Asset Seven

by James E Mack

  ‘All working.’

  The men nodded and left the room, their part done. They would sit in the communal room drinking dark tea that was half liquid, half sugar and watching Nigerian soap operas that they didn’t understand on a TV with a broken speaker. Vic watched VOLTAGE for several minutes, assessing whether the man had truly broken or was playing for time by pretending he had. But Sayed was good at this. If he said a detainee had broken, then Vic took the Secret Policeman at his word. Nodding to himself, he grabbed the water and snacks and headed into the meeting room. He opened the door and noted that VOLTAGE didn’t even look up. Vic could smell soap and saw immediately how much cleaner and presentable the detainee was. Taking the other chair available, Vic slid a bottle of the water and the tub of fruit and nuts across the table.

  ‘Drink. Eat. It’s over. No more unpleasantness.’

  VOLTAGE looked up, caught Vic’s eye for a brief moment before reaching for the water, his hand shaking as he stretched. He struggled to break the seal on the lid and began to cry, shoulders quivering as he sobbed quietly. Vic made soothing noises and made his way round the table, gently taking the bottle from VOLTAGE and removing the top before handing it back to the detainee. VOLTAGE drank huge gulps from the bottle and Vic placed his hand on it, stopping VOLTAGE from tipping the entire contents down his throat.

  ‘Whoa there, whoa. You’ll make yourself sick. Take it slow.’

  He helped VOLTAGE by taking hold of the bottle and controlling the flow while he placed his other hand on the detainee’s shoulder, a soft, almost affectionate touch. When the bottle was empty Vic gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze and went back to his seat. VOLTAGE looked up at him, eyes bloodshot and staring from the shadows of the sockets, hollow and tight from exhaustion. He tried to speak but the sound was merely a garbled sob. Vic held up his hand, maintaining the soft, calm tone.

  ‘Take your time. There’s no rush. You’ve been through a lot.’

  More sobbing, as Vic had anticipated. It didn’t matter that VOLTAGE’s suffering had been under Vic’s direction, he was now being shown kindness and compassion for the first time since he was renditioned from Mexico. And Vic would continue to play the part of the good guy with the underlying threat that if VOLTAGE didn’t help him, there was nothing that Vic could do to stop those thugs taking VOLTAGE back out to the house of horrors he’d just survived. But Vic knew that wouldn’t be necessary. The shower, clothes, water, food and a kind human being were provided to be the antithesis of what the detainee had undergone. And Vic had yet to meet the detainee who chose to return to his torturers after being treated like a human being again. VOLTAGE looked up at him and cleared his throat.

  ‘Please. I will tell you anything you ask. Please. Do not let those men touch me again. I beg before Allah, do not send me back to them.’ His voice cracked and the sobs returned.

  Vic leaned forward, forearms resting on the table as he spoke. ‘Then don’t make me do it. I don’t want it, and you don’t want it but the only person with the power to stop that from happening is you Aban. Only you.’

  Voltage nodded and wiped his face with his sleeves, the arms of the jacket far too long but a deliberate choice, making the detainee feel small even within the clothing he was wearing. He lifted his chin and in a flat voice asked the question Vic had been waiting three days to hear.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  41

  8 MONTHS LATER

  CIA OPERATIONS’ ROOM, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Vic Foley shook the hand of the woman and noted the firm grip and eye contact that his superior maintained. The rolled-up sleeves and intense gaze adding to the picture of a senior officer mixing it with the troops. Diana Cahill was something of a legend within the CIA; a senior officer who had cut her teeth on the streets of Moscow and Beirut, survived a car-bombing while operating under Non-Official Cover in Pakistan and been an early champion of the drone program. Her star had been in the ascent throughout her career but her lead on the Bin Laden operation had cemented her standing with both the Agency and the folk that mattered on The Hill. Vic watched as Diana cleared her throat and looked around the busy room.

