Adnan took a date from a bowl, popped it into his mouth, and said, “Yes.”

Omar said, “Adnan, I don’t think you know the history between us. He won’t help the Islamic State. He and I have had some issues.”

Adnan laughed and said, “Issues? From what I hear, he would like nothing more than to skin you alive. But he’s dealing with me. He doesn’t know about you, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“Why would he help? We broke from al Qaida, and when we did, we slaughtered al-Nusra in Aleppo. I know. I did the killing. I came close to beheading Rashid myself, but he got away, running through our checkpoints dressed as a woman in a niqab. They’re nothing but pompous asses putting out tapes, but they’ve sworn vengeance. Tell me we haven’t put the success of the attack in their hands.”

“They are pompous, spouting proclamations from hiding, but they also have much greater expertise in making improvised explosives. Expertise they intended to use to attack the crusaders, but were prevented. They now want to give that expertise to us, courtesy of the United States.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember the initiation of the crusader air strikes after we threatened Irbil? When they bombed individual tanks and empty buildings all night in a great show of force?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the Western press hysteria about the ‘Khorasan group’? How they were an al Qaida offshoot and were on the verge of a spectacular attack, so they bombed them as well?”

“Yes, yes. What’s the point?”

“Those stories were true. The Khorasan group has been perfecting nonmetallic methods of explosives to be used in bringing down a multitude of aircraft in an attack that would span the globe. Methods which can defeat almost all detection capabilities, but the air strikes wiped out most of the participants. But not the expertise. The explosives research was completed, and the attack was being planned. As always, the devil was in the delivery, not the device. The crusaders drove al-Nusra to us. I reached out, and they agreed to pass the explosives. We will use them for our attack, courtesy of the Algerian.”

“So the man who’s been teaching them all of those strange things knows the weapon system? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Is he Jabhat al-Nusra as well?”

“Yes.”

Omar stood, tossing the phone on a pillow and saying, “If you think the Algerian will help me—help us—you’re wrong. He’s using this as a means to attack. As a way to get inside.”

“Omar, I was Jabhat al-Nusra before I joined the Islamic State. Even that arrogant British fighter you’ve chosen for the Jordanian mission was al-Nusra before. I still have contacts there, and so does he.” He smiled. “Contacts that don’t want to kill me. If I am the intermediary, they’ll do as they say. They want to harm the crusaders much, much more than they do us.”

“Maybe you. I doubt the fire has left their belly for me.”

Adnan picked up the phone and handed it back. “It’s already done. They’re delivering the explosives to Albania. A man in that country—who has no knowledge of you—is the contact. He thinks he’s dealing with me. You answer that phone and don’t tell him otherwise.”

Omar took the phone, shaking his head. “You just said Rashid would call.”

“Rashid delivered the explosives to the contact. The contact is calling you.”

Omar sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I’m sending my men to Jordan tomorrow. They will succeed. The Lost Boys are going to Istanbul. I have the tour schedule for the Americans, and can interdict them. I can control all of that, but without your explosives, I can do nothing. I control nothing for that mission. And yet you tell me to succeed.”

“You will succeed. We will succeed. Who stands in our way? The Syrians? The Americans? The Iranians? They all fight each other, handing us the caliphate.”

“The Iranians are no problem. Their fighting in Iraq helps us forge the true Islamic world. The undecided despise them, and fear the Shia militias enough to succumb to us. The Americans are a different story. They know nothing of Islam and blunder around like a drunken dog, but they should not be underestimated.”

Adnan waved his hand. “What have they done but help us? They struck some tanks and killed the Khorasan group, giving us the means to attack.”

Omar opened the door, saying, “Maybe. But remember, I didn’t succeed in Mosul because I underestimated the enemy.”

Adnan laughed and said, “Don’t build yourself up into something you’re not. The Islamic State won in Mosul. Our message won. Not you.”

Omar felt his face grow red. He came close to a rebuttal, but nodded and slammed the door, walking swiftly away. It wasn’t until he was across the compound, about to reenter the training wing and inform the Lost Boys of their trip, before a buzz penetrated through his anger.

The same faint noise he had heard multiple times.

Drone.

He stopped and scanned the sky, hoping to see the aircraft break the light of the stars. He saw nothing. He strained his ears to locate the noise, still staring hard. He caught a flash, then a sputtering of light streaking toward the emir’s residence.

Hellfire missile.

He dove to the ground, and the missile sliced through a window, looking deceptively small, like a bottle rocket spouting sparks. The earth split open, lighting up the night sky, the building torn from the inside out, masonry falling like devil’s rain.

Men began spilling from the teaching residence, shouting and pointing. He stood up, screaming at them for silence, trying to determine if the floating death still circled.

He could not.

He felt a lump in his pocket and realized he still held the phone. He ripped it out of his pocket and hurled it across the compound, then began running.

18

Sitting behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office, President Warren said, “So we hit something big? More than just a facilitator for the oil fields?”

Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, said, “It appears so. The number the Taskforce found led us to an abandoned industrial facility. Flying just inside the Iraqi border, Rivet Joint picked up the phone signature—a lucky break for us—and a Reaper UAV delivered the surgical strike. We hit exactly what we aimed for, then the chatter lit up across the board.”

Because the lead came from the Taskforce, the meeting was restricted to what was colloquially called the “principles committee” of the Oversight Council. Five of the thirteen members had an overwhelming presence because of their past experiences and power, and President Warren had taken to bringing them together for discussions before engaging the entire Council. Sitting in the office were the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the national security adviser, the director of the CIA, and the president himself. Off to the left, in earshot, but not part of the official debate, sat Kurt Hale.

President Warren said, “What else was there?”

“A lot of personnel on the ground, but we couldn’t determine their status. This area hasn’t been on our intelligence picture before.”

President Warren said, “Why didn’t we just line it up into the queue for a package of air strikes? Smoke that place to the ground?”

Kerry looked at the secretary of defense, then back to the president. “Sir, it might be a training camp, but it might also be a place where refugees have fled. We just don’t know. The only thing we had was the SIGINT of the Thuraya phone.”

The SECDEF spoke up. “Sir, I agree with the surgical strike. You don’t want a bunch of women and kids on the news tomorrow. We just don’t have eyes on the ground to determine what’s real.”

Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “Because of that bastard Hussein. Could BOBCAT have told us?”