SANCTION: A Thriller (30 page)

The intelligence unit at Fort Meade made no attempt to draw any definite conclusions. But noted the reference made during the conversation by Bishara, calling Nazari ‘Father’.

The report did however make some possible conclusions evident. The last one on the list was what troubled Edmond and everybody else. It was the whole reason for the report. It suggested that if Nazari was indeed Bishara’s father, then perhaps it was not Bishara’s name that had been changed but Nazari’s. If this proved to be true, the Signal Corps imagined few reasons–for the cleric’s alias–that they would not find alarming. Additionally, there were a handful of, ‘persons of interest’, that had gone into hiding in years past, with the name Bishara. One being, Abdel Bishara.

The name stunned Bailey. A mound of flesh creased his forehead above his down cast eyebrows. The National Security Advisor hoped it wasn’t the case but if one traveled down that road, certain things made sense. Nazari had been on no one’s radar before he’d been elected leader of the Hamas. Even his experience as an Imam could not be verified. He had seemingly just appeared.

Of course, if this was the case, then Bailey had bigger things to worry about than Graham Vanderbilt. If Abdel Muhammad Nazari was, in fact, Abdel Bishara, the Middle East would soon be quaking with violence.

Suddenly, everything seemed to be surging toward some horrible truth that Edmond couldn’t quite put his finger on. The ambush on the American unit in Palestine. The Syrian Army mobilizing its troops and mechanized units. Even the kidnappings of the college students. He felt his stomach churn. It was fear. Fear that they were too late to stop what was coming.

Saleem knelt in front of a hot plate stove. The burner glowed a burnt orange color, its heat dissipating as he turned the knob to the off position and moved his pot of ramen noodles over to the second burner. The surface of the water settled quickly and he grabbed a plastic fork. He scooped the noodles out and piled them onto a paper plate, vaguely aware that he was being watched throughout the process. He walked over to his cot and set the plate down on a table that had been a wooden crate a week before. The other men looked at their leader as he stuffed the fatty noodles into his mouth. They were hungry, all of them. They hadn’t eaten in more than a day.

Saleem had dished out the same rations to everyone in the group, including himself. He had simply shown more discipline than any of them, choosing to be mildly hungry but nourished everyday rather than eating his fill the first few days and then have nothing.

Saleem shoved the food in quickly. He knew what the others didn’t. The Syrian Army had mobilized along the southern border in the last day. He expected at least one military unit to show up in Quneitra. Imam Nazari had a particular soft spot for the abandoned city. It was planned to be the flashpoint for the coming attack. It was why Saleem had been instructed to bring the hostages to it, the location was laden with symbolism.

Saleem didn’t know much about Nazari; but he had certainly been willing to take his funding. He didn’t really care what the cleric’s ultimate goal was in taking the American hostages either. All he cared about was striking a blow against the West; something that had never seemed possible before having access to Nazari’s immense resources.

Saleem finished his rehydrated noodles and pushed the plate aside. He looked at his men and then to the professor. He had tied the American up to a pillar in the building’s main lobby, where Saleem and his guards were camped out.

The lobby was more of an elaborate stone porch, than an actual foyer for the building. Four large pillars were spread evenly apart and holding up a portion of the second floor of the crumbling structure. The porch was wide, at least five yards across, with two short staircases at each end that opened to the driveway. The building itself had once been the city’s hospital. It would have been impossible to deduce as much from the building’s appearance however. No evidence remained that pointed to its historical purpose.

The American had surrendered as soon as he’d run out of ammunition. Azim was still gone and the professor wasn’t interested in telling him anything about his whereabouts. Since the professor had Azim’s rifle, he’d assumed that he had somehow overtaken the Palestinian and shot him. Saleem wondered how the man had pulled it off. If it had been anyone but Azim, he was confident that the professor would have been killed within the hour of his misguided escape.

He walked up to Rhinefeld and looked into his weathered face. The tan that he’d had when they’d first arrived was beginning to fade. It was easier to imagine the middle aged white man as someone’s soft grandfather.

