Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “Now, Lieutenant—” the major started.

  The doctor cut him off. “I think we’ve done enough for today, Major. Thank you, Lieutenant. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Faraz was surprised that the major deferred to the doctor, who stood and led the others out of the room.

  Alone, with the late morning sun streaming through his high window, Faraz felt like he was being punished.

  He padded over to the windows and stood on tiptoes to look out. Below was a sidewalk through a narrow passageway of immaculate white stones that ran along the hospital’s outer wall. In the distance were palm trees and the blue water of Guantanamo Bay. In between was a double fence, ten feet tall and topped with rolls of razor wire. Video cameras capped the fence posts.

  Damn it. Where is that anger coming from? Gotta keep it in check.

  * * *

  Liz appeared in Bridget’s office doorway looking much too energetic for 0730. “This certainly has it all,” she said, holding up a printout of Bridget’s plan. “It’s the long-term companion to the short-term bang-bang they’re doing.”

  Bridget had hired Liz a little over a year earlier after reading her PhD thesis on the emerging new strategies and tactics of terrorist organizations. She brought fresh perspective, good analytical skills, and excellent Arabic. To Bridget, Liz’s calf-length, pin-striped pencil skirts, Oxford shirts, flat shoes, and curly brown hair falling well below the shoulders made her look like she belonged back in a sorority house, not at the DIA planning covert ops. But she had already proven both her toughness and her smarts more than once.

  “It’ll tick pretty much all the president’s boxes,” Liz said. “If it works.”

  “You don’t seem all that confident.” Bridget sounded more like a bureaucrat than she wanted to. “Can your team handle the back-office part?”

  “Sure, but who’s the agent?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, well short of the president’s deadline, Bridget sat in the middle of one side of the conference table in the secretary of defense’s office suite. Liz sat against the wall behind Bridget in case her expertise was needed. They stood when Secretary Marty Jacobs came through the door with Jay Pruitt from the White House.

  The right sleeve of Jacobs’s gray suit coat was pinned to his shoulder. Bridget was with him when he lost his arm on a fact-finding mission to Afghanistan a year earlier.

  “Good to see you, sir,” Bridget said. “How are you?” She’d learned to offer him her left hand.

  Jacobs shook it. “I’m well, thanks. But you’re the one with fresh injuries. How’s the head?”

  “Better, sir, thank you.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Bridget introduced Liz, and they all sat down.

  “All right,” Jacobs said. “I’ve seen the summary, but lay it out for me.”

  “In short, sir, we convince the terrorists to invite one of our agents into their organization. We turn one of their most effective recruiting tools against them—their program to radicalize Muslim youths in the West and lure them to the war zone.”

  “We’ll create a sand cat,” Jacobs said.

  “Exactly, sir.”

  That’s what the militants called their foreign recruits.

  Sand cats—Qat al-ramal—thrived in the deserts of the Middle East and Central Asia. They were known for being cute and cuddly when young, ruthless killers when they grew up.

  The terrorists aimed to make these soft rich kids into hardened combatants in terror cells across the Middle East. Except the women. The women would be married to fighters and have their children. And a select few might be useful as suicide bombers.

  Bridget passed a piece of paper across the table. It was marked “Blowback: CLASSIFIED.”

  “Our man’s name will be Karim Niazi. Liz’s team will create an online profile—a bored gamer living in his late parents’ basement in Detroit. Initially, he’ll be curious about Islam, looking to find out more about his faith, to find meaning in life beyond the video games.

  “Karim will link over to some militant sites that promote the radical interpretation of the Koran and rail against the evil deeds of America. He’ll make a few comments at the end of articles and become increasingly angry at the deeds of his own government, the lies they’ve been telling him for his whole life.”

  “The lies we’ve been telling him.”

  Bridget smiled. “Yes, sir—the occupation of the Holy Lands, the war against Islam. We have to make it believable.”

  “And if he gets recruited, then what?”

