by Robert Cook
At the dinner fire the first evening, Sheikh Kufdani introduced Alex in a way that left no doubt he was the chosen successor. After a still moment, there was quiet but animated talk among the gathered men. Some of the young men were unhappy to have a Yankee, perhaps even a Christian, as a leader.
Voices became loud later in the meeting tent as several different conversations broke out. One large young man stood up and said, “I mean no disrespect, Sheikh Kufdani. But we are Bedouin. Leadership granted is a sign of respect, not of right. We don’t know this man with the Christian name, your grandson. He must earn our respect. He must be tested.”
“And how must we do that?” Abu Kufdani said with a benevolent nod. “Who is it who will test him, and how?”
“We are warriors,” the man said. “That is our blood and our heritage. Is he strong or weak? Can he fight and kill? What does he know of Islam?”
“It is said of the Bedouin that we and our brothers can defeat our cousins. Then we and our cousins can defeat the world,” Sheikh Kufdani said. “We will investigate tomorrow in the ring. I have said for many years that my grandson would be a great Bedouin warrior. Perhaps, as you say, it is time to take the first steps to test my judgment.”
Later, as Alex sat with him in his tent, his grandfather said, “Tomorrow, in the ring, you should be as calmly and quickly violent as you can. The man who challenges you, Hussein, is a good man and immensely strong. Try not to hurt him too badly. Several others may be more violent and have little to lose with no family to support them. You may have an opportunity to be accepted and have your legend grow in your absence, or be viewed as a Yankee mercenary of no use to the tribe once I am gone. I will sit opposite you, in your field of view.”
In the morning a wide ring was swept into the sand. Men, women, and children were gathered in a circle around the ring, the women in the rear, pretending to be uninterested. Alex stood in loose garments at one end of the ring while Hussein, his opponent, stood at the other.
“There will be no biting or gouging permitted,” Kufdani announced loudly. “Kicking will be thought to be a sign of weakness. When one opponent is endangered or unable to continue, he will make a motion of acceptance, or I will decide that the fight is over and so signal.”
The sheikh sat in the chair provided for him. He raised his arm in the air, then dropped it to his waist. “Begin!” he cried.
Hussein moved across the ring cautiously, balanced. His arms in front of him, he watched Alex intensely. Alex was bent from the waist as he moved to the center of the ring, head up, his right hand scraping lightly against the loose dirt. They circled, looking for an opening. Hussein lunged suddenly, both arms wide to hold and crush him. Alex gave way and fell to the ground with his right foot in Hussein’s chest as they fell, his hands grasping the insides of Hussein’s sleeve. As Hussein’s momentum carried him, Alex extended his leg suddenly, and the force and speed of Hussein’s rush worked against him as he sped in an arc that shortened when Alex pulled in slightly on Hussein’s sleeves.
Hussein hit hard, but was rolling to his stomach to regain the initiative when Alex was suddenly behind him, pushing one of Hussein’s feet up behind the knee, then leaning against it to immobilize him. Alex then drove his left arm under Hussein’s left shoulder and reached back to grasp the back of the neck with his hand. He squeezed his thumb into the gap between the trapezius and the neck and dug a little. With his right, Alex got his hand under Hussein’s right forearm, then reached up to grasp the back of his bicep. Hussein was immobilized as Alex shifted his weight to Hussein’s back and put his mouth by Hussein’s ear.
Hussein struggled, and Alex waited. After a minute or two, the struggling Hussein was losing vigor, and Alex dug his left thumb in again. It was a spot that created great pain; Alex had found it in training a thousand times.
“Hussein, my cousin,” Alex whispered to his ear. “I am willing to hurt you, but I would rather not. I would rather release you and stand to embrace you as a fellow Bedouin if I have proven my worth in the ring. Nod your head a little if that works for you.”
At the slight nod, Alex released his grip and rolled slowly to his feet. Hussein scrambled to stand, and then said loudly, “This is a Bedouin warrior. I embrace him.” Alex could smell Hussein’s rancid breath and body odor as they embraced. It was wonderful.
