The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "What do you want?" Mufid said curtly.

  "I need you to smuggle this woman out of the city."

  Mufid stared at him in disbelief, then laughed uproariously. "Incredible! Always you come here and make insane demands, expecting me to obey without question. But now you've really done it. This time, this demand..." He threw up his hands. "The camel's back is broken. I cannot do this. Taking pictures of buildings and buying bread is one thing, but smuggling people is an entirely different matter. It is too dangerous. And you know, to be honest I am tired—to the core—of being your dog." Mufid went to the counter and stood by his son. He placed a hand around the teenager's shoulder. "You would use my son against me? Threaten to turn him in if I disobey you? Well go ahead, I say. I won't stand for your threats anymore. In fact, I would rather turn him in myself and allow the executioner to take both our heads than continue being your lowly servant."

  "I never threatened to turn him in," Ethan said in exasperation. "Look, I don't have time for this. I know you want money." He approached the counter and threw down several thousand pounds. "This is all I have. Now can we do this?"

  Mufid's eyes lit up and he quickly collected the banknotes. After he pocketed the money he said, "It is not enough."

  "I''ll bring more," Ethan said. "And write more IOUs, too, if that's what you want."

  Mufid shook his head. "As I said, you can offer all the money in the world, but what you ask is too risky. I—"

  His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted over Ethan's shoulder. Beside him, his son stared at something behind Ethan with wide, mesmerized eyes.

  Ethan turned around.

  Alzena had lifted her niqab.

  "I know someone who can do it," the son said suddenly.

  "Abdo!" Mufid said.

  "My friend has done it before," Abdo said quickly, not taking his eyes from Alzena. "Trust me, he can get her out safely."

  "How?" Ethan said, forestalling any response from Mufid.

  "My friend has a truck," Abdo said.

  "A truck," Ethan deadpanned.

  "Yes. With a custom undercarriage. My friend uses it to smuggle oil into Turkey. The undercarriage can also hide a person, instead. My friend will need money to make the journey worthwhile, of course. And to pay the proper bribes."

  Ethan glanced at the shopkeeper. "Mufid..."

  The older Syrian shifted his gaze between Alzena and Abdo, obviously torn. Though whether it was the money he was concerned about or his son, Ethan didn't know.

  "Mufid," Ethan said more firmly.

  "He is my son," the shopkeeper said finally.

  "Yes, but he is not the one doing the smuggling."

  "But if his friend is caught, he will implicate my son," Mufid insisted.

  "He won't get caught," Abdo said.

  Ethan made his tone as intimidating as he could manage. "Give him the money. Or I'll take it from you."

  Reluctantly, Mufid retrieved several bills from his pocket and handed them to his son.

  Abdo frowned. "It's not enough, father."

  Mufid glowered at Abdo, then placed several more bills into his son's open palms.

  Ethan wrote IOUs for Mufid and Alzena, to be cashed in at some future date at the nearest American embassy. He folded up each note so that only the intended recipient could see the amount; for Mufid he allotted fifty thousand US dollars. For Alzena, two hundred thousand.

  "Pieces of paper," Mufid grumbled as he pocketed his note. "Probably worth nothing."

  Ethan ignored him and turned to Abdo. "I suggest your smuggler friend wait a few days before leaving the city. Undercarriage or no, the mujahadeen are going to be on high alert over the next little while, and they'll probably search everything that comes through their checkpoints. Even if you have bribes."

  "Why, what has happened?" Abdo said.

  "I'm sure you'll be hearing about it soon enough. In the meantime, is there a place you can take her?"

  "She can't stay with us," Mufid said adamantly.

  Abdo rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. "My cousin lives nearby. He is a rebel, too, and will harbor her if I ask."

  "All right, good." Ethan checked the time on his cellphone. It had been almost forty minutes since he'd abandoned Suleman. Did he dare risk returning to his unit? He had made it this far, and decided he might as well go through with the rest of his seat-of-the-pants plan. First, the alibi...

  He turned toward Mufid. "Do you have a car?"

  The man nodded warily. "Out back."

  "Show me."

  Mufid unlocked the front door and went out.

