The Green Wolves: An Oliver DeVille Thriller

PROLOGUE

Mongolia

AD 1206

Bring in the goats, Temüjin said.

Their bleats cut through the crowd and the darkness of the night as they approached. Seventeen animals were brought before him. The sparks from the flames reflected in the long-bladed ceremonial knives. And then it began.

The goats struggled against their restraints. The first was brought forward. Its eyes widened in fear as the knife came close. It knew. Slowly the blade was drawn across its throat. The white wool turned crimson. It surrendered to the blade.

One at a time, the other goats faced the same fate. A few managed to bleat deeply. Each animal represented one of the tribes present. A red stream flowed from their open throats and silence was absolute as the last drops of life were collected in a wooden bowl. The mixed blood symbolized the unification of the tribes.

The ceremonial master stirred the red liquid in the same direction as the sun moves across the sky, filled a ladle made of horn, and handed it to Temüjin. He bowed to the tribal chiefs and drank from the ladle. The blood contained the collective knowledge of all the tribes. That wisdom was now his.

A lone, throaty bleat carried through the air as the largest buck stood by itself and watched the carcasses in front of him. From birth it had been reserved for the purpose of honoring Tengri, the sky god.

Temüjin slit the buck’s throat and the chiefs of each tribe took their turn stabbing its belly. The seventeen elders ensured as much blood as possible was drained from the animal. All of it symbolized Tengri’s influence on earth. It soaked into the ground.

The Mongol army, braver than a pack of hunting wolves, would, under Temüjin’s command, conquer the known world. It was Tengri’s will. They would ride with their swords drawn until they reached the end of the mountains.

As his representative on earth, Temüjin would have all the power to conquer in Tengri’s name, and he would not make the mistakes his ancestors had made. He would create a powerful empire that would last forever. He would create the Second Khaganate.

Behind Temüjin, a buckskin banner hung. The image of the green wolf depicted on it flickered in the light from the fire. It showed those around him that this would be Tengri’s empire.

Deep within, he felt gratitude—but was not sure how to respond to it. With a grateful stare towards the sky, he knew he would not disappoint the father of the sky. The power and responsibility handed to him would be used in a wise way.

Tengri would be proud of him.

Temüjin would from now on be known to the world as Genghis Khan.

CHAPTER 1

Uden, The Netherlands

The Present – March 27th – 13:05

Those who knew him, considered Captain Simon Timmerman to be one of the best F-16 pilots in the Netherlands, which was why they had ordered him to fly this mission. Take-off was just a few minutes away and he knew it would be in a north-eastern direction, but did not know his destination. The tower would radio him the coordinates once he was in the air.

Not unusual, considering the fact there had been several Americans from the 703rd Munitions Support Squadron in the hangar when he arrived two hours ago. It gave him a good idea of what he was about to take with him up into the skies. He expected his destination to be either the UK or Germany.

Captain Timmerman had been flying F-16 fighters for almost twelve years now and at age forty-two he was ready to retire from active duty and settle for a well-paid desk job at a commercial airliner. Flying a passenger airplane after a life with F-16s, was unthinkable.

It would please his wife and two young kids. For the last seven years, normal work hours had not existed. The risk and uncertainty of four deployments to Afghanistan had taken a toll on his family.

Foxtrot India Tango, you are cleared for take-off. Report when airborne. Over. The earpiece crackled with the familiar voice of the tower controller.

Uden tower, Foxtrot India Tango, roger. Over. With ease, Captain Timmerman turned the fifteen-ton aircraft around and taxied onto the runway.

Because of the suspected cargo, he wanted to hit the skies and get this mission over with ASAP. At the runway he used the brakes to keep the fighter still for just a moment while the engine built up enough thrust. He let go and the machine accelerated. Seven hundred meters down the tarmac, he reached take-off speed of one hundred fifty knots. He could have taken off at a lower speed, but his load was heavy.

The gray Fighting Falcon—known as The Viper—reached an altitude of a thousand feet in just under two seconds.

Like most pilots, he loved to fly these powerful beasts. The excitement of piloting a fighter jet was something every kid dreamt about. When he folded up his flight suit for the last time, he would surely miss these machines.

Subconsciously, he noticed the contrail coming towards him. The ‘incoming missile’ alarm went off, but he did not have time to act.

The rocket-propelled Stinger hit his airplane.

CHAPTER 2

Brussels, Belgium

March 29th – 12:00

The bells of the St. Michael and St. Gudula Cathedral chimed to whoever was listening that it was noon. After a long and wet winter, the temperature in the Belgian capital was in the mid teens, Celsius, and the sun showed its face through a thin layer of clouds that resembled a wedding veil. This was the first day of spring according to the meteorologists, and scores of office workers were venturing out onto the streets to have a stroll before lunch.