  ‘Okay. We all know why we’re here and what we have to do. Some years ago, I sat in this very room as two helicopters of Navy SEALs crossed into Pakistan airspace to bring retribution to the individual who slaughtered thousands of innocents on our home soil. For that operation to take place required a lot of faith: Faith that our Case Officers and Analysts had got it right. Faith that the Imagery Analysis Cell were correct that it was an unusually tall, Arabic man who paced the dusty yard of a compound in Abbottabad. Faith that we weren’t sending our brave SEALs into a bloodbath from which they wouldn’t return.’ She paused and indicated with her hand to the array of screens on the wall behind her.

  ‘But today, we don’t need faith. Because we have Intel; good, solid Intel from multiple platforms that corroborates what we’ve always known but could never prove: That the subject of tonight’s operation is the most effective terrorist that has been working against us for many years. Far, far more effective than UBL ever was. Up until eight months ago, this terrorist was smart; he only took us on in other people’s backyards, killing and maiming our soldiers and allies by proxy. But eight months ago, he directed an operation that would have meant the detonation of a dirty bomb in San Diego. And the game changed.’

  The Deputy Director of Operations turned and nodded to Vic. ‘Not only did we stop that atrocity, but we managed to capture the brains behind the operation and enjoy several productive interviews with him.’ There were some quiet chuckles at the Director’s euphemism, and she let them subside before continuing. ‘And that’s where we got our smoking gun ladies and gentlemen, well… several smoking guns. But that was only the start point. From there we tasked Assets, intercepted communications, maximized surveillance and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt the terrorist’s lead in the San Diego attack and several more that are in the pipeline targeting our Armed Forces and Embassies overseas.’

  She paused and walked over to a screen that displayed a clear photograph of the target; military uniform, a handsome, masculine face, strong jawline framed by a neat, white beard. The dark eyes cold and pitiless as they glared down at the assembled team dedicated to the demise of their owner. Diana Cahill pointed at the face on the screen. ‘Tonight’s target, Operation PERSECUTE, is both retributive and pre-emptive in focus. We have not informed Host Nation of our intent nor have we alerted any of our Five Eyes counterparts for obvious reasons. So, there will be repercussions; political and diplomatic as well as professional ones. But that will be dealt with by people far higher up the food chain than me. Our sole concern tonight is taking PERSECUTE off the board people and sending the message loud and clear to the world: You hit us, we hit back. Hard’

  There was a round of enthusiastic applause and the DDO held up her hand and waited until it had faded away before she continued. ‘Okay, you’ve heard more than enough from me so let’s get this done. Make us proud, people.’ Diana nodded to Vic again before making her way out of the room as everyone took their positions according to role. Headsets were donned, telephone and computer keys typed upon, comms links tested, video feeds brought on-line from the ISR assets which were predominately drone downlinks. The activity was busy but calm, each Head of Department experienced and confident in their abilities, handpicked by the DDO for this very reason. Vic was the exception to the rule; he had no role or input into tonight’s activities. He had been invited to the proceedings purely as an observer, an honor bestowed upon him by the DDO herself as a nod of thanks to Vic for stopping the San Diego attack and getting the Intel on PERSECUTE. As a rule, only those with direct involvement in the operation were cleared to be in the Operations’ Room during a live op, but Vic was grateful that he would get to see the end result of over a year’s worth of work. From the day he’d recruited Seven in a café in Beirut to sitting across from a broken Iranian Quds officer in a Black Site i
n Djibouti, everything had been leading to this moment. And tonight, he would get to see it first-hand. To see that the deaths of Ned, Randy and the other Delta guys had not been for nothing. That Seven’s sacrifice had been worth it.

