The Yemeni then spent the day trying to reach his contact, the man he knew only as the Saudi. Al-Matari and each of his cell members had loaded the application Silent Phone onto their smartphones, and with this app they could communicate via end-to-end encryption, using either instant messaging or voice calls, and they could also send files to one another.
Al-Matari, however, was the only one in America who had access to the Saudi, in theory anyway. And he’d been trying unsuccessfully to reach his shadowy benefactor all day long.
For some reason the Saudi wasn’t returning al-Matari’s messages or calls. With each passing hour, time where al-Matari learned more and more about the attack in Sicily from the local news while the man who was supposed to send him his attack orders here in America remained nonresponsive, the Yemeni’s anger grew. He knew the Sicilian attack was an Islamic State action — they’d proven it with social media posts of the attackers setting off from Syria — and even from the small bits of information he could glean from the twenty-four-hour news networks he could tell it had all the hallmarks of a targeted act, using specific intelligence on the whereabouts and histories of the victims, exactly as he had been promised.
Finally, at ten p.m. Chicago time, he looked down at his phone and saw he had a new message from the Saudi instructing al-Matari to call. He immediately stepped into his private quarters on the second floor of the safe house and dialed the man’s number. After taking a few seconds for the end-to-end encryption to be established, the Saudi answered.
“I received ten calls and messages from you. I am a busy man. What is it that cannot wait?”
“I see you are busy. Busy in Italy. You should have told me there would be attacks in Europe.”
The Saudi showed no contrition at all. “You have several cells under you, but you are just one part of the international operations of the caliphate. No one promised you full-scope knowledge of all worldwide operations.”
“Listen to you. You aren’t even a member of the Islamic State.”
“Don’t doubt my loyalty, or my resolve, brother.”
Al-Matari didn’t trust this Saudi one bit. He was about to snap back a retort when the man spoke again.
“Anyway, you should be glad the Americans have other places to focus their attention.”
“Well, I am not glad. I am here, my operatives are ready, and each day we wait to begin is a further threat to the security of our operation. You promised me targets!”
“And you shall have them.”
“When?”
The Saudi sighed, then said, “I understand your concern, but I have been very busy with other important affairs. Give me one more day. I will have something for you then.”
Al-Matari was not going to be led around by the nose by this man. “Perhaps I should begin choosing alternative targets.”
The Saudi shouted into the phone now. “One day! Do nothing for one day!”
The Yemeni in the Chicago brownstone replied, “If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, if you don’t have operations for my teams, then I will begin without your intelligence.” Musa al-Matari disconnected the cell, his hands shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was fury at the Saudi or the passion he felt to start his work.
More than 7,000 miles away, Sami bin Rashid looked at the dead phone in his hand, then out the window to his office at the Dubai skyline.
“Waa faqri,” he said. Damn it.
It was obvious al-Matari thought the Saudi was holding out on him, but the truth of the matter was that bin Rashid’s contact, the man who had promised to pass him intel on American military and intelligence targets inside America, was holding out on bin Rashid. Yes, he’d passed on the intelligence about Sigonella air base, and a few more European-based targets, and these bin Rashid sent on to ISIS’s Foreign Intelligence Bureau. Most all of their operations against the West had been in Europe, and bin Rashid knew enough about their organization to know that the head of ISIS’s FIB himself was born in France to Tunisian parents and raised in Paris. Clearly from yesterday’s news, active European cells had been called in to execute the Sicilian attack, but Sami bin Rashid had no command and control over this operation at all.
He wasn’t Foreign Intelligence Bureau of ISIS — as al-Matari had said, he wasn’t even ISIS.
What he was, however, was the guy with the money and the intelligence to craft the American operation. Or, at least, that was how he had sold himself.
But up till now he had failed to come through, and the reason bin Rashid did not have the targets was also the reason he was not forthcoming to al-Matari about the delay.
The bastard who did claim to have the real-time targeting intelligence was putting more money on American-based packages. He’d sold the intel on a Navy pilot in Italy, and on other men and women in and around other bases in Europe involved in the attacks on ISIS, but he’d recently doubled his fee for American intelligence inside America, citing his own security. It was a ridiculous claim. The man had spent the past four months promising to Sami bin Rashid to deliver that which he now refused to deliver, and all the while he knew his security was just as good, or just as lax, as he made it for himself.
Bin Rashid knew this was just a shakedown for more money; the man was an infidel with no god, and this was to be expected. But bin Rashid had worked on the outskirts of the business and intelligence worlds for his whole career, and knew he needed to push back against the greed. He had been in the game long enough to know that acquiescing to a source’s demands often only led to more demands, and he’d argued more than once with the unknown man he knew of solely by his code name, INFORMER. But now time was running out. Al-Matari was a strong-willed man, of this bin Rashid had no doubt. If he didn’t get targets immediately, the man staged in the Chicago safe house would start attacking sites across America, and he and his cells would be lost without maximizing their impact while alive and operational. Bin Rashid knew the only way America would come to the Middle East in massive numbers would be if the President of the United States had his back to the wall with his own military and intel leaders, and this would happen only with a real military and intelligence threat.
Bin Rashid needed targets, and he needed them right now. He’d ask Riyadh for the approval to pay INFORMER what he wanted, and he’d make it clear to the man with all the information that there would be no more negotiations.
Four hours later Sami bin Rashid finally had his approval from the intelligence director of Saudi Arabia, the money had been moved into covert Dubai accounts, and bin Rashid was ready to purchase quality intelligence.
Now the Saudi in Dubai held his phone to his ear and waited while a secure connection was established between himself and INFORMER. To his relief, the call was answered quickly.
INFORMER, whoever he was, spoke English with some sort of an accent that bin Rashid did not have the ability to discern. He wondered if the man was Russian, but that was one hundred percent conjecture.
INFORMER said, “Good day, my friend. How may I be of service?”
The Saudi had spoken to INFORMER a few times over the phone, and now, as always, he found the man lighthearted and almost charming, as if everything was calm and going according to plan, no matter the topic at hand.
Bin Rashid’s patience had worn through, though, so he did not repay the kind tone with friendliness of his own.
He said, “I need specifics from you. I need you to provide what you promised, and I need you to do it now.”