Page 37 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

Besides, Junior could take care of himself.

20

REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

The man was pouring himself a cup of hot tea when a pair of heavy boots clomped onto his front porch. Before he could set the pot down, his door rattled beneath the pounding of a thick hand.

The man assumed the worst. He pulled a nine-millimeter pistol out of a drawer and marched toward the door, holding the weapon behind his back. Just as he arrived, the hand pounded on the door again. He unlocked it and flung it open—

“Tarik?” the man said. “It’s an honor—”

“Idiot! What are you thinking!” Tarik Brkic shouldered his way into the man’s house, followed by two younger Bosniaks, dark and determined. They slammed the door shut as Brkic stormed toward the wide picture window, where a huge black AQAB—Al-Qaeda in the Balkans—flag hung. The banner bore the infamous white Arabic letters declaring theshahada.

The tall, burly Chechen snatched the black AQAB flag and balled it up before shoving it into the man’s quivering hands.

“I don’t understand.”

Brkic had a full, wild red beard streaked with gray, and a voice cold and hollow like an empty grave. But it was the Chechen’s milky white eye that struck terror deep into the man’s soul, a brutal reminder of Brkic’s terrifying war record.

“The whole point of hiding in the middle of the infidels is to remain invisible, and you go and hang that flag?”

“But I’m far from the road, and I’m proud to be in the jihad. ThekafirSerbs never come out this way.”

“Take your damnable pride back up north and gather with the others who are under constant OSA-OBA surveillance,” Brkic said, stepping closer. “But if you do anything to jeopardize our work here again, I will personally make you a martyr for the cause.”

The man bowed his head. “I understand. I am truly sorry.”

Brkic laid a callused hand on the man’s shoulder. “Zeal is good, but wisdom is better if we are going to win the day.”

The man nodded violently, cursing his own stupidity. The Chechen felt his burner phone vibrating in his pocket. There was only one person who had his number, and never a reason for him not to pick up when he called.

Brkic signaled to his men with a nod, and the three of them headed back outside. When they shut the door behind him, he answered.

“Yes?”

“You did well,” the electronically altered voice said. “But there is still much to do.”

Anyone listening in on the encrypted line—an impossibility, his technicians assured him—would not be able to tell thegender, age, or nationality of either of them. But Brkic knew the caller well from years before, under the code name Red Wing—from a time when Brkic had another name, too.

“I’m following the plan, according to schedule.”

“Perfectly, as far as I’m concerned. But my sense is that we need to move the calendar forward. Keep striking while the iron is hot. It’s time for sharper measures.”

The Chechen bristled. They had agreed to a plan and to a timetable more than two years ago. Thanks to their cooperation, Brkic had been able to smuggle in jihadi fighters from Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Morocco, and elsewhere, along with weapons and much-needed cash and drugs to finance their operations.

What Red Wing didn’t understand was that Brkic had yet another plan, and another timetable, with an even larger agenda. But Red Wing could never know that. Red Wing wouldn’t understand.

Worse, Red Wing would oppose it.

Red Wing was a reliable ally, but not a true believer.

Brkic still needed Red Wing’s contacts and resources, but it was Allah himself who guided Brkic’s steps now.

“What do you propose?” Brkic finally asked.

Red Wing laid out a new timetable. It was possible to carry it out, Brkic calculated, and smart. But it was also dangerous. If it failed or endangered his own, larger plan, he would kill Red Wing and fulfill the will of Allah instead. But for now, Red Wing was useful, and their smaller plan helpful for the cause.

“I will plan the next mission immediately,” Brkic said.