by Robert Gandt
“This was recovered from a half-destroyed building in Mashmashiyeh this morning by one of my company commanders. The room where it was found appeared to have been used to confine a prisoner.”
He handed the object to Maxwell. It was a notebook, the kind used by school children, with ruled pages and a hard cardboard cover. The notebook showed the signs of heavy use, warped and frayed around the edges.
Maxwell opened it to the first page. At the top of the page was a handwritten entry:
Volume III: The daybook of Lt. Cmdr. Allen S. Rasmussen, USN.
The breath nearly went out of him as he read the page.
When I left Abu Graib this morning, the Iraqis kept the two volumes of my daybook. They obviously don’t want any written record of my captivity here to leave Baghdad.
My new captors—they call themselves Sherji—have provided me with this new note book. I have no idea why they have taken custody of me, nor what they intend to do with me. If they try to extract information from me by torture, they will become as frustrated as the Iraqis. . .
Maxwell had to sit down. His eyes blurred with tears. A jumble of thoughts flooded his mind as he leafed through the pages of the worn notebook. He could see ink smudges, fingerprints, tangible traces of the man he once knew as Raz Rasmussen. The entries had gaps of several days, sometimes weeks. The writer kept records of his diet, the weather, his dreams, thoughts about death and captivity. Thoughts about his wife and children.
The last entry was dated 16 March.
Yesterday.
A chill came over Maxwell. Only one day ago, Rasmussen had been writing in this book. They had been so close. He could almost feel Raz’s presence in the pages of the book.
Gritti said, “I was supposed to turn it over to Bronson along with all the other documents we found.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Something about Bronson bothers me. I wanted you to see it first.”
Maxwell nodded. He held the notebook up. “Can I take this?”
“Sorry. Everything we recovered in Iran goes to the CIA.”
“What if it disappears after you hand it over to them?”
“That possibility crossed my mind.” Gritti reached in the safe again and extracted a file folder and handed it to Maxwell. “That’s why I made this.”
Maxwell skimmed through the folder. It contained a sheaf of pages—copies from the pages of Rasmussen’s notebook.
“You don’t know where it came from,” said Gritti. “I’m trusting you to use it with discretion.”
Maxwell held the folder as if it were a holy object. The full gravity of what Gritti was doing struck him. He was risking his career and his general’s star.
“Why are you sticking your neck out like this, Gus?”
“Remember when I was caught on the ground with my team in Yemen?”
Maxwell nodded. “Al-Fasr suckered us in.”
“You stuck your neck out for me. You violated the rules of engagement by coming down to bomb the Sherji, and you saved our butts. Consider this a payback.”
It occurred to Maxwell that perhaps he had underestimated the Marine. Gus Gritti was more than just a superb infantry commander. He was a righteous warrior and a priceless friend.
“Yes, sir. You have my word on it.”
< >
The Seahawk helicopter lifted from the deck of the Saipan, then lowered its nose and accelerated toward the distant silhouette of the USS Reagan, four miles across the Gulf.
Boyce took his eyes from the cabin window. He said to Maxwell, “Whatever you’re about to do, don’t. That’s an order, by the way.”
“What makes you think I’m about to do anything?”
“I’ve seen you in this mode before. You’re like a goddamn rat terrier with a bone. Leave it alone, Brick. Let the professionals handle it.”
“Meaning Bronson and his fellow professionals?”
“Meaning the CIA and the intelligence community. It’s their show, not yours.”
“Do you think they will exchange Al-Fasr for Raz?”
“I don’t know. They don’t tell me how to run an air wing, I don’t tell them how to run an intelligence operation.”
For a while Maxwell kept his silence, watching the deep blue water slip beneath the helicopter. In his satchel was the folder with the copied pages from the notebook. Bronson was right about one thing: He was several fathoms out of his depth. He should shut up and let the professionals handle it.
To hell with that.
“CAG, suppose we run this by the admiral.”
