Into The Shadows Read online

  “All right, Sami. I trust you.”

  “There is nothing to worry about, Raif. They will be pleased once they see the AT-4s.”

  Arsuz, Turkey – November 5, 10:55 PM

  Elif entered the living room where Michael sat.

  “There was a problem at the marina. Apparently, there were visitors and shots were fired,” said Elif.

  “Your guys okay? Did they secure the weapons?”

  “Yes. Your colleagues quickly moved the weapons before departing. As Walid and Nanook were leaving the port, they saw local police arriving.”

  “Any more intel, Elif?”

  “No. Can your colleagues in Cyprus can give us an update?”

  “I’ll call a friend and see what he knows. Is there a chance our timeline has been compromised?”

  “No. They will contact me in an hour with an update. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

  Michael was uneasy. As he opened his laptop to contact Langley with an update, he could not help to think what went wrong. Michael did not believe in coincidences, though he conceded random occurrences were possible.

  Michael spent the next several minutes updating Doug and the rest of his team in Langley by using an online message application on his laptop. He provided them with details on the pending weapons transfer using Elif’s contact. He also reported what Haris said about the Kenema Mosque, which was not much at all. Finally, Michael requested intelligence on the site in case he needed to get there quickly.

  After he had sent the secure message, Michael picked up the phone and called Paul in Berlin.

  “Paul, did you hear about Larnaca?”

  “Yes, just got the intel. It appears we lost one of our own.”

  “What the hell happened?” asked Michael.

  “Our team in Cyprus couldn’t tell me much. It appears a local gang affiliated with a transnational organized crime group caught wind of the shipment. They’re looking into it as we speak.”

  “How the hell did they find out?”

  “Too early to tell, Mike. Cyprus said they knew where to be and what to look for. My pilot might have screwed up.”

  Michael figured his pilot would know nothing of the cargo’s contents. He continued pressing Paul.

  “Can you confirm that before tomorrow night? We are moving the cargo to the border and do not want any more surprises. Just text me as I might not be able to answer.”

  “I’ll try. Cyprus will want answers too. I’ll be in touch, Michael.”

  The unfolding of events in Larnaca disturbed Paul. This was personal. His operation cost the life of a young CIA officer and new father. A phone call to Jurgen would come quickly.

  Michael returned to the sofa and closed his eyes. His last thought was of Laura in her white dress and long black hair as he slowly drifted to sleep.

  Kenema, Sierra Leone – November 6, 8:50 AM

  The short trip to a nearby village west of Kenema was rough and full of bumps and twisting turns. Potholes along the dusty dirt road forced a slower rate of travel as Manjo’s body swayed from side to side in the rear of Foday’s jeep. Accompanying them were two other vehicles with members of the Kenema Mosque.

  Sitting next to Manjo was a young man who arrived at the Mosque two months earlier. He was a slim, younger man probably in his early-twenties. They barely spoke before this morning, and the trip did little to change that.

  As the caravan made its way around the final bend, Foday instructed his driver to pull next to the first shelter nearest the patch of trees. Three other similar structures were within fifty meters. Manjo did not see any inhabitants or signs of recent activity.

  Foday instructed Manjo and the young man to get out and move inside the shelter. He ordered the others to do the same. Manjo could feel the intensity echoing from Foday’s voice. Whatever he was about to do was serious, he thought to himself.

  “This morning we are going to conduct weapons training on the AK-47. Following that, we will work on hand-to-hand combat. Studies will continue during periods of rest,” said Foday.

  The AK-47, also known by its Soviet designation as Avtomat Kalashnikova, is a gas-operated assault rifle. Select Soviet army units first received the weapon in 1948. Most users and analysts refer to the rifle simply as Kalashnikov.

  The AK-47 remains the world’s most popular and sought-after rifle. Used by insurgents, regular military forces, and drug trafficking organizations (DTOs) in nearly every region of the world, the rifle has proven its reliability and durability for decades. Countless variants of the rifle exist, but the design remains the same.

  “You will need to drink plenty of water today. It will be hot, and I do not need any of you passing out,” said Foday.

  Foday departed the shelter and an older man in his early 50s greeted Manjo and his fellow trainees. He handed each of them an AK-47 and instructed them how to load and fire.

  The Kalashnikov is a remarkably simple weapon to use. It only requires the operator to load a magazine, pull back and release the charging handle and fire. Located on the right side of the barrel is a large safety lever which prevents the charging handle from being pulled to the rear.

  A standard magazine is loaded with thirty rounds of ammunition, though variants include a forty round magazine and even a seventy-five-round drum. When the AK-47 fires in automatic mode, mayhem and death soon follow.

  After approximately twenty minutes of instruction, the gray-bearded trainer took Manjo and the others outside. They moved along a dirt trail for a few minutes and arrived at the open field, nestled between large trees.

  Manjo’s enthusiasm was evident. He began smiling as he quickly determined he would fire the world’s most popular weapon. He enjoyed himself and the morning’s brisk temperature only made him more excited. Manjo was on an adventure.

