“Yes, you helped, in ways you may never know.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, tears welling in her platinum-green eyes. “I was afraid I was walking into a trap. The rumor is, when the director was a senator and met with his Saudi business partners sometimes in Riyadh or Dubai…. I don’t know how to say it, but the senator liked to have young men and little boys.”
“Really?” He paused, waiting for her to continue.
“And a Saudi prince facilitated everything. I know it’s true.”
“Say again?”
“I know it’s all true. I know the senator and the prince raped those boys. That’s why I was very uncomfortable in his office. Somehow, he knew I knew.”
“That’s a terrible secret to carry around.”
“Duncan, it gets worse. I haven’t been able to share this with anyone, and I’m afraid someone will find out the rest of the story about our director.”
“That’s bad enough. I take it you received intel from the women you ran when you were stationed in Riyadh and Abu Dhabi?”
She nodded. “One of the prince’s fourteen wives, no longer his favorite, was a nurse and had the dubious duty of cleaning up those boys after the men finished with them. I need water.”
Nazy got up and fetched a bottle from the in-room refrigerator and returned to the couch, where she drained the bottle before starting again.
“She met me in one of those male-run lingerie shops. It was the only place to get nice things from Paris. I didn’t wear nail polish and always wore an abaya when I left the embassy, and I thought I was fully incognito, but somehow, she knew where I worked and passed me a note.”
“She found you? Your cover was blown? You never told me that.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. Apparently, she found out from her husband, the prince, who found out I worked at the embassy from Senator Frank Carey, ranking member on the intelligence committee.”
“What? Holy shit.” Hunter ran his hand through his hair. “I was pretty sure he knows me or at least knew of me when he visited the embassy. Somehow, he passed that information on to his buddy, the prince. I couldn’t figure out how or why. Three months later, I came home. I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn’t. I was so embarrassed.
“He can go to jail for blowing your cover.”
“That’s not all Duncan.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes, Duncan, maybe much more. Only to you and no further, not even Mr. Lynche.”
Duncan always tried to be fully supportive to Nazy. There wasn’t much he couldn’t share with Greg. “For the moment, OK.” Nazy took a deep breath, gripped both of Hunter’s hands, and locked gazes with him. “Ten of those boys, who’d been raped by the new Director of Central Intelligence, flew jets into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. I think the President knows Director Carey’s secret.”
Duncan looked thoughtful, internalizing what Nazy said. He released her hands and rubbed his eyes. Nazy squished her lips together on the verge of tears. She waited for Duncan to support and comfort her. When he changed the subject, as if he dismissed her concerns and problems as insignificant, she was taken aback.
“Well, Ms. Cunningham, I suggest we get something to eat. You can stay here tonight. We can pick up your things on the way to Tidewater.”
Nazy was incredulous. “You still want to go to Tidewater?”
“Why not? We made plans, and there’s nothing in what you told me that warrants canceling the trip.”
Her anger rose, and she snapped, “How can you take what I’ve just told you with so little emotion?”
“Baby, it’s because I can’t do anything about any of it right now. I need time to assimilate what it means that the DCI probably impregnated ten of the 9/11 hijackers. The bit about your cover being blown is worrisome, but there’s not much I can do other than listen, support, and love you.”
Nazy gave him a blank stare. Where was the thoughtful loving Duncan? Staring at her shoes, she slowly shook her head. She planned to tell him everything, but he was dismissive and uncaring. Fury started building in her. She was hurt and looked for the words to tell him how much he hurt her when he spoke again.
“Before we go down for dinner, I have something for you. I was going to give this to you tomorrow evening.”
She watched indifferently, as he went to the credenza and unlocked his shiny black Zero Halliburton. Taking out a package of legal documents, he handed them to Nazy.
“What are these?” she asked.
“Your divorce papers.”
“My divorce papers? I don't understand.”
“You’re now legally divorced from that nut job of a husband of yours in accordance with Sharia and Jordanian law.”
