by Al Pessin
Faraz’s gaze went from the blood to the commander’s face. He had a flash of recognition. It was the attack leader he had wounded the night before—the man responsible for Amira’s death.
This was the reason Faraz had led his “brothers and sisters” to their deaths in a futile tribute to his own anger, guilt, and lust for revenge.
From his knees, Faraz launched himself upward at the commander, tackled him like he’d been taught when he tried out, unsuccessfully, for the high school football team back in San Diego. His legs kept moving until he had knocked the commander down and driven him into the ground.
Faraz felt a fresh surge of warm blood from the man’s wound. He cocked his fist, but someone caught his arm. An instant later, two men threw him off their boss. At least five of them pummeled him with their fists and feet. Faraz caught a glimpse of two others tending to the commander before a fist hit his face so squarely that all he saw were stars.
* * *
He woke up in the dark, blood caked on his face, his hands and feet tied together. He struggled to open his eyes. The lid of his right eye wouldn’t budge, but he got the left one open halfway.
Faraz was in a narrow room with wooden walls, possibly a shed. There was a small window to his left, covered with dark paper or cloth. A shard of light came through one edge, and another through a rip near the center.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and scooted backward so he could lean against the wall. The door was in front of him, maybe ten feet away.
Faraz licked his lips and felt something caked on them. He tasted blood and spat it out onto the floor. He hurt everywhere, and his throat was so dry he could barely swallow.
The room smelled of stale body odor and urine, suggesting he was not the first man to have been held there.
He closed his one usable eye and thought about how stupid he was.
Part of Faraz’s brain was trying to access his POW training. But most of it was berating himself, telling him what he should have done and not done. He should have listened to Nic and taken his band of wannabe jihadists back to Turkey. He should have protected Amira. He should have surrendered to the Americans. He should have never taken this mission.
That attack leader was no doubt planning his interrogation, torture, and death.
Faraz leaned his head back against the wall and thought about Amira. He wanted to picture their time under the tree. But all he saw was her lying in the rubble, eyes closed, chest riddled with bullets.
The door opened with such force that Faraz thought it would fly off its hinges. It banged against the wall and nearly bounced shut.
A man stomped in and picked Faraz up by his hair. He winced and used his good eye to look into that same angry face.
“I am Nazim, deputy to Commander al-Souri. Who are you, traitor?” he said through gritted teeth, still holding Faraz by the hair.
That much Arabic, Faraz could understand. His suspicions were all confirmed in that one statement. His fate likely sealed, as well. If this man didn’t kill him, al-Souri surely would.
“I am Karim—” he croaked out, before the man pulled his hair harder and threw his head against the wall.
Faraz crumpled to the floor. His teeth caught a lip, and he spat out fresh blood.
Nazim pushed him over and placed a foot on Faraz’s neck. Then came a stream of angry Arabic questions.
Faraz could barely breathe to answer, if he’d understood. “La,” he said. “La al-Arabia.” No Arabic. Then, through the fog of pain, Faraz had a thought. “Pashto,” he said. “Ana ‘atahadath Pashto.” I speak Pashto.
“Aach,” Nazim said in evident frustration. He reached behind his back. When his hand reappeared, it was holding a knife.
Nazim knelt down, his knee on Faraz’s injured right arm. The pain was excruciating. Nazim brought the knife to Faraz’s throat. He stared at Faraz from a foot away. The man’s eyes were wide with fury.
Nazim pulled the knife back, out of Faraz’s field of vision. Faraz expected it to return and slice his throat. He said the Shahada.
But when Nazim’s hand came toward him, Faraz saw that he had flipped the knife. He hit Faraz square in the face with the handle and knocked him unconscious.
Chapter Thirty-five
With the buzz of Saddam’s former dining room swirling around her, Bridget read the details of the outpost attack and the desperate requests for the intel side to provide some sort of explanation. An unknown force had basically saved the outpost, and the troops had no idea what it was or why it had intervened. She couldn’t provide a definitive answer, but she had an idea.
They had reports of a jihadi-on-jihadi battle the night before, an attack on a terrorist camp that had not been done by any coalition force. They had attributed it, tentatively and without hard evidence, to the growing feud among anti-Assad groups.
Now, maybe, with two possible intra-jihadist fights in two days, they could begin to figure it out.
But that was only her second problem. The top priority was to figure out why terrorist chatter was still up and why money was flowing out of suspected terrorist financing accounts to unknown destinations. It was like a Category 5 hurricane warning, but she had no idea where it would hit, or when.
Her phone rang.
“Davenport.”
“Good morning.” Hadley’s voice sounded tired.
“Hello, sir. Three a.m. in D.C. Are you just getting up or have you not yet gone to bed?”
“Who can tell, these days?”
“You’re calling about the outpost attack?”
“And everything else.”
“Yes, sir. We’re working it. Seems to be more of the rivalry we saw yesterday.”
“I barely care about that. What I care about is that they were attacking another of our bases, and we had no warning. Meanwhile, they’re planning something bigger, probably much bigger. This can’t go on.”
