All Necessary Force (25 page)

Draco’s skills on the battlefield had proven to be useful in this arena
as well, and he had worked his way up until he was the kingpin of a vast territory that included the city of Prague. But such distinction came with a price, namely the threat of a violent end, so Kamil became as compliant as possible lest one of the thugs around him decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Everything went fine until he was addressed by a man with a lazy eye.

“Give me your cell phone.”

Kamil reflexively looked behind him, as the man’s eye was focused over his shoulder, and he’d already had his phone taken from him. The man snapped. He grabbed the back of Kamil’s head, holding it in place while he forced the barrel of a pistol into his mouth.

“You think you’re funny, sand nigger? You want to laugh at me?”

Kamil gargled, feeling a tooth chip on the front sight post. Unable to talk, he desperately waved at his original driver, convinced he was about to die.

The leader of the security force intervened. “Enough. I had the driver from Charles Bridge throw it out. He doesn’t have one. Load him up.”

Lazy Eye removed the pistol from his mouth and glowered, a comical look given his bouncing focus, but Kamil dared not break a smile. He followed the leader into the first vehicle, watching the man talk on a radio and probing his tooth with his tongue.

They wound down a gravel road to the stone house, Kamil in the middle with a man on either side. Reaching the circle out front, Kamil saw three men standing on the front stoop. The car stopped and Kamil was treated to a façade of welcome. Exiting the car under his own power, without being pushed or dragged, he was immediately hugged by a bear of a man, then kissed on both checks.

“Welcome to the Czech Republic. I am Draco. I trust your travel was uneventful?”

Kamil found himself staring into the piggish face of a man a head shorter than himself. His eyes were sunk back into his head, like a couple of turtles withdrawing into a shell. His right cheek had a puckered scar that ran through his upper lip. The repair to the wound had been crude, with the lip slightly uneven, giving him a permanent snarl.

Kamil grasped his outstretched hand and was startled to find the
man was missing the last two fingers. He covered up the surprise, determined not to make the same mistake he had with Lazy Eye. Draco still caught it, but only made a little joke.

“Yes, a gift from the Serbian Police. Their way of saying hello. It’s okay, though.” He pointed his index finger at Kamil and mimed shooting a pistol. “I still have the important finger. The one that pulls the trigger.”

He then laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had heard in a long time. Kamil chuckled along with him, wondering how on earth Rafik had become associated with this man.

“Come inside. Let’s talk about your troubles and how I can help. You and I are very much alike, and we Muslims must stick together.”

Kamil fought to prevent his disdain from showing.
I have more in common with the Great Satan’s soldiers than I do with you.

Draco continued while they walked, saying, “Someone followed you today, I pray not because you wanted them to.”

Kamil snapped his head around, remembering why he was here. “Followed me? Are you sure?”

Draco smiled at the reaction. “Yes, I’m sure. And they were very good. If I hadn’t sent my men, more than likely you’d be captured now. But no worries. They have nothing to go on.”

“That’s why you had me call my men. Change hotels.”

“Yes. And you’ll need to do that each night if you wish to continue with me.”

Passing through the foyer, Kamil found the house dripping in opulence, a testimony to the empire Draco had built. Winding through a maze of hallways, they eventually entered a large study with an oak desk studded in leather and several comfortably overstuffed chairs. Draco circled behind the desk, saying, “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps some pleasure while we do business?”

Like magic, a man appeared bearing a tray with an assortment of alcoholic beverages. Behind him another man led in five girls, teenagers from the look of them, none older than nineteen.

Kamil felt his temper flare but maintained his composure. “No, thank you. I’m sure you understand.”

“Come on. You’re not at home and I’ve seen how the Saudis act once
they’re out of the kingdom. Don’t feel like you owe me. It’s my pleasure. If you don’t like what you see here, I can bring more.”

“No. I’d prefer not. Can we please discuss why I came?”