  As Manjo approached the makeshift firing line, a second man appeared and handed him a magazine filled with ten rounds. He did not utter a word. Soon after each of the remaining three trainees received their magazine, orders came to fire at the targets in front of them. They would fire only in semi-automatic mode.

  Manjo thought it was odd his instructor did not focus on breathing techniques before arriving at the field. Nevertheless, he judged the target’s distance at thirty yards. Slowly placing his left knee onto the sand, he assumed his firing position.

  After firing his ten rounds, he noticed seven inside the target, a silhouette of an upper torso and head. Not bad, he thought to himself wondering how the others performed. The best of the others only hit their target twice.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Manjo continued firing at the target, improving with each turn. On his final attempt, he hit the target with all ten rounds he was issued. Foday stood at a distance staring at the transformed young farmer.

  Impressed by the young man’s ability to shoot, the gray-bearded man instructed his assistant to extend Manjo’s target to eighty yards. He would surely falter at that range, as most do, he thought to himself.

  Manjo took aim at the target and fired off ten rounds. Five shots pierced through the paper silhouette. Foday had seen enough.

  “Break time. Go back to where you started, drink some water and begin your studies. Wait for my return.”

  An hour passed while Manjo continued reading from his pamphlet.

  America is an evil nation that turns a blind eye to the suffering of our people in Sierra Leone. Death will find its way to the wicked oppressors. Ebola kills our citizens while America drops its bombs on the faithful. Where are you, my young Lions of Sierra Leone?

  The passage would continue to express further anti-American rhetoric. Manjo’s anger over the loss of his father only fueled his burning desire to read on. However, Foday returned.

  Foday adjusted the afternoon training schedule. The four trainees would now engage in hand-to-hand combat drills before mo
ving back to the range.

  Manjo learned many skills in the ninety-minute training session. They included takedowns, strikes, and choking techniques. Foday knew the group needed further training, but it was a start. He was more concerned with studying Manjo’s strength, willingness to learn, and physical fitness. He thought training in the afternoon heat would be a good test.

  “Manjo. You go to the hut over there,” said Foday pointing to the furthest shelter.

  The three other young men would separate between the remaining two shelters.

  A few minutes later, Foday joined Manjo.

  “Manjo. Are you sure you want to wage jihad?”

  “I am. The past several days has changed my thinking. I’m no longer destined to be a poor farmer.”

  “You understand that jihad means killing others?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you ever killed a man, Manjo?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not easy. Especially the first time.”

  Foday stared into the young man’s eyes. Ten seconds later he coldly asked, “think you can do it?”

  Manjo slowly nodded. He was now committed and his conversion to violent extremism was nearly finished.

  Berlin, Germany – November 6, 9:00 AM

  “Jurgen, it’s Paul.”

  Jurgen was groggy and slightly hungover from his visit to Club Vogue the night before.

  “Yes, Paul? Why are you calling me?”

  “You sound tired. Have company last night?”

  “Yes, I got lucky.”

  “Good. I need you and the plane back here this afternoon. I have another shipment to get out. I will meet you at the airport. Be ready to fly by three o’clock.”

  “Where am I going now?”

  Jurgen was disappointed. He hoped to remain in Larnaca for a few days as Paul indicated in Freiberg.

  “I’ll let you know this afternoon,” said Paul.

  Paul’s gut and intuition told him Jurgen had somehow compromised the operation. Rick Killian’s team was solid. His officers did not even know the contents of the cargo.

  The odds Rick maliciously jeopardized the mission were inconceivable. Rick, like his station chief counterparts, was above reproach.

  The other scenario Paul played out in his mind focused on Jurgen. He did not know where the cargo went. Could he have overheard members of Rick’s team, he thought to himself? Maybe.

  Paul picked up the phone and called Markus. They would have much work to do this afternoon.

  Department of State, Washington D.C. – November 6, 9:25 AM

  Leslie Parson assembled her analytical team. Leslie became team chief for the West Africa branch just two short months ago. Earlier in the morning, her boss, Joe Trevone, called her regarding a short notice request from CIA, an unusual occurrence. Leslie and her analysts had the morning to prepare first draft materials for review. She would give the CIA what they could.

  Leslie, a young woman at only twenty-eight years of age, was a rising star in the Intelligence Community (IC). The Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR) selected her as a junior intelligence analyst after she completed her Master’s degree in International Affairs from Georgetown University. Her thesis on water shortages in the region won accolades from professors on campus to intelligence analysts around the Washington, D.C. beltway.

  Hesitant to join INR after one of her professors said it was the stepchild of the intelligence community, Leslie took the risk and never looked back. The opportunity to begin her career in the Africa directorate was too good to pass up. Performing intelligence analysis for the State Department provided her the prospect of supporting policy making while the agency promoted American values and democracy around the world.

  It was a perfect match for the brilliant analyst whose progressive political views were widely known to her colleagues.

