by Brad Taylor
But that was someone else’s concern. For me, I got to take Knuckles and Jennifer to the Cayman Islands to attend a party. Literally dressed in formal wear, just like James Bond.
Jennifer said, “Can I go pack? Or are you going to try and kill the mouse?”
“Damn it,” I said, “I wasn’t going to harm him. Get packed and cleaned up. The plane leaves in four hours.”
She gave me her disapproving teacher stare, then disappeared into the bedroom. Knuckles moved to the fridge and popped a Coke. He said, “You really suck at this.”
The cat came close to my legs and I tried to flick it away. And missed. I said, “You’d better not suck on the mission. I’m not sending Jennifer in just to watch you get compromised.”
He rolled his eyes and took a swig. He said, “Whatever. You’re just pissed it’s me doing the mission.”
I grew indignant and said, “Don’t give me that. You guys go into that place, and it’s all you. She can’t fight her way out by herself.”
“Pike, I got it. I don’t think you do. This is a cakewalk for her.”
Which really aggravated me. We were going off on a tangent I hadn’t expected, and I should have just shut up. I didn’t. Any conversation about her always brought my back up. “What’s that mean? I know what she can do. I’m the one who trained her. I’m the one who brought her in. I just want to make sure you understand.”
“Understand what? That you don’t trust her on her own? That’s a switch.”
I floundered for a moment, because that’s not what I meant. I think. He said, “I saw the Decoy tape. I saw what she’s capable of.”
Decoy was a teammate who had been murdered on an operation right in front of Jennifer, shot by a Russian who was about six foot six. The bear of a man had then tried to kill her. And had failed. It had been caught on a surveillance camera and had become Taskforce lore, surreptitiously passed around the team rooms on a thumb drive. I’d seen it myself, right after it happened, and it was the human condition at the most basic level. Survival of the fittest. It wasn’t pretty, but in the end, only one person had stood back up. Jennifer.
I’d never watched the tape again, precisely because of my connection to her. The damn thing gave me nightmares. Which was probably unfair, and exactly what Knuckles was trying to tell me. Jennifer had earned her sleepless nights because of the action, tossing in the dark like a thousand other Operators from a thousand different hits. I had not, and was doing her a disservice by trying to protect her.
I said, “Just don’t let her get in trouble. This sounds like fun, but it might be dangerous. Sometimes even we get in over our heads. Treat her like you would me.”
Knuckles laughed and said, “So I should put a muzzle on her mouth?”
“No, damn it. You know what I mean.”
Knuckles gave me a long stare. I heard Jennifer moving around in the bedroom, throwing things into a suitcase. He said, “Pike, she’ll be fine.”
I said nothing else, just nodding. The moment passed and he said, “Anyway, it’s not going to matter. This is a boondoggle. What’s a Brazilian billionaire got to do with terrorism? Who cares if he’s talking to some guy from Qatar?”
5
Sharif al-Attiya watched the footage of the US secretary of state until he waved to the cameras and entered a car, Sharif’s son, Haider al-Attiya, closing the door. He clicked off the wide-screen and said, “He did pretty well.”
Sharif’s assistant, Tarek al-Attiya, nodded and said, “He’s learning.”
Assistant was a little bit of a misnomer. Tarek was more a confidant. Twenty years Sharif’s junior, he was not immediate family, but he was of the same tribe, and he was shrewd, in both the ways of money and the ways of politics. The latter skill was critical in the state of Qatar and had facilitated Sharif’s rise despite the lