Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  1115 February 7, 2003

  Connelly Hall, Naval War College

  Hunter and McGee took their usual places in the front of the auditorium. Rear Admiral DiFilippo just finished speaking, and the assembly was dismissed when Duncan’s eyes met the admiral’s.

  “Mr. Hunter, may I have a word with you?” the admiral asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The admiral, stepping down from the stage, offered his hand to Hunter, then McGee.

  “I understand you’re quite the racquetball aficionado,” the admiral said.

  “Sir, he beat a pro a couple months ago,” McGee said. “I saw it. He’s awesome.”

  “Really? Well, that’s helpful. In mid-April, we go to Carlisle, the Army War College, for Jim Thorpe Days. It’s a track-andfield meet between the war colleges. Navy rarely wins anything at Jim Thorpe.”

  “Sir, do they have a racquetball competition?” Hunter asked.

  “They do. Would you be able to participate?”

  “Sir, I can’t promise you a gold medal, but I promise to bring back something. I can’t imagine any of the other war colleges having the talent we have here at Newport.”

  “We have some good players here?” Rear Admiral DiFilippo asked.

  “Yes, Sir, we do.”

  “Hold it,” McGee said to Hunter. “Do you think anyone can beat you?”

  “That’s not the issue. Usually, there are rules in place to negate a ringer, and I’d likely be considered one. Here’s how they do it. They make a team identify their A and B players. Then, most likely, they’ll have a couple more people who aren’t as good who play doubles. Then a team has a chance of getting three points per school. The best two out of three matches wins.

  “So let’s say Army and Navy have the same score going in, like six to six. The winning team just has to take two games to win the championship. All the schools bring in a ringer and try to outfit a B player while they hope for a miracle on a doubles team.”

  “I just want to win something,” the rear admiral said. “I don’t want a repeat of last year, where we didn’t win anything.”

  “Sir, we’ll bring you home something heavy. I’m old and treacherous when it comes to this stuff. I’ll organize a team and a winning strategy.”

  “Sir, we might need your help in another area,” McGee said.

  “What do you need?”

  “Permission to conduct some classified research.”

  “Topic?”

  “Integration of quiet aircraft into DEVGRU. We could give you a brief.”

  “That sounds interesting. Why do you need my permission?”

  “We’re told only the President of the War College can authorize classified research. We think we’ll have to make a couple of trips to Suitland, Sir.”

  Rear Admiral DiFillipo smiled. “For you two, permission granted.”

  “Can I get your John Hancock on this form, Sir?”

  He smiled as he signed. “You’ll have to let me know when you’re done. I’ll be interested in your paper.” He looked at Hunter. “A gold medal at Jim Thorpe would be nice.”

  Hunter smiled. “Can do easy, Sir.”

  As the admiral reached to shake Hunter’s hand, he noticed McGee studying the Royal Saudi and Royal Jordanian Navy commanders sitting together at the rear of the class, chatting among themselves. No other foreign officers remained in the auditorium.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  2200 February 7, 2003

  Al-Azzam Islamic Center

  Nizar held a photograph in one hand as he knocked on the door. It opened slowly. Imam Abdul looked at him, then at the offered photo. With the touch of a pickpocket, he drew the photograph from the man’s dirty fingers and held the flimsy copy paper to the light. He was impressed.

  “Your beauty is striking, worthy of Allah, peace be upon Him,” he muttered to the photo. “But you are a whore.”

  A notion he’d been formulating for days came into focus. Marwa might be useful. First, though, he needed to know more. “She’s fair, Nizar. What more have you?”

  “Sahib, I was able to see her passport. I stopped her, as she tried to entire the concourse to work. She’s Jordanian. Her name is indeed Marwa Kamal.”

  “Go. I must think.”

