by C. Forsyth
"Let me see the screen," said X. She passed him the laptop.
"All that superpatriotic B.S.," Traci muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.
"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, doing his best to look bewildered.
X began to laugh, till tears ran down his cheeks.
"Let us all in on the joke," Traci said, her weapon pointing unwaveringly at Harry.
"Those are Hebrew words," X said. "Holy smokes, you're Mossad."
"That's nonsense. Now I insist -" Harry began.
Traci cut him off. "You're in no position to insist on anything."
"This is crazy," Harry whined. "When Mr. Jones hears about -"
"Oh, knock it off, you're busted," X said. "Do you want us to be at this all night?"
Harry sighed. "Yes, of course I'm Israeli intelligence."
"Well, shalom," said X, bowing.
Traci returned her weapon to her holster, flashing a generous helping of brown thigh in the process.
"Jones said you were recruited by the CIA in high school," she said, shaking her head in bewilderment.
"I'm second generation," Harry explained. "Israel recruited my parents in college. They changed their background from Jewish to Lebanese Christian back in the '70s."
Traci was dumbfounded. "I knew the Russians did that kind of thing, but the Israelis?"
"I knew something wasn't kosher about this guy," said X. "So to speak."
"What's your mission?" Traci demanded.
"Simply to observe and report."
"I vote we plug him now," X said.
"This isn't a democracy," Traci snapped.
"Can we talk alone?" Harry said to Traci. "Without this idiot? He can't be trusted."
"Oh, you're funny," Traci said, bitterly. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't waste you right now?"
"I'll give you two. Number one, you need me to complete the mission - unless you're a computer expert, which isn't in your file."
It irked Traci that he'd been given access to her 203 file, while she hadn't been allowed to see his.
"Number two, we're allies. Israel and the U.S. have a special friendship that dates back more than 50 years."
"With friends like these ..." X muttered.
"Last time I checked, espionage was still a capital offense," said Traci.
But Harry, emboldened, put down his hands. "This is getting boring," he said smugly. "Either shoot me or let me file my report."
"How about neither of the above," Traci shot back. "We go forward with the mission, and when it's complete, and we're back in Washington, then Uncle Sam will decide if you get to report back to your boss in Tel Aviv - or go to prison."
"Yeah, maybe you'll end up sharing a cell with Jackson Pollock," X added, crossing his arms.
"That's Jonathan Pollard, moron." Harry said. "Jackson Pollock is the artist."
"Right ... well both of you are drips," X said, the best comeback he could muster.
"Fine, I accept the terms of the agreement. May I have my laptop back, please?"
"It's not an agreement, it's an order," Traci said. She gestured to X. "And he'll hold onto the laptop until I say so."
X took the laptop. "And be sure to wash your hands, Harry," he said. X and Traci turned to go - and received an unpleasant surprise when they bumped into Asar coming around the corner.
How much did he hear? X wondered.
"You can't fool me any longer. I know exactly what's going on," Asar announced.
Harry tensed. Out of the corner of his eye, X could see him positioning himself for an attack. He remembered how swiftly the Israeli agent had snapped that bandit's neck. The thought of that happening to Asar dismayed him.
Traci was already reaching for her holster. X stepped between them and the teen.
"Oh, really," the identity thief said, his voice betraying nothing but amusement. "And what is that, my friend?"
"The two of you have been quarreling over the woman."
The two men traded glances, then in unison nodded sheepishly.
The youth lectured them. "I know it is natural for us to be attracted to one who is so beautiful and brave and virtuous as this," he said. "But we cannot let emotions harm our cause. "Recall the proverb, 'Love makes a man both blind and deaf.' "
Harry's body relaxed.
X ruffled Asar's hair yet again. "Don't worry about the two of us," he said. "We have no intention of killing one another - yet. They say sometimes even the intestine and the stomach disagree."
