Page 126 of Whisper

Kris grabbed his black fatigue pants and pulled them on, threw on a black t-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“We have movement on the spiritual advisor.”

Kris tossed David’s pants at him. “Gotta move, babe.”

Since Mousa’s slipped confession about Saqqaf having a spiritual advisor, Kris had devoted a huge amount of the strike team’s intelligence collection and targeting toward finding theallamah.

Sheikh Jandalwas akunya, a jihad name that translated as the Sheikh of Death. They went through everything, every phone call, every email, every possible lead. Religious leaders across Iraq were fractured, most decrying the savagery and violence of Saqqaf, his bloodlust and his fanaticism. But some celebrated the ‘Son of the Desert’, the ‘Emir of the Resistance against the West’. They focused in on those imams, put them under the microscope of the US intelligence machine. Undercover officers went to their mosques, listened to the sermons. Watched them, everywhere they went, followed by the drones that hovered over the country.

The captain filled them in on the way to the command center. “One of our drones monitoring imam delta-seven tracked him leaving his house this morning. He ran his errands, dropped his kids off at his wife’s mother’s house. Standard behavior.”

“Until?”

“Just past noon, the imam diverted from his usual path and started driving through four separate Baghdad neighborhoods. He executed a series of turns and curbside stops, backtracks and pauses.”

“He was checking for surveillance,” David said.

The captain nodded to David. “We think so. He drove onto the Baghdad highway, but pulled off on the onramp. One minute later, a blue pickup truck pulled in behind his original car. He drove away in the blue truck.”

“A car swap.” Kris’s heart pounded.

“Yes sir. We’re following the truck now. It’s heading north, leaving Baghdad.”

They badged through the electronic locks and swept into the command center. The lights were dim, but the monitors along one wall were bright with live video. Black-and-white images, thermal scans, high-def video footage. All feeds showed the same image. A blue pickup driving along the highway.

Banks of analysts and drone operators worked in long lines before the main monitors, tapping away at their laptops and working the radios. David peeled off, heading to the back where five coffeepots percolated twenty-four hours a day. Kris joined General Carter, still shaking off his own sleep. He’d rushed in, wearing his PT shorts and his Army undershirt, crisply tucked in. Kris had never seen the general so underdressed.

“Caldera.” Carter nodded to him. “What do you think?”

“The behavior is consistent with someone attempting to shake surveillance and throw off a tail. Whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Think he found our undercover agents? Think he’s spooked and is running?”

“He could be. But someone on the run doesn’t spend hours trying to shake a tail. They run, as fast as they can.” Kris watched the pickup drive on, miles of highway disappearing beneath its tires. The sun blazed down on Iraq, burning away shadows. Everything was brilliantly lit, perfect clarity. A desert day beneath the harsh sun. A day for revelations.

David appeared at Kris’s side with two cups of coffee. They watched, expectancy hushing their voices, their breaths, as the truck pulled off the highway and wound through the countryside northeast of Baghdad. Palm groves and farms blurred past the monitors.

“Maybe he’s just going to visit a farm,” one of the analysts offered.

“And shake a tail to do so?” Kris scoffed.

“Maybe he’s going to the Iranian border. It’s only seventy miles away.” Carter arched one eyebrow.

“Saqqaf despises the Shia, and this imam supports him. He’s stirred sectarian violence for months. No way he goes to Iran.” Kris pursed his lips. “He’s going to meet Saqqaf.”

Carterhmmed.

The truck turned, heading for Baqubah. Analysts sprang into action, pulling up all information that they had collated on Baqubah. Who was who, who was there, what attacks the city had suffered. How many informants they had on the ground.

“He’s stopping,” David said. “Another vehicle is approaching.”

A white sedan pulled alongside the truck. The imam hopped down from the truck and slipped into the backseat of the white sedan. Both vehicles drove off, sand arcing behind their tires as they sped away in opposite directions.

“It’s him. It’s definitely him.” Kris’s blood turned searing, burning the inside of his body.This is it. We’re going to get Saqqaf.His gaze met David’s. David’s eyes were wide, as round as dinner plates.I’m going to get him. For you.

Carter shouted orders, calling for air support and for the Special Forces team on standby to get in their choppers and get ready to go. It was a thirty-minute flight from their base to Baqubah, if they left now.

Every monitor was filled with the white sedan driving along the desert road. “He’s still heading north,” an analyst narrated. “Moving at thirty-three miles per hour.”