by Don Bentley
“To buy time,” Zain said.
“Time for what?” I said.
“Vengeance,” Benny murmured from his stretcher.
“The Jew is right,” Zain said, leaning forward to clasp my hands with his bony fingers. “An enemy has attacked my family. This must be met with vengeance. Blood and honor demand no less.”
I looked at Zain while I turned his answer over in my mind, considering. What he said was believable, and his actions spoke even louder than his words. If not for him, I would still be trying to find my way out of the Iranian outpost with Benny in tow. And then there was Virginia. Zain certainly could have sweetened his deal with the Devil by tossing in Virginia, but he hadn’t.
In any case, I needed him. I’d come here to rescue a fifteen-year-old girl and kill the Devil. I couldn’t do either of those things without help. As Frodo had so succinctly stated, this was an outside job. A statement even more true now that the Devil had compromised my life back home. Even if I had a way to contact Frodo and Katherine for help, I couldn’t risk it. Not until I understood how far the Devil had penetrated. And then there was Laila. The thought of my beautiful wife obliviously drinking a coffee as professional killers watched her every move turned my stomach into knots.
The way to protect Laila was simple—eliminate the Devil. But that was easier said than done. A man with the means and the reach to find me in Austin would not be easy to put down on his home turf. I needed help to kill the Devil.
I needed Zain.
“Okay, my friend,” I said, extricating my hands from Zain’s. “I accept your apology and welcome your assistance. After rescuing me, what did you plan to do next?”
Zain looked at me with a confused expression. “Next? There is no next. I am a smuggler, not a soldier, Matthew. Even so, I do know this—you are not a man to be trifled with. Setting you free is like uncaging a lion. My plan was to open your cage while trying not to get torn to pieces in the process. Tell me what you need, and I’ll provide it.”
His answer made sense. Though this part of the world boasted smartphones and Internet cafés, Western influence went only so far. Here, vendettas were still settled with the same ruthlessness that had made Zain’s ancestors feared by empires the world over. By aiding me, Zain was doing the equivalent of slapping the Devil across the face with a leather glove and demanding satisfaction.
Except that in the Middle East, satisfaction mirrored a fight scene from John Wick more than a gentlemanly duel with pistols at ten paces. By rescuing me, Zain had just kicked off a blood feud with the Middle East’s most notorious criminal. I could see why he wanted me to take the lead on what happened next.
“All right,” I said as the truck made an abrupt turn to the left, “where are we headed now?”
“To one of my safe houses,” Zain said. “It’s well guarded, and my top lieutenants will be waiting for us.”
“Why?” I said.
“To convene a war council. You are a deadly man, Matthew. But you cannot take on an army alone.”
“I appreciate that, my friend,” I said. “But before we meet your men, I’d like you to fill in some blanks. You said that the Devil came to you with an offer, correct?”
Zain nodded.
“So he knew I was coming to Iraq?”
Another nod.
“How?”
Zain shook his head. “Matthew, you are a brilliant spy, but sometimes you refuse to see what is right in front of you. The Devil knew that you were coming to Iraq the same way that Sayid was able to ambush you and Frodo as you tried to save your asset. Because someone told him.”
In that moment, everything went fuzzy, as if I was looking at the world through the reflection of a fogged mirror. The ambient sounds faded to low murmurs while the ambulance’s cramped cabin morphed into unrecognizable blobs of abstract art.
Part of me was aware that Zain’s matter-of-fact statement had caused quite a stir. Questions were shouted, and Virginia was gesturing. Even Benny was diving into the mix. But I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Or maybe I didn’t want to. The implications of Zain’s statement were rebounding inside my skull like the aftershocks from an earthquake.
Because someone told him.
