by Isaac Hooke
"Can we actually promise him French citizenship?" William said.
"The Secretary has already worked out a deal with his French counterpart. We just need to meet Kareef in person to finalize the details of his involvement. Basically we have to convince him to set a trap for emir Al Taaraz."
"So let's say we meet him in person," Ethan said. "How do we know Kareef won't be watched? We were interrogated. Like you said before, we don't know who we gave up."
"It's possible," Sam admitted. "But as I said before, they pressed hardest for my smartphone password. While they might know our target is Afri, I don't think they have any idea on how we plan to find him."
"What if they got Kareef's contact information from your phone?" Ethan said.
"I never actually input his email address into my phone. It was all up here." She tapped her forehead. "Look, they pumped a lot of intel out of me. Out of all of us. But they didn't get everything."
"I just wish we could remember," Ethan said.
Sam nodded. "When the time comes, you won't go in to meet Kareef alone."
"There's something I don't get," William said. "This Islamic scholar, Kareef. Why would Al Taaraz, emir of Mosul, bother to meet him?"
Sam folded her hands in her lap. "Kareef is going to offer funding in return for a position of power. Remember, he is a well-known scholar, and has the gift of rhetoric—the Caliphate would likely be happy to have him aboard. Al Taaraz will be inclined to grant him an audience at the very least, simply to hear what he has to say. The emir will probably arrange the meeting at some neutral location of his choosing. He'll arrive, talk to the scholar, and once he departs we'll spring our trap."
Doug was nodding. "He'll be at his most vulnerable when he's on the road. If we can shut down some of the streets, funnel him where we want him to go, maybe set off some strategically placed IEDs, he'll be ours."
"I like how you think," Sam said.
Doug was all smiles.
"That's a good lapdog," William said. "That's right, lap up the milk. Lap it up."
Doug scowled at him.
Sam smiled, saying nothing about the jibe. Her leadership style was very hands-off, at least when it came to the relationships between internal team members.
"We could also sick one of our MQ-1 Predators on him," William said into the conversational vacuum that followed. "Find out where he lives. Then snatch him from his house in the night."
"That is an option," Sam said. "Though most likely he is staying at one of the Islamic State barracks. That makes any infiltration somewhat tricky."
William shrugged. "Like I said, we'd do it at night, when the majority of the militants are sleeping."
"I'm leaning toward the street filch," Sam said. "We'll certainly have the Predator on call, ready to follow him as a backup plan." She paused to regard each of the operatives in turn. "I'm glad you three are at hand. You're some of my very best, and I need you. If anyone can pull this off, it's you."
"Al Taaraz is going to have guards," Ethan said. "In multiple vehicles. They'll have anti-aircraft guns."
"Definitely," Sam agreed.
"One little mistake," William countered. "And either he'll get away, or we'll die. And our deaths won't be pretty."
Sam spread her arms. "No, they won't."
"It's not going to be easy," Doug added.
Sam smiled obligingly. "Most certainly not. But I thought ex-SEALs liked that?"
"We're in." Ethan announced. The other operatives didn't have to say a word; Ethan knew they were all chomping at the bit.
Sam nodded. "Thought you'd say as much." She closed the laptop. "But before we can begin, first we have to convince Kareef to lay the trap for us."
Ethan had to smile. "He has no idea what you want from him in exchange for French citizenship, does he?"
Sam returned his grin. "No. But that's where you come in."
19
Ethan and the others brainstormed possible venues to meet the scholar, but in the end the decision was made by Kareef, who emailed Sam a date and location of his own choosing.
Sam chose Ethan to perform the mission, with William acting as his backup. To circumvent the various checkpoints along the way to the venue, she decided the operatives would dress as women in full veil. Members of the resistance agreed to forge the necessary IDs, and act as chaperons. No one would ever see the faces of the operatives. At least that was the plan.