Boyce rolled his eyeballs. “Hightree already wants to court-martial you for not splashing the Iranian Tomcats. I advise you to stay the hell out of his sight for the rest of the cruise.”
“He’ll get over that. The possibility of a missing POW is something he should know about. He can run it up the chain of command.”
Boyce didn’t answer. He took his time unwrapping a cigar, snipping off the end, wetting it, inserting it in a corner of his mouth.
“Hightree undoubtedly has been briefed about the capture of Al-Fasr. Being an admiral and a political animal, he will be glad to take the credit for grabbing one of the most wanted terrorists on the planet. I’m willing to bet that he has zero interest in giving his prize back in exchange for a prisoner no one knows exists.”
“We know he exists. Are we going to leave him behind again?”
Boyce clamped down on the cigar and shot Maxwell a look of pure exasperation. “You know, Maxwell, sometimes you are a huge pain in the ass.”
“Yes, sir. So I’ve been told.”
Chapter 19 — Informer
USS Ronald Reagan
1815, Thursday, 18 March
Boyce was right The admiral hadn’t forgotten about the Iranian fighters.
“Commander, Maxwell, do you have the slightest notion what a direct order means?”
“Yes, sir. I take full responsibility for my decision about the Iranian fighters. But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.”
Hightree stopped pacing the deck of the flag bridge and glanced at his watch. “I’m waiting for a call from Fifth Fleet. What’s on your mind?”
“Al-Fasr, the terrorist leader we captured. In my opinion, sir, we should exchange him for an American POW the Bu Hasa Brigade is holding.”
Hightree stopped in mid-stride and peered at Maxwell. “Excuse me? Am I missing something here? What’s this about an American POW?”
Maxwell told him about Al-Fasr’s proposition. Then he told him about Raz Rasmussen, omitting any mention of the notebook that Gritti had captured.
Hightree was speechless for a while. He took several minutes to ponder the information.
“Who else knows about this besides you?”
“Captain Boyce and Colonel Gritti. And Bronson, the CIA officer.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve blundered into an area that’s off limits, Commander Maxwell.”
“Yes, sir, I may have. But Raz Rasmussen was our fellow naval aviator. If there’s any possibility that he’s alive and out there, we should do whatever has to be done.”
“Including get into a pissing contest with the CIA?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Intercede. Run it up the chain of command, see if they’ll approve the exchange.”
Maxwell caught the look of distress that flashed over Hightree’s face. The admiral turned away for a minute, seeming to search for an answer somewhere in the haze over the Persian Gulf.
Boyce was right about Hightree, Maxwell decided. He was too cautious, too sensitive to the currents of politics. He wouldn’t swim against the stream.
And then Hightree surprised him.
“I’ll bring it to Fifth Fleet,” he said. Hightree’s immediate boss, a vice admiral based in Bahrain, commanded both the U.S. Fifth Fleet and the U.S. Naval Forces Central Command. “If he’s convinced that
we have a POW left behind, then I assure you he’ll take it all the way up the chain. All the way to the President, if necessary.”
Maxwell was stunned. “Thank you, Admiral Hightree.”
“Until you hear otherwise from me personally, this matter is classified Special Category Top Secret, compartmentalized. No one else is to know about it. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get out of here before I change my mind and court-martial you for violating orders today.”
“Yes, sir.” Maxwell turned to leave.
“Oh, Skipper. . .” Hightree was using the familiar title for a unit commander.
“Sir?”
“I want to thank you for exercising good judgment with the Iranians today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Maxwell left the flag bridge, closing the steel door behind him.
< >
Manama, Bahrain
Meeting an informer, reflected Tyrwhitt, was always a crap shoot. You never knew what would happen. Even in Bahrain, which was a shrine of peace compared to Baghdad or Damascus, you could get your throat sliced.
“Keep walking,” said the informer. “Follow this street through the souk.”
