by Don Bentley
“Pleased to meet you,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Allie. Allie Mishler.”
“Matt Drake. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Penance,” Allie said with a laugh. “I graduated in January with a journalism degree and had an internship lined up with a political magazine out here.”
“But?”
“But it folded a week before Christmas.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
Allie shrugged. “It’s a kick in the teeth for sure, but I can’t imagine what the staff’s going through. Anyway, I’d already paid the deposit for my apartment, and I’ve got a little money saved up. Might as well give this city a shot. My blog’s getting pretty good traffic. I’d love to parlay that into a full-time column somewhere. Until then, I’ll work as a freelancer. I’m a journalist with a minor in poli sci. If I can’t find a job here, I can’t find one anywhere.”
I nodded as I tried to sort through what exactly was happening. Allie was an attractive girl, but I was not in the habit of flirting with down-on-their-luck women ten years my junior. Then it hit me—Allie was only a little bit older than Nazya. And while Allie was pursuing her dreams, the Yazidi girl was doing her best just to piece her world back together. It never ceased to amaze me how terrible and wonderful life could be, all in the same instant.
“Sorry for rambling,” Allie said, “but you’re like a piece of home—even if you are a Longhorn. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yep. It’s under Virginia, and please, don’t apologize. In fact, give me the info for your blog. Journalism isn’t my field, but this town is smaller than you’d think. I’m always happy to help out a fellow member of the Lone Star State.”
“Texas forever,” Allie said as she handed me a business card. “I post pieces once or twice a week. Now, enough about me. Your party’s waiting.”
Pocketing the card, I followed Allie to where Virginia was sitting in a dark corner. The perpetually sunny girl from East Tennessee looked anything but happy. Her normally clear blue eyes were puffy and red. Allie paused to ask if everything was all right, and Virginia assured her she was fine.
“What happened with Nazya?” I said after Allie disappeared with my drink order.
“What you’d expect,” Virginia said, fiddling with her silverware. “She told her story to your FBI friends. Hearing it the first time at the safe house was bad enough. Listening as the agents debriefed her was even worse.”
“I can imagine,” I said, once again struck by the difference between Allie and Nazya. “I don’t know how she’s not huddled in a corner.”
“I do,” Virginia said, and took an enormous swallow from her mojito. “There’s a second part. Something she didn’t tell us before.”
“What’s that?”
“Nazya wasn’t the only one kidnapped. The bastards also took her younger sister. She’s desperate to save her.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen.”
I knew I’d regret asking the question, and now I had my just rewards. Fifteen. I had a fifteen-year-old niece named Elizabeth. She was a freshman in high school who ran track, dreamed of becoming a writer, and already shared my sister’s unhealthy addiction to cowboy boots. The thought of blue-eyed, blond-haired Elizabeth in the hands of sex traffickers made my skin crawl.
“What’d the FBI agents say?” I said.
Virginia shrugged. “Nothing, really. The women interviewing her seemed sympathetic, but Nazya doesn’t need sympathy. She needs someone to rescue her little sister.”
“Which the FBI can’t do,” I said.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Mostly can’t. The FBI’s constitutional authority begins and ends at our shorelines. There are FBI legal attachés, called legats, stationed overseas, but these agents don’t have independent investigatory powers. Their job is to liaise with local law enforcement. Legats could help coordinate an investigation, but only if the host nation has the infrastructure and is willing to lead a search for Nazya’s sister.”
“Which Iraq isn’t,” Virginia said.
“Probably not. Between the rampant political corruption and continuing sectarian violence and Iran’s ever-growing influence, Iraq is barely holding together. I doubt the Iraqi Federal Police are going to devote much time to one missing teenager. Especially when their nation’s survival’s at stake.”
“So now what?” Virginia said.
I took a swallow of water before answering. I knew what Virginia was really asking, but I also lived in the real world. I’d learned long ago to divorce myself from the suffering I encountered on a daily basis. Civilization might have advanced by leaps and bounds in the last hundred years, but large swaths of the world were still medieval shitholes. These were the places I operated. If I allowed myself to care about every injustice, I’d lose my sanity. So instead of answering Virginia’s question, I asked one of my own. “Where’s Nazya now?”
“In a Bureau safe house. When I left, she was trying to get ahold of her extended family. She has an older brother working in Turkey and an uncle still in Iraq. The FBI agents want her help finding the sex traffickers, but she’s no pushover. When they wouldn’t commit to helping her sister, Nazya’s English dried up. But we both know the FBI isn’t right for this job. Nazya needs someone who can go to Iraq and do what people with badges can’t. Or won’t.”
And there it was. East Tennessee was nothing if not determined. I respected her grit, but thinking I could help was pure fantasy. It was time to let her know that.
“Listen,” I said, “I know I promised you the chance to make a difference, but this isn’t it. We don’t know anything about Nazya’s sister. Hell, we don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
“Yes, we do,” Virginia said, setting her iPhone on the table in front of me. “Nazya escaped her captors in Iraq twice. Each time she was able to collect more information about the organization holding her before she was recaptured. I won’t tell you what the sex traffickers did to her each time they caught her, but I’m sure you can imagine. Anyway, she learned that the sex traffickers were using Facebook to sell the women they kidnap. Here’s the page. This is her sister, Ferah. The post is only twenty-four hours old. Not only is Ferah still alive, but she’s currently on the auction block.”
