Retribution by Anderson Harp Read Free Book Online Page A

were out of place among the Pashtun mountain men. Although built like a brute with wide shoulders and thick hands, he had an orange-freckled complexion.
    â€œThis is Abu, my brother and compatriot. Abu Umarov, a Chechen.”
    â€œ As sala’amu alaikum .” Masood spoke first.
    â€œ Walaikum as sala’am .” Abu’s light blue eyes bored a hole in Masood’s mind.
    Good God. This man made Masood more uncomfortable than Yousef did.
    Abu swung his AK-47 off his shoulder to shake Masood’s hand.
    â€œUmarov is a true Muslim warrior,” Yousef said proudly. “He fought the Russians in Chechnya and the dogs in Bosnia. He was a lieutenant under Deli. Now he kills Americans and Jews.”
    Masood nodded in appreciation.
    â€œHe is my second-in-command. Do you know why?”
    Masood stood there in silence.
    â€œHis loyalty is absolute!” Yousef ’s voice rose as he spoke. “My Chechen!”
    Abu Umarov smiled slightly at that.
    â€œIn Grozny, he was a construction engineer. He built buildings. Buildings that last.”
    â€œNot like the Americans,” Masood put in.
    â€œThen Tsentoroi came and all of Umarov’s family, his wife, his children, his mother and father, were shot like dogs on the street.”
    Masood watched Umarov’s face and saw not the slightest change in his expression.
    This man is cold.
    â€œUmarov once served with Sabri al-Banna.” Yousef said it as if Abu Umarov had been a veteran of some great war. “Look at this!”
    Yousef grabbed Umarov’s arm and pulled it up in the air like a referee’s final verdict in the ring. At the same time, he pulled Umarov’s shirtsleeve down, revealing a tattoo.
    Masood had to look at it twice to understand.
    â€œIt’s a swan?”
    â€œYes,” said Umarov. “Hell yes.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œYou don’t know what that means?” asked Yousef.
    He explained that any man who carried the black swan and had fought with Sabri al-Banna was a man to be feared. Sabri al-Banna, a son of a wealthy Palestinian farmer, was also known by his more famous name: Abu Nidal. As Nidal hated the Jew who took over his father’s orange orchards, Umarov hated the Russian. They both made their enemies bleed.
    â€œThere is something else.” Yousef suddenly shifted the conversation again, avoiding the question altogether. “Do you still have the New York box?”
    â€œYes, of course.” They had maintained one address, a P.O. box in a small Brooklyn post office under a unique alias. Only Masood kept the key.
    â€œYou will receive something in a few days. The instructions will be clear.”
    Masood nodded.
    Yousef seemed to stare into space as he spoke.
    â€œThe plan has several steps.”
    â€œI understand.” Masood didn’t always understand, but he knew enough not to say more.
    Yousef looked up into the pale blue, cloudless sky as he spoke. “Masood, if you are not staying the night, it is time that you returned.” He pointed up as he spoke, meaning that the U.S. spy satellite would soon be crossing over the valley in its orbit.
    Masood looked at his watch. “Yes, brother.”
    â€œSomeone in Riyadh is trying to point the CIA in our direction. It is my understanding that the CIA woman in Doha has now been transferred to Walter Reed Hospital.” Yousef spoke with his hands as much as his voice.
    Yousef glanced at Umarov when he spoke. Both knew more than they were saying.
    â€œWe need to find her source.”
    And with that, for the first and last time in their meeting, Yousef smiled.

CHAPTER 7
    Hartsfield–Jackson International Airport, Atlanta
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    T he baggage claim area felt like a ghost town. The last flight out of Washington had put him into Atlanta well after midnight. Even one of the busiest airports in the world would go into a lull during the midnight hours.
    I’m beat, Scott