State of Attack

by Gary Haynes

  As if reading his mind across continents, Crane said, “But don’t go all psycho on me over there, you got it, Tom? Took me four committee hearings to get this job after I had to admit to sanctioning your little forays the world over. You didn’t get her back,” he went on, referring to the Secretary of State, Linda Carlyle, “we’d both be packing shelves in a grocery store in Alaska. Being close ain’t always a disadvantage.”

  Tom sighed. “Spell it out.”

  “You ever come across the Turkish mafia?”

  “Nah.”

  “They’re real sons of bitches, and I need someone to hook up with them.”

  “What are we talking about?” Tom said, moving over to his father’s side.

  “We getting through a few snippets from our Israeli friends about something big, so as well as helping to find your father’s attackers, you could be very useful, Tom. Counterterrorism. Better than following foreign jerks around as they visit the sights, am I right?”

  “How big? And what the hell has the Turkish mafia got to do with all this?

  “Listen up.”

  Chapter 24

  The jeep came screeching down the street leaving a dust trail in its wake. It skidded to halt next to Ibrahim. Beside the driver, there was an officer with three pips, a captain, in the front passenger seat, with two NCOs behind. The NCOs disembarked first.

  One of them walked over to the old man and his wife, shouted something, and the woman tugged at the frayed rope hanging from the donkey’s massive jaw, and they moved off in the opposite direction. He’d barked the orders in a manner that hadn’t been required, but Ibrahim didn’t entirely blame the soldier for being overly cautious. The woman in the burqa could’ve been a male with a submachine gun. He’d seen that done on several occasions in different Arabic states. That or a suicide vest packed with explosives and ball bearings.

  The other NCO raised his SG 552 Commando carbine and pointed it at Ibrahim, saying nothing. The captain, dressed in dessert-tan fatigues and a red beret, disembarked and walked over to Ibrahim. He was wearing mirrored shades, and this together with his Stalin-like moustache, made it difficult to identify his features, which Ibrahim guessed was something that he’d sought to achieve. He had a Beretta semi-automatic pistol holstered on his hip and was carrying what looked like a riding crop in his left hand.

  “Papers,” he said, almost bored.

  Ibrahim handed him the forged Egyptian documents. The captain grabbed at Ibrahim’s headdress and yanked it off. He tossed it into the dust. He scrutinized the documents thoroughly before handing them back and staring up at Ibrahim. “You are sweating like a whore in labour,” he said.

  “It is hot,” Ibrahim replied.

  The captain slapped Ibrahim’s face with his crop. Ibrahim stood his ground despite the shock and the pain. The captain looked down at Ibrahim’s groin. Then he stepped forwards and used the crop to examine the folds of cloth at Ibrahim’s crotch.

  “You did not piss yourself,” he said, staring into Ibrahim’s eyes now. “When I hit people like that they always piss themselves. It is a natural reaction. Tell me why you didn’t piss yourself.”

  Ibrahim thought that the captain sounded genuinely intrigued, so he decided to tell the truth. “I used to get hit like that when I was a kid. I got used to it.”

  “Are you a filthy homosexual?” the captain asked.

  Ibrahim thought the question was bizarre. “No. I am a good Muslim.”

  The obvious sincerity in Ibrahim’s voice in answering the captain’s questions could have gone one of two ways. It could have riled him or pacified him. It was the latter. The captain simply walked away and got into the jeep.

  “I do not blame those who hit you,” he shouted as the jeep was fired up. “You look like a filthy homosexual to me,” he went on, flinging his head back and laughing.

  His subordinates laughed along, too, although to Ibrahim’s ear it was forced. As the jeep pulled away, he knew that if his mission wasn’t so important he would have punched the captain in the throat, pulled out the man’s sidearm and taken his chances with the NCOs.

  He picked up his headdress and dusted it off before repositioning it on his head and wrapping the tasselled end around his face. He looked up the street and saw the house he had to enter, wondering what other trials the day would bring.

