The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  PUBLISHED BY SALUD PRESS

  Copyright © 2015 by Ward Salud

  www.wardsalud.com

  Cover Design by Littera Designs

  www.litteradesigns.com

  Cover Photography of Hillary Clinton by Frank Plitt.

  “File: Msc2012 20120204 413 Clinton Hillary Frank Plitt.jpg" by Frank Plitt is licensed under CC BY 3.0 de / Added Silhouette and Firearm from original.

  This is a work of fiction and parody, as defined by the Fair Use Doctrine. Any similarities, without satirical intent, to individuals living or dead; business establishments; events; or locales are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

  In memory of Glen Doherty, Sean Smith, Ambassador J. Christopher Stevens, and Tyrone Woods.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EL MOKATTAM

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  SEPTEMBER 19, 2012

  Huma Abedin walked down Street 10 in the El Mokattam neighborhood of Cairo, chafing under her Christian Siriano designed burqa. The fierce designer had made swooping enhancements to the traditional burqa, made of the finest Egyptian cotton, but she couldn’t care less at the moment. Covering her whole body from head to toe, the burqa made the already sweltering Egyptian day even worse even as she tried her best to remain unfazed inside its claustrophobic confines. Oh God, she thought, she didn’t know how the more traditional local women could bare to do this day in and day out. This particular style of clothing was definitely not designed for the comfort of women, and her heart reached out to her fellow Muslim women who had to endure this. They weren’t free like she was.

  She had to keep focused however, no matter how uncomfortable she felt. President Obama authorized the mission himself after the terrorist attack on the US consulate in Benghazi . . .

  The Muslim Brotherhood headquarters loomed up ahead. Poking up into the skies, its height, while not as tall as the buildings in downtown Cairo, reached above its neighboring apartment buildings. Boxy and beige, the traditional Islamic motifs of arches and calligraphic art adorned the headquarters building. Its symbol, two crossed scimitars converging under the Quran, was prominently stamped on one side of the building, while a walled gate separated itself from the welcoming suburban street. The mesh screening of her burqa made it more difficult to see the building, though she couldn’t help but notice Christian Siriano’s fine lacework. Sometimes, she thought, he really should pay attention to more functional concerns.

  Huma sighed but continued to head down to her target destination. Unlike Islamic Cairo with its warren of alleyways and cramped buildings or the traffic and congestion of downtown Cairo, El Mokattam’s spacious streets allowed for the luxury Mercedes and Audis to pass by relatively unharassed by pedestrians. According to the dossier, Al Mokattam, another spelling of the neighborhood, rested atop the Mokattam hills with particular breathtaking views of chaotic Cairo, the domes and minarets of mosques and the collection of high rise apartment buildings being the most prominent sight.

  The headquarters gate had already been opened by the time she reached the Muslim Brotherhood building, and deftly, she turned into the building and entered the grounds, at which time, the gate quickly screeched closed behind her. They were expecting her as she well knew. The Muslim Brotherhood thought her a double agent, a clear coup or so they believed, as she worked for her boss, the Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton. The files she held inside the folds of her burqa, she hoped, should seal the deal and finally be able to gain their trust. In actuality, the files were cooked CIA intelligence, but they didn’t know that.

  The revolutionary Muslim Brotherhood government had recently risen to power on the tail wind of the Arab Spring when the Egyptian people deposed their previous ruler, Hosni Mubarak. State had been caught unaware by the events in Tahrir Square, but though happy for the Egyptian people, they certainly were concerned when they elected the Muslim Brotherhood. Already, they’d been hearing reports of disconcerting news out of Cairo as the revolutionary government by the day continued to tighten their hold on power.

  Elegantly, she passed through the lobby of the headquarters building. Though it remained mostly cramped like the bureaucratic buildings of downtown Cairo, the marble flooring and the reception desk made of Egyptian sycamore as well as the intricate decorations of Islamic calligraphy on the walls suggested the growing influence and wealth of the Brotherhood. She knew the way and going past the lobby towards the back rooms and climbing the stairwell, even with the robes of her burqa proving a hindrance, she found the office on the fourth floor.

