Kerry bristled and said, “You want to get into the blame game, I’ll start with State’s ignoring Iraq five years ago.”

President Warren cut him off. “Enough. There’s no reason to rehash what-ifs. Only what-nows. So, what now?”

“We’ve got Rivet Joint trying to suck every bit of communications from the site, and have it blanketed with UAVs, but they’re not getting a whole lot. There’s no GSM cell coverage in that area, only satellite, and we’re not getting any radio traffic. The UAVs are seeing movement, but no black flags or technical vehicles. Just people.”

“But wouldn’t they do that if we hit them? Hide, I mean? Haven’t they done that everywhere else?”

“Yes, they have, but that’s not enough to blow it all up. An absence of evidence of ISIL isn’t evidence of ISIL. We did strike a convoy north of the compound that made the mistake of trying to shoot down our drone. We had positive ID of a hostile force in that case. In the compound, all we had was a cellular signal and a bunch of movement.”

“So, I ask again, what now?”

Kerry said, “Well, the SIGINT from across the entire area of operations—outside of the target—has pretty much confirmed that we killed the emir of northern Syria, Adnan al-Tayyib. We thought he was just facilitating the oil field workers, but it turns out, he was much, much bigger. The Islamic State leadership is segmented into four operational areas, and we just killed one. It’s a pretty good day for the red, white, and blue.”

President Warren’s face turned sour at the bravado. He said, “How do we capitalize on that? Can the Taskforce do anything?”

Kerry turned to Kurt Hale and he said, “I’ve got Pike’s team finishing up cover duties in Nigeria. Doing the basic covering of their tracks. The Omega package and support team redeployed without any issues, and are on standby. I’ve also got Johnny’s team prepping for deployment to Turkey, just in case. He’s not ready to go yet, but I can flex Pike in a day or two. The problem is we don’t have anything to go on. There’s no thread, and we still can’t penetrate into Syria. The Islamic State itself is a granite wall. They need to come to a different playing field.”

President Warren tapped the desk with a finger, then said, “Isn’t that what these Lost Boys are planning? Leaving Syria and coming to the West? Jesus, we’re just sitting here waiting to get punched.”

Kerry saw his frustration and said, “Sometimes you just wait it out. Let them make a mistake and give us the break. Forcing the issue leads to missed opportunities.”

President Warren took that in, then, in a slow, measured tone, said, “I don’t want the ‘break’ to be a bunch of dead bodies from some assholes holding American passports. Tracking them down after the fact plays well in the press, but preventing the attack is what matters.”

The room became quiet. After the silence grew uncomfortable, Kerry said, “Sir, I understand. I don’t think I was clear. Usually, we’ll get something from the chatter. Someone will break operational security and ask for guidance or permission for something, now that the chain of command is in disarray. The Lost Boys are a threat, but they won’t solve the problem of the Islamic State. We killed a very big fish, and now we’re looking for a specific name.”

“Who?”

“A Chechen. Omar al-Khatami. Adnan obviously lived in the shadows, since we didn’t know his importance. He had the ear of the senior leadership, but Omar is the reason they’ve succeeded as much as they have. He’s an absolute killer, and a strategic genius who learned his talent fighting the Russians. Killing Adnan might cause spiritual and leadership issues, but he had no skill in the fight. Omar is the sword he wielded, and we’ve been trying to find him for a long time.”

“So this targeting might lead us to him?”

“Yes. With any luck.”

“And that would be a good thing?”

“Yes. He’s the military commander who took all the terrain in Iraq. The man who swept through Mosul on his way to Irbil before we initiated air strikes. Adnan may have been the emir, but Omar is the real target. We get him, and we knock them back on their heels.”

“So you think he’s more important than the reporting of these American ‘Lost Boys’?”

“Oh yeah. Much more. The Lost Boys are just stray voltage at this point. We don’t even know if they’re real.”

Kerry closed his briefing book. “The only way I’d lose sleep over them is if I heard Omar al-Khatami was in charge of their targets.”

19

Feeling completely out of place, Ali Jaafar Hussein waited for his father in the lobby of the five-star Grand Hyatt hotel. He felt the stares of the hotel staff and knew they weren’t misguided. He didn’t belong here. He only hoped his father wouldn’t throw him out. If that happened, if he had to report failure, he was sure he’d be beheaded by Omar. Even here in Jordan.

The trip out of Syria had been surreal, starting with the bombing of the VIP residence at the camp. The regular fighters had fled their tents in a convoy of Toyota pickup trucks, driving off into the darkness and leaving the men in the two-story building behind. Omar wouldn’t allow his team to do the same. He’d forced everyone out of the building, marching them on foot into the desert, where they’d curled up into balls to ward off the nighttime chill. They saw air strikes in the distance, to the north, and Omar had said, “Idiots. They made themselves a target.”

When dawn broke, and no further missiles had come down, he’d allowed them to return to the camp. Barking in sharp, clipped sentences, he’d instructed them to pack their belongings and load up the remaining Toyota HiLuxes.

Hussein brought his meager possessions downstairs, but didn’t know which vehicle to board, Ringo’s team or the Lost Boys’. He was slated for Jordan with Ringo, but Ringo was driving to al Qa’im, a town on the Iraqi border, and then south, through the desert, to slip across Jordan’s border to Ma’an. Hussein was supposed to use his American passport to fly from Istanbul.

He looked for Omar and saw him across the compound, digging in the dirt for something. Omar bent over, picked up an object, then came walking back. Hussein saw a phone in his hand.

Omar said, “What are you waiting for?”

“Which truck should I use? The one going to Jordan, or yours?”

“Mine.” He turned and shouted into the building. “Come on. Time to go.”

The men gathered around and he said, “We’re leaving sooner than I wished, but the Americans have clearly found this place. They won’t shoot individual trucks without positive proof of the Islamic State, so don’t give them any.”

Ringo said, “How did they locate us? How did they know where the emir was staying?”

Omar held out his hand, showing the Thuraya phone Adnan had given him. “Through one of these.”

Ringo shuffled his feet, wanting to say something else, and Omar said, “Load up. The Jordan team in the last two trucks. The Lost Boys in the lead truck.”

Everyone began moving except Jacob. Omar said, “Load the truck.”

Jacob said, “Why did you retrieve the phone if the Americans are tracking it? We’ll get killed on the move. You say don’t give them a reason to attack, and yet you’re holding the reason.”

Hussein saw Omar start to boil over, but Jacob stood his ground, unperturbed at any potential outcome, his eyes devoid of life, pale blue like the meat stamp on a haunch of rump steak. Amazingly, Hussein watched Omar back down.

He said, “The attack last night was from a drone. It was surgical, directed to that one building. They could have used a flight of aircraft and obliterated this place. They did not. If they were going after this phone, it would have been struck last night, and I’m glad it wasn’t. It is our contact for the explosives for your mission. A necessary risk.”