9

SOMEWHERE IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NORTHEASTERN YEMEN—12 MAY

Yaqoub al-Hamzi peered through his reticle down the winding dirt road.

He saw nothing yet but still made an adjustment on his Russian sniper rifle. “Anything?” he whispered to his spotter.

“Nothing,” the spotter said.

“Check behind us.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.”

The spotter did as he was told.

“All clear,” he whispered back.

Suddenly the sniper spotted a plume of dust. It was small at first but grew quickly.

“They’re coming,” he said in Arabic over his wrist-mounted mic.

“Roger that,” replied the voice in his ear.

Soon he could hear the roar of the powerful diesel engines. Finally he saw the two filthy, beat-up Range Rovers approaching from the south. Al-Hamzi felt sweat trickling down his back. He tried to steady his breathing, but he knew the stakes and the consequences if something went wrong.

Shifting away from the vehicles, he scanned the ridges of the nearby mountain range. He did a quick pass at first, then doubled back and took his time. He had already studied every square inch of the ridges and caves and outcroppings that cast such jagged shadows over their base camp. But one could never be too careful. If there were enemy forces lurking, al-Hamzi knew there were only a few places they could hide.

“Clear?” asked the voice in his ear.

“All clear,” he replied, shifting his attention back to the Range Rovers.

Sixty seconds later, both SUVs pulled up in front of the largest of three adjacent buildings and came to a halt, their engines idling. The main house was a simple two-level structure built out of cinder blocks, with a satellite dish mounted on the roof among rusted strands of rebar sticking out of the concrete, evidence that someone had once hoped to build a third level. To the left, running perpendicular to the house, was a long, squat, single-story rectangular building that held offices and bunkrooms. It was also built of cinder blocks but had no rebar on its roof. The final building, the one on which al-Hamzi was perched, was a weathered wooden structure that had once been a cattle barn but now served as a garage and workshop and armory. In the center of the courtyard formed by the three buildings was a metal flagpole, though no flag had been raised. Ten heavily armed guards were stationed around the main house, and more men now poured out of the other two buildings.

Out of the first vehicle emerged six massive, bearded men. Al-Hamzi studied the faces of each one carefully, looking for anything out of place, any reason for alarm. He saw none. Each was dressed in local tribal garb. Each carried a fully loaded AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifle. The men took up positions around the second Range Rover as five more similarly dressed and armed men exited. Together they formed a cordon around one more man.

It was to him that al-Hamzi now directed his full attention. Like the gunmen, this man had a full black beard, though his had flecks of gray. He was built similarly to the others as well—muscular, broad-chested, clearly a warrior—but he had to be at least twice their age. In contrast to the others, this one was dressed in a black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black jeans, combat boots, and sunglasses. The entire look was out of place, most of all the jacket, since the temperature was hovering in the upper nineties and the motionless air was thick with humidity. Al-Hamzi couldn’t help but notice that as the man stepped up on the porch and disappeared into the house with three of his aides, he walked with a strut that was supremely self-confident and almost regal in its bearing.

A shiver ran down al-Hamzi’s spine.

It was hard to believe the man had really come here of all places.

✭

Badr Hassan al-Ruzami entered the conference room on the top floor.

He took off the leather jacket, tossed it onto a small desk in the corner, nodded to his colleagues, and motioned for the three younger men with him to take a seat at the table while he remained standing in the doorway, away from the windows and in full view of the others.

“Father is dead,” he began.

“We’ve been watching the coverage,” replied Zaid Farooq, the bespectacled and somewhat-diminutive deputy commander and chief of intelligence for Kairos, wearing not linen robes but an old suit he’d bought in Istanbul. “And we’re in mourning.”

“As am I—we have lost a great warrior.” Ruzami spoke for several minutes about the virtues of Abu Nakba, all that they had accomplished together, and what a crushing blow his death was to the Kairos movement.

“It is more than devastating,” said a tall, lanky man sitting in the back corner, dressed in tan-and-brown combat fatigues, a pistol strapped to his side. “It is an act of war and a call to vengeance.”

Head of internal security and the third member of the senior Kairos leadership Tariq Youssef lit up a cigarette.

“With all respect, Brother Badr,” Youssef said, “we expected you to arrive several days ago.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Ruzami said. “I had to make sure I was not being tailed. As you know, Brother Tariq, there are many foreign spies in Aden.”

“Tell us you used your time judiciously,” Youssef pressed. “Tell me the plan is still in play.”

“We know what happened in Libya,” Farooq interjected. “And we know what the Americans say happened. But the sandstorm is still in progress, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“So the Americans cannot send anyone to Ghat to assess the situation.”

“True.”

“Then now is the time to make those infidels pay.”

“Patience,” Ruzami said. “Patience. The strike happened, and Father is dead. That much is true. Let us not kid ourselves. We all knew there was a risk. Father certainly did. That’s why he put me in charge in case anything ever happened to him. And that’s why we developed this contingency plan to flip the tables on our enemies while they’re still basking in their glory.”

“If not now, then when?” Youssef asked.

“Get out your notebooks,” Ruzami replied. “And I’ll tell you.”