  The 9/11 Commission learned that al-Qaeda relied on a trusted network of a dozen hawala dealers to move money and information around the globe. One of the only two who escaped the dragnet of investigations after the terrorist attacks of September 11 was Abdul Abdullah, or Imam Abdul. The other was his cousin, Imam Atef, in Amman, Jordan. Atef considered it an honor to find more information on the woman.

  “Fax the photograph,” Atef said. “I work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  1100 February 14, 2003

  Al-Azzam Mosque

  The hawaladar in Amman engaged his network of runners and spies. A runner carried money if the amount was small or slips of information announcing the money transfer between the hawala headquarters and the recipient of the transaction. Armed with a photo of Marwa Kamal, a young runner found someone who recognized her.

  Imam Atef quickly knew who she was. She fled her husband, a relative of a Saudi family. She shamed him, and the husband would kill her if he saw her again. The disgraced husband blamed the father, who knew his daughter fled to America and continued to send her money, so she didn’t have to live in squalor like other Muslim women overseas.

  “Nizar, the sacred text says men are in charge,” Abdul said. “The Holy Quran says a woman is worth only half as much as a man. It says men can beat their property if the woman gets out of line. That is the way Allah, peace be upon Him, ordained it.

  “Men can do no wrong, and everything is to be blamed on the woman. That’s why we beat, stone, or hang women for being raped. It’s their fault. They caused a man to behave badly, as he sullied another man’s property. It’s an outrage. That’s how Allah, peace be upon Him, ordained it. She has wronged two men indirectly, including all her male relatives. She has sullied her family’s honor, and she must pay for her transgressions.”

  The imam stroked his beard several times. “Nizar, you still desire this woman who has sullied her family?”

  “Yes, Sahib. She can make much money, and I’ll make sure she pays for her transgressions every day.”

  “Nizar, Inshallah, I hope you aren’t making a big mistake. Bring this Marwa to me. I must be satisfied she won’t dishonor you, my son. Bring her, and I will help rehabilitate her.”

  *

  Two days later, a proud, beaming Nizar stood beside the head-covered Marwa Kamal. Abdul sent Nizar to sit in the antechamber and commanded Marwa to sit in the chair near the little man’s overflowing desk.

  “Marwa, I have heard many things about you. Nizar likes you very much. I understand all the men at the airport desire you. What say you, Marwa?”

  “I’m not interested in any of them, Sahib. I just want to work and be left alone.”

  “The airport job is beneath you.” He paused for effect; the woman fidgeted and was very uncomfortable. She looked at her feet. “You’re a lawyer, Marwa? Do you miss Waleed?”

  Hearing her husband’s name made her jump. Her head shot up, her heart slammed in her chest, and her eyes shot to the closed door. She couldn’t run. Stunned and trapped, she trembled, unable to speak.

  Abdul slowly paced in the tiny office; two steps forward, reversed, and two steps back before starting over. He allowed Marwa Kamal to shudder for a long time. He stopped his pacing and asked, “Are you a servant of Allah, Marwa?”

  She fought to remain calm. Taking several deep breaths, she finally said, “Yes, Imam Abdul, of course. I’m employed at the airport.”

  “I’m sure your husband is worried about you, a beautiful woman in a land of heathens and infidels.”

  Marwa’s knees began to knock, thinking the imam would touch her. She didn’t want to return to Jordan. She wanted to leave the room.

  “I need yo
u to do something for me, Marwa.”

  “Yes, Sahib.” Shaking, she tensed, awaiting his touch.

  “I want you to leave your job under good terms. I want you to return to the airport after you’re done with a project. You’re a good Muslim woman, Marwa. Aren’t you?”

  “I try, Sahib. Inshallah.”

  “What I have in mind can’t be discussed with anyone outside of this room. This is very important, and I can’t let anyone else do what must be done. Can I trust you, Marwa?”

  She was curious yet still very afraid. The man’s tone suggested he wanted something other than sex. “Yes, Imam Abdul. Of course. What do you wish me to do?” Her voice trembled, and she broke into a sweat, praying she didn’t misread the tone in the man’s voice and would have to touch him.

