Arab Summer

by David Lender

  As she looked up, she inhaled with a short gasp. There, standing at the center of the landing, his legs spread apart, chin raised, stood Saif. His hair was flecked with gray, his eyes seemingly sunken more into his face from the dark circles of fatigue or stress that surrounded them. She thought she could see crow’s-feet evident at the corners of his eyes. He wore a close-cropped full beard, also dotted with gray. His frame was still trim, athletic. She expected to feel a blast of anger, but now all she sensed was curiosity at how he had changed, then the urge to throw a derisive laugh at him for how he posed there like he was impersonating some field general.

  She exhaled slowly, turning away as inconspicuously as possible, letting her pulse recede. She walked behind another column and leaned her back against it, feeling the cool marble calm her. Only 30 feet away. It was a can’t-miss shot. She half-closed her eyes as if reflecting, glancing around her. There were at least 50 other women in the prayer hall wearing black abayas. The nearest sentry was 30 feet from her. She could get off three or four quick rounds from behind the column without even being seen, drop the Beretta and melt into what was certain to be a panicked crowd. It was almost too good to be true, Saif standing there, as if preening himself, waiting for someone to come along and send him to his Muslim paradise.

  End this, now.

  She held the Beretta in her right hand. She reached inside her abaya with her left hand and racked the slide as quietly as she could. She started to glance around to see if anyone had heard, then told herself, Move. Take the shot. She stepped out from behind the column and widened her stance. She saw Saif’s head jerk toward her in response to the movement from below, and then his eyes lock on hers. She saw the spark of recognition there and in one motion, pulled out the Beretta, braced it in both hands and aimed at Saif’s chest.

  She fired just as Saif hurled himself to the side—too late. She saw his body rocked by the bullet’s impact in the center of his chest. Adjusting her aim as he continued sideways and dropped, trying to flatten himself to the floor of the platform, she pulled off two more rounds, the first hitting him above the heart, the second sending a spray of blood from the side of his head.

  A blur of white flashed into her peripheral vision, a robed man hurtling himself at her who grabbed her arm and pulled her to the floor with the momentum of his dive. Before she could throw the man off, right herself and fire again, another man was on top of her. Her gun hand was pinned and then another man was on her back. Her gaze never left the platform, now seeing Saif down but moving.

  Next she felt a blast of shock as she saw Saif struggle to his feet and stagger up the stairs.

  What? How?

  She heard shouts in Arabic of “Get the gun!” and then someone pulled her wrist back to the point of breaking and she felt the gun yanked from her hand. They rolled her onto her back and forced her hands together. One of them secured her wrists with plastic police handcuffs and cinched them up tight. They frisked her and found her cell phone and the extra clip for the Beretta.

  Sasha still couldn’t believe she’d seen Saif get up. Then it dawned on her. He was wearing a vest. She thought about the halo of blood from his head and hoped, but realized that shot must have only winged him if he was able to get up.

  After a few minutes a face she recognized came into view standing above her. It was Rashid.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Sasha glared back into his eyes. “Tell your little Napoleon it’s Sasha. His Western Orchid.”

  “Downstairs, to the catacombs,” he said to the men, and then turned and walked away.

  Three men—a giant and a smaller man holding her by each arm, and another who walked in front and seemed to be their superior—led her to the side of the prayer hall and through a doorway. She took each of them in as they led her along a corridor. The two men who held her arms each carried AK-47s slung on their shoulders with straps. The smaller man was skinny and didn’t appear to be very muscular. Easy to take out. The giant was in his mid-20s, over six feet tall and built like an Olympic heavyweight wrestler, dangerously powerful, but puffy with fat. Not likely very agile or to have much stamina. The man in front was in his 50s and shuffled when he walked. He didn’t seem to be armed. They reached a door and opened it to a dank-smelling stairway that disappeared down into the darkness. As they descended, she could see ancient granite steps with foot-worn impressions curving their centers. They led her down two levels, then a third and fourth level, into a cold tunnel only six feet wide built of blocks of stone with arched ceilings, lighted by incandescent bulbs within caged housings every 30 or 40 feet.

  The air grew colder and damper as they continued to walk, still gradually descending until they reached an old wooden door with iron hinges and hasps. The giant and the smaller man stopped her in front of the door and held her arms with both their hands while the third man pulled a centuries-old ring of iron keys from his robe. He started trying each in turn in the lock. Sasha realized this might be her only chance to try to escape. She glanced to each side, figuring her move, then launched a kick at the man in front of the door. The men holding her arms gave just enough that she was able to snap a heel kick to the back of the man’s head. She heard a crack of his neck breaking and he collapsed.

