American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (4 page)

At noon, the next round of training began. These were essentially “lightning rounds” of rotating lessons. There were three trainers: Barry for finance; Helena, the young woman her age who was her handler for the Colombian op; and a new person, Julio, a thin man in his thirties. All the training was done electronically and Rayna was given a small piece of luxury in the Spartan Habitat—her own private room.

For finance, Barry gave her a list of stocks, real estate properties and investment opportunities. Some of these were penny stocks, some were large commercial conglomerates. Rayna’s task was to research and sift through all the information available. For one hour a day, she would go over—in detail—one of the projects with Barry. He in turn would grill her on her assumptions, analysis and predictions. With this direct tutorial approach, Rayna learned how to read through the BS on a balance sheet, and learned how to genuinely analyze companies, their strengths, weaknesses and potential.

Naturally, because she was a financial advisor, much of the material had to do with economics, but the reading she had been doing was not simply about specific investment opportunities. Yes, she was studying the Wall Street Journal, the Economist, Barron’s and Forbes, but Scientific American, People, Sports Illustrated and Better Homes and Gardens were also on the list. Everything possible to turn her into a knowledgeable, gregarious human being was being done.

Rayna was happy to re-acquaint herself with Helena. In addition to having a female to connect with, she was surprised at Helena’s breadth of knowledge in so many areas. Helena tag-teamed with Julio. Rayna was also surprised at her own ignorance about anything other than the military. Because of her late ex, a singer in New York, she knew a little about the music biz, but not really enough to be knowledgeable.
 

Julio and Helena had a dozen “Top 200 Absolute Must” lists they wanted Rayna to be fluent on, including chick flicks, gangster movies, pop songs, NFL, NHL, tennis, soccer, Spanish songs, Chinese movies and culture. At first, these were fun to explore but, gradually, they became a chore as well, especially when they insisted she also learn three thousand words of basic vocabulary in ten languages.

Besides moving into the twenty-first century culturally, there was insistence that she needed to be able to use the internet for more than downloading movies and sending emails. While she wasn’t going to make people at Google worried about losing their jobs, Rayna gained more than a basic knowledge of search engine optimization (SEO) and advanced search techniques, including delving into the “deep web,” or “dark web.” Rayna was disgusted, terrified and horrified at what she saw there. Human mutilation, sexual perversity to the extreme and all kinds of jihadist, Taliban, and American militia information, emails and “chatter.” Helena taught her how to develop her own personae so she could freely communicate with any number of these extreme personalities. Not something Rayna wanted to do, but Julio insisted she needed to start as many identities as possible to build some web presence.

Rayna knew she was going batty when she started enjoying her competition with Julio in who could recite the greater number of pi.

Rayna heard Julio mumbling, “897932384626433832795028...”

Rayna interrupted, “... 209749445923078164062862089986280 3482534211706...”

More than once, Chuck yanked her out of these crazy memory-developing sessions. The first few times, he trained her in advanced first aid and how to spot plant life that could potentially be used for medicines. Chuck also managed to bring in a lot of the other trainees with injuries that needed treatment. This included basic surgery, removal of bullets and stitching up wounds. Rayna never asked how Chuck convinced the “patients” to allow her to operate on them.
 

Chuck was also responsible for teaching her how to drive like a pro. He didn’t have any kids himself, but he soon experienced that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that every father went through when he handed over the keys to his precious vehicle. In the midst of the woods, there wasn’t much point in getting luxury vehicles, but Rayna did learn to drive standard and automatic shifts through sand, mud, and six inches of water in the Jeeps and beaters Chuck had around. He taught her how to hotwire a car so she could start it without keys, and showed her a dozen different ways to break into a car without drawing attention.

And then one day, a surprise. Uncharacteristically, Barry arrived by school bus and announced to the troops, “Pack up. You’re moving outta here and you’re gonna learn how to really drive. We are going to the Flats.”

No one was sure what that meant exactly, but whatever it meant sounded a whole lot more fun than the hell Chuck was putting them through.

***

“Now that’s driving!”