  “The mission will be to learn the innerworkings of the terrorist network, the locations of its key bases and commanders, its attack plans, capabilities and weaknesses, and its sources of funding and logistical support. Of course, the agent will also be on the lookout for anything on an MTO.” MTO was government jargon for Major Terrorist Operation, like the one they had just suffered.

  Jay spoke for the first time. “Mr. Secretary, that’s the kind of information that could shut down the terrorists for a long time, maybe for good—exactly what the president wants. Current military operations are having an impact, but as you know, they can’t go on forever.”

  “I understand that. But speaking of forever, what’s the timeline on this mission?”

  Bridget turned to Liz for the answer. “Well, sir, yes, not forever, but our experience indicates we’ll need two to three months to establish a believable identity and get the invitation.”

  “That is forever in this war,” Jacobs countered.

  “Yes, sir,” Bridget said, deflecting the pressure from Liz. “But we also need time to recruit and train the agent. If we start now, and both processes come together, we could have intel flowing by, well, the summer.” In that split second, Bridget decided not to say “in time for the election.” But her message seemed to get across.

  Jacobs sat back in his chair. “All right. I’ll take it to the president. I think he’ll appreciate the name, anyway.”

  Bridget smiled. “Yes, sir, I thought he might.”

  Over the years, many of the United States’ most well-intentioned efforts in the war on terrorism had ended poorly. Training Afghan and Iraqi forces led to “insider” murders of U.S. troops. Western programs to expand access to media and Internet provided the militants with new avenues to spread radicalization. Millions spent to promote democracy and “get out the vote” resulted in the election of governments hostile to the United States.

  It happened so many times, the intelligence community had a word for it.

  Blowback.

  This mission was designed for the terrorists to experience some blowback of their own.

  Before she went home that night, Bridget received the official authorization.

  All she needed now was a sand cat.

  Chapter Eight

  After five days of debriefings, Faraz was out of patience. Some days, he got angry, and they walked out. Other days, he faked the anger to get rid of them.

  He was allowed some time outside in a courtyard. He would lay on the ground and stare up at the Caribbean sky, imagining it was the sky of Afghanistan. Sometimes, Faraz walked the fence line and watched the ships go by.

  He asked to see the major.

  “Sir, how long is this going to go on? I think I’ve earned the right to get back to my real life. Frankly, sir, it’s boring as hell in here.”

  “I appreciate that, Lieutenant. But we need to keep you here a while longer. We’ll see what we can do to make your time here more enjoyable.”

  Faraz shook his head and turned away so the major couldn’t see him purse his lips. Still, the message was clear.

  “Hang in there, Lieutenant. Help is on the way.” Harrington left and locked the door behind him.

  * * *

  Apparently, the major’s “help” was a TV, a stack of old DVDs, and a DVD player, which Faraz found installed in his room after that afternoon’s courtyard
break. He still couldn’t get live programs, but at least he could watch something.

  So after a surprisingly good dinner of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, with more lemon cake for dessert, Faraz changed into his pajamas, put on a movie, sat in the comfortable chair, and put his feet up on a tray table to watch a DVD.

  But he had trouble enjoying the movie. It was another stupid waste of time, burning more days of his life on a mission that was over, a mission he shouldn’t have accepted. He turned the TV off and threw the remote control across the room.

  Faraz closed his eyes, and he was back in Afghanistan.

  He was walking through a village market with a bomb in a satchel on his shoulder. He saw women and children eating lunch, faces he remembered. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to plant that bomb. It was part of his mission—the mission the U.S. Army had sent him on.

  A voice in his head screamed DON’T DO IT!

  Faraz moved faster. He passed two policemen, who turned and gave him a look. The danger sent a shot of adrenaline through his body. The hairs on his arms stood up. He made a turn to evade the police.

  His senses were on high alert. Escape or die. It made him feel alive.