That night Doug left to retrieve the IDs, while William set off to collect arms and spy tools at a drop Sam had arranged. Both operatives returned shortly after midnight. Along with weapons, the spy stash William had obtained included body armor, binoculars, radios, synthetic opioid canisters, a gas mask, and a custom laptop.
The next morning Ethan and William quickly explored the abandoned apartments surrounding the courtyard, and returned with hand towels. They taped them, along with tracking devices, to the inside of the abayas to pad the breast areas. The two of them put on Kevlar vests, strapped Glock 26s to their ankles, and then donned the long robes. Ethan and William completed the look by sliding the full veils over their heads. They kept their tight black gloves.
The pair approached the staging point on foot. Doug acted as their chaperon, in case any residents decided to rat them out.
"Did I ever mention how comely you two look in women's clothing?" Doug said.
"Funny," Ethan retorted. His voice sounded muffled because of the fabric.
"No I'm serious," Doug insisted. "You're all dolled up in that sexy black, with not a single piece of flesh showing. It just makes me want to undress you with my eyes. Plus you have the nicest breasts."
"Think he's talking about you, William," Ethan said.
"Of course." William affected a higher-pitched voice. "I look so feminine in this abaya. All my manly parts so conspicuously concealed. Just the way you like it. We should get a room later, Doug."
"Oh yeah baby."
"You know what, though?" William said, his voice returning to normal. "Mock these outfits all you want, they're the perfect cover. All clandestine operatives in the region should be operating as women, regardless of gender. If Middle Eastern countries ever get with the program and start implementing facial recognition biometrics, these things are going to be golden."
"You're forgetting the chaperon problem," Doug said.
"Sure, but not every Gulf country enforces that."
"Yeah, just the one's we care about," Ethan said.
The three cut the small talk as a cluster of pedestrians walked by.
When the foot traffic cleared again, William held a gloved hand in front of him. "No one ever tells you how hard it is to see in these veils. I really feel for Middle Eastern women right now. You're literally viewing the world through a black haze of doom. Imagine the darkest shade of sunglasses you can get your hands on. Every day is overcast when you're wearing these things. Really ruins the mood."
"Though in our case," Ethan said. "Given what we have to do today, it probably suits the mood perfectly."
"Looks like your ride is already here," Doug said, pointing out the two cars, a black Kia Rio and a white one, waiting by the curb up ahead. Ethan would have preferred an Opel for its speed, but the German car was the preferred suicide vehicle for militants, who often impounded them. Rios would have to do.
The drivers stood beside each Kia. Young members of the resistance. They nodded to the operatives.
Ethan and William both wore transducer headsets underneath their niqabs—William had retrieved the devices from Sam's contact the night before, along with four PRC-153 encrypted radios. They'd lost their RC-capable USB sticks when they were captured, so their backup smartphones couldn't function as radios.
William had also procured an ordinary USB stick, which Sam had loaded with intelligence tools for Kareef. Ethan carried it in an abaya pocket at that very moment.
Ethan and William performed one last comm check.
Doug meanwhile pulled up an app on his phone, probab
ly checking that the tracking devices hidden in the abayas were still functioning. Then he waved the operatives off.
"Good luck," Doug told the pair.
Ethan entered the passenger side of the lead car.
The driver got in. "You have your ID?" the resistance member asked in the local Iraqi dialect.
"Yes," Ethan said, reaching into an abaya pocket to produce it.
The driver accepted the identity paper and compared it to his own document. Then he nodded, handing the ID back. "Keep it at hand. I am Maaz by the way." The name meant 'brave.'
He was dressed in a gray winter cap and matching slacks, with a blue windbreaker hiding a sweater. He had peach fuzz for a mustache, though the rest of his face bore actual stubble. He couldn't have been older than nineteen or twenty.
"Pleased to meet you, Maaz. Call me Emad."
"No," Maaz said with a wink. "Your name is now Sara. My sister with the face of a donkey."
"Yeah, and I bet I'm the most beautiful sister you have."
