by Ethan Jones
Asif shrugged and stood up. He glanced at the white dog, whose head was leaning on its front paws. It seemed to be napping, but Asif knew better. As soon as he stepped closer to the dog, its ears perked up. It stood on its front paws and let out a low snarl to warn the owner. The woman gave the dog a gentle pat and avoided making eye contact with Asif. He silently cursed them and stepped outside.
He joined the handler at the table. He did not stand up to embrace Asif—as per the customary way friends greeted each other in the Arab culture—and also avoided using the traditional Muslim greetings. Instead, he shook Asif’s hand, then gestured toward the wicker chair.
“We could have sat inside,” Asif said. “It’s cooler.”
“Right. And crowded with infidels who would listen to our conversation.” The handler looked around. The nearest table was maybe ten feet away, well beyond earshot, especially if he and Asif exchanged low whispers.
Asif shrugged. “Well, we could have had this conversation at the apartment—”
The handler waved a dismissive hand. “I love their puddings. This one has dates, coconut crystals, and cacao, among other things. You should try it. It’s finger-licking good.”
Asif frowned. “I hate them and their stupid food. But you’ve started to sound just like them...”
The handler returned the frown and gave Asif a piercing gaze. “Watch your mouth, Asif. We need to sound, look, act like the infidels if we are to blend in and not stick out like our brother who is now in jail.” He leaned closer to the table. “Our operation is postponed because of his stupidity.”
“It’s easy for you to say that. You look just like them. Pale skin, dreadlocks, American education, better English.”
“Right, but I also make an effort, for our cause. It’s difficult, yes, but we must all do it.”
Asif nodded, but the frown remained on his face. “Are they still looking for us ... for me?”
“Yes. The FBI will never stop until they’ve found you. So, we have a change of plans. We’re moving you again.”
“Where to?”
“We thought about relocating you within the States or Canada, but the situation has become too dangerous. Canada and their security agencies have expanded their searches. Both countries are not safe for you anymore.”
“Europe then?”
“No, we already have enough people there. Your services are needed back home. Iraq.”
Asif’s face showed no emotion, but a wave of excitement washed over him. He would be among brothers, his own people, meeting old friends and going to a mosque without the fear of the police or the disgust of the infidels. But he also felt a sense of uneasiness. His return to Iraq meant there was a difficult operation in the works, something that needed his special set of skills.
“What is it? Bombing? Kidnapping? Execution?”
The handler scooped his pudding. “Mmmmm, this is delicious. Really, you should try it.”
Asif sipped his coffee. “You didn’t answer my questions.”
The handler reached for his phone inside his front jeans pocket. He tapped the screen, then slid it to the left and right until he found what he was looking for. “This is why you’re going back to Iraq.”
Asif glanced at the man in the picture. It was obvious that he was Caucasian, but his face was well-tanned. The man had brown eyes, a straight nose, and a strong jawline. The photograph showed the upper part of his body. He was wearing a desert chest rig over a bulletproof vest of the same color. Over his shoulder, the man was carrying an M4 rifle, the American-made weapon widely found across Iraq. Asif’s face formed a wicked grin. “It will be my pleasure to behead an American.”
“He’s not American, but close enough. The operative’s name is Javin Pierce from the Canadian Intel Service. He’s a corrector.”
Asif arched his thick eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“Not sure exactly. I think it’s someone who fixes other people’s mistakes.”
“Like me.” Asif smiled.
The handler nodded. “Yes, like you. Pierce has been dispatched to Iraq to fix a mistake made during the fall of Raqqa.”
Asif’s eyes turned into small slits. Raqqa had been the de facto capital of ISIS’s self-proclaimed caliphate in Syria. Asif had mourned over the crumbling of the caliphate and the deaths of tens of brothers in arms who were killed as they made their last stand. But a few hundred fighters had been able to escape, after negotiating a deal that gave them safe passage through the enemy that had besieged the city. The Syrian Democratic Forces, Kurdish forces, and local Arab and Shiite fighters wanted to avoid further bloodshed, so they agreed to allow the remnants of the ISIS army to leave the city, along with their families, tons of weapons and ammunitions, and many possessions. Most of the ISIS fighters were still in Syria or Iraq. They were regrouping and preparing to take back those lands they had lost.
Asif thought he knew what mistake the handler was referring to, but still decided to ask. “What mistake was that?”
“Allowing our brothers to escape certain death. A team of CIS and CIA operatives are in Mosul, hunting down some of our brothers who are hiding there.”
Asif’s face flushed with rage. He flared his nostrils and clenched his fists. “When do I leave?”
The handler gave Asif a look of caution mixed with irritation. “Keep your voice down.” He looked around, but Asif’s outburst had not drawn any patrons’ attention. The loud reggae music playing through the speakers was drowning out their conversation. “You’ll leave soon. We need to make the necessary preparations. And you shouldn’t underestimate Pierce and his team. There’s at least three of these operatives, working closely with the infidels of the Iraqi army and the Shia PMF.”