  “Allah Akbar,” he whispered and began moving.

  Chapter 25

  Tom had his back arched against the wall opposite his father’s hospital bed, holding the satphone to his ear.

  Crane said, “The CIA and the DIA think the attack on the general was random. They got more bombs going off in Ankara that they got junkies in LA, and that’s a helluva lot.”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time,” Tom said. “But you don’t buy it, huh?”

  “The attack happened in an Alevi area, somewhere as safe as Baghdad just now. But apart from his official role regarding the conflict there, the general was trying to obtain intel from the Turks about a Sunni terrorist known only as Ibrahim,” Crane said. “The Mossad has an undercover operative in Hamas and something is going down. This Ibrahim has links with Hamas. If we get to him we may find out what Hamas are up to before the Israelis.”

  “Aren’t we best buddies? Tom asked.

  “Yeah, but we don’t always agree on the methodology, at least off the record. When they get spooked, they tend to go in bombing and shooting, and we need intel more than we need more corpses. Just yesterday, we got some report about Israeli troops capping a Palestinian suspected of being a member of Islamic Jihad,” Crane said, referring to the other major Sunni terrorist group in the Gaza Strip. “‘Bout a minute earlier than CNN, as it turned out, but you get the point. The Palestinian was hiding out in a tunnel. They’re just too damn trigger-happy for this. But you, you’re off the intelligence radar, so to speak.”

  “So was it random or not?”

  “What do you think?”

  Tom mulled it over for a few seconds. In truth he had no idea, although in matters of hunches a man would be a fool to disagree with Crane.

  “So there won’t be an investigation, official or otherwise?”

  “Only by the Turkish security services but they’ll say whatever the regime tells them to say. I gotta account for every dime these days. The new director runs the agency like a freakin’ bean counter. The same goes for the DIA and FBI. But Ibrahim is at the top of my list until this fizzles out or some other crazier terrorist comes along. You go after him, I figure you’ll be going after your father’s attacker, or at least be on the right track.”

  So it’s me or no one, Tom thought. It took him less than a second to agree.

  “Start with the Turkish mafia,” Crane said.

  “Okay. What’s with the mafia?”

  “They protect this guy, this Ibrahim. Hamas and Al-Shabaab, too. That’s all your father was able to find out before they tried to kill him.”

  “Where the hell is this going?” Tom asked, conscious that the links seemed flimsy to say the least. But Crane was smart, no doubt about that. Crass, but smart, and Tom knew that guys like Crane relied on intel from a string of core collectors and foreign assets, as well as linking up with friendly intelligence communities like those of the Israelis, and that could shape a viewpoint in a unique and sound way.

  Crane explained his plan. Tom would make out to be a human trafficker, something the Turkish mafia were depressingly adept at.

  “There must be thousands of mafia in Ankara alone.”

  “You ain’t wrong,” said Crane. “But your father was told about a godfather. A baba, they call them. A real piece of work, according to a MIT guy. Now, this baba, called Maroof, could be close to this Ibrahim, or maybe he organizes the Islamists’ security in Turkey,” Crane went on.

  Tom would meet up with Maroof. Crane had obtained the directions to a brothel owned by the baba via Habib, the MIT officer who had spoken to the general. Crane had used the services of an operative he knew well fr
om the CIA office in Ankara, who had exerted a little pressure. Crane didn’t know Habib was playing both sides. He didn’t know that a little pressure hadn’t been necessary, either.

  “And, Tom. I’ve sent a package to the US embassy there. Just a few things you’ll need. My guy in Ankara is Jack Donaldson. He’ll have it ready for ya.”

  Tom wondered whether this was the real reason that Crane wanted him in Ankara. The veteran CIA guy knew his father wasn’t going to recover consciousness in the timeframe, or at least that’s what a reasonable man would bet on. And not for the first time, Tom felt played by him.

  “Officially, we don’t fight the way we used to. No Afghanistan-style shit. It’s all stealth and hi-tech now. But in cases like this, old-style is still best, you ask me. This is what I want you to do,” Crane said, as he began to explain the plan to Tom.

  Chapter 26

  The house in north Sinai was four storeys high, with a cracked-plaster facade, and laundry hanging from the balconies’ iron railings. Ibrahim walked up the concrete steps, noticing the bars on the basement windows below.

  He saw something in his peripheral vision, a blur of fur and limbs. Three powerful-looking, white and tan dogs emerged from the shadows under the steps and peered up at him, standing on the concrete walkway, their tightly curled tails touching their backs. They didn’t bark, but rather made a peculiar yodel-like sound as their pointed ears twitched.

  With that the paint-free wooden front door creaked open. An elderly man stood in the small porch area, his face as deeply lined as the dates that had covered Ibrahim in the pickup. He had about three days’ growth on his chin, grey and bristly, and was wearing a beige-coloured robe that looked bloodstained, although Ibrahim decided it was pomegranate juice. The back of his small head was covered by a lace Muslim skullcap called a taqiyah.

  “It is due to the shape of the larynx,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I do not know what you mean,” Ibrahim replied.

  The man pointed down to the dogs. “Basenji hunting dogs. The shape of the larynx. They are called the barkless dog. That sound,” he said as the dogs continued their now rather comical yodelling, “is called a barroo.”

  Ibrahim smirked.

  “They are very loyal and very serious dogs,” the man said, clearly annoyed by Ibrahim’s facial expression. “An elegant breed, but they would rip out your heart if I asked it of them.”

  The Egyptian had told Ibrahim that he was the house owner and that his name was Husani, which meant handsome in Arabic. But Ibrahim guessed the man hadn’t been that since childhood, and then only in his mother’s eyes. Holding a kerosene lamp, Husani had led him through a dimly-lit corridor and, after opening a side door, had proceeded down a flight of wooden steps to the dark basement.

  The windows were covered by chipboard on the insides, but as Husani swung the lamp around, Ibrahim could see that the basement was voluminous. It stank of stale sweat and rotting grass. Ibrahim heard a sound that he thought was the shuffling of feet. Husani raised the lamp and Ibrahim saw a man sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by four goats. They were tethered to a support beam by lengths of rope, and were nibbling at a bale of blackened straw.

  The man sitting on the floor said, “Asalaam Alaykum.”

  “Wa ’Alaykum Asalaam,” Ibrahim replied.

  “Your guide and the goat herder,” Husani said.

  By the tone of his voice, Ibrahim thought that Husani felt the goats and the herder were on about the same intellectual level, but he remained silent.

  “We send through everything,” Husani continued. “Livestock, medical supplies, fridges, hand grenades, RPGs. Whatever our brothers and sisters in Palestine require and are prepared to pay for, of course. But these goats are for you.”

  “I don’t need goats,” said Ibrahim.

  “They go first. If the tunnel is rigged with explosives or the supports fail, the goats get it and you might live.”

  “Ah,” said Ibrahim, feeling not a little terrified. As a claustrophobic, the thought of being buried alive in an underground tunnel was just about the worse thing he could imagine.

  But in that moment he imagined something profound. It was how his planned death would actually come about – the initial fear of sudden blackness followed by a gradual emersion into the celestial light of Paradise.

  The plan was not to blow himself up, or even blow up something by remote control, as he had done in Ankara and many other places besides. No, his body would house the lethal killer. He was intent upon a glorious suicide, one that would send thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, to the hell he believed they deserved. The Silent Jihad.

  “The tunnel entrance is there,” Husani said, keeping the lamp aloft and motioning behind the goats, although it was shielded by view for now by sacks of firewood.

  Then he explained to Ibrahim that he used the barkless dogs because other breeds would wake the dead with all the comings and goings. But they alerted him to visitors just the same. The tunnel, he went on, was at a depth of a hundred and ten feet, one of the deepest, and was eight hundred yards long. He had entered into an agreement with the tunnel builders and earned a living from getting a small percentage of the profits. In turn, the tunnel owners paid Hamas for the privilege of operating the tunnels into the Gaza Strip. Good business, he said. How long it would last now that his fellow Egyptians had decided they didn’t care much for fellow Arabs, only Allah knew.

  The majority of the tunnels were dug by otherwise unemployable Palestinian men under the Philadephi Corridor, a narrow strip of land which literally split the town of Rafah between Gaza and Egypt. The average build cost of a tunnel was one hundred thousand US dollars, and if Ibrahim’s Hamas brothers hadn’t ordered his free passage, he would have had to pay three thousand dollars for the privilege of being scared out of his wits.

  Once the herder had removed the sacks of firewood, it was clear that the entrance was in fact the head of what looked like a vertical tube, roughly twelve foot in diameter that plunged almost beyond eyeshot. A steel ladder was jutting out about two foot from the side, affixed to the wall by semi-circular brackets that doubled up as safety barriers for the descent and looked stable enough.

  The goats would be lowered via ropes, which the herder said they were used to and accepted, like dogs owned by Western people, who washed them in the same baths as they used for their children. Something he said he found disturbing on every level and shook his head in disbelief.

  Ibrahim thanked Husani and followed behind the herder as he descended into the shaft, ensuring he didn’t step on the man’s small, dirt-stained hands. When he reached the bottom, he was surprised that the tunnel proper was nothing like he had imagined. In contrast to the basement, which Husani had said he kept dark due to the increase in army patrols, the tunnel had lights in wire cradles and lengths of electricity cables in rubber casing. It was well ventilated and even had intercoms and a metal track to ease the transportation of heavy ordnance and white goods via small hand-pushed carts.

  The goats had congregated in an unnerving huddle to the right, as if, Ibrahim thought, they were peculiar harbingers of doom. The herder hitched up his dusty jacket and took out a Glock 9mm handgun.

  “From Hamas,” he said. “If you get caught, they said you will know what to do.”

  If the IDF caught him the odds were they would make him talk, Ibrahim knew, even if he wasn’t tortured, at least in the conventional sense. Now that the Americans had outlawed waterboarding in CIA-run black sites, the Israelis could hand him over to the Lebanese Christians, who’d tube feed him a cocktail of drugs, which would loosen his tongue, before relieving him of his manhood and throwing him off the top of a building. He would have to shoot himself to prevent an involuntary outburst, even if it meant another taking his place.

  As the herder handed him the Glock, Ibrahim nodded.

  Chapter 27

  Tom had left the room where his father lay in a coma and walked now through the lobby. He
asked the receptionist sitting behind a semicircular aspen desk where he could find Doctor Asani. The woman, who looked middle-aged and wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses, pointed to a glass-fronted office about six yards to her left.

  Tom knocked and waited until he was asked to enter. He pushed open the glass door and walked into the spacious but windowless office. The doctor was sitting behind a pine table on a leather swivel chair. Apart from a laptop and landline, there was a large mauve orchid in a little ceramic pot on the table. To the right, a piece of abstract art hung on the white wall, which immediately took his eye.

  “You like it?” she asked in English.

  “I do, ma’am. Ronald Davis. It’s called Red-Black Quarters. May I?” he said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk.

  She gestured to it with her hand. “Then you will know it is a print.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sitting down. “Now I’d like you to tell me about my father. I’d be obliged if you didn’t pull any punches.”

  “I would not do that, Mr Dupree. Your father is very ill. In medical terms, a coma is a state of unconsciousness that lasts more than six hours, which it has, of course. It comes from the Greek, meaning deep sleep. But while in a coma a person cannot respond to external stimuli, not even something painful, such as a prick from a needle. They cannot voluntarily open their eyes. In your father’s case it was brought on by cardiac arrest, as is the case with approximately a quarter of all coma patients. It is far too early to say how long it will last.”