Saleem considered the type of man it took to attempt an escape, only to return for his friends. He risked death when he’d already gained freedom from his captors. It wasn’t hard to be impressed by the stranger’s courage.

Saleem returned to the hot plate and grabbed the handle of the pot. The water had cooled some but was still hot enough to cook the noodles a second time. He stared at the brave American and thrust the pot into the man’s face.

Rhinefeld let out a shriek as the scalding water soaked his flesh. The water had turned the flesh on his forehead and cheeks a deep crimson. He opened his eyes and saw the man walking away from him, satisfied with the results of the cruel act.

Rhinefeld watched as Saleem went back to his cot and stretched out his legs on the olive green canvas. The other men in his company were lingering about, apparently bored.

Despite being tied to the pillar, Rhinefeld was glad he had come back to the hospital. He now knew that the students were alright. They hadn’t been punished for his actions. This was the reason he was able to push the pain from his mind. The knowledge of the students’ safety comforted him more than rest and food could.

Rhinefeld scanned the room; there was an empty cot but no Azim. It didn’t matter but he wondered where he’d gone just the same.

Tom Kingsley crouched low behind the boulder. Despite his efforts, the grenade had dropped dangerously close to the truck. Pieces of the frag body exploded through the radiator and into the engine block, stopping the vehicle cold. A white plume of acrid smoke and steam rose from the hood as soldiers jumped from the smoldering wreck.

Brad was a good two hundred yards down the mountain’s easternmost slope. He high crawled through thick brush. He turned around and looked for Kingsley but it was impossible to see anything through the dense weeds and burnt grass.

As much as he hated to leave Kingsley, he turned and continued toward the edge of the mountain. Six minutes after the grenade, a sporadic volley of gunfire broke out. They had found Kingsley. A deep and loud percussive crack followed the spurt of shooting. It was the Cheytac; Kingsley was engaging the soldiers with the sniper rifle. Several more shots rang out as the Green Beret kept the unit of Syrian troops at bay. Brad listened as he neared the corner of the mountain. Kingsley couldn’t stay in his position long.

The Syrian Army had a large contingency of troops and weapons on the road. Kingsley would have to scale the mountain and hope to outrun the pursuing Army long enough to get lost in the valley on the other side. Brad hoped that his friend would do this but he kept hearing the deafening pop of the Cheytac’s enormous rounds. The troops were returning fire with regularity. Then a quick burst of gunfire was followed by a long period of silence. Brad’s eyes welled up with tears as he stood to a low crouch and got a foot on the mountain. Kingsley’s rifle was no longer contributing to the racket.

The other side of the peak was steep and cropped by a low valley that was joined to another string of mountains. The DIA agent stood up once he had traveled far enough around the bend not to be sighted. He skirted the base of the peak for several hundred yards until the ground began to rise up to a massive ridge line. He climbed to the top of the ridge and lay down just under the lip of the brown earth. Reaching out in front of himself he drug his body up the rest of the distance and peered over the ridge. The ridge was flat for a few yards and then it abruptly sank off into a great dry valley. At the bottom was a gathering of tents and makeshift homes. He was going to avoid the village at all costs.

Brad desperately wanted to scale the mountain to his back and bail out Kingsley. But he knew that he was only thinking with his emotions. If not for the Green Beret, Brad likely would have died in the Syrian prison. But Kingsley was right. The nineteen hostages far outweighed either of their lives. One of them had to get to the students.

Brad opened his back pack and tucked the MP5 away. He was going to slip into the shadows and stay there until he got to Quneitra, no need for the weapon before then. Brad surveyed the rough terrain and the sky above. It would be rough going. The surface of the ground was getting rockier and the footing less stable. Darkness would be falling in the next hour and it looked as if a storm would be rolling in.

B
rad had walked through the night, using only the illumination of the moon to guide him. He had seen a flashlight in the assault pack but there was no way he would risk alerting someone to his presence by using it.

Now, he lay flat on his belly and stared at the crumbling buildings and rusting concrete structures of Quneitra through a pair of binoculars. The terrain had leveled into a flat swath surrounding the city.

