Brothers In Arms

by Marcus Wynne

  “A double?” Ray said.

  “You got it. Saddam arranged for only his highest confidants and most important people to have doubles—they had to be critical to his operations, and under the threat of assassination. The guy that got whacked was Uday’s private secretary in Iraq.”

  “So the Twins thought they were taking Uday out?” Ray said. “He was the principal target?”

  “Yep.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. What else do you have?”

  “Not much more than what we started with. He was a senior Iraqi official and personally acquainted with Saddam. Caught up in the purge Saddam oversaw after the defection of Hussein Kamel. Broken in the prisons, until his wife and secretary managed to bribe his way out after the war. Then here to the States.”

  “Nothing on what he did for Saddam?”

  “We can only speculate,” Callan said. “The guy is a wreck. Totally psychotic and out of touch with reality. One of the worst cases the Torture Center has ever seen, and they’ve seen the worst you can imagine.”

  “We need to find out more about Rahman Uday,” Ray said. “Have Dale monitor his sessions with the doctors, see what comes out of it.”

  “You got to give Dale some time,” Callan said, irritated. “He’s not even on the job yet and you’re already tasking him with additional duties.”

  “You’re right,” Ray said. There was no contrition in his voice. “But once he is, put him on to it.”

  LINDEN HILLS NEIGHBORHOOD/TORTURE REHABILITATION

  CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA CAMPUS,

  MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

  Charley sat at a table outside the Linden Hills Diner and basked like a big cat in the sunlight. But, like a cat, he kept one eye open and he saw Dale Miller across the street at Sebastian Joe’s in his normal spot. The younger man got up and walked down the sidewalk till he was directly across from where Charley sat. Then he waited for a break in the traffic and jogged across the street.

  “Mind if I join you?” Dale said.

  Charley pushed one seat out with his foot. “Sit down. I’d be glad for the company.”

  Dale sat down and plucked the menu from the spring clip that held it in the middle of the table. “Anything good?”

  “It’s all good here. You like coffee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Try their house blend. It’s great.”

  A waitress came out of the diner and hovered over Charley’s shoulder. “Got a friend today?” she said.

  “My one and only friend, Jan. Bring him a cup of that good coffee you make.”

  “You got it, Charley,” Jan said, smiling brightly. “Charley’s friend, do you want anything else?”

  “The coffee will do it,” Dale said. “Thank you.”

  The two men sat in silence and studied each other. Jan brought out a cup of coffee in a big mug and set it down in front of Dale, then went back inside.

  Dale blew on his coffee, smelled it, and let the smell grow in his nose.

  “Good,” he said.

  “You decide to loan me a gun?” Charley said.

  “Might could happen,” Dale said. “Guy with your history, I’m surprised you don’t have a few extra stashed.”

  “My history. Been checking up on me?”

  “A little bit. You?”

  “Not a bit. Figured you’d come over here and fill me in one of these days.”

  “Charley Payne,” Dale said. “A few years back, a shooter with the Special Activities Staff. Before that, a Charley Company door kicker on Okinawa. Your first sergeant was a Filipino named Evan Coronas; he went to Delta. That’s where I met him.”

  “You spent some time there, huh?”

  “A little bit. Seventh Group originally, then over to Delta. Then DOMINANCE RAIN.”

  “You just impressed me.”

  Dale shrugged and sipped his coffee. “You just impressed me, too. Not too many people know about the RAIN.”

  “Our guys ran with you all on occasion, when the bosses weren’t trying to cut up the same piece of turf.”

  “Not during my time.”

  Charley nodded, and stroked one finger down the bridge of his nose. “You were in on that Green Beret rapist thing a few years back.”

  He watched how Dale’s lips tightened and pursed, as though the coffee had soured in his mouth.

  “That’s right,” Dale said.

  “Ugly business.”

  “Not for the weak, any of it. If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you get out?”

  “Got sick of bureaucrats trying to run field operators. Got tired of good people being wasted in every sense of the word over misguided bullshit from desk jockeys.”

  Dale nodded and narrowed his eyes.

  “There’s a lot of that going around in government,” he said.

  “You, too?”

  “The same.”

  Charley drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Dale sipped again at his coffee, then set the cup down and leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his flat stomach.

  “How do you like your photographer’s gig?” Dale said.

  “What brought you to Minneapolis?”

  “The thing you mentioned. I stayed because I didn’t want to go back. I have a woman here.”

  “Ah,” Charley said. “Women. They will move us war dogs from time to time, now won’t they?”

  “You?”

  “A friend. He got me the gig with the PD. I was a photographer before.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “No, I was a shooter. But I got into it on the side. Sold a few pics after the Shield and the Storm, and got into it then. When I was ready to hang up the one, I had the other to pick up. I enjoy it.”

  “It’s a good thing to be into. And you make a living at it?”

  Charley laughed.

  “Such as it is, friend. Such as it is. I’m not getting rich, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Ever consider taking on a part-time gig?”

