Mohammed and Khebat departed the container ship in the waters off the Port of Mobile in much the same way as they boarded the ship. A sports fishing boat came alongside and the Syrians climbed onto its deck using the rope ladder. This was actually much more difficult than when they boarded the container ship. It was nearly impossible to see where they were stepping. Mohammed fully expected to end up in the Gulf, and he could not swim. Worse yet, he imagined being crushed between the two vessels.
The fishing boat was manned by a couple of hard-looking good old boys. These were not the pristine fishermen of advertisements with their Costa sunglasses, colorful Columbia fishing shirts, and G. Loomis hats. These were men burnt dark from the sun, with thick arms and sleeveless shirts. Each wore a long fixed-blade knife in a sheath. The captain carried a Glock on his hip.
Once they were safely aboard, a deckhand contemptuously pointed them to the cabin. He obviously did not care for these passengers. Among these type of men, the Syrians were simply another cargo they were paid to deliver. Last week it might have been heroin or cocaine. Next week it might be full-auto AKs. This week it just happened to be a couple of guys from the Middle East whom they wanted to know nothing about.
The captain navigated the boat up the Alabama River and toward a public dock several hours upstream of the Gulf. When they arrived, two men were waiting on the dock. As they drew closer, one of the boat crew drew a pump shotgun from a locker. He draped a towel over it to keep it hidden but ready. This did not concern the Syrian. They assumed there was cash involved and where there was cash, there would be guns. They were not so naïve as to think this scenic ride had come about as a result of charity or ideals.
Mohammed and Khebat did not know the men who met them at the dock but they were greeted in Arabic. After days with strangers it was good to be among people with whom they at least shared a common language.
The men who picked them up handed off a shiny new tackle box to the captain. Mohammed and Khebat were ushered away to the parking lot while the captain discreetly counted the money stacked in the tackle box. When he was satisfied that all the money was there, he nodded at a crewman, who reversed them away from the dock. The man with the shotgun did not lower it until they were well away from land.
The travelers stowed their packs in the rear of a white Chevy Tahoe and climbed into the back seat. Their journey continued with a drive several hours northeast. They engaged in trivial conversation with their hosts, no one mentioning anything that might be privileged or compartmentalized information. There was zero tolerance for compromised information, and only one fate for someone who talked too much.
It was dark when they arrived at a remote convenience store outside of some small Alabama town. The store was not part of a national chain or franchise, being what was typically referred to as a “mom and pop” operation. The store had living quarters upstairs that were the same size as the store.
The original owners of the store, an elderly couple, had lived up there for thirty years while operating the store. When they finally decided it was time to sell, they were pleased there was someone interested in buying the operation, though they were a little surprised to find that their buyers were of Middle Eastern descent. There weren’t many of their kind in the area. But a buyer was a buyer and money talked.
“This is where you will stay tonight,” the driver, a man who identified himself as Nasr, informed them.
“Only tonight?” Khebat asked.
“We will move you every night for a while,” Nasr said. “Just in case you are being followed.”
“You have that many safe locations?” Mohammed asked.
“We have hundreds,” Nasr replied.
“How so many?”
“We have been buying small stores with living quarters since 2008. It gives us a way to house people who need to move discreetly. People for whom hotels are not an option.”
“That’s incredible,” Khebat said.
Nasr parked the Tahoe behind the store. The men retrieved their backpacks and followed Nasr up a set of wooden stairs to a landing. Their host opened a cheap brown door and led them into a sparse apartment with green shag carpet and paneled walls.
“There is food and drink,” Nasr said. “The television works. There are two beds in each room and a bathroom at the end of the hall. My friend and I will be staying here with you tonight.”
“Is there internet available?” Khebat asked.
Nasr reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved a cellular hotspot. He tossed it to Khebat. “I was told you would need access.”
Khebat examined the device. It was battery operated. It had good charge and good signal. “If you will excuse us, we need to get caught up on a few things. Does it matter which room we take?”
“No,” Nasr replied. “Take whichever room suits you.”
“I’m grabbing a drink,” Mohammed said. “Do you want one?”
“Yes,” Khebat called, already in the empty bedroom unpacking his laptop.
Mohammed soon joined him, getting out his own laptop. With no furniture in the room other than beds, each took a bed and plugged their computers in. They logged onto the wireless network created by the hotspot.
“I’m going to check messages and social media,” Mohammed announced. “It would be helpful to me if you could check the spyware we placed on DeathMerchant6o6o6’s computer.”
