Blowback

by Al Pessin

  Al-Souri had thought of Hamed as a protégé. He defended him when Ibn Jihad had doubted his loyalty. Then, when Hamed fled and the bombs came, al-Souri beat himself up for having allowed a traitor into his inner circle.

  But maybe there was a different explanation. If Hamed was loyal, that would mean that he, the great al-Souri, had not been fooled by an infidel spy, that he had, as he had always thought, turned a naïve country boy from the refugee camps into a skilled and loyal fighter in Allah’s jihad.

  This was the story he wanted to believe. It was so good he had dared not pray for it to be true. And he never thought he would have the opportunity to get the full story of what happened that night in Afghanistan.

  Now, here was Hamed in front of him, bent forward, trying to breathe. Hamed was the same age his own sons had been when they were killed in the early years of the jihad. His new sons were still too young for the struggle, so his fighters were his family—boys he turned into men and sent to do Allah’s work, perhaps even to have the highest honor, to meet Him as martyrs. Hamed had been among the best of them until, well . . .

  Al-Souri lowered his knife but kept it in his hand. He took two crates from the far corner of the shack, sat on one, and gestured for Faraz to sit on the other.

  “So, tell me this story, Hamed. Tell me how you were not a traitor, tell me how the infidels found us, where you learned the medical skills to save me, why you killed your brothers in jihad—may Allah protect them—and why you fled the camp even though you were ‘not a traitor.’ And tell me how you came to be here, three thousand kilometers away, in Syria, with an infidel spy coming to find you. I always enjoy a good story.”

  * * *

  Faraz struggled to his feet and sat on the crate. He pushed his hair off his face and stared at his old boss, teacher, mentor . . . target. Faraz was amazed to still be alive, to still have a chance to accomplish both his missions—perhaps a better chance than he’d ever had.

  All he had to do was convince al-Souri not to kill him.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The story Faraz told was a corker.

  In it, he was a simple orphan from a refugee camp again. He found meaning and direction through the benevolent hand of al-Souri, the famed fighter, leader and teacher of Allah’s Holy War.

  But when al-Souri fell out of Ibn Jihad’s good graces and his favored one, Hamed, was accused of being a traitor, he had had no choice but to run, to kill the men who had been his brothers in order to save his own life, to seek safety in the mountains. He had not called in the air strike. He loved Allah’s jihad. And he was there, in the compound, when the missile hit. He could have been killed along with the others.

  Later, in hiding, when he heard al-Souri had returned to Syria, his only goal was to find a way to reach him, to explain, to apologize, to rejoin the jihad.

  That is why he had gone to Syria as a foreign fighter. He hadn’t known, he said, that the group he joined was opposed to al-Souri’s leadership, and when he realized the situation, he had personally killed the traitor al-Jazar. Faraz said he foiled the attack on the outpost out of rage and selfishness, that he hadn’t known Nazim was working under al-Souri’s orders until after he was captured.

  Surely, it was Allah’s hand that had brought him, in spite of his own stupidity and incompetence, once again into the presence of al-Souri to beg for his understanding and forgiveness.

  Whatever Nazim thought had passed between the visitor and himself was wrong. The man’s Pashto was terrible. They were barely able to communicate.

  Faraz had rehearsed the story for twenty-four hours. The DIA team would have been proud.

  When he finished, al-Souri stood. “You tell an interesting story, Hamed. Only you and Allah know whether it is true.”

  “It is true, Qomandan.”

  “We shall see.”

  Al-Souri left and closed the door behind him, plunging Faraz back into darkness.

  * * *

  Over dinner, al-Souri told the story to Nazim, who didn’t believe a word of it.

  “He attacked us. He fought with the traitor al-Jazar. He gave signals to the spy who came to our camp. And in Afghanistan, he surely betrayed you and ran away and killed many fighters. He cannot be trusted.”

  Al-Souri did not reply, chewing on a piece of pita.