* * *
Lying on her tummy on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janiero, flaunting her slimmed down tush in a thong, Samantha Adamson was updating her Facebook page. Not hers, exactly, but a creation of hers named Cassandra. Unlike Samantha, Cassandra had always been slim and sexy and had been a cheerleader in high school as well as homecoming queen. She worked as a consultant and had a pet dog.
Sam was almost broke now, having burned through the $100,000 in cash she managed to flee the apartment with. Trying to access the nest egg in the Caymans with all this federal heat would be foolhardy. But she was content. She had found a kid who was handy with electronics to make a gadget to attach to gas station card readers and ATMs for "skimming." When a user swiped their debit or credit card, her own reader would snatch banking information off the magnetic strip. It was a ruse she and her former partner had been using just before the Ali Nazeer fiasco.
One of X's brainstorms was to extend the concept to the airport kiosks you use for getting boarding passes. She was hoping to try the idea out at Rio's main airport. Technically, it would present little problem. The thing was working up the nerve to plant the scanner in an area teeming with cameras and airport police. In theory, it would be easy to appear to fumble with her credit card at the kiosk to cover the placement, but in practice it would be tricky. It would be a few months before all the details were worked out and money would start rolling in.
Yet her heart was content, thanks to her Brazilian boyfriend - her "Aztec Prince" as she gushed to her Facebook friends (off by a few thousand miles, but love has poor geography). Santiago was not only a better lover than her ex, he treated her like a queen - even before she lost weight he told her she was beautiful.
When the "Dear Honey Hips" email arrived, Sam was stunned to see who it was from. Incensed, in a way, that he had reentered her world. She knew the writer's true name - or rather, thought that she did - but in her mind now he was simply The Soulless Black Hole. Bad memories from what she dubbed her "old fat days" when she, frankly, hated herself came rushing back.
But when she saw how much money he was offering for a "little favor," as he but it, her green eyes brightened and felt a familiar sensation between her legs, as hot as the Brazilian sand.
She looked out at the ocean as Santiago emerged from the sea, a bare-chested Adonis. He flashed his gleaming teeth and she smiled back.
Chapter 19
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
The next morning, Harry and X saddled the donkeys in Fawad's barn. Traci was over at the well, filling a water bucket for the animals, while Asar chatted with Fawad nearby. The pair embraced, then Asar strolled over to them, an odd smile on his face that X found disconcerting.
"Asar, come help us pack the donkeys," said Harry, who seemed not to notice the boy's creepy expression. "We need food and water for the rest of our journey."
Asar shook his head. "There will be no need for that."
X and Harry exchanged glances, perplexed.
Was he saying this was the end of the road? Had all that stuff about thinking his companions were caught up in a love triangle been a clever ruse? Does this mean he's blown the whistle on us to Fawad and we're all about to get shot?
"What do you mean, we do not need food or water?" X asked. "Is The Chief's stronghold that close?"
Asar gave a mischievous grin.
"The end of your journey is closer than you would ever imagine, boss. Come, follow me. Bring only your weapons and the computer."
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br /> The men slid their rifles off the donkeys. X loaded the knapsack bearing the laptop onto his back.
"Walk this way," Asar instructed them.
"What about the woman?" Harry asked.
"Women are forbidden," Asar told them.
When they reached the well, the teen explained that to Traci.
Traci frowned and told them, "My assignment was to escort you safely to the headquarters."
"Then your mission is at an end," Asar assured her. "I will never forget your courage."
"We will part company then," said Traci. "I will return to Afghanistan and report to my superiors."
She bowed to Harry and then to X. It seemed that something more was called for. A hug, at the least. But X gave Traci only a salute.
"I will tell The Chief how well you have served the Cause," he said.
Traci turned and headed back to Fawad's house. X watched her go, suddenly filled with an ill-defined yearning. The plan called for them to separate, but he had become accustomed to having her around. As much as he hated to admit it, he would miss her.
The men followed Asar to the small mosque at the center of the village. Along the way, they passed villagers rolling carts full of grain; a one-legged old man hobbling with a cane. The peasants nodded in greeting.
