The Secret Soldier jw-5

by Alex Berenson

  The rest of the room was unremarkable. The closet held more gowns, two shirts, two pairs of pants. A wooden desk was empty except for a Quran, a pocket-sized green notebook, and a Saudi passport in the name of Talib al-Majood. Wells stuffed the notebook and passport in his windbreaker.

  He checked his watch. Two-twelve. He’d been up here five minutes already. He peeked out the bedroom’s narrow window, which looked east toward the center of the valley. The diesel engine was closer now, though he couldn’t see any lights. He was putting a lot of faith in the gate. Too much, probably.

  He hustled for the third door. It was locked. Neither key worked.

  Wells pulled his pistol, fired two shots at the doorjamb. He raised a leg and kicked through the door, tearing it from the lock. He twisted against the wall of the corridor, away from the door, in case someone was inside, though he hadn’t heard anything, and anyone in the house would probably have joined the firefight long ago.

  Inside, a simple office. Two steel desks sat back-to-back. A black Ethernet cable was coiled on the floor, but Wells didn’t see a computer. A black-painted supply cabinet sat beside the door. Wells pulled the handle. Locked. He tried the second, smaller key. After a moment’s hesitation, it fit.

  The cabinet had four steel shelves. Weapons and boxes of ammunition cluttered the top two: AKs and two partially disassembled M-16s. On the third shelf, two shoe boxes. The first held credit cards, cell phones, and two car keys, one Chevy and one Toyota. The second was filled with wads of one-hundred-dollar and twenty-dollar bills held with tatty rubber bands, along with a dozen passports — all Saudi, except for one Jordanian. Wells took the car keys but left everything else.

  A nasty-looking short-barrel assault rifle with a wide, angular stock lay on the bottom shelf. Wells thought the rifle was a Heckler & Koch. Gun nuts loved H&K. So did Deltas. Which meant that the Saudi Special Forces units probably used them. These men had gone to great lengths to impersonate Saudi soldiers. Or else, even worse, they really were Saudi soldiers.

  In the desks, he found an engineering textbook in Arabic, a copy of a helicopter operations manual, detailed maps of Mecca and Medina and Riyadh, uniform name tags and patches, and what looked like day passes for a Saudi military base. He scanned the place once more, hoping for a laptop, but it was gone or hidden too well for him to find.

  He grabbed the duffel bag from the second bedroom and threw the shoe boxes and the junk from the desk inside it. He took a last look around the office. If he had another hour, or even more a few minutes. But he didn’t. He heard faint shouts, men’s voices cutting through the dry night air.

  The militia must be at the gate.

  Time to go.

  AS HE LOPED DOWN the ridge toward Gaffan, Wells remembered how he’d once thought that a firefight in Afghanistan belonged in a Goya painting, a vision of hell on earth. The scene below him was less obviously violent but more surreal. Gaffan stood next to the Suburban, holding the arm of the jihadi they’d captured. His touch might have seemed almost friendly, brothers getting ready for a road trip — if not for the thick black hood that Gaffan had pulled over the kid’s head. Five bodies were sprawled behind them. To the north, the crashed Suburban lay on its side, an elephant felled by an unseen dart. Norman Rockwell, as commissioned by the Devil.

  Around the corner, metal tore at metal, a heavy groaning sound.

  Wells reached the Suburban, handed Gaffan the duffel bag and the key to the Toyota. “See if it’ll start. Take the bag and him with you.” He grabbed an AK from one of the dead jihadis, then unlocked the Suburban and slipped the key in the ignition. Despite the bullet holes in the engine block, it started smoothly.

  Wells turned on the Suburban’s lights, put the truck in gear, angled it so it faced up the rocky ridge that led to the farmhouse. The ridge stretched at least two miles past the house, ending only at the flanks of the Lebanon range. He grabbed the clothesline from his pants, ran it through the steering wheel, behind the driver’s headrest, back through the wheel. He knotted it tight to minimize the play of the wheel.