  Ethan glanced at Abdo. "Move her to your cousin's residence as soon as you can."

  Abdo nodded. "When father returns."

  Ethan was about to follow Mufid when Alzena spoke.

  "Alrajil." The urgency was obvious in her voice.

  Ethan glanced at her, glad that she had used his alias instead of his real name in front of the others.

  "Thank you." Her sapphire eyes shone with unshed tears.

  Ethan nodded slowly. He didn't trust himself to say anything, or to even embrace her. He hated goodbyes.

  Instead he turned to Abdo and said: "Take care of her." He hadn't meant his voice to catch with emotion, but it did. He felt his chin quiver.

  The youth nodded. "I will."

  Ethan quickly turned away, embarrassed by the display of emotion, and joined Mufid. He heard Abdo lock the door behind them.

  The shopkeeper led Ethan around the block to the back of the building, where a red Toyota Yaris was parked in a stall.

  "Yours?" Ethan said.

  Mufid nodded.

  Ethan went to the rear of the Yaris. "Show me the spare."

  Mufid opened the hatchback, moved a portable inflator and gym bag, lifted the rear deck board, and pointed out the extra tire.

  Ethan grabbed the tool bag and dropped his body to the pavement. With the flat edge of the wheel nut wrench, he removed the hubcap on the left rear tire, then took off two of the lug nuts and set them on the ground.

  He unlocked his smartphone and handed it to Mufid. "Record a video when I say."

  Ethan reattached the PSO-1 scope to his Dragunov and slung the sniper rifle over his shoulder.

  "Zoom in so you can't see where the car is," Ethan said. "And can't tell there's no jack. Then start the video."

  Ethan began putting on the lug nuts again. He heard the characteristic beep from the cellphone that indicated a video recording was in progress.

  Wearing a big grin, Ethan glanced over his shoulder toward the camera. "This is what we do in Dawlah. We help people in need. A man's car broke down. I saw him struggling to change the tire on his own and I stopped to offer assistance." Ethan finished re-tightening the two lug nuts, then turned to fully face the cellphone. "Come to the Caliphate. Help your brother Muslims in need. It is your duty to wage jihad. Life is jihad." Aware of how ridiculous he sounded, Ethan glanced at Mufid and made a "cut it" gesture.

  Ethan checked the recording after the shopkeeper returned the phone. It was impossible to tell where the Yaris was located.

  "When the mujahadeen come to you and ask where this footage was taken," he told Mufid. "You will tell them Shbat street. Understood?"

  "Again you put me in danger," Mufid said.

  Ethan stepped forward menacingly. "What street will you tell them?"

  "Shbat street!" Mufid raised his hands defensively.

  Ethan nodded. "Good. I will bring you thirty thousand pounds when next we meet. Now get in the car and give me a ride."

  He settled into the passenger seat, not entirely sure he would live long enough to make good on his monetary promise.

  25

  Ethan had Mufid drop him off two blocks from Raqqa Museum and then jogged the rest of the way. He slowed down as he approached, wiping the perspiration from his face using his scarf.

  Some of the militants had begun to notice him. He could tell from the somber faces that they suspected his involveme
nt. He had listened to the two-way radio while in the Yaris, but had caught no specific mention of his name in the chatter. The overall impression seemed to be that the incident in Clock Tower Square was the work of rebels or a competing jihadist group like Al Nusra. Then again, maybe he had simply missed his name. He'd deactivated the radio since leaving the car, after all, as he needed it off for his alibi.

  Ethan steeled himself during those last few moments of his approach. He had to be ready for anything.

  All the members of Wolf Company were looking at him. Their faces were wary, distrustful, even among those he considered his friends such as Harb and Ibrahim. Several in the group fingered the triggers of their AKs.

  Abdullah said something inaudible into his two-way radio as Ethan closed the distance.

  Suleman intercepted him. "Where were you?" The anger was obvious in his voice. "I waited, but you did not return!"

  "Just filming some social media propaganda," Ethan said, doing his best to act casual. "Like you all told me to do. Here." He reached toward his pocket.

  Several of the men raised their assault rifles outright.

  Ethan lifted his hands, palms out. "What's going on?"

