Langley, VA
* * *
“AL-ABADI’S CAR DIDN’T go to the demonstration.” Darren Chesterfield looked up at the harried agent who stood in the doorway shaking a piece of paper at him. “We have confirmation that his Range Rover went to the other side of town.”
Chesterfield was already at his wits end trying to find another “patriot” to set up for the carnage that was about to ensue. “What do you mean he didn’t go to the demonstration?” He pushed away from the table and walked to the door. He spun suddenly and pointed a finger at the other people still working. “Do not stop! This needs to happen yesterday.”
The agent in the doorway handed him the printout and Chesterfield pushed past him and to the data acquisition center. He threw the door open and stood at the top of the dais. “I need satellite coverage of Karachi. Now!”
The men and women working silently at their computers paused and gave him blank stares. “You’re not authorized to—”
“We have a level one operation in place now and I need that intel!” Chesterfield took the short stairs in one long stride and approached the man’s station. “Get me that real-time view now!”
The man gave him a pursed lip stare then turned and punched his access code back into his keyboard. “Do you have coordinates?”
Darren thrust the sheet of paper in his face and let the man copy the information. “If you already have an action report I don’t see why you need a real view from the satellite.”
“I need to verify!” Darren looked around the room excitedly and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to calm down.
“If the op is currently in motion, shouldn’t you be in the operation’s center with the rest of the handlers?”
Chesterfield lowered his mouth to the technician’s ear and whispered, “This is a stand-alone, classified operation. Nobody is monitoring the activity. Now find me this fucking car!”
The man shook his head nervously and punched at the keyboard as the video view continued to focus in tighter. They found the area where the Rover was last spotted then widened the search. Darren reached across the man and pointed to the mouse. “Bring up the traffic cams, ATMs, anything you can to find this car.”
“I take it you don’t know where it went?” The man knew better than to ask, but opened the new computer window and began hacking the nearby cameras.
“Just find me that fucking car.” Chesterfield pulled a chair up and sat behind the technician. “As quick as you can.” He rolled the chair to the side and picked up the telephone on his desk. “Get me Colonel Nelson.”
Karachi, Pakistan
* * *
MAMOON-UR-RASHEED couldn’t help but smile as he and Tariq sold smaller flags to the people who worked their way past his shop. He had placed a large placard outside claiming that all Western flags were half price and they were leaving his store front by the dozens.
He turned to Tariq and gave him a broad smile. “This is going to be a very good day.”
Sameer and Balil walked back into the front room and Sameer wiped the sweat from his forehead. “All of al-Abadi’s flags are loaded and being delivered.” He plopped into the chair opposite of Mamoon’s desk and sighed. “All of that work, up in smoke.”
“That is what we do, Sameer.” Balil lit a cigarette and sat down at the foot of the stairs. “Soon we will be back to painting flags like normal.”
Sameer sighed again and stared at the streets full of people. “Have you ever seen so many before, Balil? This will be large.”
Balil laughed. “Of course it will be. Muhammed al-Abadi has paid handsomely for this crowd.” Balil blew out a blue-white stream and leaned against the steps. “Many say he will announce himself for office today.”
Sameer grunted. “Another rich man buying an election. Nothing changes.”
Mamoon stuck his head back into the shop and smiled through stained and crooked teeth. “We are almost out of flags.” He looked expectantly at Sameer. “Is there any more you can print?”
Sameer gave him a disappointing look. “We are out of fabric again, Mamoon. Unless you want us to peel the rest of the wallpaper off, there isn’t much we can do.”
Tariq approached Mamoon and handed him a large wad of money. “They are all gone.” His smile was contagious and Mamoon picked the boy up from the ground.
“This has been a very good day!” Mamoon laughed as he spun Tariq around then set him back on the ground. He quickly snatched the money from the lad’s hand and shoved it into his pocket. “There is no more to do today, my friends.”
Sameer raised a brow at the man. “What are you saying?”
Mamoon laughed and pointed to the crowds. “Go! Have a good time. We have no more fabric, therefore we can make no more flags. Take the rest of the day off.”
Balil smashed his cigarette out on the floor and stood, stretching his back. “I am going home.” He hooked his chin to the growing crowd. “I have no desire to make an ass of myself for Al-Jazeera.”
Sameer grunted a laugh as he pulled himself from the chair. “You make an ass of yourself here every day. You may as well show the rest of the world, too.”
Balil scowled at the man then grabbed his hat from the coat tree near the door. “Do as you like, Sameer. I am going home and I’ll watch you on the television. Maybe you can become famous.”
Sameer watched the man brush past him and walk out into the crowds, fighting the flow as he headed home. He watched as Mamoon sat at his desk and counted the cash they had earned. “About that bonus?” He held a hand out and watched as the smile faded from Mamoon’s face.
“Yes. Of course.” Mamoon rifled through the stacks and pulled out a few small bills. He slapped them into Sameer’s sweaty hand and looked the man in the eye. “I’ll square with you tomorrow. I just need to know what our take is.”
