“And if they don’t like him?”
“Everybody likes me,” J. J. said before Moyer could answer. “What do we call you?”
“My previous team . . .” Zinsser cleared his throat. “When on mission they called me Data.”
“Oooh. A Star Trek reference,” J. J. said. “The name fits a surveillance and comm guy.”
“Now that we’re all buddies,” Mac said, “we can get down to business. I hope your social calendars are clear because you’re going on a little trip.”
THE WOMAN LOOKED TEN months pregnant, even beneath her long, black abaya. Dr. Hamid al-Jaburri watched her enter the hospital lobby waddling with each step, steps that seemed to cause her pain. Standing next to her was a young girl. Dr. al-Jaburri guessed her age to be ten, certainly no more than eleven.
“I don’t know how you women do it.”
The nurse standing next to him looked up and saw the object of his attention. “Allah gives us peace.”
“Peace. There hasn’t been much of that in Baghdad over the last few years.” He motioned to the woman. “She looks confused. I wonder how much prenatal care she has received. Get a wheelchair and take her to OB/GYN. From the looks of her, she could deliver any moment.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Dr. al-Jaburri watched as the young nurse moved toward the pregnant woman. Even twenty feet away he could see the woman’s eyes dart from side to side. They were red and he assumed she had been crying. “So much pain in the world—”
A piercing ring stabbed Dr. al-Jaburri’s ears. It took several moments for him to realize he was no longer standing. Plaster from the ceiling fell around his supine body. Dust and acrid, burning smoke filled the air and flooded his lungs. He tried to close his eyes but only one worked. He touched the left side of his face and felt bone where skin should be. There was no pain; he experienced no emotions.
Someone, half buried by debris, screamed. Ululations joined the moans, groans, and weeping. Moments later, the choking air carried the pitiful sounds of damaged and dying humans.
A dozen people cried for Allah’s mercy. Dr. al-Jaburri felt he should do the same, but he couldn’t force a syllable from his throat.
He tried to rise. He was a doctor. People needed him. He managed to sit up, but his legs would not move. Somehow he knew he would never stand again.
The sound in his ears quieted, as if someone had filled his ears with cotton. He glanced down and knew why. Blood pooled in his lap. Soon he would bleed out. Rather than watch his life puddle beneath him, al-Jaburri looked to the side. Three feet away rested an object. He forced his mind to focus, then wished he hadn’t.
A man’s dying eyes should see something beautiful . . . glorious—not, as his did: the severed arm of a child.
CHAPTER 2
J. J. SAT NEXT to his team leader. The briefing was due to start thirty minutes before. Colonel Mac excused himself, stepped from the room, and failed to return. To pass the time, the team members took turns poking fun at J. J. At first he fought back with explanations and cutting quips of his own, but he was outnumbered and outgunned. He did what he knew he must: shut up and take it.
The ribbing was good natured, something he had participated in himself. It was much more fun, however, to poke fun than to be the target.
As the team’s only practicing Christian, J. J. had taken his share of abuse, but none of it cruel. He had worked with these men for several years and trusted them with his life. In fact, he had done that on several occasions. That he was alive to be the butt of their jokes was testament to their skill. The feeling was mutual: he would lay down his life for any man on the team.
“Keep going, guys, I can take the best you have to offer.”
“That a fact?” Rich said. “We haven’t been using our best—”
The door to the briefing room opened and Colonel Mac poured in with someone on his six—a woman. At five-eight, she was just a few inches shorter than Colonel Mac. Auburn hair pulled into a ponytail hung to a spot between her shoulder blades. Her blue eyes danced around the room, fell on J. J., hesitated, then resumed their survey. She was thicker than a supermodel but not by much.
“What—?” J. J. started before his jaw dropped.
“They’re called girls, J. J.,” Moyer said. “Are you sure you’re engaged?”
J. J. leaned close to the man the team called Boss. “I’m sure, all right. In fact, she’s the one I’m engaged to.”
Moyer snapped his head around so fast, J. J. expected to hear vertebrae snap. He said nothing.