  He looked up as the team monitoring the target aircraft announced that it would be wheels down from Damascus in ten minutes. The drone team acknowledged and confirmed. The Iraq desk provided an update that a vehicle convoy was mobile from the military side of the airport and moving to the commercial side. The NSA guys informed the group that PERSECUTE’s and associated cellphones were back up and live feeds from the devices were displayed on a dedicated set of monitors where the contents were rebroadcast in English. Vic read these transcripts with interest, noting that one of the associated numbers was confirming travel arrangements and received an acknowledgement which highlighted how many vehicles would arrive to pick them up. His gaze was naturally drawn to the drone footage of the column of SUVs that were speeding towards the aircraft as it taxied to a halt. One of the NSA technicians pointed to a screen.

  ‘PERSECUTE has been designated vehicle three with one other passenger.’

  Vic watched as the drone marked the third vehicle in the line of SUVs and he followed the progress of the red diamond shape superimposed on the roof of the car. The feed from the second drone showed airport staff shadowed by a dozen heavily armed soldiers rushing the steps to the door of the jet. Updates were coming in thick and fast from all elements and Vic felt the familiar excitement within him as the operation was about to reach its climax. The door of the aircraft opened, and the armed soldiers took up positions facing away from the jet as several individuals disembarked and made their way down the steps. The MQ-9 Reaper drone locked and marked the faces of the passengers and on a linked screen to the feed, the identities of the men were displayed with PERSECUTE’s details highlighted and enlarged to establish his prominence among the group.

  The individuals in the SUVs had jumped out and opened the doors for their distinguished guests. Vic watched as PERSECUTE took a back seat in the third SUV as the earlier text message had stated. Another man joined him in the back carrying a couple of small bags and the doors were closed by one of the SUV team. They waited until the vehicles were all complete with their passengers then the small convoy moved off, driving at speed through the airport and towards a manned exit where armed troops stood ready. The red diamond superimposed on the roof of PERSECUTE’s SUV marked him separately from the yellow diamonds on the others.

  Vic had been included in the final mission brief and knew that the intended strike area was outside the airport terminal and on an access road reserved for the movement of security forces and visiting VIPs. There was a quick update from the relevant elements to confirm everything was ready and as the convoy picked up speed along the deserted road, the order came from the Operations Center Command.

  ‘Prosecute, Prosecute, Prosecute.’

  There was silence in the room, every head turned to the feed from the drone cameras as the convoy of unsuspecting Iranian Quds officers made its way along a quiet Baghdad thoroughfare. The picture on the screen became a bright flash followed by roiling clouds that obscured the activity on the ground. As the smoke dissipated, a burning SUV could clearly be seen. The feed from the second drone had been zoomed in to pick up the granular details of the strike and Vic heard a couple of intakes of breath at the sight of an arm protruding from the twisted chassis of the burning vehicle. Around it, the other SUVs had stopped and were disgorging the passengers who ran to the scene of the strike, shocked and unable to comprehend what had happened.

  The NSA comm feeds showed numbers being called from the various cell phones and running transcripts in English kept the room abreast of the conversations. From these messages the panic was evident and an explosive device in the car the suspected means of the killing. A Case Officer from the Iraq desk spoke up.

  ‘From Asset with visual on ground, confirmation PERSECUTE is dead.’

  To corroborate this, several of the telephone transcripts were now stating the same information. There was a further silence in the room which was broken by the Operations’ Command Center Director clapping his hands. The applause caught on and soon the whole room was filed with the sound. Vic joined in, impressed with a job well done. He looked back to the telephone transcripts in time to see the confirmation from the Senior Quds officer on the ground that their most experienced exporter of terrorism was dead. The second most powerful man in Iran and a man who had dedicated his life to the killing and destruction of Americans and American interests around the globe. A man who had almost succeeded in detonating a dirty bomb on American soil. A man that the CIA computer-generated code had designated PERSECUTE. Vic took a last look at the real name of their target as it dominated the transcript screens:

  Major General Qasem Soleimani. Commander of the Quds force of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

  42

  ONE YEAR LATER

  SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM, WASHINGTON DC

  The boy looked up at the aircraft suspended from the ceiling with an expression approaching awe. This would be his fifth visit to the Smithsonian and if he had his way, he’d come to this wonderful place every day. There were so many amazing things in this incredible place that he was sure he would never get to see everything, no matter how long he lived. And the aircraft he was engrossed with, while something he’d seen on every previous visit, still fascinated him anew every time.

