The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

"Just a little," Ethan agreed.

  "A beautiful country," Kareef said. "I have been there once. And know others who have gone several times. Some of them malcontents who once yearned for the unification of northwest Iraq and southeast Syria. These malcontents wanted to come and go as they pleased, wishing to visit family members and relatives, and smuggle without the hassle ordinarily associated with borders. They were happy when the Islamic State came and bulldozed the border, because in theory those hassles were gone."

  He sat back. "Perhaps the malcontents were right. The Caliphate has brought many positive benefits." His tone, already sarcastic, began to positively ooze it. "Look at how cheap food is now. And how much fresh water we have. Look at how our street lamps glow with power. Observe the prompt garbage collection, and the fair and just laws. It is paradise."

  Kareef paused to bite into a piece of lamb in his plate. He glanced at Maaz and said, with his mouth full: "You are a resistance fighter, I assume?"

  Maaz nodded.

  "An enviable occupation," Kareef said. Ethan couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Please, help yourself to the maqluba." The scholar gestured toward the yellow dish at the center of the table, a mix of rice, eggplant, tomato and braised lamb. Literally translated, maqluba meant 'upside-down,' because the pot that it was prepared in was flipped upside-down to empty the contents before serving. "I ordered enough for three."

  Though he had no intention of eating, Ethan took the spoon and scooped a small portion of the yellow rice into his plate, taking a dollop of yogurt from a side dish. He tried to keep his body language submissive and docile.

  The proprietor came by and accepted their drink orders; Maaz ordered a cardamom-spiced Earl Grey for himself and Ethan.

  Kareef leaned in closer and glanced askance at the mujahadeen. "So, you are here to discuss the terms of smuggling me out of the country, and arranging my French citizenship."

  "Try not to make it too obvious you don't want them to hear you," Ethan said, nervously glancing at the same table.

  Kareef set down his fork, a slight expression of outrage on his face. "Well if you're going to be rude, maybe I should go."

  "No," Ethan said. "I'm sorry. I'm just on edge, that's all."

  "All right. So about my French citizenship..."

  "Yes," Ethan said. "We can get you that. No problem. But first of all, we need you to arrange a meeting with Al Taaraz."

  Kareef stiffened in surprise. "Al Taaraz? The Islamic State emir of Mosul?"

  "The very same."

  Kareef couldn't hide his disbelief. "And why would Al Taaraz want to meet me?"

  "You are a well-known scholar," Ethan said. "Al Taaraz is a cautious man. And he won't come out of hiding for just anyone. You have a long history in the city. Many know you. He will trust you."

  Kareef shook his head. "I still don't see why he would agree to meet me. I'm not that famous. I can certainly try, but—"

  The tea arrived in two hourglass-shaped istikans.

  "You have the gift of rhetoric," Ethan said when the proprietor had gone. "Something that is invaluable to the Islamic State. Secondly, you have many followers on social media. And lastly, you are going to offer him money, pretending that you wish to buy yourself into a position of power. Rhetoric, social media followers and money: the three best commodities to attract the attention of the Islamic State leadership. He will meet you."

  Ethan lifted the bottom of his veil with one hand and brought the tea to his lips with the other, passing the cup underneath the fabric. He took a sip, and the cardamom-flavored brew suffused his tongue. It didn't really mask the terrible taste of the underlying water, and when Ethan set the istikan down, he resolved not to drink any more of it.

  Kareef folded his arms. "What if Al Taaraz doesn't believe me? What if things go badly? He could have me arrested. Or worse. People have disappeared, you know, since Dawla arrived. Many people. If the families are lucky, they find the bodies of their loved ones washed up on the shores of the Tigris. And if they are not lucky, their families never hear from them again. Never have closure."

  "Look, how badly do you want to leave? How badly do you want French citizenship?" Ethan shifted impatiently. "My boss pegged you as a man of action. A man ready to fight back against a regime he doesn't believe in. Was my boss wrong?"

  Kareef didn't know Sam's name, nor even that she was a woman. Ethan wondered if the scholar would have agreed to the meeting if he knew her gender, given how poorly regarded most women were in the region.