“It is over,” the sheikh said loudly. “Let us prepare the feast!”
“No!” shouted a voice from the ring. A young man walked across the ring to confront Alex, who glanced at his grandfather. Kufdani frowned beneath his beard and shook his head. The man was perhaps twenty-five, tall and slim, with traditional Bedouin dress.
“Bah,” the man said loudly to the crowd. “So he can wrestle a little. It ended without victory, a sign of weakness. We Muslims are in jihad! What is to stop me from cutting you right now and claiming a victory that you were too weak to claim? You are a weak American. What do you know of mortal combat? What makes you a Bedouin beyond the half-blood of your grandfather?”
He leaned over Alex menacingly and put his hand to the hilt of the curved Bedouin knife stuck in his belt. “I should kill you right now, in the name of Allah!”
Cuchilain heard the words of his father just then: Always retaliate first. End it.
Alex snapped his right hand to the man’s chin and his left to the back of his head. He grasped and leaned back to torque his body in a quick snap that ended at his hands. The man fell dead to the ring—neck broken and the knife partway out of its scabbard. There was a gasp, then silence.
Alex stood still, then said to the crowd, “I have grappled with Hussein. He is a strong and honorable opponent. I have been threatened with knife violence in the name of jihad while unarmed; I know of no such jihad that glories in the killing of an unarmed Yahia cousin. I was given no respect and I responded. I suggest to you that this man threatened the honor of my Bedouin family; I will not tolerate that. We have had enough of this testing for a while. I spent time with you for many summers as a young man; now you know me as an adult. We have tested honor. It is time for hospitality.”
“And will you first speak to us of your life-to-be as a Bedouin, now that you have been accepted at least a little?” his grandfather asked.
“I will speak from my heart,” Alex said. “I will soon be gone to study Islam, and much more, in England. I cannot promise to return for long periods in the desert, but I will return for short periods if accepted for study. In the next few days I will discuss among us my beliefs as they affect us, as you may or not be willing to hear. As our disrespectful cousin said, I am an American. But still, I am a Bedouin. Bedouin lives have changed greatly over recent years. We can no longer support our families as the nomads of the desert, but must find work in the cities and abroad, to support our families and our tribe, just as Sheikh Abu Kufdani has done.
“Still, we return to the desert to be renewed and to visit with our Yahia and other Bedouin tribes. It may be that another is best suited to lead the Yahia—one who is often present among us. You will make that decision and not I, and our sheikh is still active among us. But I will return to be with you when I can, whether as a leader, a tribal elder, or as simply another faithful Yahia Bedouin. For now, I would be among you as a cousin.”
The sheikh stood and said, “The feast awaits.”
Conversation broke out as the men discussed the day’s excitement. Heads were nodding and there was laughter among them. Two older women pulled a hand cart to the ring and struggled to load the corpse of the fallen jihadi into it, then pulled it away. Everyone else moved to find places around the fire. Alex was surrounded by excited men, shaking his hand and formally welcoming him to the desert, while others congratulated his grandfather.
Much later, Alex again sat with his grandfather. “I did what felt right to me, Grandfather,” he said. “That jihad stuff gets my goat.”
“Gets your goat.” Kufdani said. “I haven’t heard that one for years! And I’ve never heard it about jih
ad.” He gave a short laugh, more like a snort.
“And?” Alex said.
“And I agree with you about jihad,” Kufdani said. “I can’t find anything in it today that Allah would bless as I read the texts. As far as today’s events are concerned, I can’t imagine how it could have gone much better. You showed wisdom while engaged in a tub of violence. Marvelous!”
Alex grinned and said, “Well, at least there’s no question about whether I’m sufficiently violent to pass as a Bedouin.”
“Will the taking of that life bother you in the future?” Kufdani asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Alex said. “I got past all of that some time ago. I suppose it should bother me.”
“It probably makes you more effective and more rapid to respond,” Kufdani said. “And since it works, why worry about it? It keeps you safer as you decide how to spend the remainder of your long life.”