  She let out a ferocious yell and spun to her left, dropping onto her left hip. As she’d expected, it wasn’t enough to break the grasp of the smaller man on her left, but he buckled as she went down to keep from letting go of her arm. She jumped to her feet again, crashing her head under the man’s chin, and this time she broke his grasp. She yelled again and now spun to her right, swinging the giant around enough with her momentum to force him into the wall. He didn’t let go, so she hit him with a double-fisted strike under his chin, cracked his head against the wall and when he still didn’t let go, she pressed her thumbs into his eyes. She held him there, pressed harder, glancing over her left shoulder to see the smaller man now rolling on his side and reaching for his AK-47. She spun left, now free of one of the giant’s hands, and was able to launch a side kick at the man on the floor. She missed, but hit his AK-47 and sent it spinning away from him. She turned back to see the giant coming at her with a punch. She crouched and deflected it with an elbow block, then lashed at him with another double-fisted strike that shattered his nose and rocked his head back.

  Finally the giant released his other hand. The smaller man was now halfway to his feet, and she landed a roundhouse kick square in his chest that sent him against the wall. As he rebounded off of it she snapped a solid front kick in his throat. She heard the crunch of cartilage and he fell to his knees, gagging.

  She turned back and saw the giant coming at her again, spitting blood, roaring the word “Whore!” She sidestepped him and he lumbered past. She landed a back elbow strike to his kidney and he hunched over. She kicked his legs out from underneath him with a foot sweep and he fell facedown on the floor. It was all she needed. She wound up and smashed a heel kick into the side of his head and he stopped moving.

  Now the smaller man was whimpering like a wounded animal and groping on his hands and knees for his AK-47. Sasha landed another heel kick against the side of his head that slammed him against the wall. She jumped onto his back, forced one of her arms around his neck and got a good hold on his throat. She pushed all of her weight on her knees into his back as she pulled upward. It only took about 30 seconds for him to stop struggling. She kept the pressure on his windpipe until her biceps started to hurt, then released him. She stood up, looked down at the man’s body, her chest heaving, her breath coming in gasps. She heard movement behind her and turned to see the fist of the giant hurtling at her face. Then everything went black.

  Tom was in the living room of his hotel suite, the TV in the background still on mute. He could hear Zac from the bedroom working with his communications equipment, smell oil from Seth cleaning his guns in the kitchen. A representative of the contractor had dropped off the plans to the Grand Mosque and left, which Ryan was rev
iewing in the living room.

  The phone rang. That would be Ross, on a secure line direct from Langley. He wondered if Ross was going to shut down his operation. He didn’t like what he’d heard from Yassar about President Santorum calling King Abdul directly.

  “What’s going on?” Ross said.

  “I don’t know how much you know, so I’ll summarize it.” Tom took him through the seizing of the mosque, chaining of the gates, the unsuccessful assault by the police, the estimated 75,000 pilgrims trapped inside the mosque and the rebel’s broadcasts from the minarets. He stopped short of telling him about his knowledge from Yassar about President Santorum’s conversation with King Abdul, figuring he’d wait to see how much of that Ross disclosed to him.

  “What’s the current status with Sasha?”

  “She’s inside the mosque and waiting for an opportunity to get to Saif. It’s been 45 minutes since I talked to her. We decided she would work her way to the communications room, from where they’re broadcasting their message, in the hope of finding Saif, or at least a lead on where he is.”

  Ross paused.

  Tom waited.

  Finally Tom said, “Anything at your end?” He realized that in the hierarchy of things it wasn’t necessarily his place to ask that of Ross, but since he was in the field and under a distress situation, he figured it was okay.

  “Lots. I’ve been invited to a meeting in the next half hour in the Oval Office with President Santorum, National Security Advisor Francis, Secretary of State Harmon, Rusty Baldridge, and Admiral Raven, the head of Special Operations Command.” Ross paused.

  Tom waited for him to go on, not sure where this was going.

  “It seems that Francis went around Rusty Baldridge directly to Raven at Special Ops, and talked about wanting to put together a team of his secret counterterrorism forces for a black operation based on intelligence he had received from me in the last week. Instead of telling Francis he already had a black op running, Raven was cagey enough to keep his mouth shut and just listen.” Ross paused again. “I got a call from Raven asking me what the hell was going on. I told him to talk to Rusty.” Ross paused again. “Never mind. That’s my problem. The point is, I’m going to have to do some fancy footwork to keep your operation under wraps without directly lying to the president.”

  “Can’t you just roll with it and get a Special Ops team assigned? I could use the help.”

  “What are the odds if your Sasha gets her deal done that it stops this thing before that’s necessary?”

  “Now that the rebels have seized the mosque, I don’t know. Our inside man says the rebels are armed and ready to go. Motivated troops ready to hit strategic targets in every province. We think their timetable for going live is based on the prophecies of the Mahdi revealing himself in eight days. I just don’t know.”

  Ross didn’t respond for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” and hung up.

  Tom squirmed, thinking of Sasha, wondering if his operation could get shut down. He’d have to go rogue, and convince Ryan, Zac and Seth to go along with him to avoid leaving her stranded.

  Saif stood in the restroom down the hall from the security and communications room. He stared into his face in the mirror after having stopped the bleeding to his ear, injected it with local anesthetic and bandaged it. He now removed his Kevlar vest and examined his chest. Bruises were already starting to show and he felt like he’d been kicked twice by a mule. He hoped few of his men had seen him hit; he wanted as few as possible of them to know he’d been wearing the vest. He put the vest back on. He’d change his shirt so the men couldn’t see the bullet holes.