“All our best people are working the numbers and all the inputs. The incident at the outpost is another data point, but really we don’t have any better analysis than we had yesterday.”
“We don’t have an analysis problem. We have a facts problem. And without facts, we have an action problem. We can’t stop what we can’t see. Blowback has got to know something about this. He’s in a jihadi camp, for God’s sake. We need to know whatever he knows.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. But as you know, any attempt to contact him is extremely dangerous.”
“It’s war, Bridget. It’s dangerous. If you need to drive across the desert and call his name through a megaphone, that’s what you need to do.”
Bridget took a beat, wheeled her chair to the right, and leaned into the corner of her cubicle to make it harder for anyone to hear what she said. “Short of that, sir, as we discussed, we do have some Syrian assets. We could send one of them to try to find him, get a message to him.”
“Now you’re talking. You have someone in mind?”
“Not yet. I’ll review the files. But even if we send someone, it’s a long shot.”
“Might be our only shot. You’re in theater to make things happen. Get someone out there, and soon. We need to know what these guys are up to. There will not be an MTO on my watch. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get on it.” He hung up.
Bridget tapped her keyboard to access a secure file and reviewed the operational profiles of half a dozen U.S. intelligence assets in northern Syria. None of them were very good options, but one seemed to be at least reasonably well-positioned to make a trip into the wild northeast without raising suspicions.
He was largely untested, but they all were. These people could only be called upon for one significant mission. Anything more would create suspicion, move their danger factor from high to unacceptable.
Bridget read the man’s profile a second time. All right, sir, good luck out there.
She opened a secure form and created a mission. The operations center would
contact operative #SN247.
* * *
A few hours later, Bridget’s phone rang again.
“Any plans for the evening at HQ?” It was Will, apparently working to sound cheery but coming off as checking up on her.
“Thought I might hit the disco.”
The joke fell flat.
“Same here.” Will sounded deflated.
Bridget put on a brighter tone. “How’s the leg?”
“About the same, honestly. PT guy is all positive vibes, but I still can’t get far without the cane. How’s the mission?”
“Things are happening. Can’t say much.”
They went silent.
“But, speaking of the mission, I just got an email from the general, so I better get on it.” That was a lie. Truth was, they didn’t have much to talk about. Bridget was falling deeper and deeper into the Black Hole.
“Okay. Take care.”
“Talk soon, okay?” She made a point of not saying “tomorrow.” Maybe letting a day or two go by would help.
“Sure. Bye, babe.”
“Bye.”
Bridget turned to a long list of things Liz had sent her, then stared at the spreadsheets some more.
With the windows all covered, she didn’t realize how late it was. As soon as she hit Send on her last email, she saw Carter making his way through the cubicles from across the room. Even in this place packed with large men, he stood out—tall, broad, and freshly shaved, including his head, and sporting a broad smile.
Two opposing reactions fought for her attention. She was surprised at the brief but undeniable tingle she felt, as if the quarterback was heading to the nerdy girls’ table. But at the same time, she felt something in the pit of her stomach, a mix of guilt and dread.
Before she could choose which way to feel, he was there.
“Good evening, Bridget. How is the DIA today?”
“We’re fine, Carter. I see you’re back and all cleaned up.”
“Good of you to notice. We Georgia boys can clean up fairly well when we have a mind to.”
Bridget looked back at her computer.
“Matters of concern?” Carter asked.
“Always. That’s my job.”
“And I’m guessing that your job has kept you from suppah, even at this late houah.”
Bridget was getting used to his accent, which allowed it to sound charming. “As a matter of fact, yes,” she allowed. There wasn’t anything more she could do tonight, and she was hungry.
“Well, I was about to see what’s on offer in the chow hall. This is supposed to be a twenty-four-houah war.”
“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
She thought her ambivalence was clear, but Carter ignored it. “Excellent,” he said, as if she’d just agreed to go to the prom. He stood aside and held out his hand, indicating that she should go first.
Bridget locked her computer, took her small pack, and led him through the cubicles toward the D-FAC.
* * *
Dinner was more pleasant than Bridget had expected or wanted or was ready to admit. Carter’s stories about life in Georgia were entertaining, his laugh was infectious, and his crow’s-feet pointed invitingly to those pale gray eyes.
When they finished, Bridget agreed to let him walk her to her trailer. The night air was cool, and without the glare of the sun, the stone-lined paths and occasional trees with hanging lights could have been anywhere.
“How much longer do you have here?” Carter asked.
“Until the mission’s done,” she answered. “It’s open-ended. How about you?”
“I’m getting short on this contract. A few more weeks, unless they extend us.”
“You must be eager to get home.”
“Yes. And no. See the parents and a few folks, sure. But there’s nothing to keep me there. This is my life. I’ll be back before long.”
“You don’t think you could give it up?”
“Like you did?”
“Yeah.”
“I admire that you changed direction. Truly, I do. You did your time—more than your time—and found something else that makes you happy. But I’m not there, not yet, anyway. There are still bad guys to fight. I have no interest in sitting on the sidelines.”