Asif cursed out the Shia militia. The Popular Mobilisation Forces were supported by Iran, a long-time sworn enemy of Iraq. Besides, some Sunnis like Asif hated Shias, who were considered as having renounced the true faith and worse than infidels, deserving of nothing else but death. The Shias believed that Prophet Muhammad’s successor should come through the prophet’s house. The Sunnis differed in their position, claiming that any one of the prophet’s followers could become the central figure in Islam. The division took place over 1,400 years ago, but still kept the Muslim community in Iraq and across the Middle East divided and in a constant state of conflict and fighting.
Asif said, “They will all die. I will kill them all with my own hands.” He began to grind his teeth.
“You will, you will, inshallah.” If God wills it. The handler again looked around. “But keep your voice down and focus. These operatives are nothing like we’ve seen before. They know our tactics, our supporters. We need something new to stop them. We need to think and be smart.”
Asif nodded. He drew in a deep breath to calm himself. “I understand. Yes, we will give the Americans and the Canadians pain and death. They have no business in our homelands. He who interferes with what doesn’t concern him, finds what doesn’t please him.”
The handler nodded. “Well said. Give me a couple of days to make plans. In the meantime, start to contact your network in Mosul and the surrounding villages. Reactivate them, order them to get ready, gather weapons, information. It’s time to wake up and fight back.”
“We will do that, and Allah will lead our hands, inshallah.”
“Inshallah, inshallah,” said the handler. “This team is getting dangerously close to our secret, and they might discover everything.”
“We won’t let that happen.” Asif clenched his teeth, then peered at the photograph of the Canadian operative. His fingers tightened around the phone. “You will die, Pierce. I will not rest until I’ve gotten rid of you. Perhaps I will cut off your head with my own hand...”
Chapter Two
UNHCR Hasan Sham Refugee Camp
Twenty Miles East of Mosul, Iraq
Javin Pierce snapped a series of photographs of children in tattered clothes running behind a small truck that was bringing supplies to the camp
overflowing with internally displaced people from the prolonged conflicts. He glanced at the long rows of white tents with the UNHCR blue logo and the people standing and chatting all over the crowded camp. Built to accommodate about eleven thousand people, the camp was home to almost fifteen thousand. The United Nations refugee agency was working to build at least ten more camps to meet the ever-increasing demand.
While the Iraqi Army’s military offensive to retake Mosul from the bloodied hands of the ISIS fighters had been successful, and most of the fighting had long ended, the situation had not improved much. The caliphate might have collapsed, but its legacy continued. Large parts of Mosul remained without running water or a reliable power supply.
Many houses and other buildings, especially in Western Mosul and in the Old Town—where the fiercest fighting took place—remained off limits because they were still booby-trapped with explosives. A great number of residents—who had ventured to return to their houses to salvage whatever might have survived the long months of relentless battles—had lost their lives or were greatly injured as a result of mines and other unexploded devices.
In addition, the enmity between the largely Sunni population and some of the Shia militia that helped liberate the city, which now had been included in the government’s security apparatus, continued. There had been reports of Shia fighters executing suspected ISIS supporters without any trial and with impunity. Finally, a new wave of sporadic but recurring small clashes between ISIS sleeper cells and government forces was a constant reminder that the situation was far from stable or secure.
Javin drew in a deep breath. Yes, Iraq and especially Mosul were still a big mess. And that was the reason he and Claudia, his partner with the CIS, had been dispatched to the area. Along with a team of CIA operatives, they were hunting for ISIS sleeper cells, especially looking for two prominent leaders who seemed to be instigating the recent attacks. As per Javin’s modus operandi, his team was working closely with local government forces—the Shia Popular Mobilisation Forces, or PMF, and Iraqi Federal Police—to correct the situation.
The operation had taken him to the camp, under the pretense of reporting on the refugee crisis. His cover story was that he and Claudia were two freelance Canadian journalists, interested in interviewing camp residents, to hear their stories. Liberty Smith, the Deputy Camp Manager, had agreed to give them a tour of the camp. However, Smith had been tied up with a meeting in Mosul and had yet to arrive.
Javin took a few more photographs of a woman rocking her baby outside one of the tents to his left. He wondered if she was one of the ISIS fighters’ family members, which according to some estimates made up almost thirty percent of the camp’s population. The woman was not on the list of ISIS widows that he and Claudia had come to see and hopefully convince to cooperate and hand over valuable and actionable intelligence.
A shuffling of feet came from behind him. Javin turned around as Claudia walked near the trailer the deputy manager used as her office. Claudia was wearing a brown abaya, the long loose robe that flowed down to her feet, and a blue hijab, the headdress wrapped around her hair and neck, but that left her tanned face exposed. Claudia did not have to adhere to the strict dress code and, underneath the robe, she was wearing a pair of comfortable black cotton pants and a t-shirt. However, the abaya covered her Sig Sauer P320 9mm pistol resting in her shoulder holster. Besides, the common clothes would be less intimidating to ISIS widows. “Javin, we got a call. Smith just arrived.”
He turned his head toward the entrance. A commotion was starting to form, with more children, a few women, and perhaps two or three men heading in that direction. “Let’s get ready.”
“She’s in a sour mood.”