  “Commander, you cannot be considering this.”

  “Are you telling me now what I can consider and what I cannot consider?”

  Nazim looked down at his empty plate. “No, Commander, of course not.”

  “Good.” Al-Souri thought some more. “This man spoiled your attack on the Americans.”

  “Yes, Commander, and he must be punished.”

  “If he deserves punishment, it will be provided. But perhaps he can correct his mistake, and in the process convince us he is on the right path.”

  “I do not trust him.”

  “I know. I am also not sure whether to trust him. But perhaps a test will convince us both.”

  “What test?”

  Al-Souri laid out his plan. Nazim scratched his head. “He could betray us, reveal our location, destroy everything we have built.”

  “We will be ready. At the first sign of trouble, we will kill them all.”

  Nazim sighed. He seemed unconvinced, but that didn’t matter. “Yes, Commander,” was all he could say.

  “Nazim,” al-Souri said. “I need you to be with me.”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  “I am glad to hear it. There are few I can trust as I trust you. But we need all our resources, all our brothers. And perhaps Hamed, too. I have been busy these last days planning our next operations with our friends from the Gulf. They are impressed with the plan and will provide the money. We will break the infidels’ resolve and begin to build our Caliphate.”

  “I am with you, Commander.”

  Al-Souri smiled. “Now, bring me one of the phones from the safe. I must make a call to set the plan in motion.”

  * * *

  The burner phone’s vibration hit Mahmoud’s leg as he was handing a plate of baklava to a woman and her boyfriend, who had somehow wandered into Abu-Tawfiq’s coffee shop on Edgware Road.

  “I will bring your coffees in a moment,” he said.

  It was near closing time, and Mahmoud had been watching the clock, eager to get home to his real job running comms for the organization now known as the Muslim Caliphate of the Levant.

  A call at this time of day was unusual, and must be urgent. Mahmoud hurried through the beaded curtain, went to the back corner of the storage room, and took out the phone.

  The screen read “Unknown Caller.” He pressed the green button. “Yes.”

  “Do you know my voice?” The question was in Syrian-accented Arabic, with a hint of something else, as if the speaker had spent many years abroad.

  Mahmoud involuntarily snapped to attention, all his senses alert. It was rare that he received a call directly from the commander. He knew better than to say his name. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good.”

  “It is an honor, sahib.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Praise be to Allah. And you, sahib?”

  “Praise al-Jabbar.”

  Al-Jabbar was one of the ninety-nine ways to refer to Allah. “Praise al-Jabbar” was a perfectly acceptable way to answer the question “how are you?” but it was unusual enough that it had been chosen as a code word. Al-Jabbar meant “The Compeller”—He who compels His faithful to righteousness. It was also the name of one of the missions that the operatives were prepping—the attack that would compel Allah’s enemies to surrender. This was the order to set other operations aside and make final preparations for Operation al-Jabbar.

  “Praise al-Jabbar, indeed,” Mahmoud responded, confirming he had understood. And he added a message of his own. “Although He prefers me as a poor man.” He was saying that there was not enough money in the accounts to do what al-Souri was asking.

  “Surely, Allah
will provide very soon,” al-Souri said.

  Mahmoud broke into a broad smile. “Allahu akbar.”

  “Be well, my brother,” al-Souri said, and he ended the call. It had lasted maybe thirty seconds.

  Mahmoud went out the back door without so much as a glance at the couple waiting for their coffee. He destroyed the SIM card and the phone as he walked. He wanted to get to his flat as quickly as possible, but he took a circuitous route. Security was more important now than ever.

  * * *

  The next morning, Faraz was taken out of the shack for the first time since he’d arrived. His chains were removed, and he was allowed to wash. He had a normal breakfast at a table outside the shack, all the time surrounded by armed fighters.

