Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  Abdulmutallab paused to allow the import of his name to register with the gunman. The Indian man facing him did not seem to recognize who he was holding hostage.

  “The number three officer in al Qaeda. The wali is the first among men; I am the recruiter; I am responsible for gathering the faithful to the jihad to bring about the Yawm al-Qiyamah.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Abdulmutallab sat stock still with both hands on the steering wheel.

  “Get out. Slowly. Keep your hands up and in plain sight.”

  “You don’t need to kill me. I am an old man, and I know my time is up in al Qaeda. I presumed you came for me.”

  Sheep Dog shook his head.

  “Do you know that we call you “The Shadow”?”

  “No, and I don’t care. I am going to frisk you?”

  “Sorry, what does it mean, “frisk”?

  “Search. Keep your hands up.”

  “I’m trying, but please move ahead. My arms are not what they used to be.”

  Sheep Dog stood inches in front of Abdulmutallab and pushed his gun barrel two inches into the man’s soft abdomen, enough to make him grunt.

  “I am going to put my hands everywhere on your body. I will ask you only one time. Do you have anything sharp? Any kind of weapon at all? If I get cut, even a tiny bit, you will meet your dark-eyed beauties a second later.”

  “I have a Shibriya.”

  “What is a Shibriya?”

  “It is a Bedouin side dagger which in Jordan is locally known as Shibriya. All men carry it and it is very popular between the Bedouin tribes residing in Israel and in Jordan. The blade is short and double edged with an acute tip. It is extremely sharp. The scabbard is set with a belt loop at the rear side and hangs just to my right side, near my groin.”

  Sheep Dog lifted the hem of Abdulmutallab’s thobe and located the wicked six inch re-curving blade with an almost pin point sharp tip. A man could get a clean shave with either side of the blade. The well worn blade was engraved with an Arabic inscription and dated to 1847. The grip was made of horn and the scabbard of wood, both covered with white metal and engraved in geometrical pattern. There was dried blood at the hilt of the blade and on the junction between the blade and the bolster and guard. The shallow blood groove had old blood in it, and a quick sniff gave off the coppery tang of blood. Sheep Dog could well imagine the close shave a kaffir or two had been given by this dagger.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Strip off your clothes.”

  “Must I…the Qur’an tells the faithful…”

  “I couldn’t care less. This is not a debate, and I have no time. Strip or die.”

  The menace in those piercing pale eyes convinced Abdulmutallab that his life depended on violating the Qur’an. Allah would forgive him. He stripped to full nudity.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Abdulmuttalab assumed the position, and Sheep Dog ran his hands over the wrinkled flabby naked body. It seemed superfluous, the man being naked, but Sheep Dog could not take even the slightest chance. He made Abdulmuttalab lie prone on the hot desert sand while he rummaged through his bag and found a latex glove. He inserted it into the Arab’s rectum quickly and found nothing in the way of a weapon. He discarded the soiled glove.

  “Put your clothes on except for your shoes. Remove the laces and hand them to me.”

  Abdulmuttalab gave his captor a quizzical look but complied with alacrity.

  “Get in the truck—passenger side.”

  The Arab did as he was told. Sheep Dog put down his 9 mm, brought Abdullmuttalab’s thumbs and great toes together and tied them very tightly together—thumb to thumb, and toe to toe.

  “It hurts,” Abdulmuttalab said with an imploring look.

  “I know it does,” Sheep Dog said, “if you are a good fellow for an hour, I will loosen them before they turn black and fall off.”

  Abdullmuttalab nodded his head, and thought, “This is a real man; we could use a few like him, men who do not shrink from the unpleasant but can think.”

  He kept his thoughts to himself.

  Sheep Dog made a quick detour to the next truck and left a calling card on the driver’s side seat.

  Ayatollah Zia Muhammad Ali Kader

  Hizbullah Central Press Office

  Baabda, Beirut, Lebanon

  “Another little seed of discontent between the Sunni and Shiite brothers,” Sheep Dog whispered to himself.

