by Tom Haase
Outside, no lights shone on the unpaved lane that passed for a street. Only faint moonlight brightened this autumn night. Tara focused on the door of the house opposite, then looked up and down the street. She’d arrived two hours earlier to ensure she couldn’t be surprised by anyone in the house and that it remained clear of any surveillance. Now she felt confident on both counts.
Taking a deep breath, Tara tried to ease the tension in her butt. But nothing would help her nose. Baghdad smelled particularly foul at night, she thought for the hundredth time—a combination of spicy food, garbage, dogs, urine, manure, dead animals, and who knew what else. Shutting her mind to it, she adjusted the infrared goggles and resumed looking out of the grimy window. Waiting, waiting, and more waiting.
She rethought the circumstances leading to her sitting here. She could not believe it all. Her deployment to Baghdad had caused a major hiccup in a budding romance with a handsome Navy lieutenant commander in the Pentagon. She hoped they could get their relationship back together on her return to Washington. All she wanted was for him to understand this had great importance to her. She knew he didn’t comprehend why she had to take on this mission, and she had left Washington before they could work it out.
Tara knew this would be her one and perhaps single chance to conduct a covert operation, and she had no intention to let it pass, even though she held the position of intelligence analyst, not a field operative. After completing it, she could initiate her plan to get out of the military, enroll for her doctorate in History at Georgetown, and possibly marry Glenwood.
She recalled the reason she sat on this stool freezing her ass off in Iraq had started with an idea. She had attended an award ceremony at the Pentagon for one of the returning veterans from Iraq, who had lost one arm and had his face badly burned from a roadside bomb. This soldier, Sergeant Watts, had been assigned to her division, and she would see him everyday. A germ of an idea began festering in her mind and she thought it through, decided she could do it, and that she had the knowledge to carry it to its conclusion. She had a short time ago returned from a mission with one of the counterterrorist teams as an observer, not an actual mission but a training exercise. She’d learned how they operated and the equipment they used. Even as an observer it was not difficult to glean the technical skills they employed. She knew she could do it if she found herself in a similar situation. Tonight, sitting here in this dump, culminated in two years of effort from the day she had the original idea. It started to materialize when Tara had an appointment with the department head of the Defense Intelligence Agency’s data base directorate, Dr. Lucy Nolan.
“Doctor, I have an idea that I want to try. It’s simple, and it’s low budget.”
“Okay, Tara, what is it?” Dr. Nolan asked.
“I want to attempt to recruit a terrorist by using the Internet. I’ll post a message asking for assistance in learning how to construct improvised explosive devices here in the U.S. These things are causing us too many casualties in the war against the terrorists. I’ll ask for a man to help a woman learn how to build them so I can use them in America. I’ll use Islamic message boards. My objective will be to get to know one of them and maybe turn them.”
Tara’s presentation persuaded Dr. Nolan to authorize the attempt. Nolan knew Tara held professional proficiency in the language. The next day, Tara placed messages on the Islamic Army of Iraq’s web site, www.iaisite.net, and on Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade web site, www.kataebaqsal.com. As an afterthought, she put her message on a little known Saudi message board. It was a shot in the dark, but she had a hunch one of these might spark a response. The effort would not cost to the government, since no one but her would monitor any hits to her query. Few of the colleagues with whom she had shared her idea believed any Arab man would take a woman serious, and she did suffer a good many crank responses. Nevertheless, one interesting answer arrived. That one man turned out to be a winner. She wanted to solidify the contact and bring him under the DIA's control. It would be the greatest accomplishment in her military career.
Tara and her contact, who said his name was Mohammed, had e-mailed one another over the next year and a half—small exchanges of pictures and of insignificant details: innocuous things, like where they were born and where they had worked. Mohammed had also unwittingly provided snippets of intelligence that proved to be useful and accurate. On several occasions, these small bits of information proved to be beneficial in countering operations by the now-dead Abu Musab al-Zarqawi’s organization in Baghdad. Mohammed said he shared his leader’s hatred of the Americans, and anyone willing to inflict damage on the head of Satan commanded his attention. Tara had a suspicion there was more to it than that.