  He sighed and stepped back, replaying it in his mind. He had turned his head and looked into the barrel of the gun in her hand and believed that in less than a heartbeat he was going to die. Sasha. Her face unmistakable, her jaw set. And when their gaze met, he thought she’d hesitated for a fraction of a second and given him an opportunity to collapse to the floor. Yes, he’d taken two shots in the Kevlar vest, but avoided what might next have been one to the head. As it was, she’d taken the top third of his left ear off. Was he standing here, unnerved, because he’d almost died, or because he’d seen Sasha again after 20 years?

  He almost couldn’t believe she’d shown up. It had been months since he even considered the possibility, and almost two years since their assassin had targeted her husband. Either their man had successfully delivered his message, or she’d figured it out. Nonetheless, here she was.

  And even more beautiful than before.

  Her black eyes with even more intensity, her face slim and youthful, that of a woman ten years younger, her skin still luminous.

  He splashed some water on his face, dried it. Now he smiled at himself in the mirror. Sasha. He remembered when he’d met his wife, Noor. She was a beauty, someone he thought might take Sasha’s place in his heart. But no one ever had, and no other woman had ever physically satisfied him the way a good Muslim man was entitled to be. And now, after the difficult birth of Indira, Noor was barren, unable to produce him a son, the male heir he deserved as the man who would lead Saudi Arabia.

  He was certain that Sasha, with her vibrancy and health, could still bear him a son.

  He knew it would be controversial, a non-Muslim white woman ruling at the side of the new leader of Saudi Arabia. But a bold man took risks. Besides, her allure combined with his charisma would make them a couple that the world would seek out.

  Yes, he had almost given up on Sasha, but now she was here. All that remained was for him to convince her. And the mere fact that she was here meant that was possible, even if she’d come armed and had shot to kill.

  Now that her men had subdued her in the catacombs, the next step was to apply the appropriate persuasion. There would be time. The situation here at the Grand Mosque would evolve into an extended stalemate. The first order of business with Sasha would be to wear down her resistance with time-tested interrogation tactics. He knew how to do it. Starve her, make her believe that hours were days, then let her stew in her thoughts. He also knew a few buttons he could push that might start her doubting herself. He walked to the door, unlocked it and strode out into the hallway.

  Sasha awoke in a room colder than the corridor and lighted only by a single incandescent bulb in the ceiling with a wire cage over it. She was bound by her arms to a wooden chair with plastic police handcuffs like the ones they’d used to bind her wrists.

  Now what?

  She’d had a clear shot at Saif, and failed. She hadn’t considered the possibility of him wearing a vest. She should have thought of that, taken a head shot first, then the chest, instead of the other way around.

  In the next moment, she thought of Tom, the rest of the team. How they had almost died earlier in the day in the desert. She’d let them down. What would they think, after their hard work to get her here, train her, and then learn she’d blown her opportunity? She had a responsibility to them, and to the people they had sworn to protect.

  She remembered the signal transmitters in the seams of her abaya, which they’d taken from her when they frisked her. She saw it hanging on a hook on the wall. She stood as well as she could with the chair strapped to her arms and shuffled toward it. At that moment she heard men speaking in Arabic outside the room. She sat back down just as the door opened and someone entered. Sasha’s chair was facing away from the door.

  “I had given up on you, decided you weren’t coming after all,” Saif said from behind her.

  She refused to turn her head to look at him. Now she felt her pulse rise. “Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t respond? I couldn’t possibly have changed that much.”

  He walked over and stopped in front of her. “Time changes people.”

  “Generally not their deeply held beliefs. Or their willingness to fight for them, or for the people they love.”

  “Or avenge them?”

  Sasha saw the bandage on his ear, then just stared into his eyes, now
feeling her emotions rise. Anger or hatred? Either would do. “I need to understand.”

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “Closure. And help me decide what to do next.”

  He walked to the side and picked up another chair, carried it over and placed it with the back toward Sasha. He straddled it and rested his elbows on the back.

  Posing again.

  He looked down at her wrists. “Plastic straps. Familiar, no?”

  Sasha didn’t respond.

  “These you won’t be able to chew through. They’re police field handcuffs. If I cut them will you promise to stay put?”

  “I’m not making any promises.”

  “In that case we’ll talk this way for now.” He let out a long sigh. “So where do we start?”

  “Why? Why did you murder my husband, and why did you leave me that message?”

  “That was almost two years ago, and I wasn’t as firmly in command as I am now. You know our people have been after you off and on for years, since the day Ibrahim and almost two dozen other faithful were murdered.”

  Sasha glared at him, wanting him to know that she wasn’t going to buy any explanation other than the truth.

  “So how do you think our senior command reacted to the assassination of Sheik bin Abdur himself, our leader, and almost 40 of our other senior people two years ago with your help? My brothers wanted blood. Both yours and your husband’s. I was able to convince them you weren’t involved, that it was Daniel who helped the CIA.”

  Sasha exploded. “So you got them to shift their lust for revenge onto my Daniel?”

  “It was going to happen anyway. You’re lucky I was at least able to save you.”