by Leslie Jones
She clicked the device in her hand, and “Upcoming Presidential Visit” flashed onto the screen. Below it, September 11.
“Good morning. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Deputy Political Counselor Shelby Gibson. I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome Mike Boston and Brian Seifert of the US Secret Service. They’ll be coordinating all aspects of President Cooper’s visit and will be joined by more agents shortly. Obviously, we will give you any assistance you need.” She smiled warmly at them, then cleared her throat as she turned to the Brit. “Also, may I introduce Major Trevor Carswell, of the 22nd British SAS, Counter-Terrorism, here in Azakistan on temporary duty.”
There was a murmur from around the table. Shelby Gibson’s gaze sharpened, landing on Trevor with curiosity. The Brit’s lips twitched. Jace watched the exchange, amused. Did they realize how transparent their mutual interest was?
“Glad to have you, Major Carswell,” said a tall, thin man. He adjusted his glasses so he could peer along the table. “Nice job in Iraq.” He got up and came around the table, putting out a hand. “You saved my agent’s ass. I’m Jay Spicer. I’m the CIA station chief here.”
Trevor rose to shake the man’s hand. Colonel Jowat glowered and remained seated. The thin, severe-looking woman across from Trevor asked, “Were you part of the SAS team that pulled those two pilots out of Afghanistan a few months ago?”
Trevor gave the woman a blank look. “I’m sorry. I don’t know wh . . .”
Shelby interrupted. “Major Carswell, everyone here is read in at the Top Secret level, and then some. You may speak freely. May I introduce everyone?”
She went around the room. The three Delta Force operators were introduced by name, with no military designation. The Secret Service agents understood; it glimmered in their eyes. The buttoned-down woman across from Trevor turned out to be Dr. Harriet Pangbourn, Director of Cultural Relations (Middle East) at the Institute for International Progress. Jace had never heard of it.
Shelby directed their attention back to the projection screen. “This morning, I’m going to give a general overview of the current political climate here in Azakistan. I know you’re getting separate economic and intelligence briefings, so I’m going to cover high-end trends within the government, all right?”
Brian Seifert nodded. “We’re only trying to get a sense of where things stand. Right now, we’re just gathering information.”
Shelby gestured around the table. “We’re all here to answer any questions you might have. I’ll assume for the moment you don’t know much about Azakistan. Most people don’t. We’re smaller than both Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. The Islamic Republic of Azakistan has had democratic elections since 1998. The prime minister draws his legitimacy from Parliament, and is subject to their confidence. His term is for five years.”
She clicked to the next slide, a map of Azakistan. “We’re located east of Iran and south of Turkmenistan. There are marshes and lakes in the northeastern regions, including here in the capital city and around al-Zadr Air Force Base, which is about twenty miles from Ma’ar ye zhad. The central corridor is primarily long, low stretches of emptiness and scrub brush, ending in the high mountainous regions of the Afghan border to the south. That’s just to orient you. Now let’s get to the heart of Azakistani politics.”
Jace found himself listening as attentively as the rest of the room as she outlined the shift away from a pro-democratic stance toward a fundamentally traditionalist view. The dynamism in her presentation, her voice, her body language, all spoke of a woman passionate about her work. As she outlined the political aspirations of various members of Parliament, he scanned the brief in front of him. It included a section on politicians deemed friendly to the West and those who opposed Western influence. It was thorough and well written, and she’d grasped nuances of the conflict that had taken him years in the field to understand fully.
“Obviously, the shift toward conformism concerns us. Pashtuns abhor every Western influence as evil. We’re starting to see Pashtun imams in outlying cities, and some within certain sections of Momardhi and Tiqt, enforcing some of the, shall we say, less appealing aspects of an otherwise peaceful religion. The Pashtun Nationalist Party could very well gain a majority in Parliament during the next election.”
Jowat leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Doubtful. All the political analysts agree the Reformists will win reelection. Don’t stir up trouble. Keep your pretty little head on the slides you’re supposed to read, sweetheart.”
Shelby’s face reddened and she glanced down at the podium before meeting Jowat’s condescension head-on. The SAS major shot Jowat a dirty look and opened his mouth.
“Yes, but if it does happen,” Shelby said, narrowing her eyes at Trevor. Her message couldn’t have been more clear—shut up and let me handle this. Jace watched her, curious. What would she do? “We need to consider the ramifications. I wrote my briefing after consulting numerous sources.” She sent Jowat a bland smile. “As I was saying, if the Pashtuns control the government, there could be an increase in ethnic and racial discrimination. Diminished rights for non-Pashtus and women. Pressure to reduce or eliminate Western influence. American businesses could be boycotted. There will probably be bans on imports. It just gets worse from there.”
Shelby clicked to another slide. “There are two main concerns as far as the president’s visit. One is the people with whom he’ll come into contact.”
Mike Boston held up a hand. “All attendees will be thoroughly vetted. You don’t have to worry about that part.”