  After the meal, Nazim appeared. Faraz stood, ready to defend himself, but Nazim kept his distance. Al-Souri arrived a few seconds later.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  The two men joined al-Souri at the table. Faraz could see Nazim staring at him, ready to pounce at any sign of hesitation or betrayal.

  “In two nights, when the moon is dark, you will prove your loyalty or die the death of a traitor. I will give you the opportunity to correct your mistake. You will join us attacking the American outpost. You will carry a bomb, plant it as close as possible, and when it explodes, you will join us in finishing them.”

  Faraz swallowed hard. “Yes, Qomandan. I will do this for jihad, and for you.”

  “We will be nearby, with all our firepower,” Nazim said. “If you betray us, you will die along with your friends in a great inferno.”

  “They are not my friends.”

  “We shall see.”

  * * *

  Faraz slept that night in shackles in a tent with armed men outside. He needed a plan.

  If he could approach the outpost without being shot, he could have them call in an air strike. But watching al-Souri and Nazim go up in a ball of fire felt too impersonal. He wanted to look into their eyes when he took his revenge. And an air strike wouldn’t get the intel Washington needed on the MTO and the financing.

  This was going to be complicated, and he only had until tomorrow night to figure it out.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Commander Will Jackson, wearing desert camo with his new rank insignia, had his cane in his left hand, his duffel in his right, and his carry-on on his back.

  He had shaved on the plane, and his tight-coiled black hair was trimmed to the standard quarter-inch length. His leg ached from the long flight, but he was as ready for a combat zone tour as he could be. Less ready for what he was about to do.

  Will hadn’t bothered to find his billet and drop his things, but rather headed straight for Saddam’s ballroom, as directed by the young soldier at the check-in desk. He’d been fantasizing about this for a week, ever since Lumberjack offered him the assignment.

  Bridget had been harder to reach lately, no doubt busy, but also likely becoming detached from her stateside life, as always happened. When the transfer orders came, he had decided to surprise her.

  Will scanned the cavernous room, its broad columns interrupting the sea of cubicles. In the far corner, on an extra-tall partition, he saw the handwritten DIA sign. He moved toward it, dodging desks like a slalom skier in spite of his cane, picking up speed as he went.

  When he reached his destination, he stopped, put down his duffel, straightened his uniform, and knocked on the partition’s plastic edge. He poked his head around it. “Is Ms. Davenport here?”

  Bridget turned from her screen and gasped. “Will!”

  To him, she sounded more surprised than delighted. But she recovered quickly, jumping out of her chair and embracing him.

  The words poured out. “Oh my God, Will. What the hell are you doing here? I mean, it’s great to see you. I never imagined. Christ, Will, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Then she hugged him again and pulled him into the relative privacy of the cubicle to give him a proper welcome kiss.

  “Now, that’s a welcome worth flying halfway around the world for,” Will said. “For a second there, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Well, you could have sent me an email or something.” She smacked his chest, then stood back at arm’s length and looked him over, from his cane to his new rank insignia. “The silver leaf looks good on you, Will.” She touched the commander’s patch and kissed him again. “Wish I could have been there. So, how are you? What, why, how?”

  Will dragged his bags into the cubicle and sat in the guest chair to tell her, resting his hand on his cane—his new standard position. He took in the sight of her—hair pulled back in a ponytail, white blouse, khaki slacks over combat boots. Yeah, more than worth flying halfway around the world for.

  “That’s amazing,” Bridget said when he finished the story. “It’s great to have you here, and you must be thrilled to be out of the Pentagon. I guess this means your leg is doing okay.”

  “Better every day,” he said, which was more or less true. “Not quite ready for action—I mean, military action.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Bridget laughed. “I know what you meant.” She blushed a little.

  It was good to hear her laugh. They’d both been under so much stress, it seemed like it had been a long time. “Anyway, no military action for me, but it feels good to be closer to the fight. They say I can continue my physical therapy here. How’s your mission going? You ready to leave, now that I’m here?”

  “No. It’s a mess, though. Can’t say much about it, but it’s, yeah, awful.”