The bravest of the lot would even try to have their lunch outdoors. The crowds were cheerful, and it seemed that everyone was embracing the unreliable fact that summer might just be around the corner.

Stop that lady! She stole my camera! a man’s voice cried out.

Oliver DeVille was one of the many in the streets. He heard the commotion and saw the hunchbacked gypsy woman hurrying towards him faster than a lady at that age could possibly move.

DeVille also saw the stereotypical tourist, wearing what looked more suitable for an African safari than a stroll in downtown Brussels, waving his arms as if that would somehow stop the camera thief.

The little sympathy DeVille had for old ladies who stooped so low as to steal in order to survive disappeared the instant she was a few meters away from him. Not just because he wanted to stop a criminal act, but equally because his peaceful stroll had been disturbed, DeVille swung his briefcase upwards and slammed it into the face of the hunchbacked runner.

He got behind the old lady and removed his tie. He wrapped it tightly around her neck. Most of the others on the street gasped and some screamed. The lady reeked of tobacco and sweat, but DeVille’s nostrils also picked up the woody scent of aftershave.

Are you crazy? She’s just an old lady, a man shouted as he ran towards DeVille.

It’s not— was the only thing DeVille managed to say before he was pulled away from the gypsy.

The thief wriggled loose from the tie and sprinted away. DeVille managed to grab hold of the headscarf as the gypsy ran off.

It’s not an old lady, you idiot. DeVille looked at the man and threw the headscarf and a wig at him.

He looked at DeVille, the gray lump of hair, and the young man wearing make-up who was bolting down the street.

You let him go, so you’ll have to answer to the police if they show up. If they need me, give them this. DeVille handed over a business card. I need a drink.

He would not stick around for the police. Every time he went to a police station he ended up with the same nightmares.

Carina’s death.

He walked away and down the quaint little Bergstraat, located just between the cathedral and Brussels’ famous Grand Place. DeVille stopped outside a small bistro. If you did not notice the little menu in the glass box hanging on the white concrete wall next to the door, you would never know it was a restaurant. Through the window DeVille saw the waiter talking to a couple among the empty tables, and he decided to go in and have lunch.

And a drink.

The interior, dominated by dark brown wooden panels, made him think of an old library. The grayish floor tiles gave the impression of a warehouse. Together it felt, surprisingly, like a rustic Italian ristorante. The leather chairs, like the ones in exclusive English clubs, oozed luxury. Black and white pictures of celebrities, who probably had never even been to Belgium, scattered the walls, but they gave the place a feeling of coziness.

DeVille thought the mix of everything in the bistro was just like a miniaturized Belgium. He pulled out a stool by the bar.

The bartender finished cleaning a glass before he turned to DeVille. Can I get you anything? he asked in French.

I’ll have steak and eggs, please. DeVille ordered in the same language, one of five he was fluent in.

And to drink?

DeVille scanned the various choices of spirits on the shelves behind the bar, Johnnie Walker Red and soda.

It was good enough for Churchill.

DeVille pulled out an iPad from his worn leather Bridge briefcase. He did not care much for gadgets, but he liked the iPad.

A status symbol, perhaps.

He connected the tablet to the bistro’s Wi-Fi and looked at the wallpaper image of himself straddling a quad bike at an EU team building event two weeks ago. The encounter with the religious cult almost killed him. Instinctively, his fingers reached up and touched his right earlobe—now partly missing.

He scrolled to the side and opened a document of an article he was writing about Christian extremists in Africa. He had been working on it for months and it was still not finished. The extremists reminded him of those who had killed Carina.

He opened his browser and clicked on a bookmark of a betting company’s website. Qualification games for the World Cup were the only games playing that day. DeVille looked at the list of games to see if he could find anything. It was just pure gut feeling. He stopped when he saw Turkey playing at home against Austria at one forty-five. He placed a hundred euros on Turkey, giving him a reason to watch the game on TV when he got home.

At that moment the bartender appeared with his food.

Thanks, the steak looks fine, he said. Another scotch and soda, please.

Might as well go home afterwards. No point in returning to the office.

Just as he paid for lunch his phone vibrated in his inner pocket. The caller ID showed an unknown number.

Oliver DeVille, he answered. Over the years, he had found it was best to answer with his name. He had no idea what language the unknown caller would speak.

DeVille, glad I could get hold of you, a hoarse voice said in accented English.

The chief of staff of the EU Commission’s president. DeVille had worked for him several times over the last few years. They were opposite personalities, but he liked the politically correct, fifty-something, German lawyer.

How fast can you be here? the chief of staff asked.

I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes?

What’s your location? I’ll send a car for you.

