“All I can say at this point and time, Mr. President, is the BlackBerry found at the scene is definitely a Russian make with Russian Cyrillic on the keypad, and in the display window. We even traced the serial numbers on the processing boards within the unit itself and followed it to a manufacturing firm in Minsk. But we believe Perchenko is working independently. I don’t believe the Russian government has a hand in any of this. But again, we’re looking at all angles at this time and dismissing none. On the surface it looks like the Arabs were working strictly with an independent agent.”
The president gingerly laid the photos on the desktop. “Upon further assessment, do you believe a terrorist faction succeeded in getting a unit across the border?”
Craner’s demeanor became less hardened. “Yes, sir, I do. Cells work independently from one another in case one gets caught so others can succeed. There’s no doubt in my mind they achieved the means by slipping at least one unit onto American soil.”
The president’s voice remained inquisitively impassive. “And maybe more?”
Craner nodded. “Yes, sir. But how many more is unknown at this time.”
Burroughs tented his fingers and bounced them off the base of his chin, his mind working, the tapping steady and metered like the needle of a metronome. And then, “I’m going to call the Russian president and hold him indirectly responsible for what has happened,” he said. “Of course he’ll deny everything and shove my words back down my throat, but the moment I get off the phone you know he’ll be in contact with all his resources to confirm if what I said is true. I want all our intelligence resources up and running. I want every one of our agencies intercepting everything the Russians are throwing across their airwaves regarding Perchenko. I want to know how many weapons this man sold to the insurgents. And I definitely want to make one thing very clear — and this specifically pertains to you, Doug, and whatever coverts we have in Russia. I want Perchenko found and terminated the moment we confirm the amount of weapons sold and displaced on American soil. And I want all of you to understand — and I think all of you do understand — that our backs are pressing hard against the wall right now. All I’m asking you to do as the elite team I picked you for is to give me your absolute best. Have I made myself very, very clear?”
There was a group murmur that sounded more like a chorus of drunken slurs.
“Then let’s get moving, people. I need to know where those weapons are.”
President Burroughs was true to his word when he stated he would call the president of Russia and proffer threats and ultimatums, knowing full well they would be nothing more than idle bullying that were, of course, met by the political macho posturing of his Russian counterpart. However, the response he needed by the Russian principals to better serve his needs was for them to trigger all inquiries within their own administration, which were duly intercepted under the close scrutiny of American espionage and ingenuity.
Russian agencies quickly colluded with one another in the subsequent aftermath, making Perchenko the hot topic of the day. Suddenly there were explorations into his life such as to what was he doing? What was his activity in respect to established bank accounts since his departure from the Directorate S? And then there were further inquiries regarding Yorgi Perchenko’s black marketing schemes and alleged activities. But foremost they wanted to know where Perchenko was, which placed him within the crosshairs for removal long before American intelligence had the opportunity to find him first. Either way, Yorgi Perchenko had become a marked man.
And this pleased the president to no end. He had accomplished his goal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Al-Khatib Hakam graduated from Columbia University with honors at the age of nineteen. He stood five six, was willow thin, and possessed the face of a child, but the mind of a leading academic. Subdued in manner and usually in control of his emotions, Hakam spoke little but walked with the air and confidence of a man twice his size.
He is also a natural born citizen of the United States — from Dearborn, Michigan.
And he is al-Qaeda.
Growing up in Dearborn held little reprisal since the community in general was of Arab ethnicity. However, having been accepted into Columbia University proved difficult, even for an emancipated child prodigy whose life changed dramatically by the age of seventeen.
Less than a week after his seventeenth birthday, and standing on the southeast corner of 42nd and Madison Avenue in New York City, al-Khatib Hakam had a reawakening. Across the street he observed a food vendor, an Arab, who was taking a quick respite from his duties by paying homage to his god. The man was bowing and kneeling over a prayer rug, his hands held out before him in reverence, his eyes closed and lips moving in silence as he raised and lowered himself over the carpet in constant motion.
And in a land that preaches tolerance as a virtue, al-Khatib Hakam beheld the intolerable.
In a city that was alive with throngs of people crowding every inch of walking pavement, al-Khatib Hakam watched as three powerfully built males surrounded the Arab as he prayed, the men chiding and laughing until one of them hauled the Arab to his feet by the collar of his shirt. From a distance al-Khatib Hakam could hear the crude remarks regarding the man’s religion and his ‘apparent’ audacity to pray with Ground Zero just a few miles away. He heard the word ‘disrespect,’ which was quickly followed by a racist slur and a tirade of spewing profanity.
And nobody appeared to take care, as smartly dressed people from every direction took a wide berth and ignored the situation completely, moving on as if the norm was to close their eyes to things that did not affect them.
And then al-Khatib Hakam understood, his epiphany striking him as if a door suddenly opened to a room of wondrous secrets: Although he was born American, he would never truly be American because of the vilification of his people.
Raising a hand before him, the young Arab examined it, turning it over and noticing the pigmentation on his palm was lighter than the rest of his flesh — still white, but different. When he lowered his hand he noticed the three men gone, leaving the vendor on his knees weeping into the fabric of his carpet, which he pressed close to him as if it was an ailing child. It was at this standstill moment of time when something clicked inside of Hakam.
For nights and weeks and months he never forgot that moment of persecution as a wicker slowly burned inside him, working its way to igniting the time bomb he had become. What he needed was something more than what the world of academia could offer him, something that would make him whole and responsive and utterly complete.
What he found was faith.
In New York City mosques were everywhere. However, Hakam found his true calling when he was introduced and infused with fundamentalist Muslim rhetoric. The cleric’s words were powerful and pulling, drawing young Hakam into the clutches of obsession for which he desperately needed to know his true fate in the eyes of his new-found god, Allah. And like many others like him he was anointed as a soldier in the eyes of his god, for which there was no greater honor. Al-Khatib Hakam was now complete.
His mantra: Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest.
In the pursuing years young Hakam had an affinity for learning foreign languages and excelled in International Studies, becoming fluent in nine languages by the time he graduated from Columbia. By twenty-one he was a reigning member of al-Qaeda, his intelligence serving him well on the American front.