Shadows of the deep, p.3
Shadows of the Deep, page 3
Asfour’s eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t shift from Mayan’s face, didn’t do anything but bore into him, seeing through the facade to the desperate calculations happening behind the eyes of a cornered man. There was a beat, almost imperceptible, where everything seemed to hang in the balance.
Then, with resignation edged with defiance, Mayan reached under the desk, the slight strain of his muscles the only betrayal of his inner turmoil. The package emerged, deceptively mundane for something so coveted, drenched in Samantha’s dried blood.
“Here’s the cargo,” Mayan grunted, the lines around his mouth hardening. He was not used to be spoken to like this.
The package landed with a soft thud between them, a punctuation in their deadly dialogue. Asfour’s eyes, those scrutinizing windows, flickered just once toward the package and then resettled on Mayan, a silent, brooding judgment.
“And the yacht,” Asfour’s voice scraped the room, a grating reminder of the thin ice beneath Mayan’s feet, “that’s the Trenches’ yacht under new management, am I right?”
A flicker of something, perhaps annoyance, perhaps fear, passed through Mayan’s eyes. “Yeah,” he spat out, begrudging every syllable, “it’s the Trench yacht.”
“You will receive no payment for it,” Asfour declared, leaving Mayan in no doubt about the consequences of his failures.
“Have you resolved the issue with the security team Conrad Ford sent, as I instructed you to do last week?” Asfour enquired, shifting to another pressing matter.
“Yes, Kepala, we have settled it. We left them dead, deep in the jungle. I have paid off the police superintendent who provided us with information about them,” Mayan replied.
Asfour warned with a stern tone, “It’s fortunate for you that they disappeared without a trace. Any comeback, and my other sources on the island will bury you and your brothers right alongside them, Mayan.”
Mayan, understanding the gravity of the situation, spoke softly, “They will never be found, and the police superintendent has assured us that their disappearance won’t be investigated.”
Silence descended like a guillotine, sharp and final, severing the tension-filled dialogue as Asfour rose from his chair. In the void of sound, Mayan’s errors were almost palpable entities, crowding the air, whispering of betrayals and miscalculations. They clung to him, invisible shackles that were all too heavy for the eye to see but as real as the danger that prowled in Asfour’s shadow.
Turning, Asfour moved towards the exit, each step measured and resonant, a countdown to an unspoken ultimatum. He didn’t glance back; he didn’t need to. His presence had already filled the room, a lingering aura of threat that didn’t dissipate with distance.
“Erase the CCTV footage,” he commanded without turning, his voice low, the kind of sound you felt in your bones, a dark caress that held within it the icy grip of the grave. “All of it. Without a trace.”
He paused at the threshold. “And Mayan,” he said, the name a curse, a promise. “Don’t disappoint me again. Ford’s security detail will seem like naïve schoolboys compared to the hell I’ll bring to your doorstep. They’ll seem like mercy incarnate.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a law of nature, as certain as gravity, as unforgiving as time. With those final words, Asfour stepped into the engulfing darkness beyond the door, leaving behind a cold, treacherous silence that promised nothing but a storm on the horizon. Mayan, alone amidst the echoing quiet, felt the weight of that promise settle in his stomach, a seed of ice that wouldn’t thaw, precursor of a reckoning that lurked just out of sight.
****
Kasim Asfour, an imposing figure with an athletic build and the ability to blend in effortlessly, maintained a year-round suntan to aid his shape-shifting persona. Two days after his meeting with Mayan, Asfour arrived in Amman, Jordan, using a Kuwaiti passport under an assumed name. The bustling city of Amman, the fifth most visited Arab city in the world, provided the perfect backdrop for Asfour’s veiled activities. Dressed in a traditional ankle-length white cotton shirt called a thawb, he conversed fluently in Arabic with the immigration officials. With a few days’ worth of black stubble on his face, he blended seamlessly into the surroundings, appearing as just another Arab businessperson.