“It will take a moment to process that,” Khebat said. “When his machine was on, it sent a data file to a server. I have to download the file and review it.”
Mohammed checked his various accounts. He’d received no messages from DeathMerchant6o6o6, which kind of surprised him. He’d expected to have one waiting on him.
“I’ve got a text file from the keylogger,” Khebat said. “It’s a small file. Looks mostly like websites and passwords.”
“Do you have the websites’ addresses?” Mohammed asked. “That could tell us something.”
“Reviewing them now.”
Mohammed began typing a message to DeathMerchant6o6o6 from the CamaroChick19 account.
“Ibn il sharmoota,” Khebat cursed.
“What is it, my brother? It isn’t like you to speak so.”
“DeathMerchant6o6o6 has repeatedly visited one site over and over again. It’s on social media.”
“CamaroChick19, right?” Mohammed said.
Khebat shook his head. “No. Amanda Castle.”
Mohammed frowned. “That name seems familiar from somewhere.”
“You’ll know the picture,” Khebat said, turning his laptop to where Mohammed could see it. On the screen was the profile of a very familiar young woman. The woman whose pictures Mohammed had been using for his CamaroChick19 profile.
“How?” Mohammed asked. “How did he find that profile?”
“Perhaps an image search,” Khebat said. “If he’s tech savvy at all it would not be difficult.”
Mohammed deleted the message he’d just written. He didn’t know what to do. If DeathMerchant6o6o6 contacted the woman she would not know him. It would come out that Mohammed had stolen those images for his own use. All of his work would unravel.
“Is this a problem?” Khebat asked. “Can’t we just proceed without him?”
“This plan hinges on having him take the blame,” Mohammed said. “It loses effectiveness if Americans can just dismiss it as another act of Middle Eastern terrorism. The real fear comes from it being one of their own. You saw how excited Miran was about that aspect of the plan. Do you want to disappoint him?”
Khebat did not, imagining the boiling oil filling his cavities. “What do you think your DeathMerchant knows?”
“I have no idea,” Mohammed said. “I guess I should just message him and see how he responds. If he responds.”
Khebat paused in thought. “What do you know about DeathMerchant6o6o6? Or the real person behind him, that is?”
“Quite a bit. He uses DeathMerchant6o6o6 on gaming servers and on his social media accounts. He posted from work one time, and I caught his real name on his nametag when he posted a selfie. It also told me the name of the place he worked. I called them and got the address of the location he worked at. I called that particular store and, through a little manipulation, got one of the employees to give me his personal cell number.”
“Social engineering,” Khebat said.
“Exactly,” Mohammed agreed. “Hacking 101.”
“Did you get a home address?”
“I did. I called the cell number they gave me and told DeathMerchant6o6o6 I was calling about a video game rebate form he’d submitted. I just took a chance that, as a gamer, he’d filled one of those out before. Turns out he must have because he didn’t bat an eye at the question. I told him I needed him to verify the street address before I mailed out the rebate. He gave it right up.”
“So you have everything?”
“I could take you to his house tomorrow,” Mohammed said.
“Then perhaps you need to.”
“What good will that do? If he knows I stole those pictures, he may not respond to my messages anymore. We may not be able to manipulate him into participation.”
Khebat set his laptop down and swung his legs off the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and spoke softly to his friend. “We don’t need him to launch the attack. We just need him to take the blame. We could have anyone drive that van and distribute the gifts, just as we did in Frankfurt.”
“What about DeathMerchant?”
“We tie him up and keep him alive at the house. We use his computer to send out all the messages. We leave a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to him. I have all of his passwords in the text file from the keylogger.”
“Then what do we do with him? We can’t exactly leave him tied up for the police. That would look suspicious,” Mohammed pointed out.
“During their investigation, the police will raid the home and find him dead of an apparent suicide.”
Mohammed nodded. “That could work.”
“It will work,” Khebat said. “We’ve come too far to let this fall apart now. We must take control and keep control.”
“Nasr!” Mohammed called.
In a moment, the man stood in the doorway to the small bedroom. “Yes, what is it?”
“We have a problem,” Mohammed said. “We need to attend to it in person.”
“What is required?” Nasr asked.
“Transportation to the city of Charlotte, North Carolina.”
“I will make arrangements,” Nasr replied. “When must we leave?”
Mohammed looked at Khebat, then back at Nasr. “Immediately.”