Over time, she provided bits of information she told him came from her government contract employer. She felt sure Mohammed had passed these morsels on to his leader as a means of advancing himself. Until last week, he had not given her any names. In that e-mail, however, he had mentioned a man called Al-Hanbali.
The slip may have been an accident, but Tara saw an opportunity. Consequently, she researched all the terrorist files at CIA, DIA, NSA, and the National Counterterrorist Center, part of the Department of Homeland Security. This led her to believe the leader of the cell could be Tewfik al-Hanbali. Last week, Tara had e-mailed Mohammed, asking for a meeting if she traveled to Baghdad. He agreed. Mohammed also wanted money for his information, especially for names. This marked a breakthrough, for Tara knew traitors turned coat either for ideological reasons or for money. Now his real motive— money—shone through. The fact he could be bought provided a major advantage for her.
By now, Mohammed must have realized she could be an agent. He must have. In her reply, Tara told him she wanted to know about his cell and the names of the members of his group. She would pay for the information. When he replied to her e-mail, he agreed to the request for names. He specified the amount of money: $5,000 per name. That gave the signal Tara needed, the specific demand for money in exchange for information. She now had him on a hook. The time had come to close the loop on this man and run him as an agent.
After convincing Dr. Nolan of her belief, Tara pressed for permission to establish a regular system of exchange with this man in Iraq, and a date set was for Tara’s departure.
In the last contact, Tara had promised Mohammed money for his help and he had asked her to send it to an address in Saudi Arabia. The DIA did this, and their people found the address belonged to an old woman living in the town of Ayun. The agency tried to figure out that woman's relationship with Tara's contact, but as of yet, they had no information.
On this dark night in Baghdad, Tara now faced the present reality of her idea. Her mind focused and again she looked out of the window to search for her contact.
At last, a shadowy figure appeared at the end of the dirt street. It seemed for a second to be motionless. The person clutched his side. As Tara watched, the figure, appearing green in her infrared goggles, moved forward with great effort. The subject of her attention now limped.
Reaching the door of the house opposite, the man—she could see him dressed in a khafiyya and burnous—collapsed against it for a long moment before pulling himself upright with obvious effort and fumbling with the door lock for what seemed, to Tara, an eternity. If the man was her contact, he was fifteen minutes late.
At last, the man got the door open and lurched inside.
Tara did not move. She knew the drill—watch for two more minutes. Someone might have followed him. She sensed something wrong about the whole situation. No recognition signal on the door, before he had disappeared into the house, nothing to make certain, absolutely certain, this was her expected contact. Whoever he was, he appeared hurt, perhaps badly.
In an agony of indecision, her heart racing, Tara stared at the black hole of the half-open door across the street. Somewhere among the reek of Baghdad at night, she smelled something else. What? Then she knew it. Danger. She could now almost taste it.
&nbs
p; Nevertheless, her contact remained too important to give up. She had worked so long to get this man to turn on his terrorist cell, for greed, for money, or whatever reason he had done it did not make any difference right now. She had to know what Mohammed came to tell her. The figure must be him, he knew about the house, and he had a key to get in.
To hell with waiting, she had to find out the information. Standing up, keeping the flashlight off, she felt her way across the room to the door at the back. Tara pulled the black wool beanie over her hair, wrapped her black coat around her neck, let herself out, and slid along the wall. On coming around to the front of the house, she paused, no sound, nothing moving. Bending low, taking a quick look right and left, she hurried across the street. Keeping her hand on the Glock 19 automatic pistol in her pocket, she slipped through the half-open door.
The room comprised of darkness like the inside of a closed coffin. Tara shut the door and stood in the blackness of the room, every sense alert. The odor of Baghdad hung in the air. Now, in addition, the added musty scent of an abandoned house reeked.
