“So how do we play it once we get inside?” Barron asked.
I looked over at the guardhouse where it appeared the captain had just handed Hussein our passports.
I said, “This won’t be a grab and go unless I say so. I want to hear what Jacob has to say, and I want him to hear what I have to say. I realize we won’t have much time, but things will be a lot easier if he comes with us willingly.”
As we saw Hussein walking back toward the car, Mitchell asked, “You haven’t said anything about how we’re getting out of the compound.”
“Unless something unforeseen happens, I’m planning on us leaving the same way we came in.”
“Is there a contingency plan in case something unforeseen happens?”
Hussein opened the car door and slid behind the wheel before I had a chance to answer him.
It was just as well.
* * * *
When Hussein handed us back our passports, he was all smiles. There was also a smile on the captain’s face as he stepped outside the guardhouse and waved at us.
Their beaming faces led me to believe the captain had just been given a handful of hundred-dollar bills delivered surreptitiously from the pocket of Hussein’s thobe.
I felt sure Hussein knew there was a lot more cash where that had come from, and he’d decided to spread his newly acquired wealth around in order to get his hands on the bigger pile of goodies.
“There was no problem,” Hussein said. “No problem at all. We can be on our way now.”
A few minutes later, the Ford Explorer was waved through the gate at the guardhouse, and we were inside the Al-Firdaus compound.
Hussein hadn’t been exaggerating about the compound being an oasis in the desert. Green date palm trees lined the streets, and flowering plants were in abundance.
Since the compound had been built from a master plan, there was a uniformity to the structures, although each of the cream-colored adobe homes appeared to have some unique architectural feature that set them apart.
Hussein stopped in front of a welcome sign that featured a large bubbling fountain. As he gestured off to his left and then to his right, he said, “The residential sections in the compound are located to the west and east of this main thoroughfare, and at the end of this road, there are recreational facilities, a grocery store, and a few shops.”
I tried to take in as much of the compound as possible, but that wasn’t too difficult since the whole area only covered about four blocks in the average American city.
Gauging by the uniforms of the men on the sidewalks, most of the inhabitants were officers from the Al-Jarba military base, and it appeared some of them had brought their families with them.
The women at their side were completely covered from head to toe in long flowing abayas of various colors, although from what I could see, their children were allowed to wear Western-style clothing.
I was struck by the contrast between this scene and the images Olivia had shown us of the Marlize Refugee Camp, where all I could see was abject poverty in every direction.
As soon as Hussein turned left onto a residential street, he called our attention to a marker in Arabic. “No one can get lost here because each street sign gives you directions. Of course, you have to speak Arabic to read it, but that one says West Street.”
“Does Jacob live on West Street?” Barron asked.
“That’s right. I thought I’d drop you off at his house first, and then we’ll find a spot for Mr. Brice to do his interview.”
Barron gave a short laugh. “Okay, Hussein, this probably sounds strange, but would you mind just pointing me in the direction of Jacob’s house and then dropping me off before we get there? I’d prefer to walk up to the door by myself.”
Hussein didn’t hide his surprise. “Uh . . . I guess that’s okay.”
“It’s an American thing,” Barron explained. “Believe it or not, sometimes men get emotional at reunions, and since it’s been five years since I’ve seen Jacob, I don’t want anyone around if that should happen to me.”
Although Barron’s explanation sounded like sheer nonsense to me, Hussein slowed down and pulled over to the curb.
“That’s Jacob house at the end of the street, the one with the brown shutters.”
Hussein and Barron got out of the vehicle together, and after Hussein had removed his suitcase from the trunk, Barron stuck his head back inside the vehicle and told Mitchell and me goodbye.
“Hope to see you guys again real soon.”
“Same here,” I said.
Mitchell and I watched in silence as Mason Barron began rolling his suitcase toward Jacob Levin’s house.
* * * *
Hussein quickly made a U-turn and headed back the way we’d come toward the entrance of the compound. As he drove, he talked about locations in Al-Firdaus where we could do the interview.
Before he’d gone very far, I spoke up. “Listen, Hussein. I have a suggestion. From what I can tell, there are several locations we could use to shoot your interview, so why don’t you just park your car at the entrance, and then we’ll walk around the compound and find the best spot.”
Mitchell chimed in. “That’s a great idea, Austin. It shouldn’t take long to find a good background shot in this place.”
Hussein seemed more than willing to cooperate with us, and a few minutes later, he parked the Ford Explorer at a bicycle rental shop near the welcome sign.
When we got out of the vehicle, I pointed over at East Street. “Ralph, why don’t you head in that direction?”
Mitchell nodded his head in agreement. “Sure thing.”
I gestured north away from the residential area. “In the meantime, I’ll go take a look up this way.”
“You’re going to split up?” Hussein asked, as he watched Mitchell strap his camera bag over his shoulder.