Because of its multitude of immigrant workers, Bahrain was an amalgam of cultures—Persian, Indian, Filipino, Indonesian, and a melting pot of Arab factions, most of them in conflict with each other. Like Al-Qaeda and Hamas, the Bu Hasa Brigade had placed their agents in Bahrain to glean tidbits of information from informers inside the American compounds. And just as in every intelligence-gathering group, some of the informers were double agents who worked both sides of the street.
Darkness had fallen over the souk, and in the yellowish glow from the lighted market stalls, it was difficult to see faces. With his dark suntan and scruffy beard, wearing a checkered kaffiyeh and the ubiquitous gellebiah, Tyrwhitt could pass for an Arab. The informer, who was a head shorter than Tyrwhitt, also wore a kaffiyeh and a filthy chambray shirt over khaki trousers.
Tyrwhitt kept walking. Mustafa Ashbar had tapped his most closely held sources to put Tyrwhitt in contact with the informer. The man was nervous, his eyes darting in each direction. He took furtive, bird-like steps as he spoke. “Here, at this corner, we turn and follow the back street.”
The street was nearly deserted, all the stalls closed and their proprietors gone to the coffee house. Tyrwhitt was having a hard time getting the informer to talk.
“Okay, I’ll ask again,” said Tyrwhitt. “Why did the Bu Hasa attack the oil tanker and the Kuwaiti outpost?”
The informer made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Why do you think it was the Bu Hasa?”
“Bodies. Iranian bodies. Even the Iranians are not that stupid.”
“Then you already know the answer. Someone wished to provoke an attack from the Americans.”
“What someone? Al-Fasr?”
Another sucking sound. “Who else? Isn’t that why you attacked the Bu Hasa base?”
“Sure,” said Tyrwhitt. They both knew these questions were just warm ups. Part of the game to start a dialogue. “But why did Al-Fasr want that to happen?”
“He didn’t. He wanted the Americans to destabilize Iran. Perhaps topple the government in Teheran. With Iran and Iraq broken into pieces, he could establish his own state in the low country. The place he called Babylonia.”
Tyrwhitt noticed the informer’s use of the past tense. Al-Fasr wanted the Americans to destabilize Iran. Now they were getting down to the real purpose of the meeting. Did the Bu Hasa Brigade—what was left of it—know that their leader was alive and captured?
“Now that Al-Fasr’s base at Mashmashiyeh has been destroyed, where is he now?”
The informer shot him a wary look. “You know.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me.”
“He is nowhere. Dead, killed by your bombs.”
Tyrwhitt nodded, not sure who was duping whom. Either the informer was passing disinformation, or he was unaware that Al-Fasr had been captured.
“Then who is commanding the Bu Hasa Brigade?” asked Tyrwhitt.
“It has broken down into small units since the attack,” said the informer. “No new leader has come forward yet to reassemble them.”
Bullshit, thought Tyrwhitt. He knew enough about terrorist organizations to know that even when you cut off the head of the snake, another head always emerged.
As they walked, Tyrwhitt kept scanning the darkened buildings. It occurred to him that the informer might be leading him into a trap. It seemed unlikely. If anything, the little Arab was more worried for his own safety. He was nervous as a bird, his eyes darting left and right.
“Tell me about the Bu Hasa Brigade,” said Tywhitt. “What assets do they have left? Guns, missiles, how many, where they’re deployed.”
This was more to the informer’s liking. He spoke haltingly at first, then warmed to his subject, spouting information in bursts of Arabic. Though Tyrwhitt had a basic command of the language, he was having trouble following the slurred, consonant-rolling dialect. He tried to place the accent. North Africa, maybe. Libya or Morocco.
As the man spoke, they continued along the darkened back street, turning into a narrow lane that doubled back to the main souk. At the end of the lane Tyrwhitt could see the yellow lights of the stalls in the central market place.
He waited while the man finished talking about Bu Hasa’s defenses— a few ZSU 23 and 57 millimeter anti-aircraft guns, and some SA-7 man-portable missiles. As far as he knew, all the SA-2 batteries had been obliterated in the strike.
Tyrwhitt listened in silence. None of this was new—they already had good satellite and unmanned air recon photos of the installations—but it gave him a chance to gauge the informer’s veracity.
Who was he? Tywhitt wondered. Why was he willing to inform? Money was always an enticement, but the ancient rite of bribery hadn’t been effective with the Islamic extremist groups. They were motivated more by hate than by earthly comfort.
Maybe this one wasn’t a true believer. Or maybe he was disenchanted with the crazies in the Bu Hasa camps.
Or maybe he’s setting me up.
It was time to go fishing.
“Tell me about the prisoner you’re holding,” said Tyrwhitt.
The informer looked at him in surprise. “Prisoner?”
“You know the one I mean. The American pilot. Where did he come from? Iraq?”
The informer looked away, shielding his eyes. “I don’t know about a prisoner.”
Tyrwhitt could tell by the changed attitude that they’d gotten into new territory. The informer no longer had a script to follow.
“Sure you do,” said Tyrwhitt. “Everybody knows about him. He was captured during the first Gulf War, then Saddam Hussein turned him over to the Bu Hasa Brigade before the second war.”
He was shooting in the dark, but he could tell by the informer’s reaction that he’d struck something.
“You said you wished to talk about the Bu Hasa organization,” said the informer. “I have told you what I know.”
“That was just for starters,” said Tyrwhitt. He pulled an envelope from the inner pocket of his gellebiah. “This is half the amount we agreed on. Tell me about the prisoner and you will receive the rest.”
The informer looked at the envelope with renewed interest. Tyrwhitt decided that he had judged him correctly. The little bugger wasn’t a dedicated terrorist. Running through his veins was the blood of a capitalist.
The informer reached for the envelope, but Tyrwhitt held it just out of his grasp. “I believe you were about to mention a prisoner. . .”
The informer looked around again, then fixed his eyes on the envelope. “I may have seen such a person. In the compound at Mashmashiyeh.”
“An American?”
“It is possible.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. Al-Fasr called him ‘Nav
y.’”
Tyrwhitt nodded, showing no expression. Navy. It had to be him. The missing pilot. “Why would Al-Fasr keep such a prisoner?”
The informer shrugged. “We have asked the same question. It seemed to amuse him. Perhaps he thought the prisoner would be useful if—”
He froze. Tyrwhitt hadn’t been watching the narrow passageway ahead of them. He was absorbed in the tale of the prisoner. They had nearly passed the darkened entrance when he realized what was happening.
There were two of them, wearing black, one on either side, almost invisible in the inky darkness.
The informer saw them and let out a yelp. He whirled to run, but he was too late. The man in the nearest doorway intercepted him. He grabbed the informer’s arm, yanking him nearly off his feet, slamming him face first into the wall of the ancient building.
Tyrwhitt stepped backwards as the second man in black bolted from the doorway toward him. He saw something glint in the darkness. Amateurs, he thought. They were using knives for this job. They thought they would be quiet and quick.
He watched the assassin lunge toward him, driving the knife blade from waist level at Tyrwhitt’s midsection. Tyrwhitt balanced himself, waiting for the right moment. Timing was everything.
As the assassin committed his weight and energy, Tyrwhitt sidestepped and seized the man’s wrist with one hand. Stepping into him, he folded his arm over the man’s wrist and levered it upwards in one violent motion. He heard the wrist bone snap with an audible crack, and the assassin shrieked in pain. The knife clattered to the cobblestone path.
Just like training, Tyrwhitt thought. Except that in the CIA school at Quantico they hadn’t been allowed to actually break bones.
The assassin backpedaled, trying to regain his balance. Tyrwhitt coiled, then drove the heel of his hand into the man’s chin, putting all his weight into it. He felt bones and gristle crunch as the man’s head snapped backwards. He flopped backwards onto the cobblestones and lay motionless. From deep in his throat came a low gurgling death rattle.