Don Pendleton - Terror Trail

Over the long weeks he had selected his people. Each candidate had been quietly taken from America, some from London, a number from Paris. The thing they all had in common was their knowledge of big-city life. The ability to fit in and move around with ease. That was important. It would have been fatal to simply pluck some individual who lacked social graces because he came from a small town, a village in Afghanistan, the desert of Yemen or the banks of the Bahr al-Arab river in Sudan.

Kerim wanted his people to understand the pace and the attitude of city dwellers. He needed people who could walk and talk on the streets of New York or Washington, D.C. Casually traverse Boston or Chicago, dressed in similar clothing as the masses around them. They had to be able to walk into a Starbucks and order coffee. To sit at a table and look and act as though they were part of the surroundings. That demanded a degree of confidence, of familiarity. And that was why Kerim selected his team with care.

At the training camp the selected ones would be put through an extensive course designed to plant within them knowledge of how they must present themselves in America. There would be a waiting period while every member of the team was established. That was an important part of the mission. Making certain each team member was settled and unobtrusive. Providing each individual with identification and money to sustain them during their waiting period was another obstacle Kerim had to oversee. It was an intensive period, but one he undertook with his usual enthusiasm. His dedication to the task was unstinting. He let nothing deter him from it. And while he went about Allah’s work he presented himself to the world a picture of a moderate Muslim, a quiet man practicing his religion and offending no one. He blended into the background, inoffensive and compliant.

He looked on the plan as his greatest achievement. When it was put into motion there would be such an impact on America. The clever part was the plan required minimal setting up. No massive technical input. Just men who were prepared to undertake the mission, inserted into America and finally sent out on the streets to mingle with the public until the moment they took out their weapons and opened fire in a crowded area. Striking in such a way, against unarmed and bewildered people, the Hand of Allah martyrs would be able to inflict heavy casualties before they were brought down. If they managed to evade death or capture, each man would move to a prearranged location where he would eventually be taken to another place and the plan would be repeated.

The weapons for use were being brought into the country by Jack Regan’s organization. The weapons would be distributed to central points across America, so that Kerim’s people would have easy access to them. In this way there would be no need to purchase weapons within the U.S. There were too many restrictions on buying guns. These varied from state to state and created delays, and also suspicions if too many were requested. Regan had no such problems. He simply took an order and filled it. No questions. No paperwork. No violations of gun laws.

Money was the universal opener of doors, from Regan to the individuals prepared to carry out other tasks required in setting up the overall plan. Kerim had to smile whenever that item crossed his mind.

Money.

It was entirely true that in America money could get you anything you wanted.

Pay out enough and the problems went away.

Although in this instance America’s problems would only be increased. The money Kerim was handing out would create panic, death and blood on the streets.

CHAPTER FIVE

Yemen

True to his word Shaia Kerim took Ibrahim Hammid away from America. From a private airfield they took a flight to Ireland and changed planes. Although James was not privy to the arrangements, a great deal of money had passed between parties to ensure the flights were not interrupted, or even checked. The second part of the trip was from Ireland to Yemen. Once there the party transferred to SUVs for the final leg of the journey—the Hand of Allah training camp in the Yemeni desert.

They arrived at the camp while it was still dark, somewhere between midnight and two o’clock. James saw little except the black shapes of tents and a pair of prefabricated huts. The moment the SUVs stopped a pair of armed men took charge of James. He was marched across the dusty ground, thoroughly and intimately searched, not for the first time, and then pushed inside a steel cage. The door was secured and a large canvas sheet was draped over the cage, shutting out even the faint light. He had nothing except the clothes he was wearing and his leather-bound Koran.

Whatever James might have been thinking about his treatment, he knew there was nothing he could do, so he made himself as comfortable as he could and slept. The ingrained capacity to resist, from his SEAL training, clicked in and James shifted his perspective. He woke to the sound of activity outside the cage. He heard men moving about, the distant rumble of a truck motor. Later, as the sun got higher and the heat penetrated the sheet, James picked up the sound of auto-fire. The rhythm of the gunfire suggested target practice rather than the sound of real combat.

Sometime during the day the front corner of the sheet was raised. A plastic bottle of water was pushed between the bars, followed by a foil-wrapped portion of food. James took off the cap of the bottle and took a sip of water. It was fresh and chilled. The meal was boiled rice and meat. James wasn’t sure what the meat was but he ate the food anyway.

No one came near him after that. James couldn’t be certain why he had been imprisoned. As long as he was still alive he decided all he could was go with it. Not that he really had much choice in the matter.

Beneath the canvas cover the cage became increasingly hot. Sweat drained out of James even though he didn’t move. He used the water sparingly, not knowing if he would get any more. He drank a little and used some to wet his face. The chill water had become increasingly warm as the time passed. He recited some of the prayers he had learned in case he was being observed.

Daylight faded. James spent another long night in the confines of his cage. The temperature dropped and it turned cold. James slept fitfully, spending his time going over his cover story to keep his mind active.

He also allowed some time trying to figure out why he had been locked up. Stony Man had spent time and effort creating his Ibrahim Hammid biography. He found it hard to accept his cover might have been blown. His only contact since taking up the Hammid role had been Phoenix Force before he had met Kerim. He couldn’t imagine any might have pointed the finger at him. James backtracked, admitting it was not written in stone that he might have been identified as someone other than Hammid. But he didn’t go for that.

So why the cage?

Was Kerim still digging into his fake life? Had he found something that had aroused his suspicions?

James wrapped his jacket tight around his lean body. The stifling heat of the day would have been welcome right then. He didn’t like the cold.

James was kept in the cage for three more days. Given water and food, but no human contact. In the end it made little difference what he thought. He was under the control of Hand of Allah. He would have to take what they handed to him and play their games.

On the morning they took away the canvas sheet and sunlight poured over him, James stared out on the camp, blinking in the harsh light. A half-dozen figures surrounded the cage, eyes watching him closely. One stepped forward as the cage was opened. It was Kerim. He spread his arms, palms exposed as he smiled at James.

“Come, brother. Join us now.”