“I don’t understand. Why…? How’d you manage this?” The lawyer in her thumbed through the legal documents. Raised seals, stamps, and dozens of signatures attested to their veracity. It was true. She was a free, single woman.
“I have a good friend who’s a lawyer and a specialist in Sharia with close connections to the Jordanian royal family. Your former husband was caught in a compromising position with an underage male cousin who was being groomed as gift to a high-ranking US official from Prince Bashir.
“Your husband was given a choice—either agree to your request for a divorce or face his uncle’s wrath for despoiling the gift. He was also told that he would receive the originals of the still photos and video evidence once the divorce was final.”
“Why didn’t you just tell his uncle? Then I would’ve been a widow.”
“We couldn’t guarantee the outcome. As a widow, you would’ve been subject to Sharia as it applied to a woman in a widowed state. You know that.”
“Of course. You’re right. I should’ve thought of that, but I’m so overwhelmed by your ability to finally free me completely. What of Waleed? Will he not try to appeal when things quiet down? After all, he has the evidence.”
Duncan’s gaze went to the floor. His tone was cold and matter-of-fact. “His funeral is tomorrow.”
Nazy, stunned by the turn of events and Hunter’s lack of emotion, slowly shook her head in disbelief. Suddenly, she realized how little she knew about the man who loved and protected her for years. “You had no intention of letting him live. You let him believe that by granting the divorce, he’d be able to continue his life as before. You lied to him.”
“I wouldn’t call it a lie. Let’s say he assumed one thing when I meant something else. It’s what liberals do. Waleed was evil. I won’t lose any sleep over his death.”
Nazy’s hands balled into fists. She was furious. “He wasn’t evil. He was stupid, lazy, and venal. He was self-absorbed, but he didn’t deserve to be lied to and set up by you to be killed.”
Hunter was slow to anger, but once roused, it was strong. “Let me remind you that you were the one who ran from that abusive husband. You agreed to the imam’s plan to spy on me. I seriously doubt you’ve thought much of Waleed in the last six or seven years.”
Nazy’s eyes fell to the documents before raising them to Duncan’s again.
“I fell in love with you and have spent the last seven years protecting you, caring for you, and loving you. You wanted freedom. Baby, you have it.”
Nazy, overwhelmed by events, was still hurt and angry. “Then I’ll take it. I think it’s better that I go home rather than stay here tonight.”
Duncan couldn’t believe she wasn’t overjoyed, so he retreated from his position, feeling hurt and angry. What was her problem? “OK. Your choice. I’ll walk you out.”
Nazy picked up her purse and turned to go. “No. I need to be alone. I can find my way out.”
Hunter was crushed as she left the room, and struggled with himself, wondering if he should run after her or let her go. He stood there, feeling confused and rejected. Finally, he stared out the large picture window, trying to let her go as his heart broke.
CHAPTER NINE
1935 October 19, 2010
Kandahar Air Field Afg
hanistan
After a week of maintenance problems with their US Air Force transportation, Lynche and Hunter walked off the rear of the C-17 and headed for the Air Operations Center.
“You can always tell you’re in Afghanistan,” Lynche said. “It always smells like shit.”
“Weren’t we just here? Where else on the planet can you breathe this level of fecal matter in such a glorious setting?”
Lynche wasn’t amused. The team was a full week behind schedule, primarily because Hunter insisted on installing a radar-detection system in the YO-3A. Installation and checkout of the system proved more challenging than envisioned. Four modified “fuzz buster” automotive police radar units had been velcroed into each corner of the canopy, two in front and two in back. If the system didn’t prove its effectiveness in detecting a radar signal, the time-sensitive targeting mission would probably be scrubbed for the first time. The Wraith crew wouldn’t fly near the edge of Iran without an early detection warning system.