  Inside, a pudgy middle aged man sat behind a desk of Egyptian palm wood. “We’ve been waiting for you, my dear Huma,” he said as she entered the office. His name was Ibrahim Alahim, and the windows behind him revealed the sweltering sweep of Cairo itself complete with the brown hazy smog that daily lingered over the city. A couple of nondescript chairs, a bookcase as well as a single wilting plant that somehow survived the Egyptian heat completed the musty aired surroundings.

  Three keffiyehed guards guarded their leader, and Huma would have thought none of it except she noticed one of the men. Behind his keffiyeh scarf, covering his mouth, the man had piercing blue eyes. Could be Lebanese or perhaps, a convert to radical Islam, she thought grimly, disconcerting her that someone could reject the West like that. “As Salaam,” she finally said, saying the traditional Egyptian greeting. She lowered her eyes submissively. “I’ve brought a gift for the ummah,” she continued, reaching into her burqa and revealing a file folder filled with paper work.

  A keffiyehed guard quickly snatched it from her hand and gave it to his master, who took it from his underling.

  “CIA dossiers of our hated enemy, the army generals,” she added as Ibrahim thumbed through the contents of the file. Though the leadership of the old military government had been deposed, the Egyptian armed forces still gave their loyalty to the remaining military leaders. “Their addresses, habits, and routines, just like I promised,” she continued. “I hope this information would prove useful to our Brotherhood for any operations we might deem necessary in the future.”

  Ibrahim smiled contentedly as he perused the files and then placed it on his desk. “Excellent, excellent,” he said.

  Oddly enough, Huma thought he’d be more excited at the cooked documents she’d obtained for him. It seemed his guards were more interested in the documents, trying to sneak a peek at the papers hidden inside the folder. Ibrahim, on the other hand, never gave it a second look.

  “You have done well,” he continued, giving her a sly smile. “This information would be of use . . .” Then his smile vanished, replaced by a look of disdain. “Had we not known of your treachery!”

  Before she could react, Huma felt something metallic against her side. It was a gun, and the keffiyehed guard grabbed her arm, making sure she did not escape.

  She gasped inwardly at the sudden turn of events. She didn’t know how her cover had been blown and—

  The keffiyehed guard forced her to sit down on one of the chairs as her mind reeled.

  “I have to admit,” Ibrahim intoned as he got up from his chair and made his way towards her. “You almost had us fooled . . . but fortunately,” Standing before her, his eyes glanced towards the blue eyed keffiyehed guard close to the palm wood desk. “We had been forewarned.”

  Huma didn’t say anything even though her heart pounded. She tried to remember her DSS training in events like this. Stick
to your cover, she told herself. Stick to your cover. The burqa, it turned out, was more helpful as it veiled her feelings, though she had to watch out for her eyes, which could still betray her. She looked straight at Ibrahim careful not to reveal any of her feelings.

  He sat back against the desk. “No need for your American protestations,” the pudgy Ibrahim said, with a wave of his hand. “We know everything about you. You are Huma Abedin, agent of the DSS. You pose as a lowly aide to that witch, Hillary Clinton,” he said with a disgusted tone. “But you are so much more.” He peered down as if inspecting her, and then, snatched off the veil of her burqa.

  Light flooded into her, and she looked away from it, she didn’t realize how confining that burqa was. He grabbed her by the chin and made her look up at him, his eyes gazed the length of her, admiring her beauty. She knew what that meant for religious men like Ibrahim when a woman’s veil was uncovered . . .

  “We have ways to make you talk,” he continued, stroking her chin. His other guards joined in his lurid gaze except for the blue eyed guard who looked on intensely. “It does not, however, have to be painful, it may actually be pleasurable . . .”

