The mission had a myriad of different links, all which, if broken, would guarantee failure, but the biggest one was the elimination of the church group. It was the most important element, and he needed to be there for that. Needed to control the event and make sure the killing achieved its objectives. Death alone was nothing. They needed to assume the identities of the boys they killed, and he wasn’t sure the Lost Boys could do that on their own. He had no doubt they’d slaughter on command, but wasn’t convinced they had the vision to understand the delicate nature of the task.

He scrubbed his face with the towel and tossed it aside, thinking.

Jacob knows. Jacob can do it. But he has no real identity with the Islamic State. And the other Lost Boys are children looking for a home.

It was a problem he’d seen over and over while trying to build a true Islamic army. Foreign fighters flocked to the Islamic State, but most for the wrong reasons. They professed allegiance, but not for the true love of Islam. Instead of Islam drawing them in, it was their own sorry existence in whatever country they came from pushing them out, like a mother bird getting rid of a weakling. Unlike the true visionaries of Afghanistan, Chechnya, and Iraq, these men came without devotion to Islam. They came with a void to fill, and used Islam to satisfy the emptiness. They came to become something they were not.

It worked well on the battlegrounds of Iraq, where cannon fodder was needed, but was not something he trusted here, where the attack was built on the intelligence and commitment of the men. In this, he understood the slow fight of al Qaida. Understood the reasons of the Khorasan group, even as he fought them on the plains of Syria. He also recognized his own limitations.

Omar wasn’t the man for this mission. His skill was the seizure of terrain. The overt crushing of towns, cities, and provinces. He’d proven that first in Dagestan, then in Mosul. He wasn’t Mohamed Atta, and wished fervently for such an iron commitment from the Lost Boys. That man understood this type of mission. When Atta looked out of the window of American Airlines flight 11, seeing the New York skyline, he knew what it meant to be a martyr, unlike the foreign fighters Omar sent into battle.

Those men, like the Brit he’d sent to Jordan, were at most losers looking to kill just to prove their worth. Cutting off heads on camera as if that made him worthy. Omar had heard Jacob call him Ringo, and, while he should have put a stop to it, he’d actually thought it funny.

Jacob was a different animal. Omar wasn’t sure what drove him forward, but he was made of the same steel as Mohamed Atta. And he’d proved it on the border crossing into Turkey.

They’d driven through the desert only at night, the Lost Boys in the back and him at the wheel. During the day, they’d hidden in enclaves held by sympathizers of the Islamic State. Or at least people who were afraid of feeling the Islamic State’s wrath.

The black flags of the State were harder to find now because of the unrelenting air strikes, but at least he knew they wouldn’t kill a solitary vehicle. He kept going, feeling the press of time.

They reached the border of Turkey at a sympathetic crossing. One that had been reliably used as a veritable fountain of men flocked to their cause. There, Omar had learned that the state of play had shifted.

Before, Turkey had allowed anyone willing to fight the hated regime of Bashar al-Assad free passage, no matter their allegiance or group. Had allowed anyone who wanted to kill into the cauldron, but during the time Omar had been fighting in Iraq, something had changed. Now the passage was blocked.

He’d rolled into the checkpoint, moving slowly, seeing the barrels burning and the men standing around with AK-47s. One held out his hand. He stopped.

The man said, “Who are you and where are you going?”

As he had in the past, he held out the bribe and said, “Who I am is of no concern. I’m going where I’m going.” The man took the money, then looked in the back. Omar sensed something was amiss. He could see it in the attitude of the men manning the checkpoint.

The sentry, his face completely covered in a keffiyeh, had said, “Show me identification. Are you a Kurd? PKK?”

Omar had breathed a silent relief. They were more concerned with the Kurdistan Workers’ Party flowing through here fighting the Islamic State than any attempt at catching him. As strange as it was, they cared more about the slow insurgency in their own country than the raging bonfire just south of the border. Something he could use.

“No. I’m not PKK. Or YPG. Or anything Kurdish. I’m Chechen, and I’m just trying to get home.”

The man’s eyes had hardened, and the rifle brought to bear. “Chechen how? What have you been doing in Syria?”

Omar realized too late the man cared about more than just Turkish interests. The crusaders had managed to actually get something done. Had managed to make the Turks look for the danger in their midst. And now he was in trouble.

He looked at the men around the fire barrel, all alert and pointing weapons. Not yet hostile, but he could sense the potential violence from them.

28

Omar had thought about running the man over and fleeing, turning back into the heart of Syria, when Jacob had shouted from the bed of the truck.

“What the fuck is going on? Can we not pass? Get me the hell out of this place.”

The man with the weapon snapped up at the words and, in halting English, said, “Who are you?”

“Braden Smith. American journalist. Trying to get the fuck out of this hellhole. I made the mistake of coming here, and barely escaped with my life. Let us through. I’ll pay you. Just let us through. I’m done with this shit.”

The man had paused, then said, “Who is back there with you?”

“My camera crew.”

While Omar sat still, the man had walked to the back of the pickup, seeing nothing. He said, “Where are the cameras?”

Jacob had leaned out of the bed and shouted, “They were taken from us! Right before they threatened to cut our heads off! Jesus Christ. We’re American citizens. Let us through!”

Omar had seen the emotion on his face, and was amazed. He really was a reporter in that moment.

The man had said, “Okay, okay. No problem. Follow me. We need to record your passports.”

“Why?”

“It’s a new rule. Blame America. They want to track people like you. We record your passports with a phone, and you get to leave. Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to.”

“No, no. I’m fine with that. What about my driver?”

“He must remain.”

“He saved our lives. He wants to leave as well.”

“He can’t.”

“He can.”

“No, he can’t. Get out.”

At that moment, Omar had known the mission was done. If they couldn’t even cross out of Syria, they had no chance of penetrating Rome.

Jacob had lightly jumped down and said, “Where do we go?”

The man had pointed to a small shack made of scrounged plywood and tin. “There. We’ll take your information, then you walk.”

Jacob said, “Fine. Devon, Carlos, get out.”

Both men jumped down, looking confused, but saying nothing. Jacob said, “How can we get our truck through?”

“You can’t. You need a pass, and there’s no way to get one from south of the border.”

“But you have them in that building?”

Now relaxed, the man laughed and said, “Yes, but your man isn’t getting one. If you want to spend the night here, I suppose you can.”

Omar had sat with the engine ticking, wondering what he was going to do. Jacob had walked to his window and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Get ready to drive.”

Omar said, “They can’t take a recording of your passport. That can’t get into the system.”