  Charley slouched a little more in his chair, then straightened up. “What do you have in mind?”

  Dale shook his head from side to side and grinned.

  “I guess I’m out of practice at this,” he said.

  “Always best to cut to the chase with guys like us.”

  “There it is,” Dale said. “Would you be interested in working a high-threat VIP protection detail for a couple of weeks?”

  “Now there’s something I hadn’t anticipated,” Charley said.

  “The guy that got whacked here,” Dale said. “He wasn’t the real target. His boss was.”

  “Wait a minute. You got something to do with all that?”

  “I do now.”

  “That’s serious business.”

  “It’s serious business. You’d be the number two, fifteen hundred bucks a day plus all expenses.”

  “I like the numbers. I’d have to know more about the gig.”

  “It’s only for a few weeks. It’s something you know how to do, and you won’t have to travel, it’s right here in town.”

  “There’s that,” Charley said. “How current are you?”

  “I’m rusty, but I still remember how. I’ve got a couple of other guys coming in to work for us, they’re up to speed.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Sure you have,” Dale said. “You sit out here every day, drink your coffee, and eat your rolls. You take pictures, sometimes for the PD but mostly for yourself. A couple of weeks of this gig, shortterm, get in and get out, and you can buy yourself a lot of worry-free time to do just what you like to do. And the truth is, Charley, I think you’d like the job. I know I had to think about it, but it’s good to have a mission again. You got a mission, Charley?”

  Charley took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes, then his furrowed brow. He looked at Dale, his face carefully blank.

  “You got a pretty good handle on me,” Charley said.

  “It’s not like that,” Dale said.


  “Just want your friendly neighborhood gunfighter along for the ride?”

  “Anybody in the business long enough to get gray hair is somebody I’d like to work with.”

  Charley laughed loud, his head thrown back. He looked at the younger man.

  “It’s just like riding a bicycle, isn’t it?” he said. He leaned forward in his seat. “Sure. Why not. I can use the money.”

  The other two members of the team were a matched set: Harrison and Ford. They were both ex-Special Forces NCOs who’d gone into VIP protection after their military service. Callan counted them among his most reliable and favored operators. Harrison was short and squat and massively muscled, while his partner Ford was whippet thin, a marathoner with lots of nervous energy. They were both current in VIP protection, having just stood down from a longish stint in Ohio a week before.

  The handover was quick and easy. Teams of federal agents descended on the offices of the private security company handling Uday. The CEO was more than happy to hand over his files and be rid of the client after he’d been apprised of the national security interest and the new level of threat. A team of US marshals took Mrs. Uday into their care and she disappeared into the machine called Witness Protection, there to wait for her husband. Dale got the working files, a detailed briefing from Mike Callan, and an introduction to Dr. Rowan Green while Harrison, Ford, and Charley Payne walked the landscaped grounds of the Torture Center.

  “Have there been any security incidents?” Dale asked.

  “Nothing,” Dr. Green said. “We weren’t aware of his connection to the Linden Hills incident. I think you’ve seen we have good security here. But our best protection is not letting people know who or where our patients are.”

  “How is Mr. Uday?”

  “How much do you know about psychology?”

  “Next to nothing,” Dale said.

  “Torture does terrible things to the mind. Mr. Uday is psychotic. He hears voices without his medication, and even with that he has under the best of conditions a tenuous grasp on reality. He has times when he is almost normal and can carry on a coherent conversation. But most often he has little understanding of what is going on around him. He hardly even recognizes his wife when she comes to visit him.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Of course. We’ll cooperate with you as much as possible.”

  Dale followed the doctor out of her office and down the hallway. Dr. Green paused outside a door with a small window in it. Dale looked inside and saw a tall, dark-complected man, stooped and thin, dressed in a blue and gold track suit staring out the window. Dr. Green opened the door and let the two of them inside.

  “Mr. Uday?” she said. “You have a visitor.”

  Uday continued to stare out the window, then turned slowly to face them. He studied Dale for a long moment, then said, “He is not the One. He is new, but he is not the One.”

  “Who is not the One?” Dr. Green said.

  “This one is not the One,” Uday said. “He is of the same kind, but not.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Dale said in a low voice.

  “It’s part of his delusion . . . he’s constructed an interior reality that helped him get through the worst of his torture. The One is a figure of some importance to him. If you listen to him long enough, you’ll hear about the One and some other recurring themes. Apparently he knew Saddam Hussein personally.”

  The Iraqi man looked at Dale with dark, blank eyes. “You’ll have a sad holiday. We’ll all have a sad holiday. Even the One. That’s what you want to know.”

  Dale felt embarrassed for some reason. The man’s intense look unsettled him.

  “What will he do under pressure?” Dale said. “If I had to grab him and run, what could I expect him to do?”

  “He’d more than likely shut down, curl up in a protective position. In the face of any violence, he’d resist any attempt to take him out of that protective position.”

  “There is no protective position,” Uday said. His voice was surprisingly deep. “We talk but there is none. Nowhere to go except with the One and he is on a sad holiday.”

