Warriors of God

by William Christie

  Of course there will be no prejudice, thought Ali. Everyone will simply forget that I turned down this enormously important mission.

  "All I will tell you before you make your decision," said Amir, "is that it will take place outside the country and is far more hazardous than your last operation."

  "I have never refused a mission," said Ali.

  "I know, but you would be wise to think about this. It is almost certain that you will be martyred."

  "I accept," said Ali.

  "Do not be hasty," Amir warned. "I will give you a day to consider, if you wish."

  "I am a soldier," Ali said simply.

  "And a good one," said Amir, embracing him warmly, though Ali barely responded. "You were chosen because I felt you had the best chance of succeeding."

  "When will I be told of the mission?" asked Ali.

  "You will read the order now," said Amir. "And then I will answer any questions."

  Ali had to read the authorization twice before he believed it. That he would be given such a mission was incredible. His stomach clenched; he wasn't sure if the reaction was due to the prospect of actually undertaking the task or the fear of failing.

  "What do you think?" Amir asked.

  Ali chose his words carefully. "I think if I can choose the men, and am allowed enough time to train...and if I have the proper support…." He paused. "Yes, God willing, it can be done. In my experience the more improbable an operation seems, the greater the chance of success. The crucial element, of course, is surprise. Can the secret be kept?"

  "Only five people will know the entire plan."

  "Then the chances are good."

  "This is what I wanted to hear you say," Amir replied proudly. "If we fight them here in our house, then even if we win our house will be destroyed. This time we will not chop at the giant's fingers while he clubs us with the other hand—we will reach in and pull out his heart. We will not die quietly."

  "I will accomplish the mission, God willing," said Ali.

  "I know you will," said Amir.

  * * *

  A month later they met again in the same office, with intelligence reports and photographs spread over a long table. Amir was unusually brusque; he seemed to Ali to be in a great hurry. It worried Ali, since his great fear was of being forced to carry out someone' else's inferior plan.

  "I have examined your outline," Amir told him. "I find it very sound."

  Ali was relieved. He had provided Amir with only the finished product. Experience had taught him not to give noncombatants a number of choices—they invariably picked the one that sounded most exciting.

  "I particularly compliment you on your method of transporting the men to the United States," Amir continued. "Very creative. As a matter of fact the entire plan is quite elegant, particularly the problem of the explosives."

  "You honor me," Ali replied. "The transportation of the men and equipment was the most serious problem we faced. The weight of explosives alone was prohibitive. This is why it is so difficult to launch operations against the Americans. We cannot use diplomatic cover, and if we try smuggling we risk a seizure and the loss of surprise. I did not want the force to have to link up with their arms after arrival; enough can go wrong as it is."

  "And your solution was brilliantly simple," said Amir.

  "Over and above my force, I will need at least two shaheed," said Ali. "They must be reliable."

  "How will you use them?" said Amir.

  "I do not know," Ali replied. "Something will change. I want them in case I need them."

  "I will provide them," said Amir. "Now to the White House. How did you come to settle on such a method?"

  "I approached it like any other heavily defended objective," Ali said, quick to defend his work. "A detailed reconnaissance to discover the enemy's weaknesses. The plan is as simple as possible, aiming to achieve at least tactical surprise; the execution violent enough to shock the defenders. We strike quickly and get out, before the enemy can counterattack or bring up reinforcements. The only special requirement here is that the attacking force be kept to a minimum, to reduce the chance of being discovered."

  "It sounds quite simple," said Amir.

  "In combat simple things are very difficult," Ali replied. "And complicated things are impossible. God be praised we do not have to take hostages."

  "The psychology would be all wrong," said Amir. "They would negotiate for a common spy, but never the President. And what great thing could we demand that they would actually deliver? No, there is more significance to simply killing the head of state, the most well known and protected man in America. And destroying him inside his White House is the most important part of it. Nothing else we could possibly do to the Americans would have the same impact. The shock will be felt all over the world."

  "You are right, of course," said Ali. He flipped through some pages in his binder. "Agents will have to make a reconnaissance of all possible landing points. Safe houses, vehicles, and supplies must be purchased."

  "There is a team available," said Amir. "Their security is airtight, and they are perfectly located for the mission."

  Ali nodded. "How much time will we have to train?"

  "Not long. Definitely no more than four months."

  "That is not long for a mission this complex or important," Ali said pointedly.

  "It is a question of security," said Amir. "The more time that goes by, the more likely someone will boast or perhaps quietly gossip—in the strictest of confidence— to make himself seem more important. Then the secret would be revealed geometrically until some curious ear offered it to either the East or the West. The West more likely; Westerners are less mean with their rewards."

  "That is a rather harsh judgment."

  "I prefer to plan on human weakness rather than be shocked by it."

  "Then we must begin selection and training immediately. May I have permission to use my Guard company?"

  "Unfortunately, only a few selected individuals meet our criteria," said Amir. "As I am sure you understand, each man must be able to speak at least some English. You will be sent volunteers with combat experience, trained Guards."

  "I understand," Ali said.

  Declining Amir's offer of a car, Ali walked back to his quarters. As he turned a corner a huge procession of demonstrators emerged from a side street, chanting and carrying banners. It was another Day of Rage, orchestrated to protest the attack on Kharg Island. Ali stepped back against a building. He hated large crowds.

  Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. A homemade American flag went up in flames—real flags were too expensive to be purchased anymore. Then they burned a Star of David, a Union Jack, and the Russian flag. They all burned, all the flags of the enemies of Islam, the countries conspiring together against Iran, holding her down.

  God help us, Ali thought.

  CHAPTER 8

  After his unsuccessful meeting with the assistant secretary of defense for special operations, Richard Welsh was given a series of make-work assignments notable only for their drudgery. During this bureaucratic exile, he spent all his spare time working quietly at his desk and signing out masses of intelligence reports.

  Carol Bondurant felt so bad for Welsh that not only did she invite him out to dinner, but against her better judgment let him pick the restaurant. Welsh chose a Mexican establishment that he claimed was as good as you could find so far north. Carol was a good sport, aside from a small comment about the decor being so loud she needed sunglasses.

  They made small talk over margaritas and nachos. Welsh could tell Carol had something on her mind, but he wasn't stupid enough to try and rush a woman into doing something.

  It finally came out abruptly after the main courses arrived. Carol looked up from her guacamole salad and announced, "Rich, you've just got to stop pushing this Iran thing. The only thing you're going to accomplish is losing your job."

  A nacho overloaded with salsa balanced precariously before Welsh’s mouth. "
Don’t distract me, Carol, I might drop this and embarrass myself."

  "Perish the thought."

  "Yeah, I know. It’s great salsa but it’s still heresy. In Mexico salsa is a sauce that adds to a dish, not a dip you scoop up with chips. Chips and salsa are proof positive we’re food barbarians."

  "At least it’s a way to sneak a vegetable onto this menu," Carol said in exasperation, aware Welsh was trying to sidetrack her.

  "Maybe one day you can tell me what part of the cow an avocado comes from," said Welsh. "Anyway, you remember all those premeds back in college. They spent all their time in school studying like rats, never having any fun. So of course they spend the rest of their professional careers getting even with the rest of us. That's my theory behind cholesterol and oat bran."

  "Thought that up all by yourself, did you?"

  "Carol, I only share my philosophy with real pals." Welsh poured her another margarita from the pitcher. "Here, have some more cactus juice. Now are you sure you wouldn't like to order something that actually tastes good? They make the best tamale I’ve had north of the border."

  "I really prefer French," Carol said with a sigh.

  "Hey, I'm a man of the world," said Welsh, deliberately clowning to postpone the inevitable. "I’ve been to France, and there's just nothing like a classic bistro steak frites, impeccably cooked with a wonderful sauce, and a nice tall Coke with plenty of ice."

  "To chew on, right?" Carol said with a giggle.

  "Mais certainement."

  Carol laughed loudly enough for several nearby heads to turn. Embarrassed, she said, "Rich, let's be serious for a second."

  "If you insist," Welsh said in a gallant French accent. But he knew he couldn't put off the discussion anymore. "Carol, there's just no way the Iranians aren't going to hit back at us for Kharg Island. It would be completely out of character for them."

  "What about the attack on the Emirates?"

  "Nope, not big enough."

  "But what can you do about it?"

  "I'm just playing intelligence analyst," said Welsh. "Maybe I can find something someone missed. God knows I've got enough spare time."

  "If you get caught at it, you're gone."

  Welsh shrugged. "I'm practically out the door anyway. . . . Shit!" A glop of salsa fell off the chip. "Right on the menu. No, I will not just close it and hand it back to the waiter like nothing ever happened" He vigorously wiped with his napkin. "Now you know why I always wear dark clothing. Allow me to introduce you to the Chairman Emeritus of the Sloppy Feeder’s Club. You will know me by the bib and extra napkins." He looked up to see Carol smiling at him.

  "Rich, even if you come up with something, the secretary won't listen to you," Carol said, as gently as she could.

  "That little prick. He couldn't find his asshole with a mirror and a flashlight. . . . Sorry, Carol."

  She giggled again. There was obviously no way to talk him out of his obsession. "Rich, now that we're alone, there's something I have to ask you."

  "Yes, I am absolutely a stickler for not having sex on the first date," Welsh told her, deadpan.

  Carol gave him that don’t-be-silly look most women master at an early age. "Unless she wants to, right?"

  "Well, that’s just good manners. Wait…didn’t you want to ask me a question?"

  "I might have," said Carol. She thought for a moment. "Oh, right. I wanted to know how you switch your language on and off like that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You can sound like a professor whenever you want to. And then you talk with the guys in the office another way. I'm no shrinking violet, but I've never heard profanity as fluent as you guys use it. And then when you talk to me, you manage to sound almost human." She smiled sweetly.

  "Thanks, Carol. I am almost human. No, it's just the Marine Corps. People there don't understand you unless you swear. And Marines are true artists of profanity. It's a creative outlet."

  "Male societies," she said scornfully. "I suppose you were in a fraternity, too?"

  "Nope. In Officer Candidate School I got paid to let people abuse me—and I didn't have to live with them for three years afterward." Welsh paused for a moment. "Carol, if you weren't a good friend, I wouldn't tell you this, but the reason I'm being such a pain about this Iran thing is that I couldn't stand it if something happened that I could have prevented."

  "But you've just got to use a little more tact," she pleaded.

  "I'm not good at dealing with large, rule-crazy, bureaucratic institutions. Never have been. Maybe a good shrink could tell me why I keep finding myself in them. I've always had to be really sharp, make my work invaluable, because I inevitably end up making a pain in the ass of myself. But I just can't keep quiet." He set his glass down hard on the table. "Right now I could just do my work and sit around bitching. That's easy. It's hard to actually do something constructive. I'd never care about bureaucracy or simple incompetence if people's lives weren't always on the line. . . . So," he said, embarrassed that things had gotten so grim, "since you're paying, there's one thing we really should do."

  "What's that?" Carol asked with a smile.

  "Both have dessert."

  "What the hell—why not?"

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a blustery mid-February day in Merrifield, Virginia. At 11:30 in the morning, a charcoal BMW convertible pulled into the parking lot of an office building. Anyone watching would have noticed that the driver did not handle the car with the casual assurance it would seem to demand. Rather, he drove with the cautious hesitation of someone who obviously had regular nightmares about scratches and dented bodywork. This was confirmed when the driver chose a parking space far away from any other car.

  The driver was in his mid thirties and of medium height, with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark suit that concealed ten extra pounds, a corporate white shirt, and a dark tie. He did not wear a coat. The building was the steel and glass variety that serves several small companies—one of hundreds that ring the beltway. The man entered and took the elevator to the third floor. He passed through glass doors that announced the offices of the ITA Chemical Company and waved to the receptionist.

  "Good morning, Mr. Brady," she said.

  "Good morning, Margaret."

  Mr. Brady walked down a hallway. At the end he was greeted by his secretary.

  "Good morning, Mr. Brady."

  "Good morning, Jean."

  "Your mail is on your desk."

  "Thank you."

  The secretary didn’t say anything else. Mr. Brady was not the kind of boss who asked about the family.

  Mr. Brady passed through an oak door bearing the legend "Charles M. Brady, President." The office was done in dark wood paneling, subdued and elegant. It was sparsely but expensively furnished.

  Charles M. Brady liked his name. Its origins were sufficiently WASP to be good for business and society. And, depending on the company, he could be Charles, or Charlie, or Chuck. He had been born Hafiz Ghalib.

  Hafiz liked to think of himself as following the path of a long line of immigrants who quickly realized that the melting pot was romantic garbage and anglicized their names so the next generation could get along. Except in his case the name change came before the emigration. If anyone remarked about a slight accent, he would describe a childhood spent in Europe as a businessman's son, and the other person would nod knowingly. Americans thought they knew everything.

  Ghalib's grandfather had fled Soviet Turkestan with his son in the 1930s, after the rest of the family had been wiped out for resisting Ruslashtirma, or Russification. They slipped over the Afghan border and then into Iran. Hafiz found it ironic that the blue eyes and regular features of his ancestry, which had gained him so many beatings as a schoolboy, should be such an advantage in later years. After graduating with honors in business administration from the Iran Center for Management Studies, the top business program in the country, he had been recruited by Amir not so much for h
is intelligence but for the lack of a typically prominent Persian nose. His English was superb. Legitimate business opportunities were few in Iran unless you were well connected, and Hafiz remembered Amir saying that he would run the type of company he had only dreamed of in Iran.

  After two years of intensive training, Hafiz entered the United States as a tourist on an Algerian passport. That had promptly been discarded and replaced by the notarized birth certificate of Charles M. Brady. With that document he obtained a driver's license, social security card, passport, and a sheaf of credit cards.

  Unlike most young men thinking of going into business for themselves, he had no trouble with capitalization; it was courtesy of the government of Iran. With a letter of credit drawn on the U.S. subsidiary of the National Bank of Greece, he had slowly built up a modest business supplying small institutional chemical users.

  The majority of the customers were front companies representing the Islamic Republic of Iran. The business supplied scarce specialty industrial chemicals to Iran, circumventing various international embargoes. The chemicals were used to make explosives, rockets, poison gas, and other modern industrial products. The shipments were routed through companies in Brussels, Hamburg, Geneva, Lisbon, Amsterdam, Athens, and on to Iran. The outwardly unsophisticated group of religious revolutionaries in Iran had developed enormous black market networks to fulfill their various commercial needs, and the ITA Chemical Company was just a small part of it.

  He had little worry about being caught. He was, after all, a successful businessman, an American citizen according to his papers, filling legitimate export orders. He loved running the business and the trappings of a successful young professional—the BMW and ranch house bought, at Amir's insistence of course, to maintain his cover.

  To keep from attracting unwarranted attention, Hafiz kept the offices of ITA Chemical small and unobtrusive and made sure the staff turned over frequently. The actual chemical products were stored and transferred from a bonded warehouse complex where ITA Chemical leased space. In charge of the warehouse operation was a hardworking and conscientious Iranian immigrant named Mehdi, also an intelligence officer and the second member of his network. The third and fourth members were Mahmoud and Ghulam, who owned a small trucking company that had a contract with ITA Chemical.