  Will knew better than to ask any more questions.

  Carter’s voice came around the partition before he did. “Ms. Davenport, I do believe this is the time of your suppah reservation, and I’m sure the maître d’ has your table r . . . I am sorry. I didn’t know you had a guest.”

  Will looked at the tall, muscular man with the shaved head, blond eyelashes, impeccable nonmilitary khakis, amusing accent, and no cane, who, it seemed, had come to take his girlfriend to dinner. Carter looked back with a “what’s your problem?” expression.

  Bridget interrupted their moment. “Carter, this is Will Jackson, fresh off the boat. Will, Carter Holloway of Spotlight Security.”

  Will leaned on his cane to stand and extended his right hand.

  Carter shook it. “Oh, please, Commander, no need to stand.”

  To Will, it sounded patronizing, like just about anything anyone said these days. He stood anyway.

  “Carter, let’s do that dinner another time. Will and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Bridget stared at Carter in a way that made Will think there was more meaning in her look than in her words.

  Will glanced at Carter for a reaction. The guy’s gaze lingered on Bridget half a second longer than Will would have liked.

  “Of course. Not a problem,” Carter said. He turned toward Will. “Commander, it was good to meet you. Do let me know if Spotlight can be of any service. Bridget, I’ll hope to see you soon.” He gave a head bow and backed out of the cubicle.

  “Interesting character,” Will said.

  “Yeah, but not a bad guy. You’ll like him, I think.”

  Will wasn’t sure which one of them she was trying to convince.

  “Let’s get you settled and get some chow,” she said.

  “Some ‘suppah,’ you mean?”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She put her right hand on his arm, and with her left brushed a nonexistent strand of hair from her face. “Let’s go celebrate your arrival.”

  She took one step and stopped. “Wait. You called the cat sitter, right?”

  Will laughed and picked up his bags. “Yes, ma’am. Sarge’s board and billeting are fully organized and funded.”

  “All right. Good job, sailor.”

  * * *

  After dinner in the D-FAC, Bridget walked Will to his trailer. Sitting on his bed, they kissed, and Bridget relaxed into his familiar embrace. She thought about Carter and his very different embrace. There’s nothing quite
so titillating as being with someone for the first time. But this . . . this was what she had been missing.

  She went to kiss him again, but Will pulled away. His hand was on the cane, with the BUD at eye level. The golden eagle seemed to be mocking him—a man who couldn’t walk properly, claiming to be something he wasn’t.

  “Tell me about Carter,” he said.

  “About Carter? There’s nothing to tell about Carter.” But then she did tell him, part of the story, anyway. “He’s a war-zone friend, someone to have dinner with now and then. That’s all. You know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t. I never spent more than a few days at HQ in Kabul, but it seemed like quite the dating scene. Here, too, I imagine.”

  “Really, Will? Really? You’re going to hit me with this?”

  “I felt like I was hit with something back in your cubicle.”

  “Oh, Will. You blast in here, and you’re shocked I’m friends with a man you haven’t met? You and I, we have something special. Is it this fragile?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe so. It’s been a long road for me, while you’ve been where the action is—dodging my calls, I’m guessing—and doing dinner and God knows what with Mr. Spotlight.”

  Bridget stood up. “You’ve got a lot of goddamn nerve.” She towered above him, red-faced. “I’ve been working my ass off trying to keep people alive, and frankly, not doing a very good job of it.” She paused, but composed herself.

  Will started to speak, but she cut him off. “All kinds of shit is coming down. You show up . . . Surprise! And you expect me to drop everything to welcome you—which I do, with pleasure—and then some guy I barely know comes to have dinner with me—in the D-FAC—and you, you accuse me of . . . Jesus, Will. I know you’ve had a tough time, but . . . damn.” She walked the two steps to the door, then turned toward him and brought her voice under control. “Let me know when . . . I don’t know . . . when you’re you again.”