  "Step back," Abdullah said.

  Ethan retreated a few paces. Then it dawned on him. "You think I have a suicide bomb? Why? Whatever for?"

  None of them answered.

  "You all know me," Ethan entreated. "I wouldn't bomb you. You are my brothers. I'm one of you." He pointed toward his pocket. "Can I? I just want to get my phone."

  Abdullah nodded.

  Ethan slowly reached into his pocket and extracted the smartphone. He loaded up the tire-changing video and extended his hand toward the closest man—Suleman.

  The militant hesitantly advanced, and snatched the phone. He watched the video, frowning, then showed it to Abdullah.

  "Where did this take place?" Abdullah said.

  "Shbat street." Situated on a direct path between the current checkpoint and where Ethan had abandoned Suleman earlier, Shbat was far enough away from Clock Tower Square that Ethan could easily deny culpability for the incident. "The motorist I helped owns a shop. He gave me his address, and told me to drop by if I ever needed anything. We can talk to him if you want."

  Abdullah's two-way radio chirped to life. "Is he the one?"

  "I am confirming his alibi," Abdullah said into the two-way radio. He checked Ethan's phone for any incriminating evidence, but there was only the one video. To Suleman, he said: "Go with Abu-Emad to this shop the motorist owns. Confirm his story."

  Suleman glowered at Ethan, then walked to a nearby pickup.

  Ethan was about to follow him when Abdullah raised a halting hand.

  "Wait," Abdullah said. "Your weapons."

  Ethan handed over the Dragunov. He had already ditched the Makarov and had no more grenades.

  "The knife, too," the emir said.

  Ethan gave him the Voron-3 knife and then he jumped into the passenger side of the Mitsubishi L200.

  "Why didn't you answer your two-way radio?" Suleman said during the drive.

  Ethan was waiting for that question. He slid the two-way radio from his belt and pretended to inspect it. He rotated the volume knob to the right, activating the radio.

  "Apparently I forgot to turn it on," Ethan told him.

  Suleman shook his head angrily. "Did you not find it strange that none of your brothers were speaking over the airwaves this morning?"

  "I honestly didn't notice," Ethan said. "I was too busy helping the shopkeeper."

  Suleman curled his lip in contempt. "You are always conveniently absent when there is an attack."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Ethan said.

  "First the assassination of a very important civilian, and now this."

  "What do you mean, this? What happened?"

  "There was an incident. In Clock Tower Square. A woman escaped with a man. Many of our brothers died."

  Ethan shook his head. "I swear on the Quran I was not involved."

  Suleman compressed his jaw. Ethan could almost see the man's internal turmoil as he struggled to believe him. On the one hand, no devout Muslim would ever make such an oath unless it were true. On the other, an infidel would readily say something to that effect without fear of consequences.

  Finally Suleman sighed, and Ethan guessed he had decided to believe him. For the moment.

  A few moments later the Mitsubishi parked in front of the lingerie store. Ethan dearly hoped Mufid and Abdo had smuggled Alzena out by then. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to come there...

  He approached the door with Suleman. The sign in the window read "closed."

  Ethan shrugged. "Guess he took a break."

  Suleman tried the handle anyway. Locked. "We will wait. And if he does not return, you have no alibi and will sleep in jail tonight."

  A bright red Toyota Yaris abruptly pulled up behind the Mitsubishi pickup.

  "There he is." Ethan wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or worried at Mufid's arrival. He was risking both their lives by bringing Suleman there. If the shopkeeper made any mistakes...

  But Mufid corroborated the story perfectly, claiming Ethan had helped him on Shbat street, as instructed.

  Suleman walked to the rear hatch of the Yaris. "Open it."

  Mufid gave him a confused look. "Why?"

  "Do it!" Suleman's fingers twitched toward the Dragunov that dangled from his shoulder.

  Mufid went to the hatch.

  So Ethan's alibi was about to fail after all. When Suleman searched the cargo area he would discover that Ethan had not replaced the tire with the spare.

  Ethan reviewed several jujitsu moves in his head, and selected the one he thought would best incapacitate the militant.

  Mufid opened the hatchback.