In a flash, I was back in Syria with a semiconscious Frodo beside me. I could feel the throbbing where a bullet had torn through my leg. Taste the bitter metallic despair that came with knowing that Frodo and I would not survive the complex ambush that had ensnared us. An ambush initiated with an EFP that had disabled our Range Rover and amputated Frodo’s left arm in a storm of blood and fire. We’d fled our vehicle only to be caught in a kill zone formed by two crew-served weapons and a squad of dismounted riflemen.
We were done.
I’d tried to call for the quick reaction force, or QRF, only to discover that my state-of-the-art software-driven radio had malfunctioned. As had Frodo’s. A 7.62mm round through my leg had ended my attempt to carry Frodo to safety. Now, back-to-back with my critically injured friend, I was determined to honor my Ranger Regiment heritage and go out fighting.
Peering through the Trijicon 4x32 optic attached to my M4 rifle, I’d spotted a jihadi with a cell phone to his ear and a radio in his hand. Convinced that he was the one directing the ambush, I’d sighted on his exposed head and pulled the trigger. But even here, Syria was conspiring against me. An errant gust of wind had altered my shot’s trajectory. Instead of blowing out the back of his head, I’d opened a bloody furrow down the side of his face.
Just my luck.
But the wounded jihadi hadn’t ordered his squad of assaulters to bound toward us and finish the job. Instead, his men had broken contact and melted away just as a pair of Black Hawk Direct Action Penetrator gunships appeared on the horizon.
The rest was a blur of swirling dust and shouted commands. I remember the first gunship touching down, and medics running toward us. Everything else I saw through the haze that follows a morphine stick.
Zain’s words prompted me to relive that scene from beginning to end, moment by moment, frame by frame. The scorching heat and eardrum-rupturing shriek as the EFP shredded the Range Rover. The iron tang of blood. The sour taste of fear. The horror of Frodo’s injuries. The failure of our radios. The searing pain as a hundred-twenty-two-grain bullet punched through my leg. The sense of despair accompanying the realization that death was imminent.
Then the incredible relief when the DAPs appeared.
There.
In the moment between despair and salvation, I realized what I’d seen before but had never acknowledged. The image that had lurked in my subconscious agitating against my thoughts like a pebble in a shoe.
A cell phone.
Sayid had been talking on a cell phone.
To whom?
“Matthew!”
Startled, I realized that my fellow passengers were no longer quarrelling. In fact, they weren’t even speaking. Instead, they were staring at me.
“Matthew!” Zain said again, grabbing my shoulder. “Are you here?”
“Yes,” I said, still gathering my wits. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said that we’ve arrived at the safe house,” Zain said, sliding back against the wall. “We’re out of danger for the moment, but not for long. What now?”
“Easy,” I said, getting to my feet and opening the ambulance’s doors. “First, I find the Devil. Then I figure out who’s been feeding him information.”
“After that?” Zain said.
“After that, I’ll kill them both,” I said.
“Wait,” Virginia said, grabbing my arm. “What about Nazya’s sister? Are we leaving her with the sex traffickers?”
“Of course not,” I said, climbing out of the ambulance, and then turning to lend Virginia a hand. “In fact, I think we can use Ferah to find the Devil.”
“How?” Virgi
nia said.
“We still have access to the Facebook page the Devil is using to auction her. It should lead us to him.”
“But Zain just said someone has been feeding the Devil information. Someone who knew you were coming to Iraq. Aren’t you worried that your reach back to Frodo is compromised?”
“I know it is,” I said. “The Devil was pretty clear about that. He showed me encrypted text messages, transcriptions of conversations from my secure phone, pictures of Frodo, James, the whole gang. Compromised is too tame for what happened. We’re so far burned, it makes what the FBI informants did to the Gambino crime family look like a bunch of teen gossip.”
“Then how will we find Ferah?” Virginia said.
“We won’t,” I said. “Benny will.”
FORTY-ONE
Virginia and Zain both turned to the Mossad officer, who was trying to hobble from the ambulance unassisted. For a moment, Benny seemed surprised at the sudden audience, but then he began to shake his head.
Violently.