“What happened?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
In a matter of seconds, a white Land Rover came to a stop in front of the trailer. The group of children and women surrounded the vehicle. Smith stepped out and began to talk to them. Javin was within earshot, so he heard their complaints about the lack of food and medicine. Smith’s face was covered in dust. She had dark circles under her weary eyes and looked like she had not slept in days, but she was calm and polite as she told the residents that she was doing her best to secure more provisions. Perhaps in a couple of days, she repeated a few times, before her driver—who Javin knew was also her guard—extricated her from the crowd.
“You must be Mr. Pierce?” Liberty said when she reached the trailer.
“Yes. Glad to meet you, Ms. Smith.”
“Oh, my mother calls me Ms. Smith, especially when I’m in trouble.” She laughed. “Call me Liberty.”
“Sure, and you can call me Javin.”
Liberty shook his hand. “Sorry for the delay. Business meeting took longer than expected. And all for nothing.” She fixed a couple of her blonde hair that had fallen over her eyes. Liberty sported a short, textured bob that brushed her shoulders.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Liberty shrugged. “It doesn’t concern you, but them.” She tipped her head toward the crowd that was slowly dispersing. “We live day-to-day around here. Our food supplies will last only three more days. But I just learned that the convoy will not arrive for at least a week.” She shrugged again and stepped closer to Claudia. “You must be Ms. Aquarone?”
“Claudia. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, come inside.”
Liberty climbed the two steps and led them inside the small trailer. Her office was sparsely furnished, with just the basics to carry out her tasks, and meticulously clean. She gestured for them to sit on folding chairs across from her desk, then said, “Something to drink?”
“Water,” said Claudia.
“I’m okay,” Javin said.
Liberty said, “I’m going to make some coffee...”
“In that case, I’ll have a cup,” Javin said.
“You?” she asked Claudia.
“I’ll stick with water.”
Liberty poured water in a glass from a large plastic container and handed the glass to Claudia. Then, Liberty filled the coffee machine’s pot with bottled water and opened one of the metallic cupboards fastened onto the wall above her desk. She pulled out a large can of coffee of a brand Javin had never heard of. “It’s not the best coffee, but it’s all I have.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Javin said.
“Wait until you try it.” She gave him a tired, yet beautiful smile.
Javin’s gaze went to a framed photo set on the desk next to the computer monitor. It was the picture of a girl, ten, maybe eleven years old, who bore a close resemblance to Liberty. The same large gray-blue eyes, thin nose, and dimpled chin. If she was the camp manager’s daughter, that put Liberty in her mid or late thirties. The exhausting work had taken its toll on Liberty, but she was indeed a beautiful woman. Javin noticed her slender hips, then his eyes admired the rest of her body. Embarrassed, he looked away. What am I doing? Focus, Javin. This isn’t the time to check her out.
He wanted to ask about the girl, but thought better about hitting a nerve. Liberty had been in the camp since it was opened, over two years ago. And her track record placed her in similar assignments across the world over the last seven years. Whoever the girl was, she had very little contact with Liberty.
As the coffee machine began its brewing cycle, she said, “We’ll have to cancel the tour, unfortunately, but you also wanted to interview some of the residents, right?” She turned around, but remained standing next to the coffee counter.
“Yes, if that’s possible.”
Arrangements had already been made, and all the permits were in order, so the stop at the manager’s office should be only a formality. Still, Javin wanted to keep the conversation as amicable as possible, especially after meeting Liberty. In this lawless land, he could use every ally they could find.
“Sure, sure. Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
Javin had a list of potentials, which he had recei
ved from Miraj, one of the survivors of the ISIS rule in Mosul. Along with a number of other residents, Miraj had put together a list of names of ISIS fighters and their close associates and supporters. The Iraqi army was rounding them up for intelligence-gathering, interrogations, and trials. Perhaps not exactly justice, but punishment was definitely raining down on the remnants of the caliphate. The CIA team members, with whom Javin was working closely, had expanded Miraj’s list to include ISIS fighters’ widows and other relatives. However, to make the list appear less obvious to the discerning eyes, they had included three or four names that had no connection to the extremist militants. “We do. It’s not a long list, about ten people or so.” He held up his tablet and flicked through the screens. “We’d like to hear from people who have come from different areas.”
Liberty walked to Javin and glanced at the tablet. “You know most of the people here came from Mosul?”
“Yes, I meant different areas of the city, to bring various perspectives to our story.”
Claudia leaned forward and said, “We’d like to bring a variety of angles to our report. Not just the usual plight of the refugees, but explore the reasons for their exodus, their hopes, dreams.”
Liberty was still scrolling through the list. “And you’re certain these are still in the camp?”
Claudia nodded. She had double-checked with the CIA assets inside the camp. Both men had confirmed that the ten targets were in the camp as late as last night. Unless they had left before Javin and Claudia arrived shortly after sunrise, they should be there. “I hope so. But if not, we can talk to other residents, whoever is willing to be on camera and give us their views.”
Liberty snorted. “Oh, yes, they all would like to give you a piece of their mind and tell you how things should be done around here.” She sighed. “The problem is not that we don’t know, but we don’t have the means. We can only do so much because we only have so much.” She returned the tablet to Javin.