leaving me?” he said, with as much fear as he could muster.
“There are many wounded. I have to help others, sir. Someone will come and take you to a staging area. I’m sorry, just hang in there a few more minutes.”
And he was gone.
Qasim put his face into his hands and sobbed, for anyone else who might be watching or for the security cameras which were always recording.
Had the female sniper managed to escape after the carnage she wrought? How many of the high-value targets had been executed? He knew the knife-wielding killers who had been slashing their way through the crowds had been dispatched, and it suddenly occurred to him he could have been killed by one of those men. How could they possibly have known who he was? Hamza had not mentioned the indiscriminate killing. Every victim was supposed to be targeted, but it had not gone down like that. Had some of the martyrs gone rogue in the heat of the moment? Perhaps it was all by design. Or maybe after the shooting started it was impossible to control the chaos . . . yes, that was more likely the case.
“Qasim Nadar?” a male voice said above him.
Qasim looked up to see a stoutly built, bearded American, left hand on his hip and right hand behind his back, staring down at him. Beside him stood a second man, dressed in khaki cargo pants and an open-collar shirt, with his tattooed arms folded over his chest. He looked at the badge hanging from a lanyard around the shorter, well-dressed man’s neck, identifying him as Keith Black. Beneath, in smaller letters, the badge said, US Military—Central Command.
“Yes, I am Qasim Nadar. Are you here to help me? I need to call my wife in London. When she hears about this, she’ll be frantic.” He sobbed again and wiped an arm across his face, conscious of the importance of making his British accent as apparent as possible and minimizing any residual underlying accent from home. “Can someone get me a towel and some water please?”
He let the sob grow into genuine weeping.
“Are you injured?” the man ID’d as Mr. Black said, squatting beside him. His right hand came around and slipped a pistol into a holster inside the waistband under his shirt.
“No, I don’t think so. The medics put a green square on me. Does that mean I’m okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Nadar. You’ll be fine, I promise. We’re Americans working with a joint US-British counterterrorism task force here in Dubai. We’re going to take you to a secure location. Sometimes there’s a second wave in these types of attacks. Come with us, Mr. Nadar, and we’ll get you somewhere safe and then you can call your wife.”
“Okay,” Qasim said, struggling to his feet.
What the American said seemed reasonable. Surely the US and British governments had security personnel on-site to augment the British Aero security team and local police. It made sense. But there was something naggingly familiar about this man. Or perhaps Qasim was just being paranoid.
“Homeplate, we’ve found another on the list—a Mister Qasim Nadar. No other British Aero members at the booth to evacuate. Three KIA. Send Charlie team to identify the bodies. We’re headed to the secure location,” Black said. Qasim saw no radio on his belt or earpiece; the American must be using a microtransmitter of some sort.
Feeling Qasim’s eyes on him, Black turned and added, “I know this has been terrifying, but I promise you’re safe now.”
Qasim nodded and managed to choke out a thank-you.
But where were they taking him? He knew that British Intelligence was probably looking for him in the aftermath. As a native Afghan working at a key British defense contractor, he would be a person of interest for the Home Office . . . so why were the Americans running point? Maybe they would hand him over to the British at the secure location.
It’s all part of the plan, he reminded himself. Surviving the attack and getting rescued from the evil terrorists as a victim.
He suppressed a grin as they led him out of the exhibition hall and into a back hallway. A sterile silence replaced the chaotic din of the convention center. An unsettled feeling washed over him as they marched down the corridor with its bare cement floor and painted cinderblock walls. Stacked chairs and folding tables lined the wall on the right-hand side, but the hallway was otherwise completely vacant.
“Clear ahead,” Mr. Black—clearly in charge—ordered. The tattooed man hustled down the hall in front of them. “Two, fall in on us. We’re exiting the rear and will cross south of the Ibis hotel. We have Mr. Nadar. He’s uninjured and we’re escorting him to the secure location for evaluation and debrief.”
“Thank you so much,” Qasim said, regaining both his real and fictitious composure. “I know that Merrell Thompson . . .” He made a show of closing his eyes tightly. “That he didn’t make it. Is anyone else from British Aero . . . you know . . . dead?”