  "I ask again," Ethan said. "Was my boss wrong?"

  Kareef worked his jaw but didn't answer.

  "Do you want a ticket out of Iraq or not?" Ethan pressed.

  Kareef opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a mujahid stood up from the table nearby. The movement sent the militant's chair backward, causing the wooden legs to scratch loudly against the floor, drawing every gaze in the restaurant.

  The foreign fighter casually wandered toward their table.

  Ethan quickly looked down. Into his mouthpiece, he said, very softly, "Will, situation yellow."

  "Ready," William returned.

  The mujahid reached their table. He regarded Ethan with a sneer, then turned toward Kareef.

  "This woman," he said. "She seems headstrong. I see her glancing your way often, as if addressing you. Does she know you?"

  "Not exactly," Kareef said.

  Apparently Ethan hadn't kept his body language as submissive as he had hoped.

  "Then that is very unwomanly behavior. I have a right mind to call in the religious police and have her whipped for her impertinence."

  "No no, she hasn't been impertinent," Kareef said with a calm smile. He didn't seem nervous at all. In fact, he seemed rather happy, as if he believed he held Ethan's life in his hands in that moment, and the thought pleased him. "She was just enraptured by my charisma, I would say."

  "Your charisma." The mujahid seemed amused. "How do you know each other?" He casually tore a piece from the flatbread on their table; with the provided serving spoon he scooped a sizable portion of maqluba onto the bread.

  "I am a scholar," Kareef said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice. "And these are two of my fans."

  "A scholar with fans?" The mujahid acted impressed, though it seemed patronizing. "You must be someone of renown then." He bit into the flatbread.

  "I am known in some circles, yes," Kareef said cautiously.

  "What circles are these?" the mujahid said while chewing.

  "Sunni Islam, of course. I write papers on the interpretations of various hadiths and how we can use them for inspiration in our lives."

  "Interesting," the mujahid said, though he sounded bored. He glanced at Ethan. "So she is one of your fans."

  "Yes, they have followed my work online."

  "I would like to see this work." He set down the half-eaten flatbread. "Send me the web address. I will check it later when I have access to the Internet." The mujahid abruptly lost interest in the scholar and focused all of his attention on Ethan. "I rarely have a chance to talk with women in social situations anymore. I sometimes miss the Western world for that. But I know it is also the greatest sin of the West, driving men to kill their neighbors."

  "Yes, the West is evil and corrupt," Kareef agreed. "Scantily-clad women roam the streets like a pus-filled boil that needs to be lanced and squeezed until the pus is gone."

  The mujahid gave him an appraising look. "You really are a scholar. Your rhetoric is excellent."

  Kareef smiled appreciatively, and inclined his head.

  "What is your name, woman?" the mujahid asked Ethan.

  "Her name is Sara," Maaz answered for him.

  "Are you married, Sara?"

  "She is not," Maaz said.

  "I would like to hear her voice," the mujahid said. "Let her answer."

  "She is a mute," Maaz said quickly.

  "She is your sister?"

  "Yes. Would you like to see our IDs?" Maa
z delved into his jacket pocket.

  "That won't be necessary." The mujahid reached toward Ethan's niqab. "I want to see her face."

  21

  Ethan flinched, pulling his head away.

  "You certainly are a bashful one." The mujahid grinned widely and reached again. "Now stay still, or I will take offense."

  Ethan's mind switched to combat mode, and he began running mental calculations, reviewing odds, strategies.

  His hands and lower body were hidden by the table; with luck, he could draw the Glock from his ankle holster unnoticed. His first shot would eliminate the militant. With his next shots, he figured he could take down three or four of the other fighters before they retrieved their rifles. Thereafter, he would need cover—the wooden table was useless, bolted as it was to the floor, and so were the flimsy wooden chairs around it. He'd have to use the militant's body as a shield. That, combined with the Kevlar vest Ethan was wearing, should be enough to block any incoming bullets. Discounting a headshot, of course.

  Ethan figured they would probably rush him. By the time William made it inside, the firefight would be over.