Mac moved to the small wood podium at the front of the room. “Sorry for the delay, men, but someone had a question for me and since he had a star on his shoulder, I thought I should give him whatever time he wanted.”
“Did she come from the general?” Pete Rasor asked.
“Can it, Junior,” Moyer snapped.
“Um, okay Boss.”
J. J. saw Moyer cut him a glance.
“Your immediate mission,” Mac said, “is to act like gentlemen. Clear?”
“Clear,” the men said in unison.
“This is Tess Rand, civilian advisor Special Operations. She’s on loan to us from the War College where she teaches, among other things. She’s going to brief you on background. I expect your absolute attention. Please act as if God has given you a brain—even you, Rich.”
“What did I— Yes, sir.”
“Ms. Rand is a specialist in suicide bombings, especially female suicide bombers.” He turned to her and motioned to the podium. “Ms. Rand.” He stepped to the back of the room. J. J. imagined the colonel staring at him. He didn’t dare turn around.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
J. J. tried not to bite through his lip.
Tess picked up a small remote from the lectern and pushed a button. A projector screen hidden in the ceiling lowered and the lights automatically dimmed.
“The phrase ‘suicide bomber’ is now a familiar part of our vocabulary; not just for the military, but for all Americans. Few people in the West gave much attention to the topic until September 11, 2001, when nineteen hijackers commandeered two commercial airliners and flew them into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, leaving three thousand dead and sixty-three hundred injured. While technically no bombs were used, the hijackers used the aircraft as guided missiles.
“After the U.S. launched its War on Terrorism by invading Afghanistan and later Iraq, accounts of individuals using car bombs or strapping explosives to their bodies have become commonplace. For some, this seemed a new and despicable way to conduct war. It certainly is despicable, but it is not new. Some think the oldest example of killing the enemy by suicide goes back to Samson, who used his great strength to bring down a Philistine temple on his tormentors. The account is in the Old Testament book of Judges, chapter sixteen.
“Stories of injured soldiers blowing themselves up and the enemy around them rather than being captured span the globe and crosses centuries. German Luftwaffe suicide pilots flew their aircraft into bridges over the River Oder during the Battle for Berlin. Of course, Kamikaze attacks against Allied ships in the Pacific is a well-known suicide attack.”
As she spoke, photos from World War II flashed on the screen behind her.
“Of concern to us today is the work of suicide terrorists—people willing to martyr themselves by driving a bomb-laden car or truck into a crowd, or strapping on an explosive vest, or carrying an explosive satchel into a crowd.”
She pressed a button on the remote. Photos all too familiar to J. J. splashed on screen. He recognized the terrain of Afghanistan and Iraq.
“The number of suicide bombings has increased over the years. During the 1980s there were on average only five such efforts a year. From 2000 to 2005 the number rose to 180 per year. In 2005 there were more than 460 such attacks. These events took place not just in Afghanistan and Iraq, but also Sri Lanka, Israel, Beirut, Chechnya, and more. You might recall the 2002 attack on Russian civilians in the
Dubrovka Theater in Moscow. Some of the Chechen attackers were women wearing bombs.” She paused. “Some were pregnant.”
Tess moved to the side of the lectern. “My studies have shown that most suicide bombers are Muslim males, but women are taking an increasing role. The first woman to make a suicide attack was Sana’a Mehaidli. On April 9, 1985, she detonated a car bomb that killed two Israeli soldiers and wounded two others. She was part of the Syrian Social Nationalist party. More than two hundred women in the Tamil Tigers have carried out such missions. Women in the Kurdistan Workers Party have conducted suicide missions. My point is this: The use of women in suicide bombing is not new.”
Moyer motioned with his hand. “But something has changed; is that it?”
Tess nodded. “Taken as a whole, women comprise a very small number of suicide bombers. Most women are brought up to nurture, not destroy. It takes more effort to make a female suicide bomber than it does a male one.”