Close to Grand Place. Bergstraat. What’s going on? It sounds like an emergency. DeVille was curious.

I guess you could say that. That fighter jet that crashed in the Netherlands two days ago, you saw that on the news?

Yes?

Well, it didn’t crash. It was shot down. And it was carrying a nuclear missile.

CHAPTER 3

Utrecht, The Netherlands

13:26

Weapon of mass destruction is certainly a suitable name.

Mahmoud Khan pictured it. Explosions and screams. Flames filled his eyes. The damage it could unleash on his enemies mesmerized him.

And he had just stolen one.

The Americans had moved into the air base with their goods around the time of the Cuban missile crisis.

A long time ago, but they surely regret that now.

Khan smiled. He had shown them what a missile crisis really meant.

But he was also worried.

Who has the weapon now?

He cleared his mind of his worries and stepped onto his prayer mat, devoting his full concentration to God. After five minutes, he turned his head to the right and said the Taslim. He finished the noon prayer, Dhuhr, and put his shoes back on. Khan rolled up his prayer mat, the only item he had brought with him from his ancestral land. It showed wear from years of kneeling five times a day.

The doors to the bedroom and the kitchen had been removed to create an illusion of space. After years spent in the mountains and in the deserts of Xinjiang, he loathed the cramped quarters of the city apartment which had accommodated him for nearly two years. He heard rainwater drip from his soaked coat which was hanging by the entrance door, making the apartment feel damp and stuffy.

Khan sat down with a cup of tea and wondered if his brothers-in-arms felt as restless as he did.

Are they also sitting in their apartments, waiting to find out if they have been successful?

Khan rubbed his beard and felt the hairs curl around his dark-skinned hands. They matched the face of a man who had been outdoors in the sun for a number of years. The jeans and the hooded sweater he was wearing made him uncomfortable. At least he had his skullcap.

As the leader of the team that had carried out the mission, he was proud. It was less than two days since he had returned to his apartment, but it felt like weeks. He stood up and peeked through the drapes, down at Ismail’s twelve-year-old Mercedes, parked out in the street. It was the only thing connecting them to the incident. He thought about dumping it.

Ismail was the artillery man and the most important piece of the mission. Khan let a hand run across his own face, thinking Ismail’s sunken-in cheeks were quite different than his. Ismail had no beard either, the white of his face only highlighted by a mustache, riddled with brown nicotine stains. Just like the rust on the bumper of the old Mercedes. They went back almost fifteen years. At the Ghulja Massacre they both lost many relatives and almost died themselves. When they recovered from their injuries, they both pledged to seek revenge.

The only way to fight the Chinese was jihad. They joined a training camp in Afghanistan. Today, they were both veteran fighters and respected in their organization. Khan knew Ismail was one of the best Stinger operators. He had seen him in battle many times, with the weapon towered on top of his skinny shoulder. Ismail was the first man he had picked for this mission.

It was only two days ago.

Khan, Ismail, and one of the students, had picked a spot next to an office building at a plant producing animal feed off Nieuwedijk in Uden. The site seemed ideal for their purpose. A few trees lined the driveway, from where Ismail could fire his Stinger. They would be hidden, but with a good view towards where the target would appear.

The plot was laid out like a medieval castle, canals separating the plant from open fields on three sides. It meant they would be trapped if someone was to come through the only entrance, but it was a risk they had accepted. Only one thing mattered—Ismail had to fire the Stinger at the right moment.

Are we sure about take-off direction? Khan had asked the student minutes before the Stinger was fired.

Yes, it will definitely be north-eastern.

Khan was pleased. It was a requirement for their plan to work. One of many key variables in order to make this mission a success. Khan stared through his binoculars at the Volkel Air Base for signs of the F-16.

Ismail launched the Stinger missile a second after the fighter jet went airborne. The difficult part was pulling the trigger about half a second before the F-16 took off, and aiming at a target ahead of the airplane when the missile left the launcher.

They needed the fighter jet down, but in two pieces.

No one needed to worry. The hit was perfect. Only Ismail could have done it. For a man who, for over a half a warrior’s lifetime, had fired missiles at airplanes several thousand meters away, a target just a few hundred meters above the ground was no difficulty. Thanks to its recoil spring, the Stinger was one of the most accurate portable surface-to-air missile launchers. Khan had great respect for this weapon. And for Ismail.

He snapped out of his thoughts, and saw the difference between Ismail and the Mercedes—the overall appearance. While the car, though old, looked classic instead of aged, there was nothing classic about Ismail. He was just worn.

In a neighborhood with a lot of break-ins, it had been risky to store the missile launcher in the trunk of the car. They could not carry it up and down to the apartment either. Not without arousing suspicion. The police was active this close to the city center, but it was not unusual for a drug addict or a vandal to try their luck with the parked cars at night. Now Khan hoped someone would steal the car.