“We’re still sorting everything out, Mr. Nadar,” Black said as they pushed out the back doors. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
Once outside the expo, the Americans picked up the pace. A third American agent joined them, dressed similarly.
“Hey, boss,” the new man said, falling in on the other side of where the “boss” gripped Qasim’s arm.
“This is Mr. Nadar,” the boss said. “We think he’s okay, but we’re gonna get him to the secure location and check him out.”
“Cool,” the younger man said. “You’re in good hands, Mr. Nadar.”
“Thank you,” Qasim said, but felt a growing dread in his chest. Why would they commit three men to securing just him? There were hundreds of American and British citizens back at the convention center who needed attending to.
Something was wrong.
If this was the beginning of an inquiry into his possible involvement in the attack, then all he could do was play dumb and stick to the script, so showing apprehension at being whisked away by Americans would make no sense at all and would only increase their suspicion. If they knew nothing, then he would give them nothing. If they already knew he was working with al Qadar, then the game was up.
Inshallah . . .
“So much blood . . .” he said, tossing a choked sob in for good measure. “Thank you for getting me out of there. If I had to stay in there another minute—beside Merrell’s body . . .”
“We’re almost there, Mr. Nadar,” the boss said as they made to cross the normally busy Sheikh Zayed Road. A carnival of flashing lights at either end of the enormous roadblock surrounding the World Trade Centre complex announced that the local police and military response to the attack had finally arrived. After crossing, they turned north toward the opulent Conrad hotel.
“Copy that,” the boss said to someone Qasim couldn’t hear and then turned to him.
“We’re going to use the rear entrance where my team has a service elevator standing by to take you up to the secure suite. We’ll check you out and get you connected to your wife.”
“Okay,” he said, but his voice must have betrayed his doubts because the American made another thinly veiled attempt to reassure him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Nadar. We’re just trying to avoid the media and any photographs before we get you cleaned up, okay? With the way you look right now, the rear entrance is the only way to make that happen. We’re almost there.”
Qasim nodded, recognizing the merits of that argument, but he was now certain these heavily muscled men with sidearms were not mere Good Samaritans doing their best to help him phone home. He tried to swallow the growing lump in his throat, but it persisted as he came to realize that how he performed over the next few minutes would likely determine whether he ever saw Diba again.
CHAPTER 40
two-bedroom suite
twenty-fourth floor, conrad hotel
dubai, united arab emirates
0934 local time
When Chunk was at SEAL Team Four, the command master chief once told him that a good SEAL, especially an officer or NCO, was “sometimes mistaken but never in doubt.” Over the years, Chunk had tried to lead by that motto, and it had served him well. Making no decision was almost always worse than making a poor decision when operating in a highly kinetic environment. But leading Gold Squadron was already teaching him myriad exceptions to the rules that had served him well before. The Tier One world, with its darkly covert nature and need to remain covered at all times, brought a new level of complexity to operations that didn’t fit nice and neat into a black-and-white world.
Qasim Nadar, who was sitting in a chair while Trip cleaned blood and spatter off him with a hand towel, was the source of Chunk’s burgeoning doubt. With trembling hands and tear-laden cheeks, Nadar was not behaving like any terrorist Chunk had grabbed off the X before. Not that all terrorists followed a uniform script—some were aggressive and belligerent, while others begged for their lives. Some glared at him with murder in their eyes, while others were unable to make eye contact. But this man was behaving very much like every civilian hostage Chunk had ever rescued. His post-traumatic response looked and felt genuine, and so far, there’d been no red flags.
“Are you bringing other people here as well? What about the other British Aero survivors?” Qasim asked. “I . . . I need to know if everyone else is okay.”
Chunk looked at Watts, who was standing beside him, and saw her purse her lips.
She’s having doubts too.
She’d altered her appearance—donning eyeglasses, baggy clothes, and a ball cap—as well as hardened her demeanor before entering the room for the interview. Chunk knew she’d done it to reduce the chance of Nadar recognizing her from last night. The irony of the situation, however, was that her normal endearing and spooky nerd self was just as far removed from the sexy, French model she’d portrayed last night as this character. Also, he wasn’t sure if Nadar recognizing them was necessarily problematic. In Chunk’s mind there would be a logic behind being recognized. Bad guys and professionals watched their six and worried about being surveilled. Innocent everyday civilians did not. If Nadar recognized them it might be a tell.