  On the other side of the hill, another collision. Then an orchestral crash that could only be the gate going over. The militia wouldn’t need long to move it out of the road. Wells checked that the AK’s safety was on. He jammed the butt of the rifle against the gas pedal and shoved the muzzle against the front of the seat. The pedal flexed down and the truck took off, heading up the hill.

  Wells dove out of the truck, landing hard on his right shoulder, which had taken more than its share of abuse over the years. A bolt of lightning exploded down his arm. He guessed he’d dislocated his shoulder again. He ran for the Toyota, pulled open the front passenger door, slid inside, his arm loose at his side.

  THE JIHADI THEY’D CAPTURED wasn’t in the car. Wells heard a faint banging coming from the trunk. Gaffan drove silently, heading over the ridge south of the barracks, the same way he’d approached. Wells peeked back at the Suburban. The truck was headed up the hill. The militia would naturally chase it first.

  They topped the ridge, and the Toyota thumped over one of the men that Gaffan had killed a few minutes before. Wells banged his shoulder against the passenger door. Another bolt of lightning down his arm. Wells gritted his teeth.

  “You think that’ll work, buy us extra time?”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “You think we left intel back there?”

  “Probably.”

  “This turned into a real shitshow. A Delta crew would have done it right. Or your guys.”

  Wells didn’t want to argue. He wanted to sit in the dark with his eyes closed and count the seconds until he could pop his shoulder back in place. But he needed Gaffan to understand. “You still don’t get it. Nobody but us was going near that camp. DoD or the agency wouldn’t send men in unless they were sure of finding an active cell on the other end. Too risky. Too many lawyers saying no. And in a couple days, a week at most, there wasn’t gonna be any place to raid. They were moving out.”

  Gaffan didn’t answer. Wells didn’t know whether he’d accepted the truth or was just tired of arguing.

  Three minutes later, they reached the Jeep. High on the ridge to the northwest, Wells saw a low fire. The SUV had crashed. The militia would have found it was empty by now and would be figuring out where to go next. No doubt they would reach the logical conclusion: south. Wells and Gaffan had a decent head start, but they would probably radio ahead to their units in Baalbek. They wouldn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but they would block the main valley road anyway.

  Wells and Gaffan had to get out of the valley before daybreak, back to the coast. Fortunately, the mountain checkpoints were manned by the Lebanese army, which ran independently of Hezbollah. Or so Wells hoped.

  Gaffan stopped beside the Jeep, but Wells put a hand on his arm. “No.” Switching cars would take time they didn’t have, and they were better off leaving the jihadi in the trunk.

  They left the Jeep behind, headed east on a low gravel road that was shielded from the mountains. “Where to?” Gaffan said.

  “South, then west, when you can. We’ll take the road that runs up high on the ridge.”

  “Then south again?”

  “North.”

  “Back toward the camp.”

  “Yeah, but west and above it. There’s a pass that cuts through the mountains north of here. We’ll get to the other side, close to the coast, ditch the car.” Wells left the next question unspoken: Then what?

  “Then what?” Gaffan said.

  Wells wanted to find a place to hide, talk to the kid and then to Shafer about what they’d found. But the militia wouldn’t need long to trace the Jeep. Wells was on a fake passport, but Gaffan wasn’t. By sunrise, every militiaman in Lebanon would be after them. Maybe the cops, too, if Hezbollah decided it wanted the government to be in on the search. If the militia captured them, it might execute them on the spot. Being arrested wouldn’t be much better. Wells wasn’t eager to spend the re
st of his life in a Lebanese jail. And they wouldn’t get any help from the agency, not without firm evidence that connected these jihadis to the earlier attacks. Which they didn’t have.

  “Back to the coast. The boat. Unless you want to stay in Lebanon.”

  “I’ll pass.” Gaffan turned right along a narrow gravel road and right again at a silent village that was no more than a few concrete shacks at a four-way intersection. They were on pavement now. They rose through three switchbacks and intersected a narrow two-lane road that ran north-south along the flanks of the range. Gaffan made a right, taking them north. Wells saw headlights along the valley floor to the east, but the escape plan had worked for now. The road through the village was quiet. It was possible that no one was after them because the militia were trying to figure out what had happened at the camp.