“Yes, of course,” Shelby said. “I just meant that I know that some former warlords, in particular, are virtually flocking to the opposition party’s side. I’ve outlined who they are, as far as we know. One of these is the opposition party leader’s chief of staff, Ali Bin-Muhammad al-Rashid.” Click. “He rose from being a government-sponsored enforcer to the Tiqt chief of police before shifting into politics. He personally placed many of the new city police chiefs, loyal to him alone.”
She clicked to another photograph. “Yesterday, he attended a meeting with a powerful businessman, a staunch conservative who believes Western influence is diluting Islamic culture. He has a history of repressive conduct. We don’t know the substance of this meeting. We’re trying to find that out now.”
“What’s so important about this particular meeting? Was it here?” Mike Boston asked.
Harriet Pangbourn smacked her coffee cup onto the mahogany table. “The meeting was at the Laleh Hotel in Tehran,” she said. “We’re worried the conservative movement might be contemplating more direct action against the government. Violence, bombings, up to and including assassination of key political figures. We suspect al-Rashid might have ties to terrorist training camps.”
“Yes,” agreed Shelby. “If he is sponsoring or importing terrorist leaders, perhaps even placing those leaders within local police forces, it could undo all the good we’ve done in reducing terrorist capabilities in this country.”
What?
“In the past two years,” she added, “special missions in this country have located and destroyed a large number of weapons caches held by various insurgents and terrorist units. Incidents of terrorist or armed protest are down sixty-seven percent from when the special missions started. Attacks in industrial centers, in the capital, or in other large cities are poorly thought out and largely ineffective.”
“So as things stand right now, you consider a direct threat against the US president to be low?” Boston asked.
“Yes. It could change over time, but right now, the US and Azakistanis have substantially reduced the threat of terrorist attack.”
Jace sighed. However well-intentioned, the men and women in this room remained bureaucrats. He glanced toward his boss. Should they correct her?
Just as Bo Granville jerked his chin
for Jace to proceed, Trevor spoke up. “Your statistics are undoubtedly correct, Ms. Gibson, but I’m afraid your conclusions are off base.”
Suddenly, the British officer was the focus of ten pairs of eyes.
“All incoming reports having to do with the frequency and intensity of insurgent attacks say their capabilities have been greatly reduced, Major,” said Shelby coolly. “After only a few days on the ground, what do you know that they don’t?”
Jace saw Trevor bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “It’s not a novel theory, I regret to say,” the SAS officer said. “Your statistics only see the front end. The fringe groups, the barely equipped ones. One-shot wonders, as I believe you Americans say. They blow up a car, there’s some property damage, maybe someone gets hurt or killed. I’m not saying that’s acceptable; far from it. But I’m speaking of the more organized groups. Al-Qaeda. Abu Nidal. The Kongra-Gel.”
Jowat snorted. “So now you’re an expert on Azakistani military operations?”
Trevor’s eyes narrowed on him. Jowat had the good sense to sit back in his chair. “The special operations missions are succeeding, as far as it goes. But what’s happening out there isn’t what you think. Instead of finding a bunch of antiquated AK-47s and a couple of hand grenades, they’re finding antitank weapons, wire-guided missiles, and other high-tech, NATO weapons.”
The two Secret Service agents exchanged bewildered looks.
Jace bottom-lined it for them. “You smack a bull on the nose, it backs up for a minute,” he said. “You may think you’ve scared it, but then it charges. All you’ve done is make it more dangerous.”
Silence settled in the room.
The CIA station chief cleared his throat. “So what I’m hearing you say is they haven’t gone away. They’re just getting more sophisticated weapons to attack us with?”
“Yes.”
“How, then, do you explain the reduction in the attacks against US interests?” asked Dr. Pangbourn.
“Obtaining that type of weaponry is costly,” Trevor said. “Most of the rabble-rousers in this part of the world are disorganized, decentralized, and don’t have that type of cash.” He tugged on his earlobe. “There’s another theory, of course. I and my teams are seeing evidence on the ground that some of the more extreme groups are organizing. That they have more on their mind than a few car bombs. Possibly even a major objective.”
Brian Seifert sat up. “The president?”
Jowat huffed. “I’m in charge of securing the parade grounds. No one is getting through my security. The president will be safe, I promise you that.”
Seifert threw him an annoyed glance. Trevor shrugged and spoke directly to Seifert. “Perhaps, although that would be extremely difficult to pull off. The Secret Service, who, as I understand it”—he twitched his lips—“is solely responsible for the safety of the American president, happen to be extremely good at their job.”
Mike Boston put a hand on the other agent’s arm. Seifert sat back, still glowering.
Jace leaned forward to snare Boston’s attention. “They would need a significant amount of funding, training, and weapons,” he said. “Things we believe some of the groups have. The Kongra-Gel is the biggest threat here in Azakistan.” He thought about the SCUD and its capabilities. “My guess would be something less well guarded, but still very important. Critical infrastructure. A power plant. A Western-style mall. Prime Minister al-Muhaymin’s home, maybe. It depends on the group’s objectives. Do they want Westerners out? Do they want the current government to fail? Do they just want to cause mayhem in the name of jihad?”