  He took his place in the driver’s seat next to Abdulmuttalab and said, “We’re off to the U.S. Embassy.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Only that it is most likely in Dar es Salaam.”

  “I want you to know that I mean you no harm, at least no harm that I am in a position to inflict. I know the way and will direct you, if you will permit me.”

  “Sure. Lead on MacDuff.”

  “Terror and Shakespeare in the same Indian. This day has certainly been one of surprises for me.”

  Abdulmuttalab pointed south. There was no road, and the terrain was rutted and seamed from rare torrential rains and eons of shifting sands. Sheep Dog supposed that he might well be being taken far into the desert where they would run out of gas and water, and they would both meet a bevy of dark-eyed angels before night fell. He held his peace for the time being and was rewarded with the truck coming onto a dirt track, perhaps even the one on which he had driven with Glen Gabler the day before.

  Both men relaxed, and Sheep Dog backed away from his litany of threats. He was satisfied that he had made his point and decided to ride it out. It was an adventure, and he was an adventurer.

  They approached the outskirts of the capital city after driving for two hours.

  Abdulmuttalab said, “Before we get too far into the city, I would like some assurances from you. I don’t suppose you are a man who takes bribes?”

  “You are correct. Don’t bother. I am a man who collects scalps. What assurances do you expect and at what cost?”

  “I ask only that you spare my life and that you protect me from the hotheads we are likely to encounter at the embassy. I will make no trouble. I will freely give information, asking only for anonymity. No one needs to torture me. I do not plan to withhold anything. Perhaps your CIA can find me a nice seaside house in Florida?”

  “I’m not in charge of much of anything, Abdulmuttalab; and I can’t promise much of anything. But you have my word of honor that I will do all in my power to protect you so long as you are straight with me.”

  “Perhaps you could put in a good word to keep me out of Guantanamo Bay, Mr. Shadow?”

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Sheep Dog pulled to the side of the road and loosened the thumb and great toe ligatures. Abdulmuttalab gave a small sigh of relief and rubbed his throbbing digits.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Now, let’s get to the embassy before dark. I don’t think either of us wants to be loitering around Dar es Salaam out of doors for any extended period of time.”

  “No, Mr. Shadow, we are sort of Siamese twins for the time being. Our safeties are closely intertwined.”

  Abdulmuttalab gave Sheep Dog good directions, avoiding areas of high crime and areas of high police presence. Using his captive’s precise instructions Sheep Dog drove carefully along Old Bagamoyo Road in Kinondoni at Msasani Village. They passed the LDS church, Tanesco Electric Supply Co., Royal Plaza Shopping Complex, President’s Hotel, and Anghiti Restaurant. The area was as up-scale as Century City in Los Angeles.

  “This is it, 686,” Abdulmuttalab said. “It used to be the site of the Old Cinema before the U.S. bought it. One thing to be said about the Americans, they certainly can make a better world with their limitless money when they try. By the way, I never asked before, are you an American?”

  “Do I look like an American?”

  “No, you look like a Somali pirate.”

  “I’ll take that as a high compliment from you
—takes one to know one.”

  Abdulmuttalab gave a short genuine laugh.

  “I think we can pull over to the Chancery Building; it’s right up ahead.”

  There was a heavy security barrier of squat concrete pillars and over-sized and over-armed marines.

  “What’s the other building?”

  “It’s the USAID building. Maybe it’ll be less forbidding. I have only been in the compound a few times and then only to make plans to blow the place up. I trust that I will be more welcome and public this time.”

  The 22 acre compound had 10,000 trees—baobabs, a huge mango tree, and a Rain tree. It was beautiful and had an air of sophistication, security, and abundance meant to cow a detractor. Sheep Dog noted that his captive was a bit pale and had drawn lips. He was no longer talkative.

  He stopped the truck thirty yards from the USAID Building main entrance. The building was impressive for both its size and beauty. The faҫade was an ascetically pleasing combination of indigenous Mazaras stone and Mningo hardwood.