  Vic Foley smiled at Affan’s undisguised joy and fascination. He turned to the couple sitting beside him.

  ‘How’s he shaping up?’

  The woman smiled and indicated with her head. ‘Look at him; tells you all you need to know.’

  The man turned to face Vic. ‘He’s doing awesome. Learns quick and his English is already really impressive.’

  Vic was pleased with Affan’s progress. He’d never doubted that Martha and Joe would make great foster-parents for the boy, but the confirmation was welcome. He lowered his voice slightly. ‘And the nightmares?’

  Martha met his eyes. ‘Been months since the last one and even at that, it was pretty mild.’

  Vic was pleased to hear this. The boy had been hunted like an animal across a freezing mountain and experienced a brutal beating before killing the man who was intent on killing him. The doctors the Agency had assigned had diagnosed PTSD, but their prognosis had always been optimistic, mainly down to Affan’s age. Kids having a better track record of getting through these horrors in time.

  When Vic brought Affan back to the States he’d made it clear that he was personally liable for the boy and that the CIA owed the kid and owed him large. But his defensive stance had been unnecessary, the Agency stepping right up from the off, all medical and professional assistance opened up to the kid. It had been Bill Howard, his old Chief of Station who had told Vic to touch base with Joe and Martha. Martha was former Agency but left after blast injuries she suffered during a suicide-bombing attack on a hotel in Kabul. Vic didn’t know Joe; he was an older guy, former Green Beret who had finished his time in the military and now ran an outfit that introduced disadvantaged kids to the outdoors. Bill had mentioned them to Vic because he knew that they had fostered kids from troubled backgrounds before and would be a safe pair of hands on this occasion where it was even more imperative that the right people were involved. The moment Vic met them and explained the circumstances of Affan’s arrival in the US, he knew Bill had called it right. Calm, reasoned, showing empathy rather than sympathy for Affan’s experiences, the couple committed immediately to helping the boy. And the change in Affan was plain to see.

  The kid had needed several surgeries to the fractures in his cheekbones and jaw, dental reconstruction, and therapy sessions to deal with the mental traumas. But looking at him now, Vic saw a bright-eyed, happy kid enjoying himself at his favorite place. He’d filled out some too; gone were the hollowed eye sockets and gaunt cheeks replaced by a healthy teenager’s smiling face. The thick, matt
ed nest of hair Vic had seen in the mountains of Iran was now a glossy, thick mane that framed Affan’s face and Vic could already see the handsome young man Affan was one day going to be. He grinned and looked at Joe and Martha. ‘You’ve done a good job. Maybe too good. That boy is gonna be a heartbreaker for the ladies!’

  Martha laughed. ‘That’s exactly what Joe said about a month ago when we took Affan to a company cookout and he was very popular with the girls.’

  Vic walked over to Affan and laughed at the boy’s reaction when he saw the CIA officer. Big eyes, huge grin and practically sprinted across the gap that separated them, running into Vic at full speed and throwing his arms around him.

  ‘Vic! Vic! I didn’t know you were coming. It’s great to see you. Where have you been? It’s been too long!’

  Vic ruffled his hair and chuckled at the quick-fire questions. ‘Hey Affan, how you doing buddy? You look good man. Real good.’

  Affan stepped back and looked up at the tall American who had brought him to this country. ‘I am good Vic. Very good. Joe and Martha are the best. We went camping in the mountains last week and Joe and I caught fish and we cooked them on the fire then we went in a canoe where we saw a bear on the shore...’ He stopped as Vic laughed aloud and put his arm around the youth’s shoulders.