Maaz smiled widely. "Probably."
Halfway to the destination they approached a checkpoint.
Teenage mujahadeen stood beside a technical with a ZU-2 in back, slowly letting the traffic through. These young militants were likely culled from the local populace—graduates of one of the many youth training camps the Caliphate forced children and teens to attend.
When Maaz's turn came, the AK-toting fifteen-year-old regarded the driver suspiciously. The militant's eyes flicked toward Ethan, then he announced imperiously, "IDs."
Maaz handed over the two IDs.
The teen regarded the identity documents coldly; he looked at Ethan's, quickly closing it, probably because of the unattractive picture the resistance had chosen for him. When the young militant regarded Maaz's document a confused expression came over his face. He glanced at the driver again, then hurried over to the other militants near the technical. They seemed even younger than him: thirteen and fourteen year olds.
As the boy returned, Ethan bent forward slightly, preparing to grab the Glock holstered to his ankle. Earlier he'd removed the bandage so that his gloved forefinger would better fit the trigger guard. He'd peeled off some of the raw tissue from the nail bed in the process, and that finger still throbbed slightly.
"Get out of the car," the mujahid gruffly announced.
Ethan leaned forward even more, as if trying to get a better look at the militant. He furtively reached under the hem of his abaya and wrapped his fingers around the subcompact's stock.
Maaz hadn't moved. "But we have done nothing—"
"Out of the car," the mujahid said.
Maaz glanced at Ethan; his gaze followed Ethan's arm, and when he realized what was about to go down, a flicker of fear touched his eyes.
Ethan hesitated. He didn't want to have to kill someone who was only fifteen. The other option was to floor the vehicle, but he doubted Maaz had any combat driving skills; that ZU-2 would chew them up. Damn it, why couldn't women be allowed to drive?
Against his better judgement, he found himself slowly leaning back. He bobbed his head toward the teenager, indicating that Maaz should obey.
The militant opened the door and Maaz got out. The teenager abruptly bent over and pointed at Ethan.
"Her, too," he said.
Ethan closed his eyes. This isn't happening.
He knew William was in the other car, about two vehicles behind them, ready to provide backup if needed. That was good, because things were about to get very messy.
"Everything all right over there?" William sent over the comm.
"Situation red," Ethan whispered. "Hold for my signal."
20
Ethan got out.
The other teenagers had come forward, and they crowded around Maaz. So far, none of them had made any move to arrest the resistance member, though it was hard to see what was happening through that cluster of men.
Like a machine, Ethan began to catalog targets. His mind automatically created a kill order. But a part of him still resisted.
They're only thirteen and fourteen year olds.
The burning face of the boy appeared in his mind.
He dismissed it angrily.
I'm not going back to an Islamic State prison. I refuse.
His muscles tensed.
The burning faced clawed its way back.
Thirteen and fourteen year olds.
The youths parted when Ethan grew near. He had no choice. He had to spring into action.
But then he saw Maaz, and froze.
The teenaged militants were taking pictures with the driver, treating him like some sort of celebrity.
"They just want photos," Maaz told him.
Ethan slumped in utter relief. He retreated a few paces and whispered "stand down" over the comm. He found himself gasping for air, like a man who had just run a marathon.
Two older militants watched from the sidelines with disapproving faces. Taking photos with celebrities didn't sit well with the harsh brand of sharia their state sought to enforce. The more elderly of the pair, a middle-aged man with a turban and devout beard, approached. Probably the emir of the group.
He dispersed the teenagers and snatched the IDs from the original militant. The emir examined both identity documents, shrugged, and then returned them. "Be on your way."
"What was that all about?" Ethan asked Maaz when the checkpoint was well behind them.
"The fools who made my ID," Maaz said. "Gave me the same last name as a famous Iraqi pop star." He laughed, thinking it very funny.
"Damn it!" Ethan slammed his hands down hard on the dashboard. "I almost shot those kids."