Across the street from the Grand Hyatt hotel, Umair Aziz sat in a café with a clear view of the hotel’s entrance. Umair Aziz, once known as Richard Hussein, had been born in Snow Hill, Birmingham, United Kingdom. His school years had been marked by bullying and isolation, leaving him with few friends and a deep sense of being an outcast. However, in his final year of school, he had excelled in technology and computer science, achieving two As and demonstrating fluency in French and Spanish. Despite these talents, Aziz struggled with low self-esteem and saw himself as a lone wolf rather than the friendless introvert he had been.
Aziz’s life took a dramatic turn when he began attending his local mosque, where guest lecturers often espoused Islamic fundamentalism. Drawn to the rigid ideology and intolerance of opposing views, he finally found companionship among like-minded individuals. For the first time in his life, he formed bonds with others, united by their disdain for Western values. Aziz soon found himself radicalized, and his transformation was complete. The identity of Richard Hussein was left behind, and he embraced his new persona as Umair Aziz, with a new family who shared his extremist beliefs.
Between 2008 and 2010, Aziz underwent training in Al-Qaeda camps in Yemen and Afghanistan. His proficiency in computers and languages quickly set him apart from his peers. Unfortunately, most of the friends who had travelled with him from Britain had perished in raids in Iraq and Afghanistan.
2011, Baghdad, a city that never really slept, always one open eye, wary. Aziz knew it all too well. The dust, the chaos, the uncertainty hanging in the air like the city’s ever-present, never-settling smog. But it was on these very streets, amidst the cacophony of survival, that Aziz found his calling. Al-Qaeda saw it in him before he recognized it himself—the keen edge of his charisma, the persuasive poison in his pen. They didn’t need to look twice; they knew a natural when they saw one.
They pulled him from anonymity, away from the grunt work on the ground. Aziz wasn’t just another foot soldier; he was a weaver of words, a craftsman of conviction. So they set him up with a screen and a keyboard instead of an AK-47, and he understood right then—the keyboard was a trigger, too, in its own sinister way.
From the confines of nondescript rooms that could have been in any city in the world, Aziz started to build an empire of influence. His blogs, his reports, they weren’t just texts; they were seductive whispers in the night to those who felt they had no place. Europe’s lost, disaffected Muslim youth became his target, a generation teetering on the edge of identity, seeking purpose, belonging, vengeance—whatever fit the hollow spaces inside them.
Aziz didn’t sell them war; he sold them significance. He sold them a narrative drenched in the perfume of purpose and brotherhood. And they bought it—every line, every word, every promise of a ‘noble’ fight.
Then the world’s stage shifted. ISIS rose, rabid and brutal, casting a shadow vast and dark across the land. Savage, even in the eyes of the savage. And Aziz adapted, like he always did. With the landscape altered, his orders came anew: Al-Qaeda needed a new mask, a softer guise, a ‘moderate’ cloak to the uninitiated eye compared to the ISIS butchers.
So Aziz wove that narrative, threading each word with calculated care through his websites, his podcasts—digital sermons consumed voraciously by those hungry for a cause. He didn’t just paint Al-Qaeda in softer shades; he swathed them in the very colours of resistance and righteousness, masterfully contrasting them against the stark, bloodied tableau of ISIS.
For years, he played puppeteer to a shadow audience, his screen aglow with the reflection of a war not only fought with drones, bullets, and barbarity—but with stories, promises, and lies. A different kind of battlefield, invisible, intangible, and just as deadly.
Now, Umair Aziz found himself in a privileged position. He was about to meet Kasim Asfour, a high-ranking figure in Al-Qaeda, and discuss a critical matter concerning a Somalian pirate and Al-Shabaab sympathizer he had been in contact with through the dark web. Al-Shabaab, an affiliate of Al-Qaeda, courted ISIS, and Aziz had been tasked with cultivating this contact.
Asfour arrived at suite 119, where two Al-Qaeda security operatives had already conducted a thorough sweep for listening devices. They set up a counter-surveillance device to ensure the utmost secrecy. Aziz arrived a short while later and was subjected to security checks before being escorted into the suite.
“Salam,” Aziz greeted Asfour with reverence.