“We can cover more ground that way,” I said, “but I’d suggest you go with Ralph. If he finds a good location, he might need to have you help him check out the best camera angles for your interview.”
I figured he wouldn’t mind staying close to the person holding the moneybag, and, sure enough, he appeared eager to go with Mitchell.
He even offered to carry his camera bag.
Mitchell declined that offer.
As they headed east, I crossed over the road and headed north.
A few seconds later, when they were out of sight, I retraced my steps and started jogging down West Street toward Jacob’s residence.
When I came to the spot where we’d dropped Barron off, I could see him in the distance rolling his suitcase slowly down the sidewalk. I quickened my pace and managed to catch up with him when he was in front of the house next to where Jacob lived.
I pointed over to Jacob’s house. “Once we enter the courtyard, stash your suitcase near the entrance.”
“Will do.”
If the tracker on Gault’s suitcase was still working, then no matter what happened in the next few minutes, at least the Ops Center would be aware we’d made it to Jacob’s house.
“After we get inside,” I said, “you’ll need to keep an eye on the street, while I’m discussing things with Jacob.”
Barron nodded and then took off his sunglasses—the ones equipped with the video camera.
He offered them to me. “Do you want these? There’s probably only an hour of battery time left, but I’m sure the Ops Center would appreciate having live video, even if it’s only for an hour.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted a recording of my encounter with Jacob, but I took the sunglasses anyway. After making sure the logo was facing towards the front, I hooked one arm of the frame on the neck of my shirt.
By this time, we were directly in front of Jacob’s house, and once I swung open the gate, Barron and I entered the outer courtyard together.
I suspected my heartrate increased as we took the twenty steps over to the entryway.
I’m certain it did when I saw Jacob Levin standing at the fron
t door.
Chapter 36
The recent photographs of Jacob taken by Mossad didn’t fully capture the appearance of the man. Like Hussein told Barron earlier, he looked more like an Iraqi than an American.
This was due to his full beard and the clothes he was wearing—a white thobe and an elaborately embroidered ivory skull cap, along with a traditional checkered Arab scarf, or keffiyeh, draped around his neck.
As we stepped underneath the pergola of his front entrance, Jacob was staring at us from behind the glass entry door.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked in Arabic.
Before I had a chance to reply, Barron raised his hands in mock surrender and said, “Sorry, man. We only speak English. We’re Americans.”
The look on Jacob’s face was one of confusion.
I pointed to the GNS logo on my shirt and pretended Jacob didn’t speak English by slowly enunciating every word I said.
“Global News Service. We’re filming a news story about Al-Firdaus, but we got separated from our crew. Could you help us find our way over to the park?”
The moment I asked for help, he seemed to relax a little.
A few seconds later, he unlocked the front door.
When he opened it to step outside, he said something in English like “I’ll show you,” but I was too busy grabbing the door and shoving him inside to hear exactly what he said.
I could have shoved him a little too forcefully or maybe he tripped over his own feet, but he was thrown off balance by our encounter and almost landed on the ceramic tile floor. Instead, he managed to make a soft landing in a padded leather chair.
When I saw the stunned expression on his face, I made a quick decision and didn’t remove my Glock from my holster, choosing to go for a less intimidating approach by sitting down across from him on a matching sofa.
However, Barron didn’t follow my example. He immediately removed his weapon and began checking out the house, beginning with a small study adjacent to the living room.
Jacob seemed to come out of his stupor when he saw Barron enter his study with his gun drawn.
He shouted at him in English. “What are you doing? If this is a robbery, there’s nothing of value in there.”
When Barron didn’t reply and disappeared down the hallway, Jacob turned to me. “What is it you want?”
“Believe it or not, we just want to talk to you.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head, “and if you’re after cash, you’re going to be very disappointed.”
A few seconds later, Barron walked back in the living room.
“He’s alone.”
“I’m not going to be alone for long,” Jacob said, straightening his shoulders. “A colleague of mine is due here any minute. Just leave before he comes, and I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
“We know you’re waiting for Stephen Gault,” I said quietly, “and I’m sorry to tell you he won’t be coming.”
Jacob stared at me in disbelief without moving a muscle.
Finally, he said, “No, that’s not possible. I was told he made all his connections. They said he was in Riyadh.”
“He arrived in Riyadh, but someone murdered him in his hotel room a few minutes after he arrived.”
He immediately covered his head with both hands and started rocking back and forth. “Oh, no. Please tell me you’re lying. Please tell me Stephen isn’t dead.”
“I’m sorry. I saw his body myself.”
I motioned over at Barron, who had taken up a position near the windows overlooking Jacob’s street.
“He was also there.”
Barron glanced over at Jacob and nodded. “I assure you, Stephen Gault is dead.”
Then, in true Mason Barron fashion, he made a slashing motion across his throat. “Dead as can be.”
* * * *
Jacob immediately turned and looked at me, and, at that moment, I knew I’d achieved my first objective. He saw me as a sympathetic soul—at least in contrast with Barron’s uncaring attitude.