“That’s real commitment. Sometimes, I wish I had it.”
“You’re still in the fight, but with your brain instead of... you know . . . what I bring to the battle.” He flexed his arm muscle, barely contained by his short-sleeved shirt.
Bridget chuckled. “This is me,” she said, stopping at her trailer door. They were in the half-light between two lampposts. She put on a Southern accent. “Why, thank you for a lovely evening, Mistah Holloway.” Her self-imposed prohibition against flirting had apparently been lifted.
Carter laughed out loud. “Well, you are most welcome, Ms. Davenport.” He made a quarter-bow. When he stood, he stepped toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned in.
Bridget went for a friends’ air kiss, but he moved his head to make clear he wanted more. She stopped. She had been here before, in the other war, with no good outcomes. This was totally unfair to Will. But he hadn’t been himself lately, maybe never would be. And he was far away. She likely wouldn’t see him for months. Who knew what they’d have by then?
Meanwhile, Carter was right here. She gave him a half smile. They kissed, a warm, gentle first kiss. Then he put his big arms around her and pulled her in for a deep, romantic one and a full-body hug. It felt so good.
When the kiss ended, Bridget put her hands on Carter’s shoulders. She looked down, avoiding his gaze, trying to decide in a second or two whether to say good night or invite him in.
Her phone buzzed in her pack. The spell was broken.
“I should check that,” she said.
He released her. She fished the phone out, read the text, and said, “I have to go back to the office.”
Carter’s disappointment was clear. Bridget gave him a sympathetic smile. Now that the opportunity was gone, she was disappointed, too. And relieved.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Just more questions we can’t answer. It’s not yet ‘suppah’ time in Washington.”
Carter smiled.
“But I have to go deal with it. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“Um, bye.” Bridget gave him a peck on the cheek—an implied rain check, maybe. She turned and headed off on the path.
“Bye,” she heard him say from behind her.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Madam,” the shopkeeper said to the elderly woman he’d been haggling with, “look to the quality. You will not find any like this in all Aleppo, nor in Damascus.” He spread the sheer pink scarf across his arms for her to see.
Rasheed Abu-Ramzi still managed to make a living at his small store in Aleppo’s ancient market. The tourists were long gone, but his reputation and the quality of his goods brought in enough local business to keep his wife and baby fed. He wasn’t even worried about the extra expenses he would soon have. He was joyous about them. His wife was six months pregnant.
“Yes,” the woman acknowledged. “It is good. But the price is too high.”
“Madam, three and a half dinar is truly my best price.” Rasheed feigned insult. “This is the price I would give to my own mother, may Allah protect her. She is the one who gave me my name, to keep me on the right path.” Rasheed meant Righteous One.
His customer snorted her doubt and continued to study the fabric.
Thanks to his late father, who had opened the shop fifty years earlier, Rasheed knew all the best artisans, craftsmen, and manufacturers of northern Syria personally, and he was able to buy their best work at their best prices, especially during these troubled times, when there were not so many buyers. The eclectic collection of inlaid boxes, decorative macramé, metal bowls, women’s scarves, and other items sold well, in spite of the war. He had added some small electronics items—flip phones, chargers, ca
bles, and the like.
And he had a sideline that enabled him to feel good about himself and also bring in some extra cash.
The woman caressed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. At length, she shrugged and reached into her purse.
As he counted out her change, Rasheed said, “You have made an excellent choice, madam, and an excellent bargain.”
Rasheed’s phone buzzed on the counter. “Thank you, madam. A thousand blessings upon you.”
The woman put the scarf in her bag and left.
“Yes,” Rasheed said into the phone.
“Your mother is ill and needs to see you,” said a male voice.
Rasheed’s shoulders sagged. He let out a breath. “Thank you,” he said. “I understand.”
He closed the phone and frowned. His relatively good day had gone bad. His mother was not ill. But his easy, lucrative sideline was about to become more difficult.
For him, it had been the occasional phone call, a tidbit of information here and there, and a promise of further cooperation at some undefined time in the future. For his employers, he was operative #SN247, and the time for further cooperation was now.
Rasheed took a new flip phone from the wall-mounted display, inserted its battery and a SIM card, and plugged it in to charge.
* * *
Rasheed closed the shop at six p.m., as usual, and set off in the general direction of his apartment with that new cell phone and all the money from the cash box in his pocket. He walked north and east, zigging and zagging through the market’s narrow lanes, doubling back as he had been taught, to ensure he was not followed. There was no reason he would be. But he had been warned to follow the procedures. And they could be watching, testing. Yes, maybe this was only a test. All he had to do was make a phone call, and the payments would continue. Please, Allah.
Along the way, Rasheed greeted many of the merchants by name. If asked, they would testify that they saw him walking in different directions at about the same time.
It was getting dark now, which was good. He stopped in a back alley, with no windows or doors nearby for eavesdroppers. He took out the new phone, turned it on, and dialed the local number he had memorized months ago. A series of clicks and beeps sent the call to a phone far away.