  “I want you to meet an American man. Find out as much about him as possible. He’ll find you very beautiful, Marwa, and I think he’ll find it very difficult to ignore you. He’ll want to talk to you, take you to dinner. You’ll have to go without a head scarf. Can you do that?”

  Marwa stopped shaking. She looked up at the imam. “This is very important, yes?” Confused, she was still anxious to leave the room.

  “Very important, my child.” He touched her cheek and placed his other hand on her trembling shoulder.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  1715 February 26, 2003

  Newport Athletic Club

  The imam’s watchers did a good job of documenting the infidel’s movements. As it had every Wednesday for several months, the black Silverado pickup came into view at approximately 5:15 PM, leaving the Navy base’s north gate and headed to the Newport Athletic Club. The watchers reported Hunter visited the fitness center every Wednesday at the same time for two hours. Following orders, they never entered the club to see what the infidel did.

  Marwa Kamal moved to Newport. The imam found an immaculate red Mercedes SL380 for her to drive, as Commander Jebriel reported the civilian had an eye for flashy cars and beautiful women. She was given a credit card to buy a membership and a decadent wardrobe that included fitness center clothes. She also had a swimsuit in case the target opted to swim in the club’s indoor pool.

  Marwa still didn’t understand why she was chosen for the assignment. The previous week, she left her aerobics class to sit directly in the center of the stadium seats of the glass-walled court to watch the game of racquetball.

  Hunter would have been blind not to notice her. On the first day, when she walked along the elevated seating to find a place, Hunter chased a ball to the back wall and glimpsed the leggy brunette. He tried to remember why he was in the racquetball court, lost focus, swung his racquet, and missed the little blue ball completely. The follow-through upset his balance, and he cartwheeled to the floor.

  Laying there, looking up at the lights, he shouted, “Hinder!”

  His doubles teammate asked incredulously at Hunter laying on the floor, “Hinder?”

  “I couldn’t concentrate with that dark-haired goddess sitting there.”

  The pause in the game became comical, as other men tried to inconspicuously peek at the stunning brunette in a puffy white leotard with her breasts bubbling from the top. Duncan rolled to his knees and stood.

  Folding her arms over the gentle swell of her breasts, she tossed her head innocently. Her long black ponytail floated free until the mane rested on her shoulder, spilling an avalanche of shiny hair across her chest.

  As Hunter and the men played, he stole glances at her through the glass wall. Why was she so intently interested in a bunch of old guys playing with a little blue ball? The other women in the club rarely glanced into the court filled with superannuated racquetball champions. She seemed fragile compared to the women he’d known since his active duty days. With her obvious Middle Eastern looks, she was interesting. Nothing like that happened to him before. She was breathtaking, and, while his curiosity was stoked, he didn’t want to believe it was mere curiosity on her part that brought her there.

  The men played for two hours. She sat there, totally engrossed by the man she was to spy on and befriend. When the men finished, they moved outside the court. They chatted, gathered their racquetball bags and towels, and left the court.

  As Duncan gathered his belongings and pulled a towel from his bag, he looked up at the woman who crossed her legs like long tailoring scissors. They made eye contact and smiled.

  “Do you play?” he asked casually.

  She thought the question could be interpreted two ways, but she merely said, “No. I do not play. You are very good. I would be very bad. I swim and do aerobics.”

  She was a striking beauty, an intoxicating combination of intrigue and innocence. He detected a slight British accent coming from her full auburn lips, but she didn’t look like she was from England. Her olive skin, high cheekbones, and small, round nose made it difficult to place her. She was definitely Middle Eastern but not Egyptian, Saudi, or Paki. Her eyes weren’t heavily made up but flashed platinum green with hazel flecks.

  Then it struck him—Iranian? One part of her demeanor oozed sensuality while another suggested timidity. Duncan thought she seemed out of place in the club. Her tight white leotard looked new, as it emphasized her full bosom, tiny waist, and shapely legs. Her shoes looked new, but so were his.