The mission was to observe poppy farmers harvesting poppy seed, and, more importantly, locate where the Taliban kept its seed stock. Before 9/11, the Taliban prohibited the growing of opium poppy. Once the US invaded the country, the only avenue for hard currency for the Taliban came through the drug cartels via the harvest of 300,000 hectares of opium poppies. The Taliban subsumed and controlled poppy production, threatening farmers and their families with death or worse.
The Taliban warlords were furious that opium production had been severely curtailed earlier in the year from an unknown disease that reduced the harvest by almost 40% from the previous year. Several Taliban masters coordinated the effort to determine the root cause of the blight, taking samples of sick plants and trying to discern what killed them.
The drug lords in Teheran and Islamabad were at a loss to explain why the poppy plants died overnight. Under a microscope, no one found traces of chemicals or insects. The dead plants were found in areas where some farmers claimed it was the work of Allah and that they had displeased Allah by cultivating opium poppies. The Taliban beheaded those who refused to return to the fields and harvest the remaining opium sap. Once the drug lords had the attention of the families’ remaining members and forced them to return to work, two trusted agents transported several of the affected plants to be analyzed at the Universities of Teheran and Islamabad.
Botanists there suggested the plants exhibited the traits of being in the sun too long or being subject to high levels of UV. That still didn’t explain how the plants shriveled up and died at night. Although they saw the warning, the Taliban were cautious and didn’t believe the symbols in the fields were written by Allah.
With the poppy bulbs completely scored and empty, and all opium-producing poppies harvested, it was time to harvest the seeds for next year’s crop by drying the remaining brownish bulbs. The farmers would soon collect the seeds in small sacks under the watchful eyes of Taliban members carrying AK-47s. As they did since the beginning of the war with the US, the Taliban would smuggle the seeds across the border into Iran and store them for safekeeping until the winter snows spilled from the mountaintops and it was time to sow the next crop.
The mission for Hunter and Lynche was to operate as close to eastern Iran as they could and locate where the poppy seed stock was held until the Taliban returned for the next planting season. Flying the single-engine airplane over three provinces in southern Afghanistan, operating over Iran, and returning to Kandahar was the most-dangerous mission the old spook and his sidekick had been asked to perform or could imagine.
The DEA suggested the estimated two hundred pounds of seed represented several billion dollars in opium and heroin. 200 pounds of gold would net only half a million dollars. Several US intelligence sources that were studying the problem suggested a small group of couriers would make the border crossing at Zaranj in Nimruz Province, and the seeds would be held at a private compound in Zabol, Iran.
Due to its proximity to American and coalition forces in Afghanistan, Iran put into position early warning systems and Russian S-400 surface-to-air antiaircraft missiles. For the mission, the Wraith had been painted with a special radar-absorption material that cost $35,000 a gallon. JSOC would have two AFSOC MH-60H Pave Hawks Combat Search-and-Rescue helicopters with USAF para-rescue jumpers positioned within a ten-minute response to a downed Wraith in Iran.
The container holding the YO-3A was being transferred from the Air Force’s newest cargo jet to the large, white, portable hangar at the far end of the Kandahar airfield. The team’s stellar mechanics, Bob and Bob, were again on hand to get the aircraft from its shipping container, install the wings and batteries, fuel the aircraft, check for leaks, and prepare it for a night launch. They weren’t young, virile mechanics but spry gentlemen over sixty, former US Army YO-3A mechanics who relished their time with the very special prototype aircraft in Vietnam. When offered an opportunity to keep 007 in the air, they were very interested.
When Yoder indicated their pay would approach six figures for every month-long mission, Bob and Bob, always adventurers, were completely sold, dedicated, and motivated that the aircraft would be able to execute every flight. For eleven years, the four-man team never missed a contract, and 007 never experienced so much as a burned-out light bulb. 007’s shipping container was a self-sufficient maintenance shop and supply warehouse. With custom carbon fiber foldout workbenches, spare engines and parts, tools, fuel, spare sensors, multimode FLIR, and low-light cameras, Bob and Bob could work on or test any system, including conducting an oil analysis of the engine oil after each flight.