“I have no idea what you’re discussing, and I don’t want to,” the Israeli said, eventually giving in as two of Zain’s men kept him from tumbling to the ground. “I appreciate your help, but kindly lend me a cell phone, and I will be on my way.”
“Sorry, Benny,” I said, shouldering his weight, “but we’re going to need a favor first.”
Benny frowned as if his battered brain was struggling to translate my words from English to Hebrew. Or more likely because what I was implying was a bit too over-the-top, even for me.
“So I’m a hostage now? Are you insane?”
“Of course not,” I said with more than a little exasperation. “But I need your help. Desperately. Do you know why the Devil didn’t just kill me?”
Benny shook his head.
“Because he wanted me to do a job for him. A job back in the US.”
“What kind of job?” Benny said.
“He wouldn’t say,” I said, my stomach clenching as I relived the horror of those brief moments. “But he did tell me what would happen if I didn’t complete his assignment. Or more precisely what would happen to my wife.”
“He has your wife?” Virginia said.
“No. But he doesn’t need to. He has a team surveilling her. He showed me pictures of her at her favorite coffee shop. In real time. And then he let me know how thoroughly he’d penetrated our organization, just in case I thought about reaching back to them for help. Then he gave me a phone I was supposed to keep on me at all times and assigned one of his thugs as my minder.”
“Where’re the phone and the minder now?” Virginia said.
“The minder’s dead, and the phone burned up in a helicopter crash.”
“Then the Devil thinks you’re dead?” This time the question came from Zain.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But if he did, it would go a long way toward protecting my wife.”
“I can help with that,” Zain said. “My network will start rumors feeding faulty intelligence to the Devil’s men. I’ll make sure you’re included in the casualty list from the convoy ambush. The Devil will eventually figure out the truth, but it will take him a day or two to separate fact from fiction.”
I nodded, trying to look positive while I thought through the alternatives. If the Devil believed I was dead, he would have no reason to go after Laila. But if he suspected otherwise, my wife would pay the price.
In an instant, I was back at Taj’s Place what seemed like a hundred years ago. The images came in rapid fire. The cream curve-hugging dress and silky brown skin. Midnight hair tumbling across bare shoulders. Green eyes shimmering with tears as she stood to leave.
I just want my husband back.
Her husband had been sitting right in front of her. Why hadn’t I just told her that? Why had I let her walk away?
I just want my husband back.
Ripping myself back to the present, I focused on Benny. “My wife’s life is in danger. To save her, I have to get to the Devil. The only way I can do that is to find where he’s auctioning this girl.”
I grabbed Virginia’s phone and held it in front of Benny’s face. “Her name is Ferah, and she’s just fifteen. Fifteen, Benny. Help me find her.”
“Why can’t your NSA localize the website’s IP address?” Benny said, looking away from the phone.
“Because someone close to me is feeding the Devil information,” I said. “I don’t know who, or how deeply he’s penetrated my organization. I need your help. To put it more specifically, I need Unit 8200’s help.”
Benny glared at me, his eyes narrowing. Unit 8200 was Israel’s answer to the NSA. While its existence wasn’t denied, the organization wasn’t exactly discussed in everyday conversation either.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Benny said.
“Wrong,” I said. “I know exactly what I’m asking. I’m asking for your assistance in a joint intelligence operation between the United States and the nation of Israel. An operation that will result in the death of a major destabilizing force in the Middle East.”
“And what do I get out of this joint operation?” Benny said.
“Besides your life?” Virginia said. “Matt could have left you to rot.”
“Easy now, Tennessee,” I said, putting my hand on Virginia’s arm. “This is just how Israelis negotiate. Don’t take it personally. Besides, Benny’s question is a fair one. If somebody asked me to authorize the NSA to run a collection against a foreign target, I’d want to know how it would help me too. Fair enough. But maybe I should start with a question—how exactly did you end up in that Iranian cell, Benny?”
