Page 13 of A Moment Never Forgotten
“I don’t trust Sayyed.” His uncle prattled on, “or anyone else, in politics. They all have their own agendas. I will only share our plans, and the gold, directly with the Supreme Leader.”
Abd wasn’t sure even telling him was the right thing to do, but he didn’t dare argue with the caliphate. Allah was guiding him and would lead them to victory.
“Tell me, nephew, how is the training coming along?”
Grinning widely, he reported the latest statistics. “Over fifteen hundred men have already passed our highest qualifications in our Washington state facility. These men are trained better than U.S. Marines. Before we feed them breakfast, they are required to run up a mountain, shoot expert with several weapons, and run all the way back down to camp. They spend hours in survival training, bomb-making, as well as studying the teachings of your ways. When we bring the United States to its knees, bowing before Muhammed, the lambs will turn to our men for guidance and protection.”
“You spoke only of the one training camp. What of the others?” His uncle didn’t miss a thing.
“Initiates arrive daily in the Pennsylvania camp for initial processing. Our college recruiters are doing an excellent job. Their initial screening process is becoming quite refined. They have weeded out several FBI agents attempting to join.” He didn’t withhold the pride in his voice. “We ship close to a hundred a week to the camps in Kansas and Washington.”
“And the money, it still comes?” As caliphate of the New Islamic State, his uncle was going to be one of the most powerful, and richest, men in the world. There were tens of thousands of wealthy Muslims living in the United States, anxious to support Nassar al-Jamil’s vision of the future. Many men were excited for the day that American women would be put in their place, under an abaya, hidden in their husbands’ homes, subservient and silenced.
“Oh, yes, Uncle. The money flows like a raging river whose dam has been broken.” Only he knew exactly how much made its way into several Caribbean accounts every week. Almost all of it was moved into accounts controlled by the New Islamic State accountants. No one knew about his private Swiss account that received a small percentage every day.
If the CIA had taught him one thing, it was to be prepared with an exit strategy. And not just one. He had Plan A and B, and then there was Plan C where he would disappear completely. It took lots of money for the high-quality plastic surgery that he would require. He would also need to live in the style to which he’d become accustomed. He refused to live in the desert as a poor man. He preferred his sand on a beach in a country without extradition.
Soon after joining the CIA, he started establishing several identities throughout the world. His unique skin color could be dyed to look as black as a Central African, or by adding green, he looked of Mediterranean heritage. With yellow, he passed for a deeply suntanned American. During his thirty-five years of government service, he had accumulated a thick stack of passports from various countries.
Yes. He could disappear without a trace. The go-bags stashed in his closet at work, another at home, as well as the one he always carried in his car, assured him of a quick getaway. The money in his hidden account guaranteed a comfortable lifestyle.
“We must move on to more serious matters.” His uncle’s voice had turned sullen.
Oh fuck. Here it comes.
“Is the matter of Gabriel Davis finally concluded?”
“Yes. A man faithful to you in our computer department has wiped every possible trace. He searched every computer Gabriel ever used and deleted the appropriate information.” At least that was the information he’d been given. Since he was no computer expert, there was no way for him to personally check.
“And Gabriel’s wife? I’ve been told that has now been declared murder.”
The man seethed with anger, but he held it in check. Where had his uncle heard that? He had always wondered if he had other spies within the CIA. His question confirmed it. “Trust me, the Fairfax police are too busy tracking down real criminals to worry about a home invasion gone bad in a house that has already sold. It is solidly a cold case, now.”
“I’ve also been informed that it’s highly likely that my name will appear on the Top Ten Most Wanted Terrorist list. What are you doing to prevent this?” His uncle gave him a direct hit.
“There is not much I can do about that.” And that was the honest truth. “As you know, Gabriel has been replaced by Matthew Saint Clare, who is neither a believer nor a follower of yours.” He took a deep breath. “We knew this was going to happen at some point. Although Elizabeth Saint Clare, our translator for your Arabic dialect, is only working part-time, she’s still able to translate most of the conversations they capture and forward them to the Middle Eastern analysts. Your rapid buildup at Lake Urmia has started to worry the surrounding countries of Turkey, Syria, and Iraq. Armenia and Azerbaijan are also getting nervous. I would not be surprised if their diplomats do not ask for help quite soon.”
The caliphate laughed. “Good! If their focus is on Iran, then they aren’t looking for danger in their own backyard. Americans are so naïve. It was child’s play to move thousands of our men into the country and station them from ocean to ocean.”
The man hoped that continued to be true. He had no desire to be tried for treason in the United States, and that’s exactly what would happen if anyone discovered his connection to the military training camps. Worse, if someone exposed their plans.
With glee in his voice, his uncle added, “Americans will never know what hit them until it is too late. Every year they mourn over September eleven, a date that will be forgotten along with Osama bin Laden. Soon, they will praise the name of Nassar al-Jamil and thank Allah for the day we freed all American men.”
“Yes, Uncle, they will.” The man behind the wheel turned into his home and drove straight into the garage. He looked over at the sports car he rarely got to drive, but truly adored. He would have to leave it and everything behind. He already had several reservations made, under different names of course, circuitously making his way to Iran. He wouldn’t even be in the United States when the Islamic revolution started.
“All is going as planned, my nephew, my son. I feel as though you are my son, and I am now your father, because the real man who created you was taken from us far too early. You have outshined many of the men of my loins. Keep up the good work, my son. Allah be with you.”
The line went dead.
The man got out of his car, sliding the satellite phone back into his pocket. As he glanced around his palatial Georgetown home, he knew he would miss these comforts. It wouldn’t be long now until all of this was gone. He was going to take advantage of every moment he had left.
As he loosened his tie, he rolled his tense shoulders. Fuck. He could use a massage. His mind instantly went to Mistress Tigress at the private gentleman’s club where he’d been a member for several years. He glanced back at the door to the garage.
Yes. A fast ride and a fast fuck would be perfect.
Chapter Six
What the hell was I thinking?Berit thought about her Navy-blue pantsuit, black ankle boots with a thin but sensible two-inch heel and shoved her bare hands into the pockets of her wool-lined trench coat, hoping to find a pair of gloves. Her outfit screamed alphabet agent.