A phone chirped.
Watts pulled out her encrypted sat phone and looked at the number. “It’s the Head Shed,” she said and handed it to Chunk.
“One,” he said and excused himself from the bedroom they were using as an interrogation suite, leaving the door cracked so he could still hear what was going on.
“Sitrep,” Bowman demanded, his voice all business. “Clearly, we didn’t stop the attack.”
“No, sir,” he said. “But our presence saved hundreds of lives, sir. Saw took out their sniper, but not before the sniper capped three executives in the British Aero booth. I’m glad we were able to contain it to just that booth before he could target others, but still. We were able to neutralize all the attackers in the crowd. They used grenades, but there were no suicide bombers or IEDs found on the premises. Watts and I think it was a targeted attack rather than something designed for mass casualties. It could have been much, much worse.”
“Check,” Bowman said simply. “Do you have the target?”
Chunk exhaled.
By target, Bowman meant Asadi Bijan, whose dead body he’d left lying in the promenade behind the DWTC exhibition hall. Was Asadi Bijan the real Hamza al-Saud? Maybe. Bijan’s involvement in the attack today was indisputable, but whether that proved he was the terrorist mastermind behind al Qadar was something Watts and the rest of the spooks would have to figure out. How Nadar factored into the equation was still a big fat question mark in Chunk’s mind.
“Bijan is dead—martyred himself when capture was imminent. Whether he’s the real al-Saud or not, we don’t know. We did bring in Qasim Nadar, however. He’s secure here and we’re just beginning to talk to him, but my gut tells me he’s no jihadist.”
The enemy sniper’s suppressor coming up . . .
A glint of light from inside the slot: the spotlight reflecting off the front lens off his opponent’s optical scope.
In a sniper dual, any number of variables in any number of combinations could tip the scales to determine the winner. Experience, distance, position, covering geometry, lighting, weapon characteristics, optics, spotting skills, the element of surprise . . . these things all mattered. But if there was one commodity Saw would trade for all others, it was time.
Time was the advantage he would never cede.
And right now, he had a one-second lead.
He squeezed the trigger and the Cross kicked into his shoulder. The 6.5 Creedmoor round sailed across the convention hall at nearly three thousand feet per second. He’d assumed the sniper was a right-handed shooter and placed the round just to the right of the glint off his opponent’s scope which would send the bullet through the shooter’s left eye.
“Lights on,” he ordered and dropped low behind the desk, taking his rifle down with him. He’d fired his last round and needed to swap magazines.
Kaaf flipped the same nine switches to turn the lights back on in the exhibition halls.
“Get down,” Saw barked, looking over at the maintenance technician who was standing behind his panel.
Kaaf dropped to hands and knees on the floor behind the light control console. “Did you get him?” Kaaf called.
“I think so,” Saw said. “But I need visual confirmation.”
“God, Three,” Riker chimed in. “Enemy sniper appears to be down but stay frosty. By my count, we still have one possible tango in play.”
“Check.”
Saw swapped magazines and cycled the bolt handle to eject the spent cartridge and chamber a new round. Then he brought the Cross back up and scanned the mini Jumbotron to validate Riker’s report. The primary indicator of victory was seeing the terrorist’s sniper rifle muzzle sticking out and unmoving at the bottom of the vertical slot between the display panels. His secondary confirmation was blood dripping from the near corner of the standing platform.
“Kaaf, I need you,” Saw said as he lowered his scan to sweep the crowd below for targets.
“I’m ready.”
“Keep an eye on the muzzle of that sniper rifle sticking out of the Jumbotron. Do you see it?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Watch that muzzle like a hawk. If the weapon moves, you tell me.”
“Okay, I understand. I got your back,” Kaaf said with commitment.
A smile curled the corners of Saw’s lips as he scanned left. The maintenance tech had turned out to be one hell of a wingman. It had been years since Saw had had a dedicated spotter, and truth be told, it was kind of nice.
A blood-chilling scream reverberated in the exhibition hall below. He pulled his eye off the scope and scanned in the sector where his ears had triangulated the cry. There he saw a man dressed in a catering uniform walking down the aisle in front of the anchor exhibitors—a pistol in each hand—shooting at a handful of fleeing civilians.