The Mossad officer glared at me. But he didn’t answer, which made me think I was on the right track.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Cat got your tongue? Okay, how about this? I’ll make up a story, and you just listen, okay?”
Benny gave a small nod.
“Great,” I said. “Here goes. In the short time I’ve been in-country, I couldn’t help but notice how openly the Quds Force is operating. Usually the Iranians are content to stay out of the way while Hezbollah stirs up trouble for them. But not now. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ambush on the American convoy I broke up had Quds Force members directing it. And that’s pretty damn blatant since Tehran is about one thousand miles east of here. But you already knew about the Quds Force presence, didn’t you, Benny?”
The Mossad officer didn’t confirm my suspicions. But he didn’t deny them either. Time to press forward.
“I have to think that the folks back in Jerusalem might have found all of this a wee bit disconcerting,” I said. “In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Iranians on the ground in Iraq are also a wee bit disconcerting for the Iraqis. Especially the Sunni Muslim politicians in parliament who don’t particularly want their country to become a de facto land bridge between Iran and Syria. I can’t imagine it sits well with them to know that the Alawite sect exterminating Sunni rebels in Syria is being resupplied by Iran through Iraq. Enjoying the story so far?”
Another nod.
“Good, ’cause here’s where it gets interesting. If I were in your shoes, I might fall back onto the old adage that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I might even think it’s worthwhile to travel covertly into Iraq to meet with a like-minded counterpart in the Iraqi National Intelligence Service. Except that something went wrong and instead of shaking hands with an Iraqi intelligence operative, you found yourself staring down the business end of an Iranian rifle. How’d I do?”
Benny stared at me for a beat, his face blank. Then he spoke. “What are you offering?”
“The Devil. You heard Zain describe him. His influence reaches from the slums of Aleppo to the halls of parliament. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to imagine that the man who employs former Iraqi commandos as his muscle probab
ly had something to do with your blown operation. Help me find this girl and, by extension, the Devil. I’ll bag him and give him to you.”
“I thought you were going to kill him,” Zain said.
I shrugged. “Let’s just say that when it comes to killing, the Mossad’s reputation precedes it. I have no reservations about your organization’s ability and willingness to finish the job once I start it. Think about it—you get the Devil, his network, and the Hezbollah and Quds Force operatives on his payroll. Say yes, Benny. It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”
Benny shook his head and mumbled another indecipherable phrase of Hebrew.
“What’s that?”
“I said, give me a phone. Please.”
“See?” I said, helping the spy up the steps to the safe house. “I knew we’d be friends.”
FORTY-TWO
How does it taste?” Zain said, pushing another plate full of food toward me.
“Delicious,” I said, forking a portion of meat into a warm pita and then taking a bite. “Simply delicious.”
The meal was the first real one I’d had in twenty-four hours, and when it came to Middle Eastern hospitality, Zain didn’t disappoint. After providing Benny with a phone, the smuggler had shown us to a table laden with dishes. The small feast had a sampling of everything that was good about Syrian cuisine—meze, kebab, kubbeh, desserts, and cups of strong dark coffee.
The smell was tantalizing, the meat straight from the grill, and the vegetables freshly harvested. And yet, contrary to what I’d told Zain, each bite had the culinary delight of sawdust. I ate to fill my stomach, nothing more. Perhaps because the whole of my attention was centered on the battered and bruised Israeli whispering into a cell phone.
The two men who had driven the rescue ambulance were smugglers like Zain, not medics. As such, the task of tending to Benny’s injuries had fallen to me. As a Ranger, I’d audited parts of the thirty-six-week special operations combat medics course, but I was no medic. I could perform basic triage and trauma-mitigation tasks, but anything more complex was beyond my skill set. With Benny, I’d immobilized the bones I thought were broken, stopped the bleeding of his open wounds, and continued to push fluids. I’d given him low-level painkillers, but we’d mutually agreed to hold off administering anything stronger until he finished this phone call.