“As-salamu alaykum. Please sit; we have much to discuss. We will converse in your native language to avoid misunderstandings. Although your Arabic is commendable, it is not perfect,” Asfour replied.
“As you wish,” Aziz agreed, his Birmingham accent revealing his origins. To Asfour, his accent seemed like a blend of various northern English dialects, making it challenging to pinpoint his exact location of origin.
Asfour retrieved a file from his briefcase and opened it. The first document displayed a picture of Aziz in his English school uniform. The following pages contained detailed information, and Asfour perused them in silence for several minutes.
The room was still, almost breathless. Asfour’s presence seemed to suck all the air out of it, a vacuum of anticipation. His eyes, hard and unyielding, fixed on Aziz, who sat opposite him, tension running through his veins like poison.
“I and the other leaders have been watching you, Aziz,” Asfour began, his voice low, almost a whisper, but it carried through the silence like a gunshot in the night. “Watched you climb the rungs, one bloody step at a time.” There was a dangerous kind of pride in his tone, like a general admiring a soldier, not for his humanity, but for the precise way he snuffed it out. “You’ve got a sharp mind, loyal to the bone. That’s rarer than you’d think.”
A flicker of recognition ignited something deep within Aziz, a slow burn of pride that expanded, filling the hollow spaces of his existence with a purpose he’d always craved. Asfour. The name wasn’t just known; it was legendary. A name whispered in hushed tones in the hidden corners where the disenchanted sought dangerous solace.
Aziz felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders, heavy and daunting, but not unwelcome. This was the crucible he’d been seeking, the fire that would either forge him into something fearsome or reduce him to ashes. The air between them crackled, charged with an energy that was almost sacred, a current that bound him to Asfour in a tapestry of unseen threads.
He was aware of whom Asfour meant — those ghostly entities that lingered on the fringes of their movement, the untouchable echelons that orchestrated their symphony of disruption from behind impenetrable curtains. To be a cog in their machine wasn’t just an honour; it was a sanctification, a blessing dressed in the vestments of a holy war.
His chest swelled, and in that breath, he tasted the metallic tang of destiny, sharp and undeniable. Aziz knew, with the clarity that comes from fanatical dedication, that he was exactly where he was meant to be. He was no longer just a man. He was a mission, a message, a martyr in waiting. And in that sacred space, under Asfour’s penetrating gaze, Aziz was reenergised.
“Now, you’re standing on the precipice of something much bigger than you or me. This mission,” he paused, the weight of his gaze anchoring Aziz to the spot, “it’s not just another mark on the scoreboard. It’s the legacy you’re going to leave behind. Screw it up, and that’s all that you will be known for. Nail it, and you’re looking at eternity in paradise.”
Every word was a tightly coiled spring, the room charged with an atmosphere of volatile danger. The stakes were clear, and in this deadly game, the wrong move could mean everything.
Asfour leaned in, his voice a hushed growl. “I need your wizardry, Aziz. The digital frontier is where you’ll wage this war.”
A flicker of fierce determination flashed in Aziz’s eyes, a flame ignited by years of unshakable faith and unquestionable allegiance. “I am the blade in your hand,” he responded, voice unwavering. “Point me in the direction, and I’ll cut through hell, if need be, even if it means carving my way there personally.”
Asfour handed Aziz a brown envelope, from which Aziz retrieved two photographs. The first was of a naval merchant officer named Gareth Cummings, and the second depicted Dan Williams, a third officer from the same ship. Aziz glanced at Asfour, waiting for further instructions.
“The first photograph is of Gareth Cummings, the communications officer from the Reef Explorer. The second is Dan Williams, the third officer on the same vessel. The Reef Explorer is scheduled to dock in Sharm El Sheikh in four days. According to my source on the ground, both of these men frequently visit the local market for supplies for the officer’s mess. Asfour instructed, sliding the images back into the envelope.
“Next Tuesday, I want one of these men taken from the market,” Asfour continued, outlining the mission.
Aziz raised a practical concern, “How do you suggest I carry out such an operation in the midst of a bustling market?”