I looked at the face staring back at me. Ferah’s face. I couldn’t save everyone. That was just the cold, hard fact. But I couldn’t ignore the person in the picture either. Curly black hair framed a face caught midway between girl and woman. But her dark, vacant eyes ended any thoughts of girlish innocence. And then it wasn’t Ferah I saw. It was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth with her crooked smile and stubborn sense of right and wrong. Elizabeth the writer who already seemed to know there was more to Uncle Matt than met the eye. What would I do if Ferah’s monsters had Elizabeth instead?
Anything.
Everything.
“Okay,” I said, throwing a couple twenties on the table to settle the bill. “The Facebook information might change things. Might. But this isn’t the movies. I can’t go after Ferah with just a Facebook post. I need actionable intelligence, and we don’t have any. Yet.”
“But you’ve got an idea,” Virginia said as we got to our feet. “Something that could help.”
“Not something. But maybe someone.”
TWENTY-THREE
Ever thought of calling first?”
“Does your momma call before she drops by?” I said, refusing to be intimidated by Frodo’s less-than-friendly welcome.
“No,” Frodo said. “That’s why I put a GPS tracker on her Mustang.”
“She still drives that old convertible? I thought you were gonna buy her a hybrid.”
“I did. She leaves it in the garage. She thinks driving that gas guzzler is helping to make America energy independent.”
“I love your mom,” I said. “You gonna let us in or what? Virginia’s getting cold.”
At the mention of Virginia, Frodo’s eyes grew bigger. He leaned around the half-open door of his town house and nodded at the chemist. “Sorry for being rude, but this really isn’t a good time.”
Virginia started to reply with what I’m sure would have been an apology and an offer to come back later. But before she could get the words out, another voice echoed from inside the apartment. A feminine voice.
“Frodo? Is everything all right?”
“Seems like this is the perfect time,” I said, stepping into the doorway. “Invite us in before I make an ass of myself.”
“Too late for that,” Frodo said, but he opened the door all the same. “Come on in. But wipe your feet. Seamus just vacuumed.”
“He vacuums?” I said.
“Unlike some people, my dog isn’t a freeloading malcontent. He knows how to start the Roomba. Get in here. Virginia’s shivering.”
“Have the two of you considered couple’s therapy?” Virginia said as she slipped past me.
“We tried,” I said. “Frodo has trouble expressing his feelings.”
A soft laugh that wasn’t Virginia’s greeted my reply. A pretty woman in her late twenties was standing in the kitchen holding a glass of red wine.
“You must be Matt,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m Katherine.”
“So good to meet you, Katherine. This is my colleague Virginia. I’d give you a hug, but Seamus is particular about what I touch.”
At the sound of his name, the mutt opened his eyes and grumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. The murmur rattled my fillings. Katherine laughed again, a warm, pleasant sound that softened the edges of Frodo’s decidedly masculine apartment. “I think I’m going to like you,” Katherine said.
“You might want to reserve judgment until you find out why we’re here,” I said.
Seamus rumbled his agreement.
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, we were seated around Frodo’s scarred coffee table, glasses of wine in the girls’ hands while Frodo held a beer. Though it hadn’t been stated outright, Katherine seemed to know what Frodo and I did for a living. This made me think that his mystery NSA analyst and Katherine were one and the same. Either way, the time for beating around the bush was over. If Frodo didn’t want Katherine to be a part of our discussion, he’d let me know. The clock was ticking.
“I need help,” I said after everyone was seated.
“Truer words have never been spoken,” Frodo said.
“I’m serious, brother,” I said. “Regardless of what James thinks, Mr. Suave isn’t going to quit until one of us is dead. I can feel it.”
“I’m not arguing, Matty,” Frodo said, leaning forward in his chair, “but we’ve been down this road. While you were recuperating from your last solo op, I was trying to find something on this guy or his network. I came up empty. Like I said before, Mr. Suave is a ghost.”
“Not anymore,” I said, sliding Virginia’s phone across the coffee table. “Take a look.”
With undisguised reluctance, Frodo picked up the phone and began to thumb through the images as Katherine peered over his shoulder.
“What am I seeing?” Frodo said.
“Facebook postings from the network of shitheads who kidnapped Nazya and smuggled her into the US along with the Iraqi commandos who tried to kill me,” I said. “Mr. Suave’s sex-trafficking network. Mr. Suave has Nazya’s sister, Ferah. The girl’s being auctioned as we speak.”
“And you’re gonna do what exactly?”
“Go to Iraq and rescue her. Then I’m going to find Mr. Suave and kill him. Simple, right?”
“The best plans are,” Frodo said, handing the phone to Virginia. “But I still don’t see enough intelligence to authorize an operation.”
“Maybe not a kinetic capture or kill op,” I said, “but certainly enough to start digging. And I don’t mean sifting through paperwork here in the States. I’m talking about boots on the ground in Iraq to see what I can put together.”
