“Mr. Maloof, if the records don’t exist, if the paper trail is gone, ask members of the Council. I am certain, one of them will remember.” Daniel arose, exchanged pleasantries and was ushered to the door. As he emerged from the building, the camera’s shutter came alive and the expression of a man deep in thought was captured on film.
Daniel tapped on the roof and his driver awoke with a start, pushing his skullcap up and away from his eyes with his right hand, as the left pulled the lever that righted his seat. In an attempt to sound alert, he said, “Ready to go?”
“Yes, the hotel, and thank you for waiting.”
“Thank you! Look at the meter.”
The Call From Feras (Tuesday, 21 June 1994)
The phone call he had waited for came early on the third day. The caller identified himself as a friend, nameless, saying he had the information Daniel had requested. He suggested a meeting at a café in the busy Market District at noon.
“Café Le Monde in the Market District,” Daniel directed as he slid into the back seat of the aging Mercedes 220 diesel.
“Café Le Monde?” the driver asked, looking at Daniel in the rearview mirror. Seeing him nod, he repeated the destination, and waved a hand of understanding. “Café Le Monde.”
Daniel tried to relax, to organize his thoughts, but couldn’t help watching the frightening maneuvers just outside his window. Houston drivers were exonerated, no longer the bad boys of driving. Dallas drivers widely known for being discourteous and a little crazy were by comparison to what Daniel witnessed, driving Miss Daisy. This was pedestrian polo at its most exciting, and Daniel’s ride was punctuated by the driver’s oaths, and his own.
The restaurant was nothing much to see. There were no tourists following guidebooks to this noisy, dirty spot. There were four tables on the sidewalk, shaded by umbrellas with faded logos. As Daniel crossed the threshold to peer into the darkened interior of the cafe, he heard his name and turned in response. Sitting at an outside table was an older man, late fifties to early sixties, with a short white beard, wearing a knitted skullcap.
“Won’t you join me, Mr. Stiles? My name is Feras.”
A waiter approached as Daniel settled into a metal folding chair with its back to the street.
“Forgive my audacity, but I took the liberty of ordering our lunch. Would you care for a cappuccino?” The order for coffee was placed and almost immediately the food arrived.
“It looks good. Is that rice and pork?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“This is mansaf, cooked rice with chunks of boiled lamb, sprinkled with pine nuts and blanched almonds. Muslims don’t eat pork, Mr. Stiles.”
“Really? I know Jews don’t eat pork, but…”
“Please, Mr. Stiles, no comparisons to the Jews. They can eat what they want. Allah doesn’t care, and neither do I.”
“Gottcha. Sorry.”
Feras continued as if there had been no interruption. “This is laban. It’s a yogurt sauce. Ladle out a little or a lot. I think you’ll like it.”
“That looks like hummus.” Daniel said, wanting to redeem himself.
“It is hummus. We call it hummus bi taheeni. It is excellent, and good for your health. Finally, we have tabbouleh, a very popular dish, a mint and parsley salad served with chopped tomatoes, wonderfully refreshing on a hot day like this.”
The strong coffees arrived. Taking a sip, Daniel said, “I need the caffeine. If I don’t drink it, I have to take it intravenously.”
Feras didn’t smile. Probably his English isn’t good enough to understand subtlety or humor, Daniel thought. But he was wrong.
“I’m pleased you can find humor at a time when we meet to discuss a serious matter that is not humorous at all.”
Daniel was taken aback. “I don’t intend to make light of matters I hope to discuss with you, but I see no reason to be morose.”
“Eat. We’ll talk later”.
Daniel was flustered but realized he was being manipulated. Feras was in control. “Pass the hummus, please.”
They ate in silence. Daniel picked at his meal while Feras wolfed his down and drained his cup. When he spoke, it was clear that lunch was over. “Are you wearing a wire, Mr. Stiles?”