The sun was just beginning to peak to the East. He planned to skirt around the circumference of the town and survey the layout before entering under the cover of darkness. He would have to remain at least a mile outside of Quneitra’s perimeter to avoid detection; it would take nearly a full day. He needed his strength.

Brad decided to back track to an outcropping of rock that he had passed a half mile back and hide himself in a small cavity in the face of the rock. There he would eat and rest to charge his batteries for the coming assault.

• • •

Saleem didn
’
t care
which students he took, they were faceless to him. He grabbed Tracy Peters and Matt Ward. Matt tried to talk him out of bringing Tracy but Saleem smacked him hard across the face and drug her along anyway.

They were whisked into another room. Matt saw the same red flag with black Arabic writing. Tracy murmured something indiscernible. Matt looked to her with the best comforting face that he could. The sounds from her closed mouth slowed and then stopped.

Saleem spoke in English to a camera in the corner of the room.

“The West has murdered our people, without any accountability.” He said staring into the lens. His eyes were dark, with large hollow sockets and circles that lined the skin next to his nose. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour at a time in the last three days.

“Since the foundation of Saudi Arabia’s association with the United States, our people have been tainted by lies. America doesn’t want us to be democratic so that we will live better lives, they want us to become a people who are swayed by money rather than our beliefs.”

“Why do they work so hard to convince us that our way is wrong?” He asked rhetorically. Saleem’s body didn’t move as he spoke, which added to his already mechanical presence.

Matt and Tracy were directly behind him, their pale and thinning faces giving the video an eerie sense of doom. Matt moved closer to Tracy. He didn’t have any comforting words. He just wanted his proximity to give her whatever reassurance it could.

“Since that day, when the great Saudi Nation fell from honor, our people have been swept away by every kind of vice. Now the same polluted thoughts and desires that have corrupted the minds of your own youth have infiltrated ours.” Despite his motionless body, Saleem’s voice was peppered with emotion.

Matt closed his eyes and started to pray.

Suddenly, as if being awakened from a deep sleep, Saleem’s arms began to flail about wildly, controlled purely by surging anger. He was working himself up into a frenzied rage.

Tracy whimpered. Matt opened his eyes and looked to Saleem. Sweat was dripping from the Arab’s dark forehead. Matt didn’t feel the fear that he had expected to. Saleem had raised his rifle.

Matt looked to the terrorist. The man’s eyes were uncaring, steel beads of indifference.

Saleem thumbed the metal above the wooden stock on his AK-47 and slid his index finger past the trigger guard. He squeezed.

Lead bullets flew out of the end of the rifle and collided with the wall. Hard flecks of cold concrete rained down over the students. Matt instinctively threw his arms around Tracy, who was screaming, as the wall continued to shed layers.

Saleem released the trigger and studied his quivering prey.

Tracy clamped her eyelids shut. Her body trembled violently.

Saleem aimed the rifle again and pulled the trigger. Matt’s back was slammed against the wall as several searing rounds burned through soft tissue and muscle.

Matt collapsed. His chest heaved involuntarily and he could feel warm fluid flowing beneath his shirt. He could hear Tracy screaming but she sounded muffled now, like she was shouting through a pile of blankets. He looked down at his shirt. Red soaked through liberally. Tracy held a single blood soaked hand up superficially protecting his chest from any further onslaught.

Saleem turned his back to the spectacle and nodded to his man that was behind the camera. The Arab reached up and pressed a button on the mounted video camera. Saleem flung his head over to where Tracy sat.

“Take her back.” He ordered in Arabic.

Another of Saleem’s men slung his rifle over his shoulder and moved forward. The man’s face was opposite of Saleem Nejem’s. He appeared unprepared for what had just transpired.

“Leave her with the others and clean this up. We will need the room again in an hour.” Saleem said coolly, as if he had just ordered the man to pick up a pizza, or take out the trash.

• • •

Brad was awakened
by the distant gunfire. He reached for the assault pack that he had been using as a pillow and removed the MP-5 and two flash bangs. He stuffed three of the four magazines of ammunition into his cargo pocket and jammed the last one into the magazine well. He left the bag, along with the remainder of the MRE’s.