  Ethan was about to attack, but he held back because apparently Suleman wasn't familiar with the design of the Yaris.

  "You didn't keep the old tire?" the militant asked, rummaging through the gym bag in the cargo space, seemingly unaware that the spare tire was hidden underneath the rear deck board. The handle was concealed from view by a dirty rag.

  "No," Mufid answered quickly. "I threw it out. Completely blown. Useless."

  Suleman gave Ethan one last skeptical look, then shook his head, turning away.

  Ethan frantically tilted his eyes toward the vehicle while Suleman wasn't watching, indicating that Mufid should shut the rear hatch as soon as possible. The shopkeeper readily complied.

  Suleman clicked the send button on his two-way radio and hesitated. Finally: "His alibi is sound."

  WHEN SULEMAN DROVE Ethan back to the checkpoint, Abdullah returned his smartphone and weapons. "Never run off like that before your duty shift again."

  "I won't," Ethan promised.

  That afternoon the occupying army of Raqqa was mobilized, and the mujahadeen, Ethan's unit included, carried out a series of raids and arrests in the suburbs beside Clock Tower Square.

  The army cordoned off the area where the fugitives were last seen on foot. The militants formed a series of roadblocks on all sides: it was assumed that someone in the neighborhood was harboring the criminals, and no vehicle or pedestrian traffic was to be allowed through in either direction, not even trucks containing produce and other foodstuffs, until the fugitives were given up. The water and electricity to the area were unceremoniously shut off.

  It was the wrong neighborhood, of course, well away from where he had actually secreted Alzena. Apparently no one had discovered the stolen Hyundai Elantra, or interviewed the driver. Still, the roadblocks were a harsh reminder for Ethan that any operation he undertook, no matter how insignificant, could have serious repercussions. Operationally, he had done nothing wrong—by saving Alzena he had followed Sam's instructions to detect, deceive, disrupt, delay, and destroy—he just hoped the citizens didn't suffer overmuch for what he had done.

  Unfortunately, the roadblocks lasted five days and only ended when t
he overall emir of Raqqa, Abu Lukman, issued a statement blaming the Al Qaeda-affiliated Al Nusra Front for the "regrettable occurrence in Clock Tower Square." A Syrian citizen, probably chosen at random, was executed for the crime.

  A FEW DAYS later Ethan found himself aboard one of those familiar Islamic State buses with the words Dawlah Islamiyah al Iraq wa Shaam inscribed on the side. The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.

  Yes, you want to be a state so badly, Ethan thought. You can write it on your buses. You can put it on your compounds. But all you really are is a loosely connected group of decentralized command and control hubs manned by zealous, murdering goons who call themselves emirs.

  His unit was headed to Kobane to reinforce the fighting there. Abdullah promised it would be an easy victory. They'd go in, slaughter the Kurds, and return in a few weeks. Somehow Ethan doubted the deployment would prove so simple. But he didn't mind really. He felt he'd overstayed his tenure in Raqqa. Also, it would be good to see William and Aaron again. Assuming the operatives were still in Kobane. And alive.

  The bus wasn't part of a convoy—the militants didn't dare travel in motorcades, not with Western drones potentially patrolling the skies. There were no women aboard, either. The wives and children of Wolf Company remained in Raqqa, waiting for their husbands and fathers to someday return. Making them stay behind probably served as a form of insurance, guaranteeing that none of the married fighters would ever defect or desert. That was the theory, anyway.

  Beyond the window, the low-slung buildings of Raqqa receded on his left. He had so many bittersweet memories of the place. It was a city of repression, and yet the people were resilient; he knew they would bounce back once the Islamic State was expelled. He only hoped that whoever replaced the militants proved a little more moderate.

  He wondered if Alzena had gotten out safely. He hadn't heard anything from her since that fateful day. He'd left messages in the accounts he shared with her and Mufid, but no reply had come from either of them. He hadn't had a chance to visit Mufid in person: when the neighborhood siege was lifted, Ethan's checkpoint duty hadn't brought him close enough to the lingerie shop during the day, and it was always closed at night. He still owed the man thirty thousand pounds, but Ethan supposed the IOUs he had written him were more than enough already.