The air was thick with menace, and Asfour’s words sliced through the heavy silence with surgical precision. “You don’t,” he said, calm in his voice. “I have a man, Kamal, in Sharm El Sheikh. That’s your next stop.”
He slid a passport across the metal table, the gentle brush of paper on steel, the whisper of conspiracy. “Kilcoyne Hall,” Asfour said, his eyes steely flint. “You’re British now. Clean yourself up. Lose the edge. You’re a tourist. Keep it convincing.”
Aziz flipped open the passport, the face of another man staring back at him, a challenge issued in biometric form. His life was now a borrowed story, and he had to tell it convincingly or not at all.
“The Egyptians,” Asfour continued, a smirk twisting half his mouth, “are still playing catch-up. No facial recognition to worry about. Just don’t give them a reason to look too closely.”
Asfour’s hand moved to a small cardboard box, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. He set out two vials, one ominously dark, the other as clear as the lie Aziz now had to live. “Cobra venom,” he explained, no room for doubt in his tone. “And the only thing standing between your target and a one-way trip into the dark.”
Aziz’s gaze fixed on the vial of venom, and a cold shiver slithered down his spine, a primal echo from darker, more primitive times. His fear of snakes wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a tangible entity in the room with them, a silent third participant in their grim collusion.
Snakes. Even the thought sent old, reptilian impulses skittering along the edges of his mind, raw and unbidden. They were stealth and sinew, lethal grace wrapped in silence. They didn’t announce death with a bang; they brought it whispering, a secret between predator and prey.
The vial seemed to throb with a life of its own, dark and viscous, a coiled killer waiting to strike. It was a distillation of every nightmare that had ever quickened his pulse, the embodiment of a deep-seated dread that had nestled in his chest since childhood.
But this fear—it wasn’t going to steer him. Aziz could feel the weight of Asfour’s scrutiny, heavy and expectant. This was the test, then. Not the planning, not the new identity, not even the target. It was about harnessing the terror, riding it until he was the one holding the reins.
With a hand he willed steady, Aziz reached for the vial. His fingertips brushed the cool glass, and for a heart-stopping moment, he felt the ghost of a serpent’s sleek scales instead. It would have been so easy to recoil, to let the revulsion dictate his movements.
But he didn’t.
He wrapped his fingers around the vial, and in that clench, he felt a shift within himself, steel sliding into the core of his resolve. Fear would not be his master. He was more than the sum of his phobias. He was a weapon, and this venom was just another bullet in his chamber.
“Just a whisper of this,” Asfour’s voice cut through the room, low and steady as he motioned to the ominous vial on the table, “and he’s yours. He won’t even see you coming.”
“You get Hamid to administer this,” Asfour continued, placing the second vial firmly in Aziz’s other hand, “and he comes back from the dead. But make no mistake, he’ll be on a razor’s edge between life and death, but the promise of more antidote will get Hamid all the information we need.”
The implication hung in the air like a charged storm cloud, laden with inevitable violence. They weren’t in the business of saving lives; they were engaged in the precarious trade of prolonging death for information, for leverage, for whatever suited their needs in the shadowy world of warfare.
“What follows,” Asfour said, a dark implication in his tone, “is when the sailor will be truly know fear. You’ll make him wish he hadn’t come back.”
Aziz examined the vials carefully before returning them to the box. “What is the plan once Hamid has one of them?”
Asfour unrolled a small map on the table, highlighting a specific grid. “There is a derelict building located here, near the market but concealed from the main thoroughfare. He should have ample time to extract the information I seek.”
Aziz committed the grid reference to memory, while Asfour refilled their cups with herbal tea. “Your mission also includes gathering data on the Reef Explorer’s systems, access points, camera coverage, itinerary changes, vulnerabilities, emergency procedures, crew and passenger counts, and any other pertinent information.”
“Would you like the ship’s layout as well?” Aziz enquired.
“The ship’s schematics and layout are provided in the box. Study them thoroughly,” Asfour directed, concluding their discussion for the time being.
“What should be done with the officer once we obtain the information?” Aziz enquired.