  She spent considerable time in Liberia as a young child. The daughter of missionary parents from Albany, New York, Leslie traveled throughout many parts of the West African region. The majestic beauty and ruggedness of the countryside captivated the young woman. She made numerous friends throughout the region and still communicated regularly with many of them.

  At fourteen, her father told her she would move back to the United States with her grandparents near Albany. That was the plan at least. Though devout Christians, Leslie’s parents promised themselves they would allow their daughter the opportunity to live a normal high school life back in America. She refused.

  Leslie spoke Hausa, one of the most common languages found in West Africa and by persons of Fulani ancestry. She also subscribed to numerous news outlets, followed bloggers, and politicians within the region on social media. Twitter is the preferred open source media of any credible intelligence analyst whose work focuses on social and political trends. Leslie was no different and acutely tuned into the region. Utilizing more open source data than derived from classified sources, Leslie’s analytical rigor was unmatched.

  At the onset of the Ebola outbreak in early 2014, President Barrack Hussein Obama, the nation’s 44th President, requested her by name for a briefing after her analysis appeared in a President’s Daily Brief (PDB). Three days later, she sat in the White House Situation room with the President, his chief of staff, national security advisor, and members of the National Security Council.

  Her insight into the region and ability to articulate the conditions on the ground left the audience with few questions. She would accurately forecast Ebola’s outbreak in the region and regularly brief advisors and medical teams traveling to the area. Leslie was the most sought after analyst in the intelligence community for West African issues, despite her youth.

  “Okay. CIA has submitted several requests for information (RFI). First, they would like to know what we know about the Kenema Mosque. Everything we have is what they want. Profiles, members, imagery, financials, they want it all,” said Leslie.

  The requirement was a bit vague like so many other requests from policy makers or other intelligence agencies.

  “That narrows it down for us, huh?” said Jeremy.

  “Second, they want to know if there are any links between the Kenema Mosque and transportation companies. Langley is concerned that when more Ebola infections occur, more people will attempt to flee the region. Lastly, they also want to know if we have heard any chatter on biological weapons moving into or out of the region.”

  “There are no bio weapons in West Africa,” said Jordan, as if the group did not already know that.

  Jordan was the newest member of Leslie’s team. She was selected by Human Resources, but never Leslie’s first choice.

  “The request came from DO, so my suspicion is that they are running an operation in the area and need whatever we have. Jeremy, I want you to run query searches on all reports with the keywords Kenema Mosque. Carl, begin a link diagram analysis of the Mosque’s leader, staff, maintenance, then further down. Run all known associates, friends, family, etc, etc. Maybe we’ll pick up something before noon.”

  Leslie assumed searching for the words ‘Kenema Mosque’ would yield a productive outcome from the classified database. There were very few clandestine reports coming in from the region. Therefore, she expected the results would be manageable for analysis in the short time she had available.

  Tactical intelligence collection and support to military operations mostly focused on Iraq, Syria, Yemen, and Somalia. Strategic collection efforts included Russia, China, and North Korea. West Africa was not a priority given the immense challenges confronting President Obama and his national security team. That is until December 2013, when Ebola struck a young child in Guinea.

  The President was decisive from the beginning of the Ebola outbreak, despite media attacks from conservative outlets. A cautious and thoughtful man, he received periodic updates and briefings on the situation in West Afr
ica. When the President and his team anticipated the situation spiraling out of control, he issued instructions for the Department of Defense (DOD) to deploy medical teams and supplies to the region.

  Leslie instructed the team to work until twelve. They would then reassemble to discuss what they learned. Leslie returned to her office and immediately called Joe. The urgency of the request still bothered her.

  “Joe. I have the team working on some things now. But can I ask why the rush?”

  “Come on up to my office, Leslie. I was just about to go find you.”

  Leslie entered Joe’s office. He was a middle-aged man who had served with INR for over twenty-five years. He served as the Deputy Director of the Africa Directorate, and never promoted again. It did not trouble the man. He always felt more comfortable inside INR’s analytical offices, and senior executive service (SES) never really excited him. A higher pension and rank were not worth the years of headaches, inability to implement change, and time spent traveling to unproductive conferences. Joe was where he belonged.

  “Leslie, what I’m about to tell you stays with us, got it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Langley’s real concern is that Islamic State HQ has directed someone at the Kenema Mosque to transport an individual with Ebola to the United States. Larry and I think it is insane. Langley concurs. The probability of even trying is less than ten percent while the probability of success is near zero percent.”

  “If everyone is so sure the hypothesis is nuts, then why task my team?”

  “Langley wants another look. And you’re the best in this part of the world, Leslie.”

  Leslie sat back in her chair and looked into Joe’s eyes. The idea did not seem as far-fetched to Leslie. Groupthink in the intelligence community regularly leads to failure. She thought back to the 9/11 failure where most terrorism and Al Qaeda analysts couldn’t imagine a scenario that involved planes flying into the world trade center towers and the Pentagon. This had the same feeling, she thought to herself.