“But why?” Jacob asked, addressing the question to me. “Why would someone murder Stephen? He wasn’t a bad person, and he had an incredible knowledge of computers. Except it was more than just knowledge. Programming was innate with him. He knew all the programming languages. He understood algorithms, data structures, the whole thing.”
As Jacob continued praising Gault’s computer savvy, I was able to observe firsthand why Travis Zachary had described Jacob as being a little quirky.
Here he was sitting in his living room in the middle of the Yemeni desert with two strangers who had just broken into his house—one of whom was standing at the window holding a gun—and yet he was obsessing about the computer ability of a murdered man he hadn’t seen in five years.
I interrupted his monologue by making what I thought might be a mind-blowing statement.
“Jacob, we’re here because the President has ordered us to bring you back to the United States immediately.”
My declaration had its desired effect.
He stopped in mid-sentence.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about taking you back to the States.”
“Why?”
“Because the President has issued an executive memorandum ordering you to return home. We’re here to make sure you comply with that order.”
He looked down at his sandal-clad feet. “I see.”
“We’ll need to leave within the next twenty minutes.”
He began to shake his head, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. “No. No, I can’t do that. My work here isn’t finished. It’s not possible. No, I can’t go with you now.”
At that moment, I saw a glimmer of hope and zeroed in on it immediately. “Now isn’t a good time? Does that mean you have plans to leave Yemen when you’re finished working on the MODD system?”
“You know about the MODD system?”
Barron said, “Of course we know about it. We know everything.”
Jacob looked at me. “Yes, when the MODD system is fully operational, my work here will be done, but I can’t go until I’ve fulfilled my commitment.”
“You mean the commitment you made to the Saudis to give them the MODD system?”
“No, when I was in Karbala, I made a personal commitment to help the Iraqi people. That’s what I’m doing here in Yemen.”
“You made a commitment to yourself?”
He nodded. “I decided the best way to fulfill that commitment was to make sure the Iraqis had access to a MODD system of their own.”
Barron spoke up. “But you’re not here in Yemen working for the Iraqis, you’re here working for the Saudi government. You’re developing the MODD system for the Saudis.”
“No, you don’t understand. When the Houthis launch their war against Iraq, the Saudis will use the MODD system to protect them. That’s the Houthis’ ultimate objective, conquering Iraq, and they have plans to move into Iraq once they’ve gained control here in Yemen.”
As Jacob continued to lecture us on the Houthis, the puzzle pieces slowly came together for me. One of the pieces—the missing piece—was something I’d begun to suspect earlier, and I’d asked Carlton to check on it for me. Now, Jacob’s explanation confirmed my suspicions.
I glanced down at my phone to see if I’d missed any texts from Carlton, but the screen was blank.
Even so, I felt my theory was valid enough that it might be time to allow Olivia and Carlton to have a real-time view of my interrogation of Jacob from this point forward.
To that end, I reached up and touched the icon on the sunglasses dangling from the neck of my shirt.
I almost smiled as I pictured the scene in the Ops Center as the video of Jacob Levin—dressed in his Arab garb—pixelated across their monitors.
I felt sure a few of them clapped—except for Olivia, of course.
Once I’d given the occupants of RTM Center C enough time to identify Jac
ob, I turned and gave them a shot of Barron standing beside the windows, and then I turned and faced Jacob again.
He was still talking about the damage the Houthi rebels had done to the people of Yemen, and, after about thirty seconds, I cut him off.
“Excuse me, Jacob, but let me see if I’m hearing you correctly.”
I hated using the time to do a synopsis of what he’d said, but it was the best way I knew to bring Olivia and Carlton up to speed on Jacob’s state of mind.
I hoped it wouldn’t backfire on me.
* * * *
Jacob looked annoyed that I’d interrupted him yet again, and I apologized once more.
“I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I’d just like to clarify a couple of things. You said you made a commitment to yourself to help the Iraqi people while you were in Karbala. What influenced you to make that commitment?”
He looked at me as if he were just seeing me for the first time. “You haven’t told me your name.” He glanced over at Barron. “And neither have you.”
Barron said, “Stephen. You can call me Stephen.”
Jacob was noticeably shaken when he heard the name, and I immediately diverted his attention over to me.
“I’m Austin Brice, but our names aren’t important. Would you mind answering my question?”
He looked away for a moment. “I made the commitment because as soon as I arrived in Karbala to run the field tests on the MODD system, I fell in love with the Iraqi people, but it wasn’t until I started translating the material from Abdel Fattah’s hideout that I . . .”
He paused and studied my face. “I suppose you know all about Abdel Fattah, don’t you? You and . . .”
He glanced over at Barron, but I guess he couldn’t bring himself to say his name. “You’re both with the Agency, aren’t you?”
“We’re representatives of the President. That’s all you need to know about us.”
Five Years in Yemen Page 34