“Suit yourself. You won’t mind if I do, though?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pointed at a brown-haired girl. She shrank into the wall until prodded by the man who’d brought her in. She slowly made her way around the desk, then sank from view. Kamil could hear the rustle of clothing and the soft clink of a belt buckle. He could barely see the top of the girl’s head. The other man, along with the girls, left the room. He began to feel sick to his stomach.

Draco sighed and looked at the ceiling. “You really should try this. They’re still very fresh. Not like that trash you find in the city. If you don’t like what you saw here, I have quite a few more downstairs.”

Kamil found himself unable to speak, the rhythmic motion of the girl’s head disgusting him.
Allah the merciful, what have we done?
He felt unclean, and wondered if the end result of their operation would be enough to overcome the means they had used. For the first time, he feared for his future in the afterlife.

Draco leaned over and whispered something in the girl’s ear, her head never stopping its hypnotic motion. He then said, “Okay, now how may I help. I’ve been told through my friends in Pakistan that you require explosives. Is this true?”

It took a moment for Kamil to realize he was being addressed. He felt his fists clench. He couldn’t believe the man was talking about operational matters in front of the girl. Then the implication sank in, sickening him further: She was going to die, her only transgression being that she was forced to service this monster. With superhuman effort, he restrained himself from launching across the desk and killing Draco with his bare hands.

Draco saw the object of his attention and said, “Ah, you’re reconsidering my hospitality?”

“
No
,” Kamil managed to squeak out. “No, no, no.”

“A pious one, huh? I can respect that. I wish I could have the strength you and your kind possess.” He patted the girl’s head. “But I’m afraid I’d be a hypocrite.”

Hypocrite? You’re an apostate.

Kamil said, “We do need explosives. And a way to get them into America.”

Draco said nothing for a moment, his eyes closed. He allowed the girl to work for a moment longer before stopping her.

“I can get all the explosives you may need, thanks to the Serbian pigs that were stupid enough to try to fight us. Artillery rounds, detonation cord, you name it. Getting it in to the United States is a different matter, though. The KLA used to be loved, but now, thanks to you and your brethren, not so much.”

“We can’t use improvised explosives like those pried out of an artillery round. We need plastique. Composition C-4. Can you get that?”

“No. No way. Maybe eight years ago, when America still had a large presence in Kosovo, but not now. I can get SEMTEX, however. It’s the same thing as C-4, with the same burn rate and initiation methods. Will that work?”

Kamil thought about it. The demolition kit was made for use with C-4, the American plastic explosive, but SEMTEX should work. He didn’t know enough about explosives to be sure, but the man he had brought with him did. He decided to agree to the SEMTEX, then talk to Adnan, the explosives expert, to see if it would work with the EFPs.

“Yes, that will be fine. How will we get it?”

“You’ll have to pick it up in Budapest. How you get it out is up to you.”

“Budapest? Can’t you bring it here? I don’t have a visa for Hungary.”

“No problem. Take the train. Your visa for here will carry you through any EU country. You won’t have an issue, and I’m not bringing the explosives here. Others in my organization have it. They’re willing to sell, but don’t push your luck. You want it, go get it.”

“I was told you could prepare it for shipping in a manner that would fool immigrations and customs. Complete with all the forms we would need. Is that not so?”

“Yes, yes, I can do that, and I will for an additional charge. But not for here. You know the saying ‘Don’t shit where you eat’? And not for America. I can get it into Canada, and that’s all.”

Rafik had told him that Montreal was as close as they would get, and had prepared other methods for onward travel of the explosives to the United States, so Kamil didn’t push the issue.

Draco patted the girl on the head, drawing her down again, then said, “The explosives are located at a house in the countryside. Much like this place. Do you know Hungary?”

Kamil found it hard to listen, even as Draco recited an address. As he finished with the directions, Draco’s face clenched up. He grunted twice, then allowed the girl to rise to her feet. She kept her eyes downcast and scurried from the room. Kamil’s revulsion was palpable, a physical thing he had to fight to contain.

