In the Spring Mountains northwest of Las Vegas, the leader Kaamil called Malik, aka David Barak, waited for a report that his strike against the Secretary of Homeland Security had been a success. As the afternoon wore on, the conviction that his protege had failed darkened his mood, like a summer thunderstorm sweeping over his mountain retreat.
Maybe it was time to re-evaluate his plan to train inmate Muslim converts as assassins. The by-product of their assassinations could be the spark to start a race war in America, but only if they were successful. So far, they hadn’t been. He turned to his window and looked down the valley toward the city of Las Vegas. How could a country so venal, so vile, continue to escape Allah’s wrath, he wondered.
Of all his lieutenants, Kaamil had been the most gifted. His rage was malleable, easily forged, with an intense desire to kill. His tendency to act on his own and an inability to lead, alas, was proving worrisome. Barak had known about his drug venture with Roberto Valencia, of course, courtesy of Roberto’s father. He’d overlooked it because of his need to work closely with the Mexican mafia. That latitude had probably been a mistake.
His immediate concern was what he was going to do if Kaamil was captured. His mountain retreat was thirty-five miles north of Las Vegas, atop a ridge in the shadow of Mount Charleston. It was the perfect retreat from the city, with temperatures always twenty degrees cooler-a veritable oasis in the Nevada desert. There was only one way into the property, other than by helicopter, and that was by a private, paved road. It was three miles long and wound up through rocky cliffs from the county road below. If anyone came for him, he would be warned with plenty of time to retreat to his other sanctuaries.
The sixteen thousand square foot main building was designed to look like an alpine lodge. It had an eight-car garage on the lower level and two private floors above the first floor, where guests were entertained. Several outbuildings housed a staff of thirty-five, vehicles, and other necessary equipment. All in all, his retreat was, in fact, a small fortress.
The main floor of the lodge was designed for entertaining rich and influential Americans and Europeans, as well as his rich sponsors. With eight bedroom suites, each as lavish as any found in the casinos, a great room with an adjoining cantilevered deck that featured the distant night lights of Las Vegas, the place was spectacular. When guests weren’t being formally entertained, they had the use of a zero horizon pool, a spa, an attended exercise facility, a magnificent library, and a complete video and game room. Guests were always impressed with their accommodations.
His sponsors, however, had always been more impressed with the operations level, housed on the second floor of the lodge. Four main rooms were staffed around the clock by his secret army, all loyal ISIS employees.
One room housed his communication and surveillance equipment and staff. The second room was manned by those in charge of the facility’s security. The third room contained his off-the-books financial operation. The fourth room was his personal control room. From it, he could video conference with any of his offices or talk privately to his operatives anywhere around the world.
Safe in his control room, he knew Allah was proud of the power he had organized. He would not be pleased, however, that the infidel he’d targeted wasn’t dead.
Barak needed to hear his plan hadn’t failed, and he needed to hear it now. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall to the communications room. He ordered the on-duty communications operator to call the ranch in Hood River and tell them to report anything they were hearing about Kaamil’s operation.
Just to be safe, he also ordered his Sikorsky S-76D helicopter to be made ready for his immediate return to his office in Las Vegas. If Kaamil had failed or been captured, it wouldn’t be long before the government came looking for him.