  Sheep Dog watched as a marine lance corporal walked from the entrance holding an M-16 directly at his face. It was disquieting. It was also disquieting that his disguise was so nearly perfect. In the truck cab sat an obvious Indian pirate and an equally obvious senior Arab terrorist. Things did not look good.

  “Step out of the vehicle. Do it now,” the gravel voice from the huge unsmiling black man with the machine gun said.

  “No. Get Glen Gabler. You do it now.”

  “You give’n me orders, Mahatma? Get out!”

  “Look, corporal, things are not what they seem. This is a Glen Gabler thing. You know who he is and what he does?”

  “Nope. And I don’t care. Get out, before I lose my cool.”

  Things were getting less cool by the second. The truck was now surrounded by a small army of big men in desert camo BDUs with glares on their faces and big guns in their hands.

  “See my hands, corporal. I am no threat to you or to your place. We are well away from a building. If we had intended any harm, we would have done it before stopping in the middle of a concrete field. Please, get Gabler.”

  “Who is this Gabler, anyway? He work here?”

  “Spook.”

  The corporal wavered.

  “I hate spooks. They’re not gentlemanly. I will go check. You will stay put, and your hands will remain hanging out of the windows of that truck. My guys are twitchy. Don’t give them an excuse.”

  “No sir.”

  “I am not a sir. I work for a living. I’ll be right back.”

  He moved double time to and then through the main door of the USAID building. He was gone for fifteen tense minutes. When he appeared through the door again, Glen Gabler was with him. Sheep Dog took a long slow inhalation and an even slower exhalation. Abdul-muttab looked across the cab seat at him, and Sheep Dog put his right thumb up, still keeping it outside the window in plain sight.

  Gabler looked a good deal less genial than he had the first time he and Sheep Dog met. His scowl carried with his voice.

  “Oh, it’s the chameleon. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon—or more accurately—ever. What is going on, pray tell?”

  “How about you take the two of us safely into a top secret room somewhere in that cavernous building, and we have a serious classified chat. I am about to make your day. No…I am about to make your career. I would be deeply disturbed if one of these nice young men were to have an accident with his trigger. They all seem pretty nervous.”

  “Corporal, get a man on each side of the truck and open the doors at the same time,” Gabler raised his voice, “the rest of you point your weapons at their heads. Anything hinky and you shoot them, but take care now and don’t shoot the rest of us in the cross-fire.”

  The doors flew open, and Sheep Dog and the al Qaeda general were unceremoniously yanked out of the truck and onto the ground and handcuffed.

  “Thanks,” Sheep Dog said.

  “No thanks necessary,” Gabler said sarcastically. “We’ll lighten up once we see your real selves under all that native garb and have a frank talk.”

  As they walked into the building, Sheep Dog spoke quietly to Gabler, “Glen, I can’t have anyone—not even you—see me as I really am. I can’t discuss my mission here, and there can’t be any report on that. You got the directive. I know you did. You will be watch captain on Diego Garcia, if you screw this up.”

  Diego Garcia is a coral atoll in the Chagos Archipelago in the middle of the Indian Ocean located about 1,600 km—1,000 miles—south of the southern coast of India. The closest other countries to Diego Garcia are Sri Lanka and the Maldives, and they are a very long distance away by boat or plane. In the 1960s, the Chagos archipelago was secretly leased to the United Kingdom by Mauritius; its entire population was expelled; and a U.S. military base was established. The island is strategically important, only 37 miles long and 22 feet high, essentially free of females, devoid of meaningful activity outside of one’s military occupation; and there is no place to go and nothing really to do but drink. The very name of Diego Garcia is synonymous with slow death for healthy young men.

  Sheep Dog’s point was not lost on Gabler. He left Abdulmuttalab under heavy guard in one room and took Sheep Dog into another. He shooed out the guards.

  “This is a secure room,” he said.

  “Do you know who that guy in there is, Glen?” Sheep Dog asked Gabler sharply.

  “Of course I do. The question is what is he doing here with you? What do you have to do with one of the two or three most wanted terrorists in the world?”