Sameer closed his hand around the pathetic sum and shoved it in his pocket. “Tomorrow then.” He stepped to the doorway and the familiar sting of sweat, body odor and dirty feet rose to greet him. He grumbled something to himself as he stepped out into the crowd and fought the flow of traffic. Like Balil, he had no desire to be a part of the spectacle.
15
Karachi, Pakistan
* * *
MUHAMMED AL-ABADI tried to force his eyes open but couldn’t against the bright interrogation lights. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we saved your life.” Jay stepped to the side and the light he had been blocking suddenly caused the captive to squeeze his eyes shut and turn away.
Bridger slipped in behind the man. “I’d answer him if I were you. Otherwise, we might have to release you and let you take your chances.”
“No. I know nothing. I swear.” al-Abadi strained against the zip ties holding him. “Why would the Americans want me dead? I am nobody. A humble servant of the widow, that is all.”
Jay turned to Gregg, a questioning look on his face. Gregg nodded and began tapping at the keys on his computer.
Bridger gripped the man’s neck from behind and pulled his face around to the lights again. “Maybe the widow sold you out?” He squeezed slightly and heard the man squeak in his throat. “Maybe she wants you dead? It wouldn’t be the first time somebody convinced the American government to kill on their behalf.”
Muhammed shook his head. “No! No! She would not do that. She needs me—”
“You’re a nothing, Abadi.” Jay stepped back in front of the light, allowing the man to squint again without burning his retinas. “I’m sure she would like you removed from the picture. Probably got caught skimming and she decided enough was enough.”
“No!” Muhammed cried as he struggled again. Bobby increased his grip and the man settled. “She would not. Asma needs me. I am her right hand.”
Bridger snorted beside the man’s ear. “A man…subjugating himself to a woman? Maybe she doesn’t consider you a real man if you’re so willing to serve her whims.”
Gregg snapped his fingers an
d Bridger released al-Abadi’s neck. He and Jay gathered around his computer and Gregg kept his voice low. “I wasn’t certain until he said ‘Asma;’ that’s the widow of Kashif Abu Faqir. He was a high level arms dealer until his death. Then the operation fell from view and the Agency thought that al-Abadi took up the reins. But it was her house that Ryan and Marcus followed him to when they thought he was headed to the airport.” He looked to Bridger. “Looks like the widow picked up where the husband left off and she’s kept it low key.”
Bridger shook his head. “That still doesn’t explain why the CIA and NSA would target this turd. Who does he sell to?”
Gregg shrugged. “Anybody and everybody. Specializes in old Russian armament from their occupation of Afghanistan. They left a lot of shit behind.”
“And this guy knows where it was stockpiled.” Jay stood and stared at the small man baking under the lights. “Still doesn’t explain why they would send a wetwork team for him and try to set up Bobby.”
“Seems to me that any of her clients could be pissed at him.” Bridger stretched his back and looked to Jay. “Why me? There are plenty of locals they could pin this on.” He turned and pointed at al-Abadi. “And why him? Why not his boss? If she is the head honcho in her husband’s organization now, why not her?”
Gregg shook his head. “Maybe they aren’t aware that she’s the one in charge? Maybe they think it’s al-Abadi and so…they decide to remove the biggest supplier of weapons to the region?”
Jay stood, still staring at the man under the lights. He tapped at his chin, his head slowly shaking. “None of this really makes sense. Why bother with such a small potato supplier? If they wanted him or his arms dealt with, a drone is much quicker.”
“But that would lead back to the military,” Bobby replied.
“And setting you up doesn’t take a lot more effort and still come to the same conclusion? As far as the folks here would be concerned, an American citizen is just as bad, if not worse, than the military doing it.” He shook his head again and sighed heavily. “This just doesn’t add up.”
Bobby marched to the circle of lights and pulled the cord supplying power to the stands. Muhammed blinked rapidly trying to remove the green spots from his vision.
Bridger squatted directly in front of the man and grabbed his chin by the beard, turning his face to his. “Talk, little man, or so help me, I’ll drag you right back to where we got you and send up a flare for the Americans to find you.”
“I swear. I do not know why they would target me.” The sweat rolled from his face as he tried to focus on the giant squatting before him. “We have done nothing different since the Soviets left. We are still—”
“Stop!” Bridger squeezed the man’s shoulder until he cried out. “Answer me. I’m not joking.”
“I have tried to tell you. I have no idea what—” Muhammed’s voice cracked as he tried to speak.
Bridger grabbed the man and lifted him, chair and all, and began making his way to the doors. The pair knocked over light stands and a small table before Muhammed began screaming. “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just please…I can’t know what the Americans are thinking. I swear!”
Bridger dropped the man and the chair teetered before falling over. al-Abadi winced as his shoulder smashed into the cold concrete but held his tongue. He wouldn’t give his abductors the pleasure of hearing him cry out again.
“Hey boss!” Steve shouted from the shadows. “We have chatter.”
Bridger kicked al-Abadi’s chair as he stepped away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The men clustered around Steve’s station as the man nodded then pulled a cell phone from his ear. “One of our CI’s at the airport. He’s positive he spotted a strike team.”