“Why women?” Moyer asked.
“I suspect you already know at least part of the answer,” Tess said. “First, women move more freely than men. I’ve read your files. I know you and members of your team have spent time in these countries. If you were manning a checkpoint and you became suspicious about a man approaching your area, you would detain him and search him. You’d tell him to remove his coat if he had one; to lift up his vest. You might even pat him down. Would you do that to a woman?”
Moyer shook his head. “There are protocols about the way we treat Muslim women.”
“Exactly. In the more fundamentalist areas Muslim women follow a dress code.” Tess closed her eyes for a moment as if searching file cabinets in her brain. “Clothing must cover the entire body; the material must be opaque and hang loose to disguise the shape of her body; garments must not resemble what men wear, or what unbelieving women wear; the garments should be free of bold designs meant to attract attention.” She opened her eyes. “You can’t very well ask an Islamic woman to lift her abaya.”
“How do they get women to volunteer for this?” J. J. asked. His voice sounded half-an-octave higher than he meant. She smiled and for a moment he feared she would wink.
“Several ideas have been put forth. Early in 2009 Iraqi police arrested Samira Ahmed Jassim, a fifty-year-old woman who recruited eighty female suicide bombers and is suspected of arranging nearly thirty bombings. She calls herself the ‘Mother of Believers.’ She told horrific stories about recruiting vulnerable women: outcasts, the mentally impaired, and the disgraced. She said that men would be sent to rape the women. These women would be sent to her for motherly advice. The women felt disgraced and cast off from family and friends. Over time she would convince them they could redeem themselves by becoming a suicide bomber. Some of these women will do anything to remove shame from their families.”
“So there’s been a rise in suicide bombers?” Moyer asked.
“Not just suicide bombers—female bombers, and we’re seeing it in other countries, not just those with fundamentalist Islamic leaders. In London, a woman walked into a mall and killed twenty-two people in a food court. In Barcelona, a woman detonated herself in a crowded movie theater. Another did the same in an elementary school. Twenty-two children died; another forty received life-changing injuries.” She toyed with the remote for a moment. “We were late for this meeting because a woman in Baghdad bombed the lobby of one of the few remaining hospitals.”
“Sick,” Rich said. “But what can our team do about it? We can’t hunt down every possible bomber.”
“We think there’s a single mastermind behind it all.”
“You mean like that Jassim woman?” J. J. said.
“Jassim worked at the direction of others. We’re thinking someone much higher up the food chain.” She worked the remote and the image of a middle-aged man appeared. To J. J., he looked remarkably like Omar Sharif. “A concert of intelligence work including agencies from our country, the UK, and many other countries has led us to believe this man is more than he appears.”
“How does he appear?” Moyer asked.
“His name is Ezzat El-Sayyed. At least that’s what his Egyptian passport says. He leads several businesses, including a construction company and a mining company, and has vast holdings in a shipping firm. He has his fingers in several smaller operations as well. The guy is a walking-talking ATM machine.”
Tess studied the screen for a moment. “He travels extensively but spends most of his time in Europe and Middle Eastern countries. He’s built structures from casinos in Spain to high-end hotels in Bahrain. We have sketchy intel that places him in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Iran. He’s never been to the United States and has said he will never put a foot on ‘Satan’s soil.’”
“Satan’s soil, eh.” Rich leaned back. “He likes to alliterate.”
“He’s no dummy. El-Sayyed took a degree in engineering from Oxford.”
Rich angled his head. “Why are guys and gals of intel snooping through his underwear drawers when he’s not home?”
“Because we intel people are weird.” Tess let the words hang in the air. J. J. wrestled back a smirk. Just as Rich was about to sputter an apology, she went on. “As interesting as El-Sayyed’s clothing might be, other things drew our attention, such as the number of suicide bombings following his arrival and departure from a country. Six of his last ten trips abroad were followed with one or more events, each carried out by a woman. We think he’s funding and leading a group of extremists targeting the U.S. and our allies.”