“A wire? No, of course not. I’m here in spite of my government and without its permission. I have resigned from the U.S. Army so I can come and go as I please, within certain financial bounds.”
“It is interesting that you refer to money even as we begin our dialog.”
“I didn’t know we’d started,” Daniel answered as coffee cups were refilled.
Feras was silent until the waiter moved away. “Open your shirt,” he said.
“Screw you!” Daniel barked.
Feras rose to leave.
“Okay, sit down.” Daniel unbuttoned his shirt and flashed his tablemate. “Satisfied?”
The older man spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, his vocal cords having bathed in the nicotine and tars of thousands of strong unfiltered cigarettes. He lit another, staring all the while at the younger man facing him. “Mine is a dangerous life.” The cigarette tip glowed bright red and the smoke searched for his lungs’ lower limits. “The pay is good. I never want for the little luxuries life has to offer, but I didn’t live this long being careless.” Smoke escaped with his last words and billowed when he ceased. He coughed. His chest rattled. “This shit will kill me or I’ll eat a bullet. But we all die sometime. Is it not so?”
Feras seemed to have lightened the mood, but Daniel feared being too conversational lest it be turned against him. He wanted to learn what the man knew and hoped he’d hear it soon.
Feras dropped the butt of his cigarette on the pavement and crushed it beneath his sole. He drained the last of his coffee in one gulp and began reciting the message he had been instructed to deliver. “Your brother is well,” he said gravely.
Daniel clinched his fists beneath the table and suppressed his excitement.
“He is staying at the home of an influential person. He is not exactly a guest, because he is not at liberty to leave. He is valued and useful to his host.”
Feras stopped to ask if Daniel understood or had a question.
“No, I don’t understand. And, yes, I have a question! I have a hundred questions! First of all, where is he? Who is his host? How is he treated? What do you mean when you say he is ‘useful?’ What is his physical and mental condition? Why is he held as a POW in violation of the Geneva Convention? How is it that your Internal Affairs Officer, Mr. Maloof didn’t know he was being held against his will?”
Feras motioned with both hands for Daniel to slow down, to calm down.
Daniel obliged and waited for Feras to respond.
A voice drained of enthusiasm replied. “Your brother cannot be classified as a prisoner because that infers both liberty restrained and a possibility of parole. He has duties to perform but is not a servant, not even an indentured servant. No, I think the English word that approximates his status is slave.” An oily smile spread across the older man’s face, revealing stained, misaligned teeth. Pure evil.
“You miserable, little creep. Wipe that stupid grin off your face or I’ll do it for you.”
Daniel dove across the table. His hands homing like missiles on the Arab’s throat. Feras had seemed so nonchalant, so relaxed, but he was coiled as tightly as a spring, and as Daniel’s two outstretched arms shot across the table, Feras countered. His left hand had been resting on the tabletop, and his right lightly gripped the demitasse. With lightning speed the heel of his left hand struck Daniels right elbow and spun Daniel to his left. Off balance with outstretched arms, Daniel sprawled across the table to fall, left side up, onto the pavement.
A waiter rushed to help.
Feras leaned to his right to look down on the fallen American. He still h
eld his cup. “Temper, temper, Mr. Stiles, temper, temper.”
Shaken and embarrassed, Daniel wavered. “You have no right…”
“His owner has every right,” Feras interrupted. “It is an ancient tradition in the valley of the Euphrates. Slaves have been traded there for thousands of years. Your brother’s master will sell his American Sergeant; he is too valuable to present to you as a gift. You understand this is not personal. It is business. You can window shop or make a purchase. Which will it be?”
“His ‘master’ as you call him is a crazy barbarian, do you realize that? Are there no modern laws in your wretched country? How many slaves do you own?”
“That was a three part question, wasn’t it?”
Daniel could see that his outburst had only served to amuse the old spy.
“We have laws more strict than your own, but some people are above the law. I am not so blessed.”