The completely unarmed 007 slowly grew heavier over the years, with the addition of night-vision compatible cockpits, cockpit and seat ballistics protection, dual radios and batteries, special multispectral black camouflage paint, and, more recently, the Weedbusters multiple-head UV drug eradication laser system and the alternate secret, six-bladed quiet propeller for high-altitude work in Afghanistan.
The JSOC commander and Greg and Duncan were briefed by Jill, a short, stocky blonde agent and their CIA liaison. She wore body armor with tan cargo pants and had a Beretta holstered to her hip. Taking one look at Lynche, she knew she’d seen him before at the original headquarters building.
“I remember you from the OHB,” she said. “I was just getting started. Nearly every day, I saw you walk through security in a suit heading for the top floors.”
Lynche, who’d been retired almost fifteen years, was more than a little embarrassed that she remembered him, but she hadn’t made an impression on him.
Hunter sensed something between them. “Can we show Jill the jet?” He called anything he flew, save a helicopter, a jet; something he learned from his days with the Air Force. Jill told them she was one of the very few agents who had a private pilot’s license. She was cleared to brief the two contractors, but because Wraith was a Special Access Program, she didn't have the access or the need to know.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you, Jill,” Greg said. “You should see this airplane.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
The general, a ground officer, offered his Level 7 up-armored Suburban. All vehicles at Kandahar had various levels of ballistic protection to meet client needs. US government contractor vehicles were typically armor levels 3 or 4, providing low-level handgun protection, while government vehicles were typically armor levels 5, 6, or 7, providing high-to ultralevel armor-piercing rifle protection. There were a few level-9 vehicles that had extra armor-piercing rifle protection for visiting dignitaries who would’ve had a level-7 stroke had they been placed in a lesser-protected vehicle.
On the ride down the flight line, the two spooks chatted about the old days. Hunter thought the two-inch-thick windows were a bit much until Jill indicated the heavily fortified guard shack was the most-dangerous location in the area.
“Even after ten years, we usually have someone blow themselves up every other day,” Jill added.
Hunter felt he was b
eing rushed, and his warning sense tingled like crazy. He and Lynche left the C-17 without body armor, and he felt exposed like on their last trip. Next time, he’d make sure he had body armor on the airplane.
*
Three hours after landing in Kandahar, 007 had her wings, propeller, and batteries installed. The flight-control cables were attached and checked, and engine was fueled and oil checked, the FLIR vacuumed, and the windshield cleaned. With no need for a quiet takeoff, Hunter had the aircraft airborne with gear and flaps up inside 500 feet.
“Things are going well,” Hunter said sarcastically. Almost a little too well, he thought.
Fifty minutes later, things in the airplane began to not go so well. They were heading for their first observation point, a small village in west Helmand Province, which had been under constant surveillance by MARSOC Marines for two weeks.
“Unusual activity with several black-turbaned men, most likely Taliban, have arrived. The village is in terror.”
The scout sniper begged to take out the Taliban.
Hunter pushed the Wraith to its limit, and the big prop enabled them to hit 225 knots. At that speed, the little airplane bounced around, hitting air pockets that shook the airframe.
After six tries, Lynche contacted the overlook Marines.
“It appears two Landcruisers were loaded with multiple sacks of what appeared to be grain,” the Marine said. “They left the valley thirty minutes ago. No villagers appear to be harmed.”
“We’re late,” Lynche told Hunter. “Shit, shit, shit.” He consulted his maps and the available roadways that headed toward Iran, but their airspeed and all the bouncing around made map reading a challenge. “Ouch,” he said several times. “Mav, you’re killing me.”
Hunter throttled back to 180 knots, and the aircraft quit yo-yoing up and down. “How many Landcruisers do you think will be on the road? Not fifty. Two should be easy to spot. No wonder we were getting banged around. There’s almost sixty knots on the nose.”
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