Saw leaned into the buttstock, placed his crosshairs on the murdering jihadi’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger.
“Tango number eight is down,” he reported with calm detachment.
By the numbers, it was over, but he would remain overwatch until Chunk secured him. Until that happened, he continued his scan. Just in case they were wrong . . .
CHAPTER 39
world trade exhibition and convention centre
sheikh zayed road, trade centre 2
dubai, united arab emirates
0915 local time
Qasim leaned his head against the giant British Aero logo that spanned the back wall of the booth, feeling dazed and sick to his stomach. Convincing security personnel that he was in shock would prove easy, as he realized he actually was in shock. The feel of the sticky, drying blood on the side of his face, along with other substances too horrifying to think about, brought on a wave of nausea and he vomited.
His stomach now empty, he stole a glance at the corpse on the floor beside him.
Merrell Thompson stared up at the ceiling with his one remaining eye. The entire right side of his head was missing from just above the brow. A cavernous hole gaped open to reveal the parts of his brain not spattered on the wall and Qasim’s face and inside his left ear. The smell of excrement hit him an instant later, undoubtedly from Thompson relieving himself of the previous night’s debauchery at the moment of death.
Qasim heaved again, but little came up except bile.
“Over here,” someone shouted in Arabic, and moments later uniformed men surrounded him, one carrying a large orange box that he set on the floor between Qasim and Thompson. The man stole a glance at Thompson and let out a raspy sigh. “This one is gone,” he reported.
“We have two dead back here,” one of the man’s colleagues shouted. “Both shot through the head.”
“Can you talk?” the man asked, turning his attention to Qasim.
“What?” Qasim said in English, magnifying the level of shock he felt. “What did you say?”
“I am a medic,” the man said in English. “Are you hurt?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Qasim said, looking down at his gore-stained clothes. He wiped his forearm across his face and looked at his shirtsleeve. “Is this my blood?” he asked, his voice quivering as tears spilled onto his cheeks. “Am I shot?”
He felt gloved hands running over his body, then pulling his shirt up to inspect his torso. The medic shined a light into his eyes and asked him to open his mouth, which he did. The man looked inside, though for what reason Qasim could scarcely imagine.
“You are not shot, sir. This is not your blood,” the medic said and pinned a green square of paper to Qasim’s shirt. “What is your name?”
“Qasim Nadar,” he said through a sob. “I need to call my wife.”
“Stay here. Security personnel will come to help you,” the medic said and rose.
He reached out and grabbed the medic’s arm. “You’re leaving me?” he said, with as much fear as he could muster.
“There are many wounded. I have to help others, sir. Someone will come and take you to a staging area. I’m sorry, just hang in there a few more minutes.”
And he was gone.
Qasim put his face into his hands and sobbed, for anyone else who might be watching or for the security cameras which were always recording.
Had the female sniper managed to escape after the carnage she wrought? How many of the high-value targets had been executed? He knew the knife-wielding killers who had been slashing their way through the crowds had been dispatched, and it suddenly occurred to him he could have been killed by one of those men. How could they possibly have known who he was? Hamza had not mentioned the indiscriminate killing. Every victim was supposed to be targeted, but it had not gone down like that. Had some of the martyrs gone rogue in the heat of the moment? Perhaps it was all by design. Or maybe after the shooting started it was impossible to control the chaos . . . yes, that was more likely the case.
“Qasim Nadar?” a male voice said above him.
Qasim looked up to see a stoutly built, bearded American, left hand on his hip and right hand behind his back, staring down at him. Beside him stood a second man, dressed in khaki cargo pants and an open-collar shirt, with his tattooed arms folded over his chest. He looked at the badge hanging from a lanyard around the shorter, well-dressed man’s neck, identifying him as Keith Black. Beneath, in smaller letters, the badge said, US Military—Central Command.
“Yes, I am Qasim Nadar. Are you here to help me? I need to call my wife in London. When she hears about this, she’ll be frantic.” He sobbed again and wiped an arm across his face, conscious of the importance of making his British accent as apparent as possible and minimizing any residual underlying accent from home. “Can someone get me a towel and some water please?”
He let the sob grow into genuine weeping.