“At the airport?” Bridger shook his head. “That makes no sense.”
Jay held a hand up. “Shamsi. The Paks made a big ‘public’ deal of ordering the U.S. out of the base sometime toward the end of 2011.”
Bridger’s brows knit. “But…”
“But there have been rumors of the CIA still running their Predator strikes from Shamsi.” He shrugged and gave him an innocent smile. “We have CI’s at different locations that keep us in the loop if anything out of the ordinary goes on.”
“And I’m guessing the strike team was spotted at Shamsi?” Bridger turned to Steve, who gave a nod.
“According to my guy, they just lifted off in three very black, very unmarked gunships.” Steve clicked his phone shut and turned to Gregg. “Can you track an untraceable aircraft?”
Gregg smiled. “Hell no.” He cracked his knuckles and began tapping on his computer. “Hide and watch me.”
Bridger stiffened. “Tell me they’re not coming here.”
Jay shook his head. “They’d have no reason to.” He snapped a glance at al-Abadi. “Unless he has something traceable on him. Did you check for wires, devices, anything?”
Steve shook his head. “The only thing he had was that damned cell phone and we tossed it inside the garage.”
“Tell me you have something that can sweep for bugs,” Bridger asked.
“We swept him in the van.” Steve pointed to the locker. “In there.”
Bridger threw open the locker and pulled the wand from the top shelf. He marched to al-Abadi and lifted the chair back up. Starting at his head, Bobby slowly swept the man’s entire body, including the bottoms of his shoes. He looked to Jay, “I got nothing.”
“Then they’re not coming here.” He looked to Gregg. “Tell me you have something.”
Gregg shrugged. “They dropped off the map.”
Langley, VA
* * *
“WHAT THE HELL is he doing?” Darren Chesterfield leaned closer to the screen. “Can you clean that up?”
The technician tapped in the commands and the image stabilized and cleared. “It looks like a drug deal.”
Chesterfield shook his head. “No.” He stepped back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No. Not drugs.”
He reached for the phone again and punched in Colonel Nelson’s number. “It’s gone sideways on us Colonel. Abadi didn’t even go to his own demonstration. He’s using it as cover to make an arms deal. Right on the edge of town.”
Colonel Nelson didn’t mean to laugh out loud but the sound carried through the phone made Chesterfield’s testicles rise up inside his body. When the colonel finally came back on the line, he simply said, “The best laid plans of mice and men.”
The phone went dead.
Chesterfield leaned back and stifled a groan. This couldn’t be happening. They had to remove al-Abadi from the playing field with this operation. His death was key to selling the results to the moderates.
Darren Chesterfield paced the small area near the entrance and tried to think. If the strike team could later track the man down…no. He needed to die from the initial attack, not a bullet. It was crucial that the man appeared to be a victim of his own misdeeds. One doesn’t simply crawl into bed with the enemy and expect to come out clean. He stiffened and stared blankly to the far wall.
He pulled his coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door. The technician stood. “Sir? What do you want me to do with this telemetry?”
Chesterfield paused at the door then pointed at the man. “Destroy it all. No record that we ever pulled it up. Understood?” He turned and exited before the man could respond.
Chesterfield slammed his office door and picked up the phone. “Get me the Forward Operating Base in Torkham.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his sweat slickened hair. He knew that his only chance now was if the same operators that had tainted the flags were still in country. They could snatch al-Abadi and ensure that the man died from the effects of the flag burning.
He just had to pray that they were operational and could track their prey.
Karachi, Pakistan
* * *
THE DEMONSTRATION STARTED on time. Those being paid to protest
knew that if their employer was watching and they weren’t doing their jobs, they could miss out on a significant pay day.
People of all ages marched down the street carrying signs and banners and waving AKs over their heads. The signs were written in English so that the Western nations who viewed them would understand exactly their intent. “Death to Satan”, “Death to America”, “Death to Israel” and every variation one could think of had been hastily painted and many were still wet as the protestors marched, shouting and spitting at cameras.
Al-Jazeera had crews set up in three different locations, each pointed to show the long line of people willing to march in the streets and shout down the evil that they felt had invaded their lands. Reporters recited the very lines that al-Abadi had written for them, explaining the purpose of the march, the reasons why so many had come out to show their support for this noble cause, and the anger and frustration exemplified by the working poor of the region.
As if on cue, the many flags that Mamoon al-Abadi had made for the event were brought out and unfurled. Most were spat upon, dragged across the ground and some had rocks or bottles hurled at them. Many of the men carrying the flags had donned face masks to hide their identity, but just as many refused to. They wanted to be sure that their employer saw them as they burned the great emblem of the evil empire that had dared occupy their country.
Soon, flaming flags were hoisted high in the air as the crowd cheered or chanted “Death, death, death to the great Satan!”
However, moments later, people began to choke. Some fell to their knees while others turned from the crowd and vomited violently onto the streets. Screams were heard as women cradled the dying, choking themselves between sobs.
Flags of The Forgoten Page 14