“That’s where you come in, gentlemen.” Colonel Mac moved to the front of the briefing room. “The spooks are 90 percent certain El-Sayyed is the man behind the rise in suicide bombers, especially those in Europe. The people who sign my check and yours want you on the ground asap. You’ll get a full mission briefing tomorrow at 0800.”
Moyer studied the man. “Exactly where are we going, Colonel?”
“Italy. I don’t need to remind this group that you will not speak about this outside this room.”
Rich laughed. “You can bet on that, sir. If I tell my wife I’m going to Italy without her, then the team will be short a man—if you catch my drift.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll tell her.”
Rich flicked J. J.’s ear hard enough to make his toes hurt.
Colonel Mac watched the men for a moment, then said, “Dismissed.”
CHAPTER 3
WILLIE BREE MOVED THROUGH the crowd with ease and grace, like a man who rubbed shoulders with the world’s top fashion buyers every day. He smiled. He nodded. He raised a glass of wine and said, “Hello” and “You look gorgeous” in a French pummeled by a long suppressed Bronx accent. If someone raised an eyebrow, he smiled and said, “I had the misfortune of being born in America.” It usually brought a laugh.
“I may just die here.” Bree grinned at his assistant, a slightly heavy, short woman with straight black hair. She was twenty-four and an organizational genius, unlike her tall, thin, nervous boss. He comforted himself with constant reminders that details should be left to people like DiAnna. She never used her last name. For those living in the land of Glamour, a unique name goes a long way. Bree approved.
“You’ve made it through the first three of the Big Four; you’ll live through this one.”
The Big Four: New York then London then Milan and now Paris. He had attended these fashion shows every year for the last decade, but this was the first time he had been placed in charge and the first time a third of the designs came from his creative soul.
Bree had started in the business right out of high school, working two years to earn enough money for fashion school. The combined wages of a pair of elementary school teachers were not enough to pay for the best training. Grants, school loans, and his own hard-earned money got him through four years of the Fashion Institute of New York City.
He excelled there. Working in the supply room of one of New York’s top design firms had given him a taste for the industry. Earning a ba
chelors degree in fashion design set him free. Over the next ten years he worked in every department, rising through the ranks by working harder and longer than anyone else—and by kissing more fannies. It was worth it. Now he was close to the top of his game. In two years he’d have enough money to start his own firm, and then he’d set the world on its ear. Just two years more.
“Please DiAnna, let a man have a few moments for a nervous breakdown. I’ve earned it.”
“That’s true enough. Your designs have also earned great praise. They’ll like your stuff here.”
“Stuff? You know, you’re the only person on the planet I allow to call my designs stuff.”
“That’s because I’m indispensable. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be in Milan trying to find the airport . . .” She looked at her iPhone and punched a button on the screen. “Jesse just texted me. He wants you to talk to one of the models. She’s refusing to wear her dress.”
Bree rolled his eyes. “I bet I know which one. Let’s go. How much time?”
“Ten minutes.”
Bree moved through the milling crowd in the lobby and hallways of The Plaza Athénée Hotel. “Excusez-moi. Merci. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait.” He drew several harsh stares and a few comments in French he didn’t want translated.
A door to a service hall changed the world from one of glitz, tuxedoes, shoes that cost a week’s salary, and a toxic cloud of perfume to one of stark business. In ten minutes the show would begin, and those seated in the large room sporting a catwalk spanning the sea of people like a bridge, would see a well-practiced procession of the world’s most beautiful women strutting, one foot in front of the other, displaying on their narrow bodies this year’s idea of style.
Another door opened into the dressing area, and for a moment Bree felt he had fallen into Dante’s hell. Outside this room people drank wine and champagne, chatted, and laughed. Back here, models snipped at each other, snapped at their dressers, and forgot the amount of money they were paid for suffering such indignities.
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