“Iraq’s a big place,” Frodo said.
“Agreed,” I said. “That’s why I need someone to trace these posts back to their digital roots and turn that info into actionable intelligence. Maybe someone who works at the NSA.”
“Hold on,” Frodo said, setting his beer on the coffee table. “If you want to chase a white whale, I’m not gonna stop you. But involving Katherine is crossing a line. What you’re proposing is something extrajudicial. An outside job. People go to jail for this shit.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “James gave us permission to pursue Mr. Suave. He just didn’t want me in Iraq. Well, too damn bad. I’m going anyway. But that has nothing to do with Katherine. Put the request for NSA help through official channels. I don’t care. Just get me something I can use once I’m in-country.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Katherine said.
“Baby, trust me,” Frodo said, reaching toward Katherine. “With Matty things always sound reasonable. But they don’t end up that way. He almost started World War Three last time he was overseas. Getting involved with him could kill your career.”
“How old is this girl?” Katherine said, looking at Virginia.
“Fifteen,” Virginia said, placing her wineglass on the table with shaking fingers. “Her sister says she loves horses. Had pictures of them all over her room. Now she’s being held by monsters and auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
“I’m in,” Katherine said. “Official request or not, I’m in. How can I not be?”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll arrange my transportation into country, but I need cash. Frodo, unfreeze some operational accounts so I can draw on them. Katherine, Frodo’s right—Iraq’s a big place. I’ve got a network of assets in-country, but I need to know where to point them. Can you localize the sex traffickers’ IP addresses?”
“On it,” Katherine said.
“Great,” I said. “I think that’s it.”
“Not quite,” Virginia said. “I’m coming too.”
“Not gonna happen,” I said. “I—”
“Don’t start,” Virginia said, cutting me off. “This isn’t a one-person job. Besides, you told me I’d get to do something that mattered. Something like this. I’m coming. End of discussion.”
I looked at Frodo. After a long moment, he gave a slow nod.
“Okay,” I said, turning to Virginia and Katherine. “Let’s do this.”
TWENTY-FOUR
MOSUL, IRAQ
If post–World War II boundaries had been drawn by a different hand, the city of Mosul might have become the crown jewel of the Middle East, perhaps even the Islamic world’s equivalent to Tel Aviv. Mosul’s lineage was both ancient and distinguished. Bisected by Iraq’s most important waterway, the Tigris River, the sprawling metropolis occupies almost seventy square miles of potential. Home to the ruins of Nineveh, of Jonah-and-the-whale fame, Mosul is a trading city with easy access to Turkey, Syria, and Iran.
In ancient times, the city commanded the world’s respect if not admiration. Now, after enduring decades of mismanagement under Saddam Hussein, horrible sectarian fighting during the US invasion, and occupation by ISIS, the would-be jewel of the Middle East was a cesspool in every sense of the word.
Stepping over the stream of foul-smelling raw sewage flowing past what in happier times had been a sidewalk, I pulled open the passenger door of an idling Toyota Hilux and slipped inside. The compact truck roared into traffic with a seat-pressing acceleration that belied the vehicle’s benign appearance. The Hilux, like its driver, was not what it seemed.
I knew, since I’d bought and paid for them both.
“My friend, we must stop meeting like this,” Zain said. He offered me a handshake with a grip that was
surprisingly strong. Though Zain was slight of stature, his body was hard, almost desiccated. As if the desert sun had long ago melted away any superfluous tissue, leaving behind only sinew and bone. He kept his eyes on the road as he shook my hand, driving like the seasoned smuggler he was. Only a fool took Mosul’s traffic for granted.
My Syrian friend was many things, but a fool he was not.
“Inshallah,” I said, switching to Arabic as I buckled my seat belt. “Much has happened in the last year. How have you been?”
Zain shrugged as he followed a second Hilux through an intersection. “As always, better than I should be, thanks to you. The information you provide is vital, especially with the Shias in Baghdad flirting with Iran. ISIS may no longer control Mosul, but that doesn’t mean the city is safe. Thugs dressed in black, flying the Caliphate’s flag, have given way to criminals and worse.”
“Hezbollah?”
Zain nodded. “But those miscreants I can deal with. It’s their masters who give me concern.”
“The Iranian Quds Force is operating here? Openly?”
Another nod. “In the last several weeks, their presence has been blatant—checkpoints on the thoroughfares heading east and other nonsense. Officially, they are here to stop the violence from spreading to Iran.”
“But unofficially?”
“The mullahs have been trying to expand their influence into Iraq since the butcher in Damascus asked them for help propping up his failing regime. What better way to provide that help than by securing a land bridge across the country separating them? But you did not come all this way to hear about my problems. What do you need?”
I paused before answering. A series of hazy cirrus clouds stretched across the all-encompassing azure sky like wisps of white hair. This was Iraq’s wet season, and patches of green broke up the usually never-ending vista of brown as wheat and barley crops reached heavenward. With Mosul’s population of close to one million, locating Mr. Suave, and by extension Ferah, wouldn’t be easy.