He drew the drapes. The noises out there, which he would never get used to, came from a city where people had left work and gone out for lunch in bars and restaurants.

Infidels.

Khan went into the bedroom, fell onto the bed, and closed his eyes.

We have accomplished so much.

Utrecht was the perfect place to hide while they planned the mission. A large Muslim immigrant population meant they blended in, and the city’s mosques had been ideal for the task of recruiting three more men. The Muslims of Utrecht mostly kept to themselves.

To the Dutch, all Muslims looked the same.

Has it gone too smoothly? Will the mission blow up in our faces?

Inshallah, he whispered.

The worn, wooden beads felt soft as he let all ninety-nine of them pass between his index finger and thumb. He put the prayer bead chain into his pocket, but continued to pass them between his fingers.

He got up and took another look out of the window. It was a little busier in the street now, with more young people.

School must be over for the day.

With their scarves and umbrellas, they braved the outdoors—changed, from resembling a nice summer’s day, to a cold and wet spring afternoon. All within minutes. He knew the infidel students were already headed for the bars. A cab prowled the street below, and a young couple with hands entwined walked past the Mercedes towards the city center. The man holding the girl’s hand was the same age as Yakuf Haq.

The man they had left behind.

That was the only thing that had gone wrong with the whole complicated mission—they had lost a man. Khan felt a knot in his stomach.

Will it be a problem?

Right after the attack, when they sped away in the Mercedes, Khan watched the two trucks through his binoculars. The trucks, driven by Haq and another of the students, were almost as important to the mission as the Stinger. They had done well and blocked the routes they were supposed to.

The first truck had turned left towards Volkelseweg and then right onto the one-lane road. It had been going fast and with a hard turn of the wheels the truck and trailer overturned. It then blocked both lanes and the bike path next to it. With a canal on each side, it was impossible for rescue personnel to pass without first moving the truck.

Instead, they went onto the Noordstraat—where the second truck was in the first responders’ way.

Khan knew that had been the more difficult task. The truck driver had to block the road bridge while at the same time doing damage to a wooden walk bridge next to it. Haq managed to do just that.

As soon as Haq’s truck turned onto the bridge, he fishtailed it. The trailer went through the rails with its rear end, slid on its side to lie partly on the wooden walk bridge and partly on the road bridge.

But it went too fast through the rails. The truck hit a tree next to the bridge, throwing it sideways towards the canal, before stopping. The bridges were blocked, but Khan did not see Haq come out of the truck.

Anyone inside the mangled cabin had to be seriously injured. There was no way to rescue him. Within seconds, police, military, and firefighters would have been everywhere—red and blue lights flashing across the fields, desperate to reach the crash site of the F-16.

A fellow warrior and believer had been left behind.

It made Khan think of what happened a year ago. It had taken them almost six months to recruit the three students, but it was time well spent. The university boys strongly believed in the cause and had accepted martyrdom.

None of them were from the native land, but their parents brought them here from Pakistan and Afghanistan. They all had Uighur names. Their grandparents must have moved across the border during the Cultural Revolution. He proved to the young men that they still had family back home. It was only a matter of time before Khan persuaded them to join the cause.

A year ago, he told Haq about a former leader of the organization and how he was killed by a Hellfire missile fired from a Predator drone in North Waziristan. He had been Haq’s cousin. Khan explained to him what they were fighting for and how Haq could help. The young student started to understand his cousin’s motivation and when Khan asked him to help with a task that would have made his cousin proud, Haq agreed immediately.

Neither the gloom of Haq’s probable capture, nor the delight of the successful mission, was the reason for Khan’s restlessness. Neither did it worry him that he might get caught by the police. It was that he did not know why the mission had been sanctioned in the first place.

Who was on the other end to pick up the nuclear missile we shot off the fighter jet?

Why did the Uighur leaders sponsor this mission if the weapon is not to be used against the Chinese?

Is it all part of a greater Al-Qaeda plot?

Those who have just been served a nuclear missile on a silver platter, what will they use it for?

CHAPTER 4

Brussels, Belgium

13:45

A car picked him up outside the restaurant and took him directly to the basement. This entrance was normally reserved for VIP guests and higher EU officials. A security officer escorted him through a metal detector and they took the elevator straight to the floor which housed the president and his staff.

He liked that they picked him up in an Audi A8. It could be the one the president rode in.

Surely, they must have more discreet cars in the EU motor pool.

DeVille’s curiosity grew with every second he waited. The black leather chairs and the modern art carefully broke the hypnotic effect of the room’s light wood panels. It made the ten-minute wait as pleasant