  Ten bullets, seven mujahadeen. He'd have to make his shots count.

  He stared at that approaching hand.

  "Careful!" Maaz said, startling him. "Once you set eyes upon her, her disfigurements will be forever seared into your mind! It cannot be undone. She is the ugliest woman you will ever see!"

  "You make me want to look upon her even more," the mujahid said. His fingers were inches from the veil.

  Ethan steeled himself; he was about to tell his companions to get down when Maaz abruptly produced the fake identity document and shoved it into the militant's face. Ethan had seen the picture earlier: it depicted a terribly unattractive woman with a goofy, bucktoothed smile. The photo was meant to deter any militant from ever even wanting to peer under the veil.

  It seemed to have the desired effect, because the mujahid retracted his fingers as if bitten by a cobra. "I do not think I wish to see her face after all. Enjoy your meal." The man retreated.

  Ethan thanked Maaz mentally.

  When the fighter returned to his own table, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder and said, just loud enough for Ethan to hear, "She looks like a donkey."

  His fellow mujahadeen erupted in laughter. "I thought you liked donkeys, Abu Osama."

  That's right, laugh it up, Ethan thought. Into his mouthpiece: "Will, stand down."

  "Well played," Kareef told Ethan underbreath. "Though it was your chaperon who did all the work, special operative. What would you have done if the fighter had seen your face?"

  Ethan smiled wolfishly beneath the veil. "I have a Glock 26 strapped around my ankle. If he saw my face, the mujahid would be dead now. Along with his six friends." Ethan was careful to look straight ahead: he didn't want the watching militants to know he was still directly conversing with the scholar.

  Kareef raised an eyebrow. "I see. So that's all a special operative is, then. A killer. And I thought you were clever."

  "I'm here, aren't I?" Ethan said. "An American intelligence operative in the heart of IS-occupied Iraq, speaking to you in perfect Arabic, unnoticed. I'd say that makes me clever."

  Kareef pursed his lips. "A clever killer. Is that why you want me to arrange a meeting with Al Taaraz? So you can murder him?"

  "He's more valuable to us alive than dead. In fact, we have specific orders not to kill him."

  "That's somewhat reassuring," Kareef said. "I couldn't in good conscience allow myself to be involved in the murder of any individual, no matter how evil he or she may be. My faith wouldn't allow it."

  Ethan barely repressed a nod, again for the sake of the mujahadeen. "Your conscience will rest easy then."

  "So you're going to capture him, once he meets with me?" Kareef asked.

  "Afterward, yes."

  "And what about the meeting?" Kareef said. "Will you be listening in, and sending me instructions? With that high tech American gear of yours?"

  "Unfortunately no. We can't risk planting any bugs on your person. You'll be on your own during the meeting."

  Kareef tapped his chin. "As I said earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted, it is dangerous. He could have me arrested or killed if things go poorly. I will need monetary compensation as well. Simple French citizenship and a ticket out of Iraq won't cut it anymore."

  "I'm prepared to offer you up to twenty-five thousand US dollars," Ethan said.

  "Make it a hundred thousand," Kareef countered. "And I'll begin making the arrangements tonight."

  Ethan pretended to hesitate. "I don't know, that's a lot of money."

  "Take it or leave it."

  Ethan paused a moment longer. "You're a hard negotiator, Kareef. Done." In truth, Sam had given him leeway to negotiate up to five hundred thousand US dollars, and he was happy to accept the lower amount.

  Kareef appeared pleased with himself. "I am the hardest negotiator in this town. I will need you to send me these terms in writing over email."

  "Of course."

  "Good." Kareef clasped his hands. He seemed to be repressing excitement. "I will check tomorrow at the Internet cafe, when the power comes back on at noon."

  "Which neighborhood is this?" Maaz asked. "I haven't seen power anywhere."

  Kareef told him the neighborhood. "The electricity doesn't always turn on, but the cafe owner has a generator, so it doesn't matter."

  Ethan very slightly tilted his head toward Maaz. "Give him the memory stick."

  Maaz produced the local-bought USB stick that Sam had prepared. He surreptitiously passed it across the table to Kareef.