Tara stiffened as she caught a faint scratching noise from somewhere. Rats? She shuddered. Where was Mohammed? Then she heard a soft moan from the far corner of the room. One hand on the pistol, she retrieved the flashlight from the pocket of her coat. She pressed the switch and let the tiny beam play around the room, careful to avoid the window. The circle of light revealed a wood table, a couple of chairs, and a single bulb hanging on a thin wire suspended from the center of the ceiling. Nothing else.
Then the light hit a heap of clothes in the corner and illuminated the pool of blood spreading from it, bright red in the flashlight’s beam. As Tara stood there, the pile of clothes moved, and the light caught a face. She recognized her contact, his face familiar from an e-mailed picture.
"God, what happened?" Tara whispered, sinking down on one knee beside him. "Mohammed, who did this? Are you badly hurt? Let me see." As she lifted the man’s head, his body shook in a fit of coughing, and he sagged against her knee.
The man raised one hand to touch Tara’s face and tried to speak, but coughed instead. He finally spoke and Tara bent over to hear his soft throaty words.
"Tara, you must listen," the man said in halting English. He coughed again, and a thin stream of blood ran down from the corner of his bearded mouth. "The Iranian and Hezbollah leaders are to meet with our leader in two weeks time at the"—the man gasped and clenched his teeth in a spasm of pain—"Beirut, the Intercontinental. Dirty oil..."
"Mohammed, stay with me. What do you mean, ‘dirty oil’?"
"I can’t... against America."
She bent closer.
"Send the money as you promised. I feel so..."
Tara gently turned his head and looked into his eyes. While she watched, they lost their focus. The eyelids fluttered and then stopped. When Tara moved her hand away, warm blood dripped from it. She felt for the pulse in his throat. There was none.
“Damn,” she yelled. Now what to do?
3
Nadim Rafsanjani
FRIDAY – 9:30 P.M.
BUSHWER, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN
While Tara knelt beside Mohammed in Baghdad, another related event played out in Iran.
On the previous night, Nadim Rafsanjani, a rather stocky young man with a strong build and a thick neck, had walked to work as usual. Proceeding toward the plant gate, he chatted with his fellow guard, Yusuf Mustafa, a friend for over ten years. Then Kemal Hassan had emerged without warning from a doorway and stopped in front of the two men.
“Nadim, my dear cousin, I would like a word with you in private,” said Kemal. Kemal dressed in jeans and a leather jacket with a solid black beard covering most of his face. Yusuf nodded at them both and continued walking to work. Nadim’s eyes went wide in momentary surprise as he stared at the man. He had not seen his relative for over two years.
“I know you are a true soldier of Islam and dedicated to the jihad against the infidels,” Kemal said as he put his arm around Nadim’s shoulder. Nadim drew back, but Kemal continued. “I am engaged in a battle that will bring great glory to our country. We will strike at what the Ayatollah Khomeini, of blessed memory, called the Satan of the West; it will be a devastating strike. We need your help.”
Nadim was indeed a fervent follower of Islam, but Kemal’s words put him on guard. The Iranian equivalent of gangster came to his mind. He shook the hand from his shoulder.
“Why? I’m no soldier. I’m only a security guard at the plant here in Bushwer,” replied Nadim.
“Listen to me, Nadim. I’ll ensure you have enough money to buy yourself a new house, all new clothes for your family, and over five thousand rials to spend,” Kemal said.
Nadim barely earned enough money to secure a very basic lifestyle. He glanced at his cousin. “From what you are saying, I fear you would put me and my family in danger. I do not believe I can help you with your plans. I have a good job. We live okay. Find someone else to aid you in whatever you are trying to do.” Nadim picked up his pace as he walked on toward the plant gate.