“A question to be answered by study, Grandfather,” Alex said. “But, as you say, I’m pretty well formed as to who I am. I just look for a better way to handle it.”
England
DURING his time in the desert, Alex was accepted at Oxford to the College of Oriental Studies. Six weeks had passed since he had applied; it was easy to imagine some help had come from the Imam who came to dinner.
Alex’s time at Oxford was unlike any other period in his adult life. He was encouraged to study subjects that appeared to have no practical value. He discovered first the beauty of learning for its own sake, and was then surprised by the evolving utility of it. Beyond his studies in Islam, he studied what the Brits called modern history, fascinated by the evolution of the Enlightenment beginning in the late-seventeenth century. He became a good, if one-sided, friend of Locke and Hobbs as they agreed and disagreed, and followed around the London of earlier times—through his writings—a Scot named Pepys.
He spent some time at the country estate of Lord Alistair, his slain SAS friend’s father, who lived alone on a country estate near the village of Binsey, along the River Thames, a short distance from Oxford. The conversation was strained in the early visits, polite and inane. They would smile at each other, and talk of whatever had been in the newspaper that week, or talk of the dons at Oxford, several of whom Lord Alistair knew well. At first Alex found the conversation only mildly interesting, but he had liked the son, Colin, and understood the loneliness the old man felt. Later he became more interested as they got to know each other and the old man opened up with his opinions. They began to laugh together, and argue into the night.
After a few months of frequent weekend visits to the estate, Lord Alistair invited Alex to dine with him at White’s, his club in London. During dinner, Lord Alistair was quiet and seemed troubled. They retired to the library after dinner and sat alone in one corner, drinking coffee. Alex sat quiet, waiting. Finally, the old man broke the silence.
“I had only my son and now just his daughter, who lives with her mother and stepfather on the other side of London,” Lord Alistair said. “I seldom see her, which certainly upsets me and seems to bother her as well. I have been unable to find much from our government about how my son died, other than honorably. I have been reluctant to demand the information; that’s not done. The English establishment is notoriously reticent about that sort of thing.
“Colin wrote that the two of you were becoming friends, and we met briefly at the pheasant shoot in Scotland several years ago. I have grown to know you well enough to understand the foundation of that friendship. You and Colin, in spite of dramatically different backgrounds and education, had much in common. I believe you would have become closer over the decades. If you have information on how he died, it would be a comfort to me to hear it.”
Alex was silent, thinking. The raid near Beirut had been covered briefly in the international press after a formal protest by the government of Lebanon that had been lodged. Both the US and Great Britain had denied involvement, since none of the dead or wounded had been left behind to be identified. He looked at his watch; it was 3:00 p.m. in Washington.
Alex looked at Lord Alistair, who looked old as he waited. “Perhaps I can help, but the decision is not mine. If you will excuse me for a few minutes, sir, I’ll make a phone call.”
Lord Alistair looked at him speculatively, then nodded and picked up his coffee.
Alex walked to the phones and called Mac. He had mentioned earlier to Mac that he had become acquainted with Lord Alistair and described the situation cryptically.
Mac was silent for a few seconds and then said, “Hold on for a minute.” Alex could hear Mac typing at his computer and murmuring to himself.
Mac picked the phone up with a clatter. “Okay, swear him to secrecy and tell him the story. He’s a solid citizen and deserves to hear it. He was quite a decorated tank warrior in World War Two. It’s old news to the press anyway.”
“Good,” Alex said. “Come to visit me sometime and I’ll introduce you. I think you’d like him.”
Mac laughed and said, “I just may. I have a buddy over there at Oxford that I want you to meet anyhow. Come to think of it, I think I’ll give him a call and ask him to look you up. He was also a helluva warrior in his prime. Good guy. Real smart.”
“Sounds good to me, Mac,” Alex said. “Thanks.”
He walked back to the table, where Lord Alistair was sitting quietly, waiting.