  “Actually, almost nothing. I can’t give you the details of how this came about; but he saw things that convinced him of the error of his ways today; and rather than have me blow his brains out onto the scorching sand, he agreed to be my prisoner.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yep.”

  Sheep Dog could not suppress a smile.

  Gabler shook his head. Sheep Dog envied Glen his handsome shock of snow-white hair and his ruggedly handsome, albeit overly tanned face. He was stout, but free of excess body fat—a no nonsense man who was used to dealing with the truth and had no patience for people who lied to him. Sheep Dog understood that.

  “Well, let’s say that there was a bit of a dust-up out there, and Abdulmuttalab had no other choice. I cannot be associated with his capture or in any other way. I cannot stay in your lovely country much longer, and I cannot be the subject of prying eyes or reports. I’ll make a deal with you. No one will ever hear about my part in all of this, from either of us. You will get full credit for the man’s capture and for all of the information he is going to spill. Instead of Diego Garcia, I see you looking out of a nice corner office at Langley towards the end of the year.”

  “You are full of it you know.”

  “I’ve got a couple of more requests.”

  Glen groaned theatrically.

  “It’s all for the cause. Look, I’ve had a good long trip and talk with this man. He hasn’t by any means forsaken his religion with all of its vicious murderous intolerance, but he knows when the jig is up. He is willing to divulge just about everything, and you can be in charge of milking him for years. I’ll tell you; I think you or anyone else would be outright nuts to ship this guy to Gitmo, or to torture him, or to expose him publicly. You have a perfect out: he died out there with a substantial number of his confreres. You can leave it at that. You know what he wants?”

  “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “He wants a nice little anonymous house on the beach in Florida and to fade into oblivion. He is a dead man if the rest of his al Qaeda brothers find out about him. Put him in WitSec and monitor him constantly. You will know more about al Qaeda in the next three years than has been learned since anyone ever heard of Usama bin Laden and his list. Just picture this in the New York Times: Glen Gabler, senior officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, is almost single-handedly responsible for locating an
d for the capture of Usama bin Laden. Think of being DCIA, maybe even a senator. The possibilities are limitless.”

  “Enough crap. I’ll take good care of him. He won’t lose his fingernails. I can’t be sure about the little Florida bungalow, but I don’t see him in prison either. Now, what do you want out of this?”

  “In no particular order of priority, I want to get to a completely anonymous little hotel. I want to scrub this Indian paint off me; I want a steak and a beer; I want anonymity—I was never here. Finally, I want to be on a plane tomorrow night. How’s that grab you?”

  Gabler was no fool. He realized that, despite the jocularity, Sheep Dog was handing him a future with the Company he could not have dreamed of yesterday.

  “I’ll make it happen. We’ll wait until the hullabaloo quiets down, then I will personally take you to the perfect place. Have a seat. I’ll get our new VIPI guest settled, then I’ll get you taken care of. And, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. By the way, what does VIPI mean?”

  “Very Important Person Indeed.”

  Sheep Dog laughed, “That couldn’t be more true.”

  Sheep Dog spent an uncomfortable hour waiting for the senior intelligence officer to return. He had entered the USAID Building dirty, hot, sweaty, and tired. And he knew that he stank. The marble floors under his feet were immaculate except for little tell-tale clumps of desert debris that dropped off him. Passers-by walked out around him to avoid the smell—and, like people everywhere—to avoid eye contact or having to communicate with a homeless person. Sheep Dog felt as out of place as the proverbial whore in church.

  He fell asleep sitting up in his chair.

  “Hey, 007, let’s get up and get you to a bath.”

  It took a few seconds for Sheep Dog to wake up fully. Gabler escorted him through the back way to a waiting embassy Cadillac SUV. Some thoughtful person had spread a protective blanket over the back seat in anticipation of his occupancy.

  “I have just the place for you, my friend,” Gabler said as they moved smoothly out of the compound and out of the up-scale Msasani Village and Kinondoni section of the capital city. “it’s private; it’s cheap; no one who is anyone goes there; and it isn’t far from the airport. Oh, and it’s air conditioned.”