The “Flats” were 30,000 acres of hard, crusted salt up to five feet thick at Bonneville Salt Flats, the legendary, dazzling white plains of Utah so barren that no life forms existed. Part of the flats were the Bonneville Speedway, a twelve-mile straightaway stretch that since WWI had witnessed demolition after demolition of world speed records by motorcycles, regular cars, jet-engine-propelled cars, rocket dragsters and some of the fastest and freakiest race cars in the world.

There were three instructors. One was a driver on the Formula One circuit. Another was one of the stunt drivers for a major circus. The third was the getaway driver for one of the most successful thieves in the world. In other words, one for sheer speed, another for creative maneuvering in difficult spots, and the third on how to keep your head when others were trying to shoot it off. These guys were not going to teach “Speed Kills,” but “Speed Thrills.” They were all legends that everyone wanted to hang with and pick up tips from.

In addition to regular group training at the Habitat, Barry invited representatives from some of Fidelitas’ clients to join in. He warned them not to reveal anything about themselves—while most of these reps were there for a lark, there were a few that were from some of Fidelitas’ shadier clients. This added an interesting dynamic as the Habitat group wondered who was a bandit and who was bona fide. Is that Japanese guy from the Yakuza or a multinational corporation? Is that Middle Eastern wannabe a genuine religious leader or a terrorist? Is that blonde bombshell a beauty queen or syndicate leader?

Not that Barry would tell them, but they realized this was just part of Fidelitas’ strategy. Get close to the criminals as long as you could. Befriend them, make money for them and find out everything you could about them. They might not become targets but someone in their circle surely would.

This motley assortment reveled in driving at speeds of a hundred and fifty miles plus, slamming on the brakes, spinning like a top and then gunning it in another direction to get the adrenaline pumping on overdrive. Rayna simply loved to get half the car to drive on the sidewalk so she was at a thirty-degree angle. And, to make it even more fun, the students in the course were the ones who devised the obstacles and pitfalls the others had to maneuver around and through.

Chuck was in his element, too. He was no match as a driver trainer but he was fantastic and inventive at being the object of pursuit, cutting corners, doing fast reverses... and playing chicken.

As the song went, “Girls just wanna have fun,” and Rayna and the others had a blast living out their Hollywood movie fantasies. It was like being part of the Fast and Furious, Cannonball Run and the Steve McQueen classic, Bullit.

For three weeks, Rayna had only a minimum of PT and head banging sessions with Julio and Helena, meaning she was done in seven hours a day.
 

Allowing herself to boast for a moment, even if it was just to herself, Rayna couldn’t help believing that she had now hit the echelon of one of those damned Top 200 lists of Julio and Helena’s—she was in the league of Jason Bourne and James Bond and loving it.
 

And that was also part of the training because more than anything else in the world of dark or covert operations, confidence was the key.

Then it was time to go to work.

Chapter 4
 

The final Canadian inspector at the Damascus Airport took a cursory look at Sabiya’s passport and medical records. Every now and then he pretended to study her just to confirm that it was Sabiya standing in front of him. In fact, he was so damned tired of being in this God-forsaken country that he just wanted this assignment to end so he could get back to civilization, cold beer and free porn whenever he wanted.

“Yup, that’s you.” He smiled at her. “You are going to love Canada. We really want people like you.”

“It is so wonderful to be part of what is the greatest country in the world.”

“I hear you. Go on through.”

Sabiya bowed thankfully as she took her passport back.
 

Members of the UNCHR, Canadian military and bureaucrats escorted Sabiya and a hundred and fifty other refugees directly onto the awaiting airplane. It was a happy twelve-hour trip to Canada and, in Toronto, it took what seemed like only moments to process all the paperwork.
 

“Welcome to Canada,” was the standard greeting from another half dozen immigration bureaucrats at Toronto Pearson International Airport. Truth was, most of them never even bothered to look at Sabiya’s or any of the other refugees’ documents. It was the beginning of the weekend and there was no way any of them were going to stay one second past 4:30. Collectively they had processed more than fifteen thousand refugees in less than six months and, after a while, they all looked and sounded the same.