  She tried not to gulp or make any other type of movement that would betray her feelings, but try as she might, her throat bobbed slightly at the thought of her possible fate.

  Four against one, she thought. Her mind inspected the adversaries in the room. Ibrahim in front of her, and two on her two sides, and the blue eyed one by the desk—

  The blue-eyed guard nodded his head at her. She wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but he nodded his head again as if he was trying to tell her something or trying to get her attention. Then, he lowered his keffiyeh scarf and mouthed the word:

  Duck

  She didn’t have to be told twice. She dove for the floor even as the blue-eyed keffiyehed guard pulled out a silencer. He first shot Ibrahim in the back of the head, who fell forward to the floor quickly, and then he turned his gun to the two guards. The silencer fired and brought the rest of the guards down. Their bodies thudded to the floor, his bullets all silencing them with death.

  Huma didn’t realize at first what had happened. Where before she was in danger, now she looked around at the dead all around her. Ibrahim looked at her on the floor, his glassy eyes staring back devoid of all life. She immediately picked herself up, not knowing if she was the next target.

  The blue-eyed guard didn’t attack her, however. The silencer in his hand, he stepped over the corpses and proceeded towards the doorway. Reaching it, he opened the door slightly and peered out at the hallway outside and then looked back, his blue eyes glistening at her. “Come on,” he said.

  Huma looked at him, still not quite believing what had happened. “Who are you?”

  Giving one last look out to the narrow hallway, he turned back to her. Quietly, he removed his keffiyeh scarf and showed her his face. He was handsome, square-jawed with shortly cropped hair. If she didn’t know any better, he resembled a certain politician . . .

  “Dee Romney, CIA” he said intensely. “What’s your mission here?”

  Romney? she thought, doing a mental double take. She reached back into her mind, thinking that perhaps there had been some mistake. “As in Mitt Romney, Romney?” she asked. As far as she knew, Mitt only had five sons, each of whom were busy trying to make their dad president in the upcoming presidential election and none of whom served in any security capacity.

  Dee slouched his shoulders and looked away from her momentarily, clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. At last, he nodded. “My dad, he—” Pain crossed his handsome face. “He doesn’t like talking about me.” He looked back at her with a new determination. “What’s your mission here?” he repeated.

  She knew not to pry and decided to go along with the business at hand. After all, she had a mission to do. “I’m Huma—”

  “I know who you are,” he interrupted. “You’re with the DSS.” It stood for the Diplomatic Security Service. As far as the American public knew, the organization tasked its members to protect America’s diplomats in embassies and consulates around the world, premier among them the Secretary of State. In actuality, the DSS had long been the secret spy wing of the State Department, complementing the other spy agencies, the CIA and NSA. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve been instructed to upload a virus onto the Muslim Brotherhood computers and—” She stopped herself. She was about to say the virus was meant to find out information about the attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, only a few days before, but she thought against it. “That’s it,” she said.

  Dee viewed her warily and then nodded at her. “I know the way to the server room,” he said, putting away the silencer. Then, he bent down and picked up a gun dropped by one of the dead guards. “Follow me,” he said, tossing the weapon, a Russian-made Grach pistol, to her.

  Huma caught it and then nodded back. Hiding the Grach beneath the folds of her burqa, she followed him out to the hallway but not before grabbing her veil once more and fashioning a makeshift hijab head scarf over her head as she headed out. He closed the door into the office, the dead bodies still laying where they were felled.

  They moved through the corridor, shadows darkening the cramped hallway and decorative terrazzo flooring. “What’s your mission?” Huma asked softly as they headed down the hallway.

  “My mission?” Dee said back. “It’s um, it’s to infiltrate the Muslim Brotherhood.” He glanced down for a moment. “Just like you,” he added.