“Oh, I get it. The big shot’s son never released my brother to the authorities. He kept him as a trophy. Have I got it right?”
The nod was almost imperceptible, but the smirk said it all.
“Okay, what’s the bail?” Daniel said in a voice suddenly more sure and confident.
“What is bail? I do not know this word.” Feras replied with narrowed eyes.
“It means how much money does that blood sucker want in exchange for my brother? That’s simple enough isn’t it? He wants his twenty pieces of silver, your Judas.”
“You’re angry, Mr. Stiles. It is good to remember this is business, and a good businessman wanting to make a sale, prices his product reasonably. Keep the twenty pieces of silver. That is not nearly enough. The price is five million dollars, and you can bring the money in an American pickup truck, or you can wire transfer that amount to an account in Zurich. He does not care.”
Daniel was speechless. It was as if he’d been struck in the solar plexus. He couldn’t breathe. Words with no force of air behind them swam on his lips. The sounds of blaring horns and shouting shopkeepers seemed distant and motion around him slowed and might have stopped but Feras was intruding in this dream state. His words didn’t register initially, but he was persistent and repeated them.
“Your answer, Mr. Stiles. I’m a busy man with no time to waste. Are you a buyer or just a shopper? For the last time, what is your answer?”
“I’ll pay.” Daniel replied weakly.
“Good, here is the account number and all the particulars.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the table into Daniel’s hand. “One month. We will make delivery upon confirmation that the transfer is complete.”
Feras began to rise but Daniel clasped his hand over the older man’s forearm.
“Wait. I don’t have five million dollars and I can’t get that much money in a month.”
“Your nation is rich. It will pay for the return of its soldier.”
“No, it won’t. I need time to think. I, I…” Daniel was confused. His speech was jumbled and his dazed look conveyed to the old spy more than his words expressed.
“Remove your hand, Mr. Stiles, or I will cut it off.” The threat was real, but made as if ordering a piece of toast. “It is obvious that you want to make the purchase and my employer will understand that you cannot afford his price.”
“Will he lower it?”
“Of course not. He will raise it to offset inflation.” The elder man spoke with mild amusement, obviously enjoying the cat and mouse game of toying with the distressed American.
“Inflation?” Daniel’s weak interrogative hung in the air.
“Yes. In my country inflation is running at an all time high thanks to your oil embargo. My people are starving and dying for lack of medicine, and your sole concern is for one man and an interest penalty that you think is unfair. Blame your President, not my employer. In 30 days the price will be increased two percent, compounded monthly.”
Feras stood. The discussion of price was over.
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t.” After the money is deposited, you will be notified to contact Mr. Maloof for instructions.
“How do I know my brother is alive?”
“If you wish, I will send you a finger. Your forensic experts will tell you it came from a living Brandon Stiles.”
“No.”
“Then it is settled. Thank you for the lovely meal.” Feras bowed and disappeared like a magician into the crowded street.
Daniel remained seated, staring vacantly. Rage welled within him and erupted with volcanic fury. A low menacing sound swelled to a roar of unbridled frustration and anger. The empty coffee cups rattled on their saucers and tipped over, bouncing in response to the impact of his closed fist on the table. People stared. For a full minute he buried his face in his hands as strangers watched him simmer and cool. Now composed, he stood, muttered a general apology and laid Jordanian dinar on the table. Without looking back, he joined the stream of humanity coursing past.
The CIA And Mossad Have Questions (Same Day, 21 June 1994)
“Assistant Director Keiley, I have the Secretary of Defense on line two.” It was Carla’s voice on intercom. Carla was his new secretary. John figured he’d worn his last one out, but in fact she had retired after thirty years of service. He missed her but the new girl was working out just fine.
“Thank you, Carla,” John answered, but before punching line two, he made a mental note never to refer to Carla as a girl. She was a woman and at least his age. “Hi, C.K., sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll get right to the point. I know you’re a busy man. Do you remember Daniel Stiles?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Who is he?”