“If we have your vow of secrecy, sir, I may tell you the story.”
Alistair nodded and said, “You were there? You seem a bit young for that.”
Alex looked steadily at him. “I was there. I had just turned twenty-four. It was my fourteenth such operation.”
Lord Alistair raised one brow, leaned back in his chair, picked up his coffee, and said, “Of course. Even the cold wars are a young man’s game. Go on, Mr. Cuchulain.”
Lebanon
The Planning Phase
IT was 1993. US Intelligence had identified Abu Nidal, the international terrorist, in an apartment building at the edge of a small seaside town, Halat, sixteen kilometers north of Beirut. Nidal was risking increased visibility for an important meeting with his key lieutenants. The group reportedly was planning a terrorist operation in the US, with potential results that seemed to make the risk worthwhile. It was an operation that the Joint Intelligence Committee of the United States was desperately anxious to thwart.
Alex had gone into the operation as the outside man, the “boomer.” He was the explosives guy whose job was to ensure, at the end of the operation, that nothing remained of the planning operation and planning staff that was in place for Abdul Nidal. The Navy Seals had the responsibility for the infiltration, the perimeter security, and the stealthy killing that was necessary. Two members of Britain’s SAS were attached to the Seal team primarily to demonstrate the UK’s commitment to fighting terrorism, and, of course, for the endless cross-training.
They had just finished rehearsals near Nellis Air Force Base, on a mockup of the target apartment building. During the debrief, Alex had made several comments on what he felt were unnecessary obstructions by friendly movements into established fields of fire. Later, as they sat on the ground in the shade of a truck, waiting for a pickup and transportation to the airfield, the Seal team leader walked up to him.
“We don’t need any fucking CIA spooks on this job,” he said. “Why don’t you keep your fucking mouth shut about things you don’t know anything about?” The leader was a lieutenant with an Annapolis background, dressing up his file for promotion. He was finishing a three-year tour, but this was his first real operation.
“We work for the same boss,” Alex told him. “You’re the mission commander. If you don’t like the rules or think I can’t do the job, just call it off. I just blow shit up. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
The Seal, a big man, hovered over Alex menacingly. “If you fuck this up, I will personally rip your fucking head off and piss down the stump.”
Alex stretched his legs out and looked the
man in the eye, irritated. “In your dreams, asshole,” he said, and closed his eyes. The Seal stretched a big hand out and grabbed Alex by the throat. “I’m talking to you, boy—don’t you go fainting on me.”
Alex hunched and distended his neck to relieve the heavy pressure on it. He reached up to the Seal commander’s right hand and gripped it an inch or two below the wrist, his thumb reaching under the man’s thumb pad. He squeezed, hard, his hand compressing the base of the thumb pad as his fingers bent the right side of the hand. As Alex felt the bones in the Seal’s hand start to compress and bow, he spun the hand out and away from his throat, then slid his other hand to the lieutenant’s elbow and dug the ends of his fingertips into the nerve socket, causing electric pains to shoot up the Seal’s arm and into his shoulder, immobilizing him.
“God didn’t bless you with much in the way of judgment, Lieutenant. I’ve done thirteen of these little road shows, and if you touch me again, I’ll hurt you. If you endanger this mission with any more of this amateur-hour shit, I’ll see you replaced. Now just do your job.”
As the lieutenant stormed away, Colin Alistair looked at him, raised one eyebrow, and said, “I say Cooch, my boy, I don’t believe our fearless leader has heard of you. If he had, one would guess he would have used something more effective than a one-handed choke. You might be a bit cautious with him in the future.”
They had met and become friends several months earlier, while Alex was seconded to the SAS, Britain’s equivalent of the Delta Force. The cross-training there was surprisingly rigorous, but Alex liked it. He had learned new things, made new friends, and even got a chance to share his arcane knowledge of how to best “blow shit up.” Alistair and Alex had spent much of their downtime together, talking and working out. Once, Lord Alistair came to Scotland for a pheasant shoot with them; he had arranged it with a Scot friend.