“If all I wanted were the weapons, I wouldn’t even bother killing Omar. I’d just get them back.”

When neither man spoke, he continued, “The Albanians have no idea what Omar has planned. Only he knows that, which is why we will capture him. I want to know his plan, and, as I told our command, I want to facilitate its success. Only with our mantle. Our leadership. He will tell us what he’s doing, and we will deliver the weapon to his team. And then we will claim credit, as we are about to do in Jordan. We will be the undisputed leaders, regardless of the propaganda from that blasphemous caliphate.”

Hashim smiled at his words, nodding and looking at his partner. He said, “I thought so. I said as much to Kamal.”

Kamal bowed his head to Rashid and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question. We have the weapons you requested. We can do what you say. Insha’Allah, it will be done.”

Rashid said, “Look at me. Both of you.”

They did.

“Are you prepared to find martyrdom tomorrow?”

The both nodded, with Hashim saying, “Of course. It would be our honor.”

“Are you prepared to do so without accomplishing our mission? Do you want to meet Allah and tell him failure?”

Confused, they both slowly shook their heads.

Rashid stood, walking to the small kitchen and opening a bottle of water. He took a sip, reflecting, then said, “Allah will help us on our path, but make no mistake, He won’t protect us from the Chechen demon. I’ve met that man once before, and it wasn’t pleasant. Underestimate him, and you’ll meet the afterlife sooner than you want.”

48

Omar al-Khatami said, “Destroy the phone we’re talking on as soon as we hang up. Use that email to communicate. Nothing else. Do you understand?”

He heard Jacob say, “Yes. It will be done. See you in four days.”

Omar said, “As-salamu alaykum.” Peace be with you. He clicked off the satellite phone he’d been given by Adnan, finding no irony in the farewell. He stared at the phone in his hand, considering. He had the meeting time and place, but this phone was the one link should anything change. It was the only way the Albanians knew to contact him—but now it was connected to al-Britani like a cancer, and Omar was sure, since he hadn’t called back, that the British fighter was dead.

Al-Britani had called him in a panic, shouting into the phone that he had been tricked and was moving the assault up immediately, then had said he’d call back later. That had been twelve hours ago, and he’d heard neither from the Brit nor seen any news relating to a spectacular attack in Amman. He had to assume the worst: The attack in Jordan had failed—or, thinking with the glass half full, the planned diversion had succeeded—which meant someone could be tracking this phone right now based on the last call al-Britani had made.

And Omar had seen what happened when the hated crusaders found a phone. He glanced unconsciously out the window, as if he could hear the vapor trail from the Hellfire missile.

The vision made the decision for him. He separated the phone from the battery, dropped it on the floor, then smashed it with his boot. If the Albanians changed the meeting time or place, he’d have to deal with it. Best case, when they couldn’t contact him, someone would show up to tell him the change. Worst case, they would have to reassess their attack plan without the special explosives and detonators.

The explosives were really the least of his worries. They were critical, but he could get other means of attack and still use the Trojan horse Jacob was building right this minute, but such planning would fail if he couldn’t trust Jacob. Al-Britani had said that Hussein was a traitor—and Hussein was a Lost Boy. In fact, he was the man who had recruited the entire team of Lost Boys now executing the mission in Venice.

That idiot Brit had killed Hussein in a rage, not even bothering to question him, so there was no way to know who Hussein was working for or what he had divulged. Maybe he’d simply been compromised by Jordanian authorities. After all, the entire purpose of the Jordan mission had been a diversionary attack designed to suck in the crusader’s intelligence apparatus and camouflage the primary mission. Maybe that had happened, but Omar couldn’t ignore the ramifications of the Lost Boys.

Carlos and Devon had embraced the strictures of the Islamic State much like the multitude of Western foreign fighters pouring into Syria, but Jacob was different. He’d shown commitment, but he had always been aloof. He’d sworn allegiance to the Islamic State, but had refused to change his name. He followed orders, but questioned them.

Omar thought about it, then decided such actions alone tended to show he wasn’t a traitor. If he were truly sent as a spy, if he truly intended to destroy the very attack he was working, would he act in such a manner?

Omar couldn’t see it, which made him turn back to Carlos and Devon. They acted as he would expect the traitor to act. Perfectly in accordance with the Islamic State. But they were also simpletons, showing no subterfuge or higher-order intelligence.

Jacob had sounded fine on the phone, asking about Hussein after he was told of the failed attack, but not overtly upset. He’d also detailed an elaborate plan to accomplish the mission, the pride at his work seeping through the phone. The target set had grown from just the group to some unknown female as well, a touch that sounded genuine.

But Jacob was smart. No doubt if he wanted to trick Omar, he would have woven a tapestry to cover his treachery. In fact, his nonallegiance to the Islamic State may be just that—a double-blind performance designed precisely to protect him from scrutiny, because nobody planning a traitorous operation would act that way.

Omar snorted at his own paranoia, rubbing his face in frustration. He was doing nothing but spinning himself into the ground, his theories sounding more like the rantings of a crazy man than a leader of all external operations for the Islamic State.

He wished he could travel to Venice to see just what Jacob was up to.

49

Chris Fulbright hustled about his small room, moving one suitcase to the bed to get him access to the minibar. Right on the water on the southern edge of the island city-state, the Hotel Savoia e Jolanda was pricey, but still adhered to the Venetian rules of lodging. The room was the size of a postage stamp. Not that he’d be doing anything but sleeping in here anyway. He’d laid out cash from a tax-deferred mutual fund for his love nest, two thousand dollars dropped into a pay-as-you-go credit card. He’d pay the penalty to the IRS, but his wife would never know.

He popped a beer, not caring that it was probably twelve dollars. He’d find some way to claim it. Fax from the business center, Internet usage, something. After all, he was chosen for this excursion precisely because his company did business in Italy. For the boys, this was the trip of a lifetime, but for him, it was work. Well, he’d call it work, anyway.

His company had aggressively attempted to gain an entry into the European continent, and through his efforts, they’d found a possible Italian contract for their services. While the Italian company was based in Rome, the key player of that endeavor lived in Venice. The perfect cover for his planned tryst. A little work, and a little head.

He thought again about the gondola ride, and took a swig of beer, wondering if the boys could see through his excuse for tonight. Tomorrow was taken care of. The boys knew he’d be working all day, but leaving each night was a risk. He was still crafting his story when he heard a small snick under the door.