“I swear I will kill Brady Hawk myself,” he grumbled.
Restless after five minutes, Fazil arose and went to the kitchen to pour a drink. The rise of Al Hasib was marked by unfathomable success. Every operation, every outcome—they all went Fazil’s way. Such common and numerous victories made recruiting easy for him. He employed his charisma to persuade everyone from fence sitters to radical ideologues searching for a cause to join Al Hasib. But the publicity from Al Hasib’s triumphs over western institutions and ideals closed the recruitment process.
Fazil flipped through the report prepared while he was gone by his lieutenant Omar Totah. It detailed Al Hasib’s numbers in various cells around the globe, most of which had seen a considerable dip over the last twelve months. Perhaps the vision was too narrow or the tasks too mundane to keep recruits engaged. However Fazil wanted to spin it, he couldn’t deny he had a problem.
While Fazil had managed to remain hidden in plain sight throughout various countries sympathetic to his cause, it didn’t stop foreign governments from continuing their pursuit of him. The political tightrope many Middle Eastern nations walked was one they would’ve preferred to forego. But the threat of sanctions and aggressive military action for non-compliant countries resulted in assistance with western security forces that was little more than lip service. Fazil enjoyed the protection those nations afforded him, yet in order to truly empower Al Hasib to achieve the vision Fazil held for it, he didn’t need to waste his time hiding from the auspices of spying eyes with itchy trigger fingers. Ultimately, Fazil concluded that he needed to die.
While Fazil pored over the data found in the reports about the state of Al Hasib worldwide, his phone rang. Cyrus Bitar, who was known in the U.S. by his immigrant name Cyrus Black, was on the other end.
“I see you’re at it again,” Cyrus said once Fazil answered.
“There’s only one thing that will stop my efforts to rain down death and destruction on America.”
“That’s exactly why I was calling.”
Cyrus’s family entered the U.S. through legal immigration channels as refugees from the war-torn region of Khuzestan in southwest Iran in the late 1980s. Cyrus was a young boy at the time and quickly developed a strong affinity for his new country, so much so that he wanted to join the CIA. While attending UCLA, Cyrus quit practicing Islam and began to loathe the religious zealots who sought to bring terror to the doorstep of the United States. His obvious patriotism and command of both the Persian and Arabic languages made him a target for the CIA’s counterintelligence unit. Jumping at the opportunity to join, Cyrus rose through the ranks and became a well-respected member of the agency. However, when his father was mistakenly killed in an FBI raid at a Los Angeles mosque, Cyrus traveled back to Iran to bury the man who believed his family would be safe from the senseless violence in the U.S. With brewing animosity toward the U.S. government for what they did to his father, Cyrus spoke with two of his cousins and gained a fresh perspective on Islam as well as the motives of Al Hasib. Cyrus set up a contact protocol with them that would escape detection from American intelligence. Less than a year later, he was a well-placed asset within the CIA for Fazil.
Fazil shifted the papers on the counter. “I’m listening.”
“I now have access to the origination of several phone taps,” Cyrus said. “Some of them are shared by various intelligence agencies from European countries, others are U.S. based. Either way, I can tell you the names of several men you could contact to stage your death.”
“And how would they ever confirm my identity?”
“You have connections, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Have someone alter your DNA records with that of someone you know, someone who wouldn’t mind making the ultimate sacrifice to advance your mission.”
Fazil grinned. “I can make that happen.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the names of several contacts, perhaps even one you wouldn’t mind removing. Set up a meeting with them, and send your body double. Even if the intelligence community learns that you somehow survived, they will spin the attack as a victory.”
“Exactly what kind of attack are we talking about here?”
“A drone attack, of course.”
“As long as it’s not a sniper attack made by one Brady Hawk.”
“This will get him off your back for a while . . . and maybe even give you the opportunity you need to kill him.”
“I like the sound of this already.”
Fazil hung up and placed a call to Ahmad Maloof. For the past three years, Maloof led a group of jihadists in Afghanistan called Al Hurria. While they’d coordinated in the past on a couple of joint operations with Al Hasib, they often proved more trouble than they were worth.
Eliminating Maloof and letting the Americans do it for me? I must be in Paradise.
Maloof answered enthusiastically. In their brief times together, Fazil gleaned from their conversations that Maloof was jealous of Al Hasib’s publicity and success. Maloof’s organization had never surfaced on an international level. They hadn’t even done enough to garner the media’s attention. Maloof was the perfect target for Fazil.
“I was wondering if you might be interested in helping strike the American consulate in Baghdad,” Fazil said, dispensing with any notion of formality.
“Of course I’d be interested,” Maloof said before pausing. “What’s in it for Al Hurria?”
“All the glory.”
“You want us to take the credit?”
Fazil chuckled. “Of course, of course. Al Hasib has come under far too much scrutiny in recent days. I’d rather the intelligence community be reminded that there are other jihadists in the world.”
“I would be honored to take the credit, if