  The ridge road had no guardrails, not even a white line to mark the edge of the pavement. It simply broke into gravel and fell away. Gaffan had no choice but to flip on his headlights and slow down. Wells checked his watch again. Two fifty-eight a.m. A long night behind, a long night ahead. And six more bodies to add to his inventory.

  “You bust your shoulder again?” Gaffan had been in Afghanistan when Wells dislocated the joint the first time.

  Wells didn’t want to think about his shoulder. “You get anything from the kid?”

  “His name. Meshaal. Other than that… He’s scared out of his mind. You saw him. Not exactly the first team. I don’t think he knows much.”

  “We’ll see.”

  SOON AFTER THEY CRESTED the pass at Qammouaa, Wells saw houses to the west. Farmers and tribesmen had lived in the valleys between the Lebanon range and the coast for thousands of years. Fortunately, the road stayed empty as it swept northwest, curving around a hillside. Beneath them, villages glowed in the dark all the way to the Mediterranean. To the right, a gravel road led to an unfinished mansion, rebar poking from its second floor. Three forty-five a.m. Even the most dedicated fishermen wouldn’t be up for at least another hour. Wells tapped Gaffan.

  “Up there.”

  Gaffan swept the wheel right and bounced them up the road, which circled behind the mansion to a half-built garage. “Nice and quiet. First smart move tonight.”

  “Chain-of-command, please. No backtalk.”

  Outside, the air was cool and dry. Wells relaxed enough to feel just how exhausted he was. And how dirty. Sweat curdled on his skin. Dried blood covered his forehead. A steady fire burned from his biceps to his fingertips. If he didn’t fix his shoulder soon, the nerves would be permanently damaged.

  “Help me,” he said to Gaffan.

  Gaffan looked doubtful.

  “I’ll show you.” Wells put Gaffan’s left hand on the outer edge of his shoulder, the right on the meat of his biceps. He put his own left hand between them.

  “On three, you push up and forward. I’ll guide it.”

  “Don’t I need an M.D. for this? At least a nursing degree?”

  “Hard. On three. One. Two. Three—”

  Gaffan pushed. Wells closed his eyes, and the world was nothing but pain — and he guided his arm up, up, and—

  Into the socket and relief. He leaned against the Toyota, tears flaring from his eyes.

  “Didn’t hurt a bit,” Gaffan said.

  A thump from the trunk spared Wells from having to reply. They popped the trunk and tugged the jihadi — Meshaal — out. He started to crumple, but Gaffan put a shoulder under him. Wells pulled off the hood, and Meshaal blinked in the moonlight, his lips blubbering. Wells wondered how the jihadis had planned to use Meshaal. Maybe as a suicide bomber. He wouldn’t be much of a soldier. But he wasn’t screaming, and he hadn’t tried to take off. He might be manageable.

  “Can you stand, Meshaal?”

  The kid nodded, not asking how Wells knew his name.

  “Stand, then.” Meshaal firmed his knees.

  “How old are you, Meshaal?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Really, how old?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Nobody senior would have told him anything, not intentionally. But he’d surely picked up information. Wells needed to shake it out — without hurting him. Torture was off the table. Lie, steal, kill, no problem. But no torture. Not after what had happened in Jamaica. And especially not after the Midnight House.

  Then he had an idea, a way to use the fact that they spoke Arabic and had come in without helicopters or fancy equipment or uniforms. The lie would work only if the kid wanted to believe. But Wells thought he might.

  “Take off Meshaal’s handcuffs. We can tell him now.”

  “Tell him.” But Gaffan made the words a statement, not a question, and uncuffed Meshaal.

  “Meshaal, do you know who we are? We’re from”—Wells pointed over the mountain, east—“Pakistan. Do you understand?”

  Meshaal shook his head.

  “Sheikh bin Laden sent us to find you.”

  “Sheikh bin Laden.”

  “These men you trained with, they’re not part of his plan. You are.”

  “Those were my brothers.”

  “They said they were your brothers, but they were traitors to the cause. That’s why they treated you so badly.”