"I'm sorry," Maaz said quickly. "I'm sure it was a mistake."
"Yes," Ethan said. "But a dangerous one. I'm surprised the militants didn't wonder why you drive a shit bucket like this if you're supposed to be famous."
"They wouldn't. It's expected. Artists don't make money in a country like this. Piracy, you see."
Maaz pulled to the shoulder of the road to wait for William's vehicle to catch up.
The Rio passed another checkpoint on the way to the restaurant; the guards were either older, or foreign fighters, and none of them recognized the surname. By the time Ethan reached the restaurant, he found himself feeling drained from the tension.
Suck it up, he told himself. Got a mission to perform.
Cars were double and triple parked in front of the restaurant, so Maaz did a U-turn in the middle of the street and parked on the opposite side.
"You'd make a good taxi driver in my country," Ethan said as the passing vehicles honked at them.
"Thank you," Maaz beamed.
"I'm not sure I meant it as a compliment," Ethan said. "Let's do this."
Ethan waited for Maaz to open his door, as was proper. Then he exited and together the two jaywalked across the street. Just a brother and sister out for a nice lunch in the terrorist-occupied downtown of their city.
The restaurant was full. Several men crowded the front counter, waiting for takeout. As for the patrons seated at the tables, most were male; Ethan counted three women dispersed throughout the establishment. The windows were shuttered, allowing the women to dine in peace without having to worry about passersby seeing their faces, however the three women had elected to keep their veils lowered, and instead only lifted the fabric slightly as they imbibed individual items of food and drink.
The overall mood of the restaurant seemed subdued, the conversation muted. That could be because of the several mujahadeen eating quietly in a far corner.
Dressed in black robes with religious beards, one might have easily mistaken them for holy men were it not for the Kalashnikovs lined up on the wall behind them. Their eyes burned with a mixture of contempt and zeal that seemed to say: "We are ready to die for what we believe in. We are the true Muslims, not you. We look down upon you all. You are mere dirt to us. You are almost infidels and apostates, you who eat your masgûf and sip your tea so comfortably
in the confines of this restaurant while we fight for you and give our lives in the countryside. We do all of this for you in the name of Allah, and yet you are not even grateful to us for it."
Their table was the most bountiful, Ethan noted, with the finest selection of food. There were roast chicken kebabs slathered in lemon juice. Lamb and okra simmering in a spicy tomato broth. Masgûf stuffed with mango chutney. A huge bowl of timman anbar, the yellowish rice that grew in the marshes of southern Iraq. A pile of manhole-sized flatbread, with each piece thicker than most American pizza. And in front of every militant, a bottle of shinēna—a yogurt-based drink flavored with mint leaves.
Ethan was careful not to look at their table overlong. In previous missions he had played the part of the mujahid. How different it felt to be on the other side. Even though he was veiled from head to toe, he felt utterly exposed.
Sam had shown him Kareef's file photo, so Ethan knew precisely who to look for. He spotted the lone man almost immediately. Unfortunately, Kareef was seated only two tables from the mujahadeen.
"He's too damn close," Ethan cursed softly.
"Say again?" William answered.
"He's sitting next to a table of muj."
"Damn it," William said. "Get him to move."
"The restaurant's full. There's no other places. Besides, that would be a bit obvious if we did that."
"Your call," William said.
There was no point in extracting by that point. Ethan was halfway to the table. It would draw attention if he turned away.
"Going in," Ethan said quietly.
He approached the table with Maaz and allowed his chaperon to pull out a chair for him. He could feel the gaze of the mujahadeen upon him the whole time but ignored it.
When the two were settled, Kareef spoke softly, leaning in slightly toward the pair.
"So this is the great American special operative I was told about," he said in Arabic. "Dresses like a woman, too ashamed to even show his face in public."
"Not ashamed," Ethan said quietly. "Merely practical."
"Ah," Kareef said. "I recognize a Mesopotamian accent. You have spent some time in Syria, have you?"