According to legend, on the night before the battle, St. James appeared to Ramiro in a dream, reassuring him that he would be victorious. The next day, at the Battle of Clavijo, Ramiro invoked the name of St. James and with his men slew more than five thousand of the Moorish forces.
It was claimed that St. James, riding on a white horse, with a white banner and a long silver sword, rode among Ramiro’s men, cutting down every Muslim soldier who appeared before him. Hence, St. James became known as Matamoros, and there were paintings and statues of him performing his abhorrent deed all over the city.
The attack on the cathedral that held his bones, and more important, his name, would be an undeniable victory for the Islamic State and Muslims around the world. Tursunov had planned its timing very carefully.
More than 250,000 pilgrims visited the cathedral every year. August was considered peak season. He was pushing things by waiting until the end of the month, but it had been important to attack at Burning Man first. The Americans were reactionary. In light of a successful attack in Europe, they would have hardened targets, possibly making it too hard to strike. It had been better to catch them by surprise. Now it was time to surprise the Europeans.
Tursunov had attended the “Pilgrim’s Mass” only once, but it was enough. Like everyone around him, he had filmed the entire thing with his camera phone.
Based on his estimates, the service at the high altar catered to just over a thousand worshippers, all tightly packed into the pews.
He would have loved to collapse the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, but with its sweeping arches, barreled ceiling, and soaring columns, its structural DNA eluded him.
He didn’t have the engineering expertise of a bin Laden. His experience came from his service in the Tajik Army, followed by a career in the Special Operations Unit of the National Police Force. Neither had called for taking down churches. He was much more conversant in things like artillery and blowing doors off hinges. Even so, he had tried to improve his knowledge.
Using the Christian churches and heavily columned archeological sites of ISIS-held territory, he had conducted experiment after experiment.
And while the structural DNA of the sites continued to elude him, something more dramatic was revealed. With each test, they learned how to build better bombs. In particular, their martyrdom vests took a huge leap forward.
As the technology improved, so did their understanding of how best to maximize the effects. Whether indoors or out, they developed a whole new approach that would accelerate the lethality of their attacks.
With these advancements, he had pushed for a new way of structuring personnel. There was no need to create one operational cell. He wanted multiple small cells, with each believing it was acting alone.
If one was captured, the operation would still be able to continue. In fact, authorities might even drop their guard, believing that they had successfully interrupted the entirety of the plot.
It meant more work, more cutouts and double-blind intermediaries, but Tursunov’s ability to strategize on a higher plane was what had earned him his position as the senior ISIS commander for Europe. His brothers in America would have been smart to follow his lead.
Opening a new package of Dunhill cigarettes, he placed one between his lips and lit it. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and tried to picture how everything would unravel inside.
The highlight of the Pilgrim’s Mass was the flight of a massive brass incense burner. Suspended high above the main altar, the cathedral’s Botafumerio was controlled by a series of ropes, the pulling of which caused it to soar to amazing heights as it released its sweet-smelling smoke.
Tursunov imagined the quiet titter of excitement as the red-robed Tiraboleiros—the men charged with lofting the frankincense-packed censer—walked past the faithful and made their way toward the altar.
Once there, the lead Tiraboleiro would light the Botafumerio and it would begin to release its heavy aroma.
Once the other Tiraboleiros were ready, the chief would give a signal and they’d pull on the ropes in unison, dramatically launching it heavenward.
As it swung back and forth in a hypnotic, pendulous motion that seemed poised to touch the walls of the cathedral itself, its intoxicating smoke would fill the air. So effortlessly would it swing, and so wonderful was its heady perfume, that the entire spectacle would seem to provide a way to commune with the Divine. As the organ played, a nun would sing.
Exhaling, Tursunov opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. They were seconds away.
Inside, the organ would be building to a thunderous crescendo as the lead Tiraboleiro reached out to capture the swinging Botafumerio. Tursunov counted down from ten as he took another drag from his cigarette.
Looking up, he fixed his eyes on the glazed windows adorning the structure’s western facade.
Three seconds later, the entire city shook as a series of explosions rocked the cathedral—sending shards of stained glass, chunks of flaming stone, and pieces of bone, blood, and human flesh in all directions.
CHAPTER 11
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AL JMAIL, LIBYA
MONDAY
When news of the attack on the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela broke, the CIA had accelerated Harvath’s timetable.
More than four hundred people had been killed, ninety-two of them American. Four hundred more people were wounded, including more than one hundred Americans. The numbers were still climbing.
Though the Spanish had only begun to gather intelligence, McGee and everyone back at Langley were already convinced. Santiago de Compostela was the kickoff of the series of attacks they had been worried about.
And if that attack was just the beginning, things were going to get much, much worse. They needed to get ahead of this fast, or many more people were going to die.
“In case nobody’s on record yet,” Matt Morrison stated from the front passenger seat, “this is a really bad fucking idea.”
The five-foot-eleven, thirty-one-year-old former Force Reconnaissance Marine from Cullman, Alabama, kept his head on a swivel as he peered through the tinted windows.
Next to him, driving, was his fellow Force Recon Marine, Mike Haney. The forty-year-old Marin, California, native stood six feet tall.
In back of the white Toyota HiAce panel van, Harvath—a Southern California native—leaned against his plate carrier and manipulated the feed from the 360-degree camera mounted to the roof. Across from him, five-foot-ten, thirty-nine-year-old Tyler Staelin, the Delta operative from downstate Illinois, read a Brad Meltzer paperback.
Trailing a block back in a blue Land Cruiser were Navy SEAL Tim Barton and 5th SFG Green Beret Jack Gage.
They were all wearing civilian clothes with baseball caps, sunglasses, and keffiyehs. Even though they were all tanned, they didn’t really blend in. The point, though, was to minimize how much they stood out.
Harvath hadn’t intended to drag his Burning Man team along with him, but McGee had insisted.