  Faraz gripped the arms of the chair as if he were on a roller coaster, which, in a way, he was, and had been for these many months.

  A knock on the door made him jump, his eyes wide open, his breaths in quick, shallow gasps.

  “Wait,” he said. Faraz stood up, wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve, and straightened his scrubs. “Come in.”

  The woman who entered was petite, brown-skinned, and not wearing a nurse’s uniform. Her sparkly gold minidress showed a generous amount of cleavage and stopped well above her knees. High heels accentuated her shapely legs. Her chestnut hair was streaked with blond, and her long, painted nails matched the dress.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Jazmin.”

  “What? I . . . I think you have the wrong room,” Faraz stammered and averted his eyes.

  Jazmin closed the door. “No, this is the right room. They told me maybe you could use some company.”

  Faraz looked back at her. She gave him a coy smile and a sideways look. She hung her small purse on the doorknob.

  Jazmin let him take her in and did a slow twirl. “They told me to call you Joe. So, what do you say, Joe, can I stay a while?” Her eyebrows rose in question. Her tongue traced her lips. She had a voice that was high and sweet, with an accent that by turns said New York and San Juan.

  Faraz scratched his head and sat down. It took him several seconds, but finally he figured out that Jazmin—not the DVD player—was what the major meant when he said help was on the way.

  Where the hell did the military get a hooker to make a house call at Guantanamo Bay? And how did they get the authorization to do it? Faraz exhaled and shook his head. If they could put an American soldier into the Taliban on the other side of the world . . . yeah, they could get Jazmin to Gitmo.

  He gestured to a chair, and she sat, pulling it uncomfortably close to him, until they were knee to knee. Her short dress rode even farther up her thighs. She leaned forward. “They didn’t tell me you were so darn cute, Joe.” Jazmin put her right hand on Faraz’s left knee, then raised her eyes to meet his. She half smiled, her lips parted, her pale pink lipstick shimmering. She winked. The invisible cloud of her perfume engulfed him.

  Faraz’s body responded, and the process accelerated when she slid her hand a few inches up his thigh, rubbing a small circle with her thumb. Faraz hadn’t been with a woman for a very long time.

  “The major sent you?” Faraz asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know the ranks, Joe. I can only tell you they put me in a cold, noisy airplane for several hours and told me to keep you company. And I’m glad they did.” She smiled again and moved her hand farther up his thigh.

  He reached down and removed it, using his right thumb and forefinger around her wrist, as if she were a hazardous material.

  “I don’t know about this,” he said.

  Jazmin sat back and put her hands in her lap. “Okay, Joe, we can take it slow. You got anything to drink in here?”

  Faraz was glad for the safe subject. “Water and soda in the fridge.”

  “That will have to do.”

  Faraz couldn’t take his eyes off Jazmin as she crossed the room, bent over to get the drinks, pushing her rear end in his direction, and came back with two cans of diet soda. “Can you open them? I don’t want to break a nail.”

  Faraz complied and gave the first one to her.

  She raised it in his direction. “To you, Joe. And to a fun evening.”

  Faraz was grateful for the soda. His mouth had gone dry.

  “Where you from, Joe?”

  Faraz wasn’t even sure what answer he should give. “Let’s talk about you.”

  “Well, I’m from the Bronx.”

  Jazmin wove a probably false story about a failed career at beauty school. She kept finding reasons to touch Faraz’s leg or arm, and he kept finding reasons to break the contact. Part of him wanted to throw her onto the bed. But the bigger part of him thought that would be yet another sin, and he should avoid failing this test from Allah.

  Test from Allah? What was he thinking? Who was he? Damn.

  The next time Jazmin touched his leg, he let her hand stay. She leaned forward to massage higher and higher up his thigh and pushed her cleavage toward him.

  He put his hand on her leg but then removed it. If he had ever felt anything quite like that, he couldn’t remember.