Their path took them by squealing children playing Aqaab, a version of tag where "It" was an eagle and the others pigeons he preyed upon. X was no believer in omens, but to his discomfort, he could not help thinking that in the parlance of old-school con artists, a "pigeon" was a mark who was easily fooled. Were the two of them being duped and about to be pounced upon?
"Are we going to pray?" Harry asked. But X had an inkling about what they'd meet behind the mosque doors.
Inside the modest temple, candles were lit and the walls were full of religious markings, swirling wheels within wheels. There were no paintings of Allah or Mohammed. Islam forbids such images as idolatry; that much X knew about the religion. There was no one else around but a prayer rug lay in place as if any minute a devout Muslim was about to kneel toward Mecca and pray. X and Harry looked around, mystified.
"Well," Asar challenged them. "Do you see it?"
X had a pretty good idea, but he humored Asar and shook his head. The teen knelt and pulled away the prayer rug, revealing a wooden trap door.
"The Americans have been in this mosque a half dozen times and never found this," Asar said.
X found this a bit surprising. It would have been the first place he looked. But then again, hiding money and other items was one of his specialties.
"After you, my young friend," he told Asar.
The three men descended a rickety staircase into blackness. X had by no means overcome his claustrophobia, but this was a good deal better than squeezing through their escape tunnel. For some reason, he was reminded of Alice in Wonderland. And he had a feeling The Chief's headquarters would be as topsy-turvy a universe as the Mad Hatter's.
About 18 feet down, they reached a tunnel. A huge high-intensity flashlight was hanging from a hook and Asar grasped it and flicked it on. The passageway was surprisingly wide, enough to accommodate all three men abreast, although they had to hunch over as they walked.
"The Warriors of Allah carved these tunnels out?" Harry asked in wonderment.
"The caves are natural but the passages were widened and many of the chambers expanded," Asar explained. "Bin Laden himself assisted us. He flew in heavy equipment from his father's construction empire. It is said he drove one of the bulldozers himself."
X pictured the legendary master of disaster piloting a bulldozer with a John Deere cap in place of his turban and found the image so comical - like Eddie Albert manning a tractor in a banker's suit in Green Acres - that he had to choke down a hysterical giggle.
They walked nearly 100 yards before they reached a checkpoint. There, two guards hurriedly got to their feet and shoved AK-47s in their faces.
"We are servants of The Chief," Asar told them.
"Yes, I recognize you. You are Asar, The Chief's old driver. Don't you recognize me? Omar."
Asar unslung his rifle and dropped it, then hugged the other man.
"Still, we need the password," said Guard No. 2.
"Peace," replied Asar without hesitation.
"And we must search you," Omar reminded the teen somewhat apologetically.
"Of course."
They surrendered their weapons and allowed themselves to be frisked. Then they marched behind Omar down the passageway and entered a cavern.
X had imagined something more spectacular. Perhaps it was childish, but he'd literally pictured the bat cave, complete with giant computer mainframes. Still, the complex was extensive. They passed through a warehouse for military supplies including huge stockpiles of guns and ammunition, bazookas, artillery shells, rocket-propelled grenades, mines and stolen U.S., Afghan and Pakistani army uniforms. In another room, caches of water and food were stored. Next they passed through barracks with pillows and blankets scattered on the ground where dozens of men, presumably resting from their duties of killing and maiming, peacefully dozed.
"We have a state-of-the-art ventilation system and our own hydroelectric generators - three of them," Omar bragged as if he'd built them himself. "They run off an underground river."
"How many men?" Harry asked.
"1,200 fighters."
"1,203 now," Asar pointed out, and his old friend grinned.
After another 300 yards or so, Omar announced that they had reached the offices of The Chief. X held his breath. According to Mr. Jones, he and the real Ali Nazeer had never met. But the Committee had only just discovered that Ali was anything more than a reckless, selfish playboy. Who knew for sure?