  As if saved from the uncomfortable questions, they came upon the stairwell and Dee hurried to climb it. Huma followed after him. A couple of bearded men in thobe robes passed by on the steps, and she hid behind her makeshift headscarf, careful not to draw attention to herself.

  She caught up to him at the top of the stairs, and then they turned towards another room on the fifth floor. It was a larger room, cooler than the rest of the building, lined with row after row of server racks where inside, server computers were stacked on top of one another. The servers whirred loudly with lights blinking off and on, while the cables in the back of each server hung loosely in haphazard fashion. Already inside the server room, two men in loose fitting aba robes inspected the servers, but that didn’t last long. Dee entered with his silencer and shot them, both dropping to the floor dead.

  Unremorseful, Dee entered and hurried into the server room. Huma wasn’t shocked either. She’d seen violence before, many times during her many years in the DSS ever since Hillary asked her to join during her Senate days. Quickly, she hurried to one of the computer workstations, ripping her hijab head scarf as she did so, and set to work. Pulling out a flash drive from the folds of her burqa, she slid out the USB plug and stuck it into the workstation. All she needed to do was upload the virus and then those in Washington would have access to the Brotherhood database.

  “Have you met him?” Dee asked as he held his silencer up. The door had been closed, but he still stood ready with his silencer in case someone barged in.

  “Met who?” Huma replied. She had already accessed some of the files in the computer, trying to find information on Benghazi. So far, she’d only found files on mundane memos and backbiting emails.

  “My father,” he said. “Would you serve him, if—if he won?”

  “Um yes, of course,” she said “I serve whoever’s president,” she continued, trying to remain focused on the computer screen. “I’ve only met him a few times in Washington gatherings, haven’t really talked to him.” She found it odd Dee was asking these questions about his father. She’d always thought Mitt, even if she disagreed with him politically, was a good father to his five—six, she corrected herself, sons.

  But something caught her attention. She scrolled the mouse on a file named “The Sands of Allah.” Double-clicking on it, the file opened, and she breathed inward as she looked over the contents of the file. The Benghazi attack, it—

  She couldn’t finish the rest of the fil
e. A blunt force hit her on the back of the head, and she blacked out. Dee caught her prone body with one arm even as he held up the silencer in his hand, the same silencer he used to knock her out.

  “I’m sorry, Huma, can’t let you see that,” he said as he held her, his icy cold eyes staring onto the computer screen . . .

  •••

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  SEPTEMBER 19, 2012

  One hand pressed on her earpiece, Hillary Rodham Clinton, in a blue pantsuit by Oscar de la Renta, stood transfixed outside the White House secretary’s office that led to the Oval Office. On the walls hung White House photographer’s Pete Souza’s outsized photographs depicting the happy and inspirational moments of the Obama Presidency, but she was feeling none of that at the moment.

  Silence now came from her earpiece when just a few moments before, she had heard everything her deputy chief of staff was doing. “Huma?” she asked nervously as if by saying the words would bring her back. “Huma? Huma?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Madame Secretary,” Anita Decker Breckenridge, the President’s secretary, said. The blonde secretary had opened the door of the Outer Office and looked out onto the hallway with a smile. “The President will see you now.”

  Hillary turned towards the young woman, though she was still disoriented from what just occurred half a world away in Cairo. “Yes, of course,” she said. Barack had ordered this meeting a day ago and Cheryl, her Chief of Staff, notified her to head over to the White House today. She didn’t know what it was about, only that Cheryl said the President considered this matter urgent. Normally, this would be the most important matter she had to do today, but all she could think about was Huma.

  She entered the Outer Office, a tiny room relatively speaking, in a fifty-five thousand square foot building just outside the Oval Office. Two mahogany desks took up most of the room and on the desks rested keyboards and computer LCD monitors, which contained the President’s meetings and itinerary for the day. Anita, now seated at her desk, smiled at her as she crossed the length of the room. She gave her a wan smile back, though she didn’t know how sincere it looked. Anita didn’t know about Huma.