“Daniel Stiles. He’s a soldier, or was, and his brother is Brandon Stiles. Daniel believes he has proof that his brother is a prisoner in Iraq.”
“Yes, I remember him. He spoke with my staff. I was briefed.”
“Well what does your gut tell you?”
“My gut tells me it’s time to eat.”
“Come on, C.K., don’t play with me. I think he may be right. There is a distinct possibility. Now, what’s your take on it?” John waited for a reply and as expected it came in defensive policy wonk lingo. C.K. would not say more than the company line.
“Well bad on me. I just thought you might have a personal feeling about Stiles you’d share with me off the record. I won’t keep you any longer. Have a pleasant day.”
The receiver was switched off before C.K. could respond.
“God, I hate that man,” growled John as he sat alone staring at the most recent photos from Jordan.
Wilson Hedrow waved at Carla and breezed by her knocking twice on the Director’s door before entering. Carla had learned that Wilson enjoyed a certain status that exceeded his station. She was not to bar his entry unless a meeting was in progress behind the closed door. She smiled in response to his wave.
John Keiley looked up from his reading, peering at the familiar interloper over nonprescription glasses. “What’s up?”
“We aren’t totally sure. Our friends in the Mossad followed Stiles to a small café where he met with a man named Feras Katamian, an old player well known to Mossad.”
“What did they discuss?”
“That’s the problem. Traffic is heavy in that section of the city and the Israelis couldn’t get a directional microphone set up in time. Café Le Monde was a clever choice. It’s not a spot for a romantic discussion but it’s perfect if you don’t want anyone to eavesdrop. I doubt they could hear each other half the time, but something was said that angered Daniel. He attacked the old spy and got spanked. That much was clear.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” John said, drawing out his words while doodling on a pad of paper before him. Wilson recognized the old habit. His friend was deep in thought, and pencil swirls were somehow connected to that process.
; “This, Feras, person, is he an Iraqi intelligence officer, a Jordanian professional, or a streetwise con man?”
Wilson had a ready answer. “Yes, to number one and number three, but he is not Jordanian. He is thought to be currently attached, albeit loosely, to the Iraq Embassy in Amman working directly for Riad Maloof a man who has Saddam’s ear. Do you want our intel on him?”
“Yes. Shoot.”
Riad was a Ba’ath Socialist Party loyalist when Saddam was rising through the ranks, and like the President, hails from Tikrit. His early days were spent working in D4 for Mukhabarat keeping tabs on Iraqis working for the government, unions, the party, and embassies, that sort of thing. Later, he seemed to freelance and was as much diplomat as spy. He’s definitely one of the good old boys. There is even a possibility that he is an undisclosed or unofficial member of the Revolutionary Council. In short, one of the big fish.”
“Why is he posted to Amman? I should think he’d be in Baghdad.”
“Too valuable. He’s a troubleshooter and needs to travel on short notice. He can’t fly out of Baghdad since all international flights are grounded, so he does business out of Jordan. Amman is just where he hangs his hat. Maloof has been attached to embassies in Kuwait, Qatar, Saudi… you name it. He’s a frequent visitor to Palestine too. We have dozens of photographs of him with Arafat and other members of the Palestinian Authority… enough to open a gallery. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Maloof can do that. He’s a snake charmer, very intelligent, multi-lingual, educated in England and highly thought of in diplomatic circles. He’s a smooth customer. Saddam knows Maloof is a major asset and has rewarded him accordingly. Riad Maloof is a very wealthy man. Do you want more?”
“Spare me nothing. I’m all ears.”
“During the Gulf War Maloof was posted to Paris because France is Iraq’s main trading partner and more friend than foe. Our records indicate that Maloof was omnipresent. He attended every function, no doubt gathering information on the Coalition Forces and their resolve. What better listening post than Paris, where the Frogs, excuse me the French, are always less than enthusiastic participants.”
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