“Are you injured?” the man ID’d as Mr. Black said, squatting beside him. His right hand came around and slipped a pistol into a holster inside the waistband under his shirt.
“No, I don’t think so. The medics put a green square on me. Does that mean I’m okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Nadar. You’ll be fine, I promise. We’re Americans working with a joint US-British counterterrorism task force here in Dubai. We’re going to take you to a secure location. Sometimes there’s a second wave in these types of attacks. Come with us, Mr. Nadar, and we’ll get you somewhere safe and then you can call your wife.”
“Okay,” Qasim said, struggling to his feet.
What the American said seemed reasonable. Surely the US and British governments had security personnel on-site to augment the British Aero security team and local police. It made sense. But there was something naggingly familiar about this man. Or perhaps Qasim was just being paranoid.
“Homeplate, we’ve found another on the list—a Mister Qasim Nadar. No other British Aero members at the booth to evacuate. Three KIA. Send Charlie team to identify the bodies. We’re headed to the secure location,” Black said. Qasim saw no radio on his belt or earpiece; the American must be using a microtransmitter of some sort.
Feeling Qasim’s eyes on him, Black turned and added, “I know this has been terrifying, but I promise you’re safe now.”
Qasim nodded and managed to choke out a thank-you.
But where were they taking him? He knew that British Intelligence was probably looking for him in the aftermath. As a native Afghan working at a key British defense contractor, he would be a person of interest for the Home Office . . . so why were the Americans running point? Maybe they would hand him over to the British at the secure location.
It’s all part of the plan, he reminded himself. Surviving the attack and getting rescued from the evil terrorists as a victim.
He suppressed a grin as they led him out of the exhibition hall and into a back hallway. A sterile silence replaced the chaotic din of the convention center. An unsettled feeling washed over him as they marched down the corridor with its bare cement floor and painted cinderblock walls. Stacked chairs and folding tables lined the wall on the right-hand side, but the hallway was otherwise completely vacant.
“Clear ahead,” Mr. Black—clearly in charge—ordered. The tattooed man hustled down the hall in front of them. “Two, fall in on us. We’re exiting the rear and will cross south of the Ibis hotel. We have Mr. Nadar. He’s uninjured and we’re escorting him to the secure location for evaluation and debrief.”
“Thank you so much,” Qasim said, regaining both his real and fictitious composure. “I know that Merrell Thompson . . .” He made a show of closing his eyes tightly. “That he didn’t make it. Is anyone else from British Aero . . . you know . . . dead?”
“We’re still sorting everything out, Mr. Nadar,” Black said as they pushed out the back doors. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
Once outside the expo, the Americans picked up the pace. A third American agent joined them, dressed similarly.
“Hey, boss,” the new man said, falling in on the other side of where the “boss” gripped Qasim’s arm.
“This is Mr. Nadar,” the boss said. “We think he’s okay, but we’re gonna get him to the secure location and check him out.”
“Cool,” the younger man said. “You’re in good hands, Mr. Nadar.”
“Thank you,” Qasim said, but felt a growing dread in his chest. Why would they commit three men to securing just him? There were hundreds of American and British citizens back at the convention center who needed attending to.
Something was wrong.
If this was the beginning of an inquiry into his possible involvement in the attack, then all he could do was play dumb and stick to the script, so showing apprehension at being whisked away by Americans would make no sense at all and would only increase their suspicion. If they knew nothing, then he would give them nothing. If they already knew he was working with al Qadar, then the game was up.
Inshallah . . .
“So much blood . . .” he said, tossing a choked sob in for good measure. “Thank you for getting me out of there. If I had to stay in there another minute—beside Merrell’s body . . .”
“We’re almost there, Mr. Nadar,” the boss said as they made to cross the normally busy Sheikh Zayed Road. A carnival of flashing lights at either end of the enormous roadblock surrounding the World Trade Centre complex announced that the local police and military response to the attack had finally arrived. After crossing, they turned north toward the opulent Conrad hotel.
“Copy that,” the boss said to someone Qasim couldn’t hear and then turned to him.
“We’re going to use the rear entrance where my team has a service elevator standing by to take you up to the secure suite. We’ll check you out and get you connected to your wife.”
