Page 139 of Whisper
“You’re telling me.”Ryan snorted. “You need to get your people out there, now. You’re the most forward base, and this threat is coming from your territory.”
“I’ll redirect my people. See what we can find out from our sources on the ground. I can move more drones over Waziristan, but the DOD is going to start complaining about the reallocation.”
“I’ll handle DOD. You just find out what’s going on in Waziristan, before al-Qaeda detonates a nuke and we’re looking at the real Apocalypse.”
The intel came in like an ocean wave, crashing against Camp Carson.
Another intercept, a few days later: three al-Qaeda members talking about a Shura council meeting they had attended where the topic of debate was whether usingnawawiundevices was Islamic. Was such a device considered something lawful in the eyes of Allah? Or were nuclear devices harmful to creation, to Allah’s will?
Shura council meetings were called when al-Qaeda decision-makers needed to find consensus on an action and needed Islamic cover for their choices in combat. Bin Laden had called such a meeting to discuss the September 11 attacks. The Shura had ultimately rejected his proposal, saying the attacks were un-Islamic.
Bin Laden proceeded anyway.
Saqqaf, in Iraq, hadn’t bothered with a Shura council. He’d forged ahead, dedicated to his own death cult, his bloodthirsty, apocalyptic vision of jihad as a cleansing fire of wrath that would sweep the world. Only a scattered handful of extreme imams had ever signed on to Saqqaf’s vision of Islam. Every major and established religious authority across multiple sects of the faith had denounced him.
What did it mean that a new Shura council was debating the use ofnawawiundevices? Shura councils were not called for high-minded ideas or what-if scenarios; they were the faithful’s most devout form of democracy: what did the people think of a leader’s proposed action, and how did such actions line up with Allah’s will for humanity?
The possibility that this nuclear threat was real, and imminent, shot higher.
Director Edwards held a conference call with Kris and Ryan, going over every minute detail of both intercepts. What did this word mean in Arabic, in all its permutations? What had human sources said in the past few days? Had there been anything to corroborate the reports?
David and another CIA SAD officer headed out to Waziristan for three days, posing as out-of-work farmers searching for any employment they could find. David came back filthy and covered in shit—he’d found a job making mudbricks out of fresh cow dung—but with ominous rumors and street chatter as well.
Somethingbigwas coming, the word on the street said. Something not even the Great Satan could withstand. Something not even they could stop.
Kris formally recommended Director Edwards ask to increase the threat level for the homeland. “This is the most serious threat al-Qaeda has presented since before September eleventh, Director. What they’re saying, how they’re acting. This is serious. Deadly serious.”
“Kris, if you think this is that serious, then I’ll take your recommendation straight to the president. Promise me, Kris. We’re going to find out what the hell is going on over there and stop whatever it is they’re planning.”
“I promise.” His vow, seven years old, echoed, a ripple extending forward through time. He would never let harm come to the homeland again, not because of him. Not because of what he did or didn’t do. “I swear.”
His phone rang in the middle of the night.
Kris was still awake, reading daily cables and reports from his analysts, trying to find a morsel of intel to exploit or expand on. David lay facedown on his lap, face burrowed into his belly. They’d made love and David had passed out, exhausted to the bone with his near-daily treks across the border and back.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, clattering across the cheap laminate and skittering away from his grasp.
The country code showed Jordan. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Mr. Caldera.” The deep voice, sounding almost as tired and worn through as Kris felt, belonged to Ahmad, one of the Mukhabarat agents Jordan had sent to Iraq to help with the hunt for Saqqaf. “We need to talk.”
“What about?”
“I’m going to send you an email. It has a video clip attached. After you watch it, call me back.” Ahmad hung up.
Kris pursed his lips and waited. A minute later, his phone vibrated again, an incoming email.Watch this, the subject line read.
He clicked the video file.
It was grainy, the shadows too dark and the lights too bright. Men in robes and turbans moved around a crowded room, a mudbrick hut with open holes for windows. Rifles were propped against walls. The men sat on dusty carpets in a circle. The video zoomed out, panned slightly. Refocused. It was obviously shot from something small, something handheld. Something concealed. A bit of robe fell over the lens before being brushed away—
And revealing the aged face of al-Qaeda’s number two, Ayman Al-Zawahiri.
Kris stopped breathing. His eyes widened, until he felt like his eyeballs would fall from his skull.
Zawahiri spoke, but the audio was distorted. Kris had to rewind and re-watch a half dozen times. “Brothers,” Zawahiri said. “The Sheikh, Allah bless him, sends his love. He has asked that we discuss a most urgent topic today. We must discuss the nuclear devices. Does Allah declare the nawawiun a proper weapon of war?”
The video cut out abruptly.