***

Sabiya breathed a sigh of relief as she walked down the hallway. While the plan worked, there was always a possibility that something might get screwed up—an overzealous bureaucrat, a misfiled document, or someone who might not accept her reason that her fingerprints were defective because she had burned herself while cooking a celebratory meal for the refugees.
 

But she made it and, in a few days, North America would never know what hit her.

As she exited through the automatic doors and into the public area of the terminal, there were two crowds standing behind a roped-off area. One was full of smiling faces clapping and shouting, “Welcome to Canada!” The other group was angry and yelling, “Go home, terrorists! Go home!”

A local news reporter slipped underneath the rope barricade and shoved a microphone in front of Fatima’s mouth. A cameraman with a video camera over his shoulder nodded that he was ready.

The young reporter greeted her. “Hello, and welcome to Canada!”

In very broken English, Fatima replied, “Thank you.”

Both crowds were getting louder. The reporter raised her voice. “What are your plans? Where do you think your future is?”

“Sorry. No English. Thank you.” Fatima smiled broadly and repeated, “Thank you.”

“Well, welcome again to Canada.” The reporter spotted another new Canadian exiting the doors and motioned for the cameraman to move on. “That one was a bust,” she muttered. “Got to find someone who knows more than two words of English to say something.”

Perfect. If she knew I was fluent, my face would have been plastered on every television. That would be so not good.
 

Suddenly, someone charged Fatima and shoved her down. “We don’t want your type here. Go back to the hut you crawled out of.” He then jumped on her and, with that, a full-scale fight erupted. Men and women from both sides started throwing punches and shoving each other down.

In less than thirty seconds, airport police had the situation under control. What went unnoticed was that, in the chaos, the person who jumped Fatima also slipped a small packet into her pocket.

“Break it up! Break it up!” shouted the officers as they arrested half a dozen of the unruly crowd.

Fatima was escorted by airport security as she walked away. She spotted a gray-haired woman in her mid-sixties holding a placard with giant lettering that read, “Sabiya.”

Fatima broke free and ran the ten yards to the woman. “Ge-ral-dine?” she asked, letting each syllable roll slowly off her tongue.

“Oh, child. What a welcoming. Yes, I’m Geraldine. That’s me. Come on. It is so nice to meet you in person. I’ve appreciated all your letters. I’ve been praying for you and I think we’ll have a great time together.”
 

Fatima’s smile belied her worry. She knew nothing about the letters or what was written in them. She made a decision—the timeline was going to be accelerated. “I love you.”

Geraldine hugged Fatima and their eyes teared. “You’ve been through so much but now you can start all over. Let’s go to my car.”

“Ma’am, I’ll take the luggage and bring you to the car,” said the officer.
 

“Can I bathroom potty? Wash face?” asked Fatima timidly.

“Of course.”

Inside the washroom cubicle, Fatima took the unmarked packet from her pocket. It contained two items: a Ziploc bag full of clear liquid and a three-foot piece of heavy fishing line. Fatima doused her clothes with the quick-drying contents, then pocketed the short length of plastic line.

Ten minutes later, the airport cop loaded Fatima’s luggage into the trunk of Geraldine’s ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. As he did, Geraldine opened her purse and took out her wallet. She gave Sabiya ten twenty dollar bills. “I know the government has given you something, but this is for just in case. It’s a present from my old congregation. I’ve retired but, when I told them about you, they wanted to help you out.”

“Thank you. God is so good.”

The security guy opened the doors for the two ladies, and refused to accept a tip. “We all need to chip in any way we can.”

***

Fatima was quiet. Geraldine had been driving for almost two hours. The first hour was on the freeway, but most of the rest of the time had been on a lonely winding road.
 

“You live far. No people,” said Fatima.

Geraldine chuckled. “I was a Baptist minister for almost forty years and I was surrounded by people all the time. Thought when I retired, I just wanted to take a break from constantly dealing with other people’s problems.”