  Duncan convinced himself the breasts were natural, not bought, and her dark legs were firm and shaved smooth. Long, jet-black hair pulled back over her ears into a ponytail framed her amazing face. He was almost lost in her eyes, and his curiosity was roused, like moving the throttles from his old jet from idle to max.

  He remained polite and smiling, as he checked her hand for a ring. Completely at a loss for something bright to say, he said, “I think it’s the best sport. It’s great exercise, and these guys are a lot of fun.” He maintained eye contact as he bent over, untied his court shoes, and placed them in his bag.

  “You look like you were having a very good time,” she said.

  “These guys are great—wonderful players and absolute gentlemen. They’re former national champions who invite me to play doubles every Wednesday. I think I give them good competition, and we have a good time.”

  Slipping his feet into running shoes, he toweled his sweating head and damp arms, then he began to change his drenched shirt for a dry one, then stopped.

  “I must be going,” he said. “The life of a student is never done.” He took a black zippered sweatshirt and sweatpants from his bag and pulled them on.

  She responded thoughtfully, as he dressed, “You’re a student?” The question almost sounded meek.

  He nodded. “I’m at the Naval War College.”

  She watched his movements, unable to believe he was the man the imam wanted to know more about. He was older and more beautiful than his photograph, gracefully athletic, with eyes and a voice that made her warm all over. She was embarrassed that he stirred a burning between her thighs. His comment that he was leaving caught her off guard. She gathered her coat and jumped up to go with him.

  Hunter didn’t anticipate that she’d walk out with him. He slung the huge bag over his shoulder and started up the stairs. “See you…. Oh. You’re leaving, too?”

  “Yes. I should be going home.”

  He stopped to let her catch up. Holding out his hand, he said, “Duncan Hunter.”

  She was momentarily conflicted. She was still a married Muslim woman, and it was forbidden for another man to touch her.

  Their eyes locked. She reached out and firmly shook his hand. “Marwa Kamal. Very nice to meet you, Duncan Hunter.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  2020 February 28, 2003

  Al-Azzam Islamic Center

  War college surveillance indicated Hunter was frequently the topic of the female students. Issues of fraternization and competing services overwhelmed most desires among the single students, of which there were twenty percent, male and female. Jebriel noticed Hunter wa
rmly engaged female students, while McGee didn’t. Hunter often met with female students for breakfast at the school’s café. McGee didn’t. When Hunter met McGee, they walked quietly to the large library and entered the room he heard someone call a skiff.

  Jebriel learned from day one that international students didn’t have the authority or clearance to enter the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF. He tried several times to engage the civilian infidel in conversation without success. Hunter was always polite but refused to talk much with the Muslim students.

  When Jebriel overheard one of the female students say, “Hunter makes my panties wet,” he acquiesced to the notion that a woman could get close to the infidel, so he dutifully reported the comment and his assessment to his handler, the Imam Abdul.

  Allah provided when the beautiful Marwa arrived in Boston. Allah always did. Their al-Qaeda sponsor wanted to know more about the civilian, especially when Abdul received a financial report on Duncan Hunter.

  The infidel is a millionaire?” he asked. “How is that possible? He doesn’t act like he has much money. There is much more to this man than meets the eye. We must find out more about him. Why is he always with the SEAL McGee?”

  The Saudi sponsor wanted that information and more concerning Hunter and McGee, so he pushed money into the imam’s accounts. Once Marwa agreed to befriend the civilian and learn more about him, she was given a nice apartment in Newport. The imam had it bugged for sound and planted cameras in the bedroom, hoping Marwa could get the infidel to talk or at least reveal some useful information in a compromising position. She did well gaining his attention for the last two weeks.

  “Ask him to dinner,” Abdul told her. “American men can’t say no to a beautiful woman.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  1720 March 5, 2003

  Newport Athletic Club