Terror Trail. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
CIA file the President had.”
“We can send a text message to Phoenix Force. Let them know what’s going down,” Kurtzman said.
“Okay,” Brognola said. “Do that. And let them know a name cropped up in Lang’s last email. Behin Jahir. The informant who gave us the initial information on the Yemen situation. Jahir supplied information to Lang’s guy, Samir. He’s a local information source. Lang passed along Jahir’s location in Sana’a. There’s a warning about a local cop named Ariq Taj being involved. Looks like he’s involved with Hand of Allah. Tell Phoenix to stay sharp.”
“It’ll be a help,” Price said. “They need something to get a grasp on things out there.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to go in with practically nothing,” Brognola said. “Jahir could point the way for them to locate that camp and Cal.”
* * *
AARON KURTZMAN called a meeting in the war room. Brognola and Price joined him as Kurtzman brought up images on three of the plasma screens.
“These flashes started coming in around an hour ago. I had the team scour all our sources. Checking other agencies for background. Pulling in everything we could. Even news reports from the scene.”
Brognola and Price checked each screen as the images were played and replayed.
The scenes showed what looked like a massacre. Bodies lay strewed around the location. Some lay still while others moved, wounded but still living. There were bullet wounds in evidence, while other bodies showed evidence of what could only be grenade damage. Among the casualties were a number of children.
“This is what we have,” Kurtzman said. “Los Angeles. Lone shooter. Suddenly opens up in crowded area. It’s been confirmed the weapon was an AK-47. There was no warning. Guy fires indiscriminately into the crowd. Threw up to three fragmentation grenades. It all happened quickly. Open area with no cover. People panic. Shooter has no problem hitting targets. There was a police cruiser nearby with two officers. One gets caught by the blast from a grenade but the other gets his shotgun from the cruiser and takes down the shooter. Cop empties his full magazine into the guy. Cuts him to pieces.”
“Good for him,” Brognola murmured. “Casualties?”
Kurtzman sighed. “Thirteen dead. Close on twenty wounded. A number extremely severe so there could be more deaths yet. The media is having a field day over this.”
“What’s the feeling about the attack?” Barbara Price asked in a quiet voice. Her shock at the images being displayed was noticeable. “Was this some crazy loner, or was it part of a deliberate terrorist attack?”
“Jury is still out on that,” Kurtzman said. “We checked agency databases but no one has a valid opinion yet.”
“Any ID on the shooter?”
“We may have a break there. Just before I came down, Akira picked up on an image posted on the internet. Somebody took a cell phone photo of the dead shooter before the cops cleared the area. It was a pretty clear image. One of those fluke shots. We’re running it through every database we have. Domestic and foreign. We may get lucky.” Kurtzman paused. “Are we thinking this might have a link to the current mission?”
Brognola leaned his hands on the conference table. “We expected some kind of strike from Hand of Allah. No prior warning on exactly what it would be. The only tie-in is the fact that son of a bitch Jack Regan is involved. His business is weapons.” He glanced across at Kurtzman. “Aaron, make contact with Able Team. Update them on what’s happened. Let’s work on the assumption this incident has something to do with what Hand of Allah is planning. Hell, I know it’s supposition at this stage, but we have to stay with the ball.”
Kurtzman picked up one of the telephones and connected with the cyber unit.
“Aaron, give Able everything we have. Advise we might, only might, be looking at what Hand of Allah is planning. Okay, send it through.” Kurtzman put down the phone and swung his chair around to face the plasma screens. “Facial recognition made an ID of the shooter.”
A face flashed up on one of the screens. Full frontal and profile. A lean, dark-complexioned man in his early thirties. Thick black hair, his angry gaze fixed on the camera.
“Hussein Muran,” Kurtzman said. “Born in Pakistan. Spent time in Europe. Associated with a number of Islamic groups. Pretty vociferous in his condemnation of the West. He’s been on the move the past few years. Wanted by the French. Kicked out of the U.K. because of his extremist views. Mossad even have a file on him and the latest update on him suggests a link with Hand of Allah. At the moment that’s all it is. A suggestion.”
“Damn well better be more than a suggestion,” Brognola said.
“Suggestion or not,” Price said, ‘he still shows up on a U.S. street, spraying bullets into a crowd and throwing grenades around? It’s too convenient not to be connected.”
“I’d like to know the answer to that,” Brognola growled, letting his anger show in his tone.
“It seems he flew into LAX just over a week ago,” Kurtzman said, working the plasma screens. “That was his entry point. Came in on a false passport along with a party of tourists. It’s only just been tagged. He wasn’t on any watch lists because he hasn’t been here before. There was a glitch in the system so the foreign interest data wasn’t made a relevant issue. No one made a connection. Muran walked through customs and hasn’t been seen since. His image has only just been verified through the FBI running his picture through their database. His papers have him using a false name.”
“Jesus,” Brognola said, “I hope someone gets his, or her, ass kicked for this.” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table. “We have all these damn agencies and screening procedures and still let these bastards into the country. How many more times are these crazies going to slip into the U.S. before we shut the gates?”
“It’s going to take more than we have right now,” Kurtzman said. “Sheer volume of passengers in and out every day. Airport staff overworked. Bound to be slipups. A percentage of the wrong individuals are going to get through, Hal.”
Brognola sat down. He rubbed his face with his big hands.
“Can we at least confirm he’s with Hand of Allah?”
“Working on it,” Kurtzman said. “Hal, we’ve only been in the loop for a short time. Information is coming in slowly, and we have to get it secondhand.”
Brognola held up a hand. “I know, Aaron. Not your fault. Just keep me updated, huh?”
* * *
IN THE COMPUTER ROOM heads were bent over keyboards, fingers tapping, data flashing across the monitors. There was a palpable sense of urgency in the air. Each member of the team was aware of the situation. They understood how things could change in a short time and how the need for information became increasingly relevant with shifting scenarios.
Carmen Delahunt, ex-FBI, sat upright, a soft “yes” passing her lips. She gazed at her monitor, rereading the lines of data displayed there.
“DCRI,” she said out loud. “French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.”
The Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, founded in 2008, was responsible, among other things, for monitoring threats to France and had built a database of suspect individuals. Using one of Kurtzman’s programs, Delahunt had penetrated the DCRI. She had keyed in Hussein Muran’s name and had found his file and known associates.
The list threw up a number of other names, with brief biographies.
The one that stood out was Shaia Kerim. Now associated with Hand of Allah. When Delahunt read through the French-compiled list she saw that at least three other names were coupled with Hand of Allah.
And one of them was Hussein Muran.