The Chief emerged from behind the door. He was far older than in the file photos Mr. Jones had shared with him. But then, X supposed, that famous picture on the FBI's Most Wanted poster must be 10 years old. Apparently, he'd decided to age gracefully and not dye his beard like bin Laden.
"Where is my dear friend?" the old man demanded when he saw the newcomers.
Oh, drat, X thought. Busted.
But when The Chief spotted X, he shuffled hurriedly over and embraced him in delight, kissing the visitor on both cheeks for good measure.
"You are taller than I recalled," The Chief said. "But I saw you only from afar at the gathering in Kandahar."
At least 80, and decked out in what appeared to be pajamas, The Chief looked like the grandfather of a 7-Eleven clerk more than the head honcho of the world's biggest terrorist organization. In the Arab press, he was portrayed as a cross between Batman and Robin Hood. X had not expected someone so frail. Instead of the signature camouflage jacket, in which The Chief delivered his many video performances, he wore a red bathrobe. He reminded X of Hugh Hefner in his declining years.
"Your escape has been a great propaganda victory," The Chief declared. "You showed that despite all their millions of dollars in weapons, all their satellites and spies and drones, the infidels can be defeated."
He hugged Asar. "And you brought this brave one who is like a son back to me."
The Chief introduced a tall, gaunt, bespectacled man. The guy held his lips pursed in a manner that reminded X of a spinster librarian in a Little Rascals episode.
"This is Dr. Zawari, my second-in-command."
"I've heard many good things about you," X lied. "And this is my dear friend, Moammar, who aided us in our escape."
Dr. Zawari scrutinized them with an intensity that suggested X-ray vision. "Many have tried before to escape from Abd Al-Rahman Prison," he observed. "It sounded miraculous, indeed - almost too good to be true."
Harry began to explain, "Well, Allah was merciful ... "
The Chief waved him away and chuckled. "Don't worry. Our sources in the prison confirmed all the details reported by Al Jazeera. Forgive my aide. Dr. Zawari was in the camp of el-Safvadi when the man was murdered by assassins posing as journalists. Having been bitten b
y a snake, he's afraid of a rope."
"I remember that incident well and understand," nodded X, who had no idea what the old man was talking about. "We must all be on our guard against deception."
"Dr. Zawari, please escort Asar to the dormitory and Moammar to the guest quarters," said The Chief. "Come walk with me, Ali."
X wouldn't have minded going to the guest quarters too. But he obligingly accompanied the tottering terrorist bigwig into his office suite, noticing for the first time that The Chief wore fluffy bedroom slippers.
In the first of three rooms was a large table on which was laid out a huge topographic map of Afghanistan. Dozens of pushpins every color of the rainbow dotted the military map representing, X assumed, where The Chief's forces and those of his adversaries were stationed. X had only seen something like it in World War II movies.
I suppose if I were one of those spies with a photographic memory, I could commit it to memory, he mused.
Ushered into the next room, X beheld a small greenhouse lit by fluorescents. The identity thief inhaled the fragrances of dozens of unfamiliar flowers.
"This greenhouse is my pride and joy," The Chief said. "We grow many exotic plants here, some that the London Botanical Gardens would have cause to envy. Here, look at my blue forsythias."
"They are beautiful. What an accomplishment to cultivate such a garden underground," X marveled. But he was thinking, a nine-foot-tall, man-eating Venus flytrap would suit you better. You're like a James Bond villain, but senile.
The next door led to the terrorist leader's private study. There was a photo of The Chief posing arm in arm with his underling Bin Laden, and another between a pair of prominent Iranian mullahs. On his large, ornate mahogany desk a TV was tuned to Fox News, where an anchor was feverishly updating the public on the details of a celebrity's shoplifting trial.
His shelves boasted an impressive collection of books - perhaps 200 - and the variety surprised X: tomes on gardening, architecture, anatomy, Biblical archaeology, even home decor.
"It is as I have heard. You are truly Renaissance man," X said. The Chief beamed at that.