“Okay,” he said, but his voice must have betrayed his doubts because the American made another thinly veiled attempt to reassure him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Nadar. We’re just trying to avoid the media and any photographs before we get you cleaned up, okay? With the way you look right now, the rear entrance is the only way to make that happen. We’re almost there.”
Qasim nodded, recognizing the merits of that argument, but he was now certain these heavily muscled men with sidearms were not mere Good Samaritans doing their best to help him phone home. He tried to swallow the growing lump in his throat, but it persisted as he came to realize that how he performed over the next few minutes would likely determine whether he ever saw Diba again.
CHAPTER 40
two-bedroom suite
twenty-fourth floor, conrad hotel
dubai, united arab emirates
0934 local time
When Chunk was at SEAL Team Four, the command master chief once told him that a good SEAL, especially an officer or NCO, was “sometimes mistaken but never in doubt.” Over the years, Chunk had tried to lead by that motto, and it had served him well. Making no decision was almost always worse than making a poor decision when operating in a highly kinetic environment. But leading Gold Squadron was already teaching him myriad exceptions to the rules that had served him well before. The Tier One world, with its darkly covert nature and need to remain covered at all times, brought a new level of complexity to operations that didn’t fit nice and neat into a black-and-white world.
Qasim Nadar, who was sitting in a chair while Trip cleaned blood and spatter off him with a hand towel, was the source of Chunk’s burgeoning doubt. With trembling hands and tear-laden cheeks, Nadar was not behaving like any terrorist Chunk had grabbed off the X before. Not that all terrorists followed a uniform script—some were aggressive and belligerent, while others begged for their lives. Some glared at him with murder in their eyes, while others were unable to make eye contact. But this man was behaving very much like every civilian hostage Chunk had ever rescued. His post-traumatic response looked and felt genuine, and so far, there’d been no red flags.
“Are you bringing other people here as well? What about the other British Aero survivors?” Qasim asked. “I . . . I need to know if everyone else is okay.”
Chunk looked at Watts, who was standing beside him, and saw her purse her lips.
She’s having doubts too.
She’d altered her appearance—donning eyeglasses, baggy clothes, and a ball cap—as well as hardened her demeanor before entering the room for the interview. Chunk knew she’d done it to reduce the chance of Nadar recognizing her from last night. The irony of the situation, however, was that her normal endearing and spooky nerd self was just as far removed from the sexy, French model she’d portrayed last night as this character. Also, he wasn’t sure if Nadar recognizing them was necessarily problematic. In Chunk’s mind there would be a logic behind being recognized. Bad guys and professionals watched their six and worried about being surveilled. Innocent everyday civilians did not. If Nadar recognized them it might be a tell.
A phone chirped.
Watts pulled out her encrypted sat phone and looked at the number. “It’s the Head Shed,” she said and handed it to Chunk.
“One,” he said and excused himself from the bedroom they were using as an interrogation suite, leaving the door cracked so he could still hear what was going on.
“Sitrep,” Bowman demanded, his voice all business. “Clearly, we didn’t stop the attack.”
“No, sir,” he said. “But our presence saved hundreds of lives, sir. Saw took out their sniper, but not before the sniper capped three executives in the British Aero booth. I’m glad we were able to contain it to just that booth before he could target others, but still. We were able to neutralize all the attackers in the crowd. They used grenades, but there were no suicide bombers or IEDs found on the premises. Watts and I think it was a targeted attack rather than something designed for mass casualties. It could have been much, much worse.”
“Check,” Bowman said simply. “Do you have the target?”
Chunk exhaled.
By target, Bowman meant Asadi Bijan, whose dead body he’d left lying in the promenade behind the DWTC exhibition hall. Was Asadi Bijan the real Hamza al-Saud? Maybe. Bijan’s involvement in the attack today was indisputable, but whether that proved he was the terrorist mastermind behind al Qadar was something Watts and the rest of the spooks would have to figure out. How Nadar factored into the equation was still a big fat question mark in Chunk’s mind.
“Bijan is dead—martyred himself when capture was imminent. Whether he’s the real al-Saud or not, we don’t know. We did bring in Qasim Nadar, however. He’s secure here and we’re just beginning to talk to him, but my gut tells me he’s no jihadist.”