  “What’s the sad holiday?” Dale said.

  “We don’t know,” Dr. Green said. “He makes constant references to the One and to the sad holiday, but we haven’t been able to piece it together. I can go over some notes with you, but I’m afraid it won’t make much sense.”

  “It might give me some insight into why people are trying to kill him,” Dale said. “Has he ever spoken about what he did in Iraq? Do you have any idea what he did?”

  “No. Only that he was a high-level intimate of Saddam Hussein and his son-in-law.”

  Dale found himself sneaking a look at the broken man, who returned his gaze with a guileless stare like that of a child.

  “I expected him to look differently,” Dale said.

  “Why so?” Dr. Green said.

  “I suppose I had a picture in my mind of what a torture victim is supposed to look like.”

  “For the most part they look quite normal, Mr. Miller. The one thing they have in common is that they’re all broken. You can see it in their body language when you know what to look for. It’s in his posture—you see how his shoulders turn in, how he seems stooped all the time? Exaggerate that posture and you have the fetal position, the position we fall into when we’re overwhelmed by events, the basis of the protective position when you’re being beaten.”

  “Do you know anything else about his background? Schooling, education, whether he had any military experience?”

  “Only what his wife told us. He had no military experience, but apparently he was afforded certain military privileges because of his high position. He was educated in Iraq and England. His advanced degree was in biochemistry.”

  “Biochemistry?”

  “That’s what his wife told us.”

  Dale turned and looked once again at the tortured man.

  A biochemist.

  TORTURE REHABILITATION CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF

  MINNESOTA CAMPUS, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

  To protect someone, you must think like an attacker. To protect someone from a terrorist attack, you must think like a terrorist. It’s the ability to anticipate the moves of the attacker that’s essential to a protector, and that ability was shared by Dale Miller, Charley Payne, and their two teammates. When they surveyed the Torture Center, they walked the grounds as an attacker would, analyzing avenues of approach, cover and concealment, alarmed points of entry, location of the lights, and the places of deepest shadow at night. Inside the old Victorian they identified all possible entry points, studied the locks, doors, and windows, and every possible way to approach the room where their principal slept at night. They brainstormed scenarios ranging from a stealthy entry to a full-scale armed assault and built contingency plans to counter each. The team was light with only four men, but their skill and experience made them formidable. They all knew the strength of a protection team is not the ability to fight, but the ability to avoid a fight and flee with the principal if necessary. While they could fight and fight well, each man knew the basic tenet of bodyguard protection: if they were drawing their weapons, they’d failed in their preplanning and situational awareness. And, more than likely, they were already dead and just hadn’t realized it yet.

  While both Dale and Charley had worked as protection operators before, they quickly came to rely on the recent field experience of Harrison and Ford. The stocky Harrison was especially good at survey work and preplanning, and Dale liked the way his mind worked. The bodybuilding ex-Special Forces NCO had a cunning and devious mind and cooked up all kinds of possible attack scenarios, which they then gamed to a defense. His greyhound-thin partner Ford was the team diplomat, popular with the center’s staff, and became the secondary liaison, after Dale. The team worked a routine twelve hours on, twelve hours off, with the off shift staying on-site in a bedroom converted to their use.

  Dale came down the
hallway from the bedroom they used as their operations center and tapped lightly on Uday’s door, then went in. He found Uday dressed and standing by his window, looking out at the flowers as he liked to.

  “Good morning, Mr. Uday,” Dale said.

  “It is morning,” Uday said. “The morning after the night. The night was quiet.”

  “I’m glad,” Dale said.

  He gently took Uday’s arm and guided him to the door. Uday stiffened when Dale touched him, then relaxed. Dale took him down the hallway to the commons room, where Uday took his breakfast with the other patients and staff. Dale sat him at a table and a white-clad staff member brought a tray with his breakfast. Dale took some coffee, and nodded to Dr. Green where she sat at a nearby table with some of the staff. She waved him to the table.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Uday,” Dale said as he stood. Uday didn’t answer, concentrating instead on spooning oatmeal into his mouth. Dale brought his coffee to Dr. Green’s table and sat in the open chair.

  “How was your night, Mr. Miller?” Dr. Green asked.

  “Uneventful. Just the way I like them. And you?”

  “Good. How is Mr. Uday this morning?”

  “He seems to enjoy our company.”

  “I have him for therapy this morning.”

  “I have it on the schedule. Would you mind if I sat in?”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “No. Would it be a problem?”

  “I think not,” Dr. Green said. “Do you have specific concerns?”

  “I’m curious about some of the threads that come up, like his insistence on a sad holiday. Any ideas about that?”

  “It may not mean anything. At this point I don’t have any specific idea what he means by that. It’s a recurring theme, but his delusions are still very much internal, and we only have these small bits that rise to the surface, like his sad holiday and the One, to work with.”

  “Have you been able to determine why he was tortured? Or was it just luck of the draw and a byproduct of his relationship with Saddam?”