  Meshaal stepped back. “You know about that?”

  “Of course. We’ve been watching.”

  A unit this size had to have an outcast. Put twenty men together — whether at a frat house or a training camp — and group dynamics demanded a pariah. A zeta male. Meshaal fit the role perfectly.

  “But you killed them.”

  “We had to. We talked to them, but they wouldn’t listen. And this mission that they’re on, the sheikh doesn’t want it. Do you understand?”

  Meshaal bobbed his head slowly.

  “But you put me in the trunk. You put a hood on me!”

  “There wasn’t time to explain then. We did this to free you. All of it. Now we have to go. And you’re coming. So you need to put on the pants and shoes we have for you”—the blue uniform pants and boots, which Wells hoped would fit—“and then you sit with us in the car. We’re going to the coast, and we have a ship to take us away. After that we’re going to have a lot of questions for you.”

  “Then where are we going?” Meshaal was suddenly enthusiastic. He could choose to believe he was with two men who had killed everyone he trained with and were going to kill him, too — or two men who had rescued him from his misery at the orders of Osama bin Laden, the ultimate jihadi hero. Soon enough, the holes in the story would become too obvious for him to ignore. But for now he was rolling with it, and Wells wanted to encourage him.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you that. But can I trust you?”

  Meshaal nodded.

  “Swear to Allah that I can trust you.”

  “I swear to Allah. You can trust me.”

  “We’re going to Gaza. A special mission.”

  “Gaza.”

  “Yes. Let’s go. But no more questions until we get out to sea. No talking at all.”

  Without another word, Meshaal pulled on the boots and the pants, which were a size small and made him look even sillier than before. He slid in next to Gaffan. Between the three of them the Toyota smelled so bad that Wells could hardly breathe. But no matter. They lowered its windows and rolled down the hill toward the coast. Toward the sea. And escape.

  CHAPTER 17

  EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

  THE SUN GLOWED RED AND BELLY FLOPPED INTO THE SEA, FADING with a flourish that the drinkers seven thousand miles away at Margaritaville would have appreciated. Wells didn’t mind seeing it go. Gaffan had stocked the Cranchi with extra fuel and water, and even a few bags of dates. He’d forgotten sunscreen, and the motor for the Cranchi’s cockpit cover wasn’t working, a detail that the dealer in Beirut hadn’t mentioned. The glare off the water had burned Wells’s eyes and basted his brain.

  But they’d had to stay off Cyprus until darkness came. Without a sat phone or Internet link, the
y couldn’t know if the Lebanese police had connected them to the camp. Wells was assuming the worst, that they were wanted from Beirut to Gibraltar. They needed to make contact with the agency before the Cyprus police found them. Their best bet was a night landing. Fortunately, their time at sea hadn’t been wasted. Thanks to Meshaal, Wells had plenty to tell Shafer.

  FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER, THE sky hinting at dawn, Wells sat beside Meshaal and offered him a handful of dates. Meshaal shook his head almost shyly. Wells reminded himself that the kid was only eighteen. If he pictured this trip as an adventure rather than an ordeal, he’d be more likely to talk. “Can you swim?”

  “I’ve never even seen the ocean until now.”

  “One day you’ll learn. Where did you grow up?”

  “The Najd”—the high desert in the center of Saudi Arabia. “A village called Qusaibah. Maybe three hundred kilometers from Riyadh.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Not too much. Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Lebanon, but I trained in Afghanistan.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Lebanon.” Meshaal looked sidelong at Wells and then at the bubbly white wake behind the boat as though he wondered whether he could walk to shore. He was exhausted and scared, but he wasn’t going anywhere, and Wells figured that threats would shut him down.

  “If my accent sounds funny, it’s because I spent a few years in Germany.”

  “Where in Germany?”

  “Hamburg.”

  “My cousin went to Hamburg to study. He said the Germans drink too much alcohol and the women are immodest. But still he liked it. But he said the weather is bad.”

  “It never gets hot like the Najd. But in the winter it snows. Have you ever seen snow, Meshaal?”

  “No.”

  They were silent for a few minutes as the sky lightened around them.