Chapter One

 

 

Northern Grozny, Chechnya

November 22, 7:30 p.m. local time

 

The courier drove a battered, box-shaped Volvo slowly through the pothole-ridden alleys. The car drew no second glances from occasional bystanders braving the evening’s icy winds. The courier liked it that way. He did not want anyone remembering a car going through their neighborhood. The men he was meeting tonight demanded the utmost secrecy. They had stayed alive for this long despite the warrants, the rewards, and the hunt for them. The masterminds of the Islamic Devotion Movement—one of the strongest groups in Chechnya fighting to create an Islamic state in the region—were always alert. They surrounded themselves with people to whom they taught the importance of such secrecy.

Two months ago, one of the IDM’s couriers had been careless, letting the name of a guest in a certain safe house escape his tongue. Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces, had gotten wind of the name and the location. They had launched an attack resulting in the death of several IDM senior members. The next day, the IDM had beheaded the betraying courier and had broadcasted the horrific video over jihadist and extremist Islamic websites, a grim warning to everyone against dropping their guard.

The Volvo driver was determined not to lose his head. He had followed all instructions, had stopped nowhere and had double-checked for tails and suspicious activities along the way. He was on time and he was bringing good news about their operations. Well, mostly good news.

He took another turn. His eyes went to the rearview mirror, but no cars appeared behind him. He scanned both sides of the road. A thin snow blanket covered most of the small yards around the two-story houses. Some of the windows were lit, but no one stood outside.

The safe house was a block away. It was small and painted gray and without any distinctive features. It was identical to the ones next to it, homes of loyal IDM members. The lights were off, but many eyes observed the road in front of those two houses. High-level leaders came to this neighborhood on a regular basis, and the two houses served as the first line of defense in case of an attack.

The courier drove past the safe house and parked in the back alley, around the corner. He stepped outside into the freezing cold. A gust of bitter wind threatened to snatch away his fur cap. He cursed the winter, secured the cap on his head, and tightened his parka’s collar. He made his way to the back door of the safe house, watching his steps for ice patches.

The door opened before he reached it.

“Salam Alaykum,” the courier greeted two young men who waited for him just inside the doorway.

The common Arab greeting meant “peace be upon you.”

“Alaykum Salam,” one of the young men replied.

His words meant “And peace unto you.”

He moved his AK rifle hanging from his shoulder out of the way. They hugged closely as if they had not seen each other in years. But it had only been three days since the courier had been sent to Moscow for his mission.

The first young man stood guard by the door and peered at the road through a small window. The courier shared a hug with the second young man, and they both walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.

Three men sat on couches in the sparsely furnished living room. Their eyes were glued to a large television screen mounted to the wall. It was tuned to CNN, which broadcasted breaking news about the Moscow assassination. One of the men translated from English into Chechen for the other two.

The courier greeted the men, and they exchanged obligatory embraces. He sat in a chair by the television, and one of the men used the remote to turn down its volume. The images on the screen showed the FSB’s headquarters surrounded by police and other security and military cars. Lubyanka Square was cordoned off to normal traffic. Then two experts began to discuss the assassination and what it meant to Russia’s war on terrorism.

“What good news do you have for us?” asked the older of the men.

He was Sultan Kaziyev, one of the IDM’s senior leaders. In his fifties, he was dressed in a gray robe, and a black prayer cap covered his head. His long, pointed beard reached down to his chest.

“The brutal enemy is dead, as you already know,” the courier spoke in a soft voice and looked in Kaziyev’s direction, but not at his face. The leader disliked it when people much lower in rank believed themselves equal to him and dared to look into his eyes. “They took him to a hospital, but it made no difference.”

The courier reached into one of his inside parka pockets. He pulled out a small USB flash drive. “A video and some pictures of the attack,” he said and handed the device to the man on his left, a close associate of Kaziyev.

The video and the pictures were grainy and mostly blurry. The men who took them were stationed at a considerable distance from the FSB building, and their hands had trembled at the last, crucial moment, but the courier left out those details. When the leader and his associates watched them, he would not be in the same room. Someone else would become the target of their disappointment and wrath.

“We’ll put these on our websites and distribute them through our chat rooms,” said the associate in a strong, throaty voice. “Everyone will know about the success Allah has granted us.”

Kaziyev nodded slowly. His face remained serious. He moved a bony hand in front of his face. “Why didn’t the metro bombing go as planned?” His words came out in a harsh tone, and his eyes pierced the courier.

“Our man was unable to reach the station,” the courier replied in a timid voice. “He completed his first task, but then was shot and fell out of a window.”

Kaziyev grunted. “Hmmm, he should have done better. This mission was prepared carefully a long time ago. The Russian government will increase their security measures. We’ll be hunted down even more by their security forces.”

The courier was tempted to open his mouth to say that the Russian Minister of Defense had been assassinated, and that was a big victory for their organization, but knew better than to disagree with the leader. He nodded and tried to appear as upset as Kaziyev.

“What else do you have?” Kaziyev asked.

“Our man arrived safely in America today. It was a smart decision to send him before the attack. The Russians have tightened their airport checks and have locked down the highways. Your judgment was sound and wise.”

Kaziyev dismissed the not-so-subtle flattery with a hand gesture.

“His new contact information is in the flash drive,” the courier added. “He sent an e-mail and left a message for you. Of course, I haven’t read them.”

The courier’s curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he had read the e-mail, but had made sure he checked its “unread” feature. Learning bits and pieces of intelligence beyond his station in the IDM was his tactic to climb up the ranks. In case of capture by Russian counter-terrorism forces, that intelligence might prove useful to save his life. But he needed to make sure the IDM leaders did not find out, otherwise the Russians would be the least of his worries.

“Good,” Kaziyev said. “We have a package for you to take to Moscow.” He motioned toward his associate, the one who had not yet spoken a word. “You need to deliver it to an address we’ll give you when you arrive in Moscow.”

The associate picked up a heavy duffel bag next to his armchair and gave it to the courier. “Be careful,” he said. “If you’re caught with these explosives . . .”

No need to finish the sentence. The courier understood. He nodded.

“That’s all,” Kaziyev said.

They exchanged embraces and greetings, and the courier left.

When he was gone, Kaziyev fired up a small laptop and went to the e-mail account set up for communications with their man in America. The message was in the inbox. Kaziyev began to read it:

I arrived an hour ago. The flight and customs checks went without any problems. I’ve already made contact with two of our groups. They’re very excited to get to work. We’re moving toward our goal. I’ll send more information tomorrow.

Kaziyev closed his laptop and grinned. He liked his choice for this mission. His operative in America was a man of few words but a lot of action, a man who had never disappointed him. May Allah bless our cause, so we can teach the infidels in America they’re not beyond our reach. We can and will deal them a strong blow in their own homeland. They will not expect it and will not believe it until they shed their own tears and their own blood.