“We know,” Kemal said, matching him stride for stride, “that you have access to the secret nuclear enriched uranium that is being developed at the plant. Even though our President has denied it is of weapons grade, we know it is, and it is stored in the area in which you provide security.” He blew his nose by placing his finger on one nostril. Then he stepped in front of Nadim, raised his hand, and pointed that finger at Nadim’s chest.
“We know too that as a security guard you go by to check the actual containers where the enriched uranium is stored. We’ve procured a container that is an exact replica. It is a matter of substitution, easy for you to carry out. I assure you, my dear cousin, that you will assist us,” Kemal said, moving in closer to stare into Nadim’s eyes.
“Go away and leave me alone.” Nadim pushed past him, leaving Kemal standing in the street.
When Nadim had returned home from work in the morning, he said nothing to his wife, Kabira, about the meeting with Kemal. She remained busy getting their eight-year-old son, Ashraf, ready to go. His son’s preparation for school and the encounter with Kemal brought back memories of when they were children some twenty-seven years ago. Kemal had always beaten up on the other smaller ones when they were on the playground. He often had a group around him who looked to him as their leader. Nadim, even then, tried to stay way from his cousin.
Right now Nadim resided at home and everything seemed to be all right. Kemal had not approached him this morning on his way home. Maybe he had gone away. He went to bed. In the late afternoon, Kabira’s shouts woke him from a sound sleep.
“Get up. Come on. Ashraf has not returned home from school. This had never happened before. We have to go and look for him. Now.”
“I am sure he is all right and just stopped to play or something.” Nadim rubbed his eyes, trying to come fully awake.
“No. He never stops until he comes home for his tea. Then he goes out to play. Something is wrong,” she shouted.
“Okay, okay, I’ll go find him.” Nadim knew Ashraf, like all school kids in Iran, came home for his tea as soon as school let out.
As he slowly got out of bed, a knock came on the door. When he opened it, there stood Kemal. “Come outside,” he commanded. Once outside and the door to the house shut, his cousin continued.
“You must realize we’re very serious, Nadim. You must do what I ask if you want your son returned to you tomorrow morning, unhurt. You must switch the canister. Do it tonight.”
“I can’t, they will know it is me,” Nadim cried.
“No, they will not. That is why we have the duplicate. When the morning rounds are completed, they will all be present, you will have left, and no one will suspect you of having replaced one with a copy.” Kemal walked a few steps away from the house and stared straight at Nadim.
“It will not be discovered until long after your shift, maybe not even for a day or two, by which time
there will be no connection to you. You will do it tonight. Wipe the canister clean of all fingerprints before you substitute it. You know these containers are radiation proof. You will be quite safe. After you do this, I’ll return your son and you will receive the reward I promised you.”
“I don't care about your reward. Bring me back my son,” Nadim pleaded.
“Your son will be returned to you tomorrow morning, but only after you have carried out your task,” Kemal said, handing over the duplicate container inside a knapsack. He turned and walked away.
Now Nadim opened the knapsack and saw a round cylinder about twenty inches long and twelve inches in circumference. It appeared silver, and the radioactive sign shown on the side and both ends. He took it out. It seemed to weigh about ten pounds. It did look like a match for the real ones he inspected on his nightly shift.
Before starting the walk to work, Nadim sat in the kitchen finishing his cup of tea. The house had always been simple in its decor and sported very few modern conveniences. The tables and chairs in the main room were all made of pinewood, and Kabira had placed pillows on some to provide a little extra comfort.
Even though early autumn, the cold had returned to southern Iran, most noticed at night. He went into their bedroom, got his wool sweater, and put it on over his dull gray uniform shirt. His employee badge always attached to the gray sweater identified him as a security guard at the Bushwer nuclear facility.
He kissed his wife and told her not to worry. Their son would be back in the morning he promised. She clutched at his arm and started to cry. He remembered her older brother was kidnapped in the Iraq war in the ’80s and he never returned. She appeared ready to go ballistic.