  “It’s okay, Joe,” she said as she took his hand and put it back on her leg. She pressed on it gently and moved it from side to side, as if teaching him how to caress a woman.

  Faraz leaned into the task and let her scent seduce him.

  Jazmin stood and bent forward, bracing herself with her left hand on the back of Faraz’s chair and letting her breasts press against his chest. She breathed into his ear as her right hand reached his crotch. He let her stroke him through the pajamas. It felt so good.

  And also, so wrong.

  Faraz closed his eyes to surrender, but all he could see were the virtuous women of Afghanistan, covered in their chadors, working from dawn to midnight cooking, cleaning, farming, minding children—enduring everything their domineering husbands, hard land, and demanding God threw at them.

  The words of the Koran came to him: “Do not come to fornicate, for it is shameful and evil. Follow not in the footsteps of Satan.”

  Jazmin continued stroking and purred softly. “Mmm. That’s good, isn’t it, Joe?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice raspy, his shoulders slumped in surrender. But in his mind, another voice said, “For men . . . and women who guard their chastity . . . Allah has prepared . . . forgiveness and a great reward.”

  Faraz needed Allah’s forgiveness for much that he had done. The images of the market came again. He closed his eyes harder, hoping they would go away, but they only got stronger.

  Jazmin reached under his shirt and turned her hand down so her fingers slipped behind his waistband. His breathing quickened.

  He wanted her.

  He wanted Allah’s forgiveness.

  He needed the touch, the tenderness, the release.

  He needed the validation his faith provided.

  Faraz brought his hands up quickly, knocking Jazmin off him. She fell back onto her chair. He jumped to his feet. “No, I will not!” he bellowed. As he heard the words, he realized he had said them in Pashto.

  Jazmin recoiled, wide-eyed. Faraz grabbed her shoulders and pulled to her feet. “Out! Get out!” he shouted, in English now. Then more softly, and with a level of disdain that surprised him, “Fucking whore.”

  He pushed her hard toward the door. She stumbled in her high heels and fell into his hospital tray, sending it and herself crashing to the floor.

  On hands and knees, with Faraz towering over her, Jazmin crawled toward the door. “Help! Hey, get me out of here
! This guy is crazy!”

  The door opened, and two MPs rushed in, placing themselves between Jazmin and Faraz, while a third helped her stand and leave the room. The two MPs confronting Faraz backed out behind her. The door slammed. Then it opened, and a hand came in to grab Jazmin’s purse. The door closed again, and the bolt slid into place.

  Faraz was left alone, panting and sweating. The erection pushing against his pajamas was fast receding.

  He threw the chair Jazmin had used at the door. He braced to fight if the MPs responded. But they didn’t.

  “Come on!” he screamed. “Fight me, you assholes.”

  Faraz knocked more furniture around the room, daring the MPs to come in. He opened the wall cabinet, hoping to find something to throw.

  His breath caught. There, on the bottom shelf, were the clothes he wore when he left Afghanistan. The sand-colored baggy trousers and tunic were washed and folded, but still stained with his blood. The sandals were caked with the sand and mud of his parents’ homeland.

  Faraz reached into the cabinet, placed his right hand under the clothes, put his left on top, and removed them with great care. He caressed the low-grade cotton. It brought him to another time, a time of danger and stress, but also a time when he was closer to Allah. His breathing slowed. He felt a surprising calm.

  He put the clothes on his bed, stripped off his army pajamas, and put on the traditional Afghan outfit he’d worn for all those months.

  He hugged his midsection, pressing the fabric against his skin as if it might somehow enter him.

  Faraz pulled his blanket to the floor and folded it to look like a Taliban bed mat. He lay down. Even through the blanket, the floor was cold, like the earth of Afghanistan.

  He brought his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Bridget’s alarm woke her at 0500. She had an early flight to catch. Her cell phone rang before she could get out of bed.

  “You may want to cancel your trip today, Ms. Davenport.” It was Harrington, calling to tell her what had happened.