  "Before sending any emails, plug this into the USB port of any computers you use," Ethan said. "It will allow you to subvert any spyware the Islamic State or their supporters may have installed. There's a readme.txt file included that's fairly informative."

  The readme also contained a particularly nasty piece of cyberespionage spyware known as Regin. It would spread to every machine on the local area network, allowing the NSA to monitor all incoming and outgoing traffic from the infected location.

  "There's a Gmail account indicated in the readme that you're to use from now on," Ethan continued. "We'll exchange encrypted messages in the draft folder. Have you heard of The Mujahid's Security?"

  "Yes. I've been using it to communicate with your boss."

  "Good. You'll use it to encrypt and decrypt any correspondence. My boss' new public key is located in the root of the USB file system. Generate a new public key for yourself, and leave it as your first message in the draft folder."

  "Complicated," Kareef said.

  "Clandestine operations usually are," Ethan said.

  "One thing I've been wondering," Kareef said. "Why The Mujahid's Security? Doesn't the NSA have anything better than a knock-off program written by jihadis?"

  "Plausible deniability," Ethan explained. "If the USB were ever confiscated from your person, which would you prefer the militants found? An encryption program written by the NSA, or The Mujahid's Security?"

  "I see your point." Kareef pocketed the USB stick.

  "How do you plan on initiating contact with the emir?" Ethan said.

  "I will attend a certain radical mosque for evening prayers. I am known there. Other citizens can vouch for me. I will spread the word among Dawla supporters and any mujahadeen present that I have an offer for the emir. I will leave them my public email and the emir will contact me shortly, inshallah."

  "All right," Ethan said. "Good luck, and thank you."

  "No, thank you."

  As Ethan left the restaurant with Maaz, William's voice came over the earbud.

  "Sounded like things got a bit tense in there," William said.

  Ethan laughed softly. "Tense. Understatement of the year, bro."

  "Well you said it yourself," William returned. "Don't leave home without your Depends."

  SAM, Ethan, and the other two operatives lurked in the shade of the
partially rebuilt Adad Gate, one of the original entrances to the ancient city of Nineveh, which modern Mosul had engulfed. Before them lay the empty plain where the ruined city had once flourished. A flock of sheep grazed on the pasture. Beyond the animals, the broad, twenty-meter tall Kouyunjik "tell" could be seen, pocked by the holes of archaeological excavation.

  Tells were mounds that formed over ruins as several generations of people rebuilt on the same spot. Since mud brick, the preferred building material of the ancient Assyrians—and many modern Iraqis—disintegrated relatively quickly, much of the mass associated with any given tell could be attributed to dissolved bricks. Archaeologists would have to chip away at the sandstone-like material in order to excavate any intact ruins.

  All items of value in the Kouyunjik tell had long since been looted or transported to nearby museums—though the Islamic State had of course smashed any artifacts it could get its hands on. Luckily most of the local museums contained only replicas of the original artifacts.

  Ethan returned his attention to the shade of the fort-like Adad Gate, where Othunan and two of his deputies were meeting with Sam. Other members of the resistance guarded the exterior of the concrete and mud brick structure, with some of the men providing overwatch from the upper levels. Ethan would have preferred to be up there on watch with them, but Sam wanted him with her.

  She held her laptop open in front of her with one hand; a map of the city was displayed on screen. Three days earlier, Al Taaraz had finally contacted Kareef and agreed to listen to his proposal. The map indicated the location of their intended meeting place.

  "A street corner?" Othunan said in disbelief.

  Sam nodded. "That's right."

  Othunan shook his head. "They obviously intend to grab him off the street and blindfold him, then take him to some reinforced location."

  Sam nodded. "Which is why my team is going to follow him from a safe distance."

  "And what do you want us to do?" Othunan said.

  Sam explained the plan and the resistance's role in it. Othunan agreed, but only after negotiating for more arms and funding.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, Othunan grinned toothily and said in broken English, "You have, how you say... twisted my arm." He saluted in a manner that was both mocking and self-satisfied, and then he left with his men.