Draco rose, zipping up his pants. He extended his hand, the same one that had held the head of the girl.

“
Insha’Allah
, I’ll see you in Budapest.”

Insha’Allah… If God’s willing. But how could he be now?
Kamil was sure they had soiled the means of victory by using Draco, that they were now no better than the infidels they chose to fight.

He shook Draco’s hand, looking the man in the eye but seeing the face of the child. The expression of fear and shame burning into Kamil’s soul. He said a silent prayer.

Allah the Merciful, grant me the strength to live through our strike at the Great Satan. Allow me to return and wipe this abomination from the earth. Allow me to redeem my place at your side.

T

After the fiasco at Old Town, we’d repeated the operation from Indonesia by breaking into Noordin’s office, only with much less drama. We’d found next to nothing, either in the office itself or in the aircraft with his company name. The office wasn’t really designed for commercial business at all. Just a two-room suite located at the general aviation section of the Prague Airport. Apparently, its only use was to give the pilots some rest between flights. It held a single computer, and although it was on a network, the fifty-pound heads at Taskforce headquarters could glean absolutely nothing suspicious from the hard drive.

When they came up empty, we’d gone back in and placed a wireless keylogger on the system. A simple device that was inserted between the USB port and the USB plug of the keyboard, it would transmit everything that someone typed on the keyboard, along with a screen shot of what he or she was looking at, to a collection device just outside the office. We’d dialed into the collection device through the cell network, allowing us to see the activity in real time.

It was a lot of effort for potentially very little payback, but we were out of options and grasping at straws. Until now, because it looked like it might have worked.

“Retro. Get in here.”

I leaned the monitor back so he could see it. “Looks like someone’s filing a flight plan.”

“Where to?”

“Budapest, supposedly. Wonder if that’s where he’s really going?”

“We could slap a beacon on it.”

I tried to see the downside, but short of never seeing the beacon again, I couldn’t find one. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Give Buckshot a call. Tell him to get his ass out to the tarmac.”

“How much time’s he got?”

“Hang on, the time of departure and tail number’s coming up.”

Thirty seconds later, the information appeared on our screen, scrolling across letter by letter, eerily looking like a ghost was typing.

“Damn,” I said. “He’s leaving in the next three hours. With preflight, Buckshot’s got about thirty to forty-five minutes. Get him moving.”

Retro relayed the information, while whoever was at the computer submitted the flight plan and began typing a short e-mail. It was random bullshit, with nothing that raised my eyebrows. Eventually, he closed out of that as well, leaving us nothing to do but wait. Twenty-two minutes later, my phone rang.

“Pike, it’s Jennifer. Buckshot’s prepping the Diamondback down on the tarmac, but we’ve got a little problem. There are two planes with the tail number you sent.”

“Two? Of the same kind?”

“Nope. One’s a Casa 212, the other’s a Twin Otter.”

The duplicate numbers were going to force me to make a choice, but at least now we knew something shady was going on. We were on to something.

“Take the Twin Otter. It’s got better range. If they’re transporting our cargo, that’s what they’ll use.”

“Okay. Just so I’m sure—you want Buckshot to diamond the Twin Otter?”

I went back and forth in my mind, knowing if I was wrong, there was no way to correct it once the pilot showed up. I looked at Retro. He was a big help. He shrugged with his hands in the air.

I said, “Yeah. That’s it.”

Jennifer called back a short time later telling me the beacon was emplaced and that they were going to hang around to see which plane left. Minutes after that, she called to kick me in the gut.

“Pike, the Casa’s rolling toward the runway.”

Fuck me. These guys are the luckiest bastards alive.

“All right… wait until he’s airborne, then retrieve the beacon.”

As soon as I hung up, Retro said, “Wrong plane?”

“Yeah. Story of my life. Is there anything else on that e-mail he sent?”

“Not really. It’s a bunch of ‘how’s it going’ stuff. The only thing mentioned is something called the Drenica Group.”