Shelby fiddled with her pointer. “The State Department intelligence group created summaries of the various terrorist groups in the region, outlining the major players and their objectives,” she told the Secret Service. “Would you like a copy?”
Mike Boston cleared his throat. “Let’s take that a step further. Major Carswell, Mr. Reed, would you two be willing to get with our intelligence assets here? Vet what they suspect against what you know?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Chapter Fifteen
August 27. 8:45 A.M.
Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan
AA’IDAH KARIM WATCHED Shukri with the sheik from her safe position behind her desk. The three men stood in the glass-enclosed conference room. It felt odd that they did not sit.
Her brother’s stiff shoulders and tight mouth broadcast his anger. He did not dare shout at the sheik, though, and Aa’idah knew with a sinking certainty he would take it out on her, later, at home. He disapproved of her working here at their father’s asset management firm, even as a temporary receptionist. Perhaps this time he would convince their father his younger sister ought to remain at home, sequestered with their mother and her two younger sisters, as a proper Muslim girl should be. Never mind that Aa’idah was twenty-six years old, or held a master’s degree in Education. She had been teaching Grade 11 at a girl’s school for the past year. Her students loved her.
The more Shukri kept company with the Salafists, the angrier he became.
Aa’idah had been heartbroken when her school had been closed, the girls told to return to their homes and stay there. The imams, particularly Salman Ibrahim, preached there was no need for them to receive an education. Men should have that privilege, because it was a man’s sacred duty to provide for and protect the women of his family.
Most of the other teachers had taken it badly. Aa’idah, however, knew it was a blessing from Allah, because scarcely five weeks after it had been closed, an American bomb had missed its target and damaged the school. It had been in the evening, after hours, but her heart still shuddered at the thought of tiny bodies buried in the rubble.
The conversation with her brother and the sheik ended. The sheik sailed majestically out of the conference room and into her reception area, followed by the brawny man at his side and a sulking Shukri. The large man, whose name was Zaahir al-Farouk, frightened her. The Salafist jihadists, of which her stupid brother was now proudly a member, frightened her as well, but Zaahir’s zealotry bordered on lunacy. He intended to strike at the heart of the infidel, whatever that meant. His seething hatred of all things Western was idiotic, but she dared not say so. Not to her brother. Not to her father.
Zaahir stopped at her desk, offering her a gentle smile that made her want to hide. “Good morning, Aa’idah. How are you today?”
Aa’idah could not force herself to return the smile. She kept her gaze lowered, afraid he’d see her thoughts in her eyes. “Good morning to you, as well. I was just about to get a cup of tea.” She winced, realizing too late her words might be misconstrued as an invitation. Fortunately, the sheik barked at Zaahir to hurry. With a lingering, pensive look, he nodded to her and left.
Aa’idah let out a slow, shaking breath. Each time she saw the big man, his interest became more blatant. Her brother would see it as an honor; perhaps force her into accepting Zaahir’s interest. And then what would she do? She shuddered with revulsion and fear.
When had her life become so complicated and fraught with danger?
If either her brother or Zaahir were to learn that Christina Madison wanted her to spy on her family, she would be punished and sequestered. Christina hadn’t come right out and said that’s what she wanted of Aa’idah, but Aa’idah was not stupid. Nor was she ready to betray her loved ones, no matter how misguided her brother had become.
But at the same time, she could see what waited in her future. First they took the right to education away from Muslim girls. Then they took everything else. She could not simply stand by and watch that happen.
Whatever her brother and his cohorts planned would be dangerous, and doomed to failure. Yes, they might strike a blow. Bloody some noses. But long-lasting peace could not be a
chieved through violence. And Aa’idah wanted peace for her country. She wanted an end to the constant presence of NATO soldiers, the constant fear of bombs exploding and killing her friends, her family. She wanted a return to how things had been, when a Western influence had been considered beneficial.
She didn’t hate Americans. She just wanted them to leave. Without the constant American presence, her brother and the other jihadists might relax.
But with the increased influence of the imams, she could very well end up a virtual prisoner in her own household.
The thought of her gender declining into the equivalent of a Dark Age, banned from government, from careers, their vision and perspective ignored, flooded her with repugnance. Her stomach churned. It was happening here in Azakistan as surely as it had happened in Afghanistan and Iran.
She would help end this, Aa’idah decided. She would discover Zaahir’s plan and find a way to pass the information to Christina Madison. It would be worth it, if she could help stop the insanity in some small way.
And maybe, in the process, she could save her brother’s life.
Chapter Sixteen
August 27. 11:00 A.M.
Base Hospital, al-Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan
THEY GATHERED AROUND her hospital bedside like so many shadowy mongrels. No group of people could have been more dissimilar: the starched-and-pressed commander of 5th Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group, wearing a blue service uniform and a chestful of ribbons; the jittery CIA station chief, Jay Spicer, in his rumpled plaid shirt and flip-flops; a Secret Service agent wearing a cheap black suit; and a lawyer from the Judge Advocate General’s Office, on hand to assist her with whatever she needed. Even the FBI legal attaché put in an appearance because she had been a kidnapped American. An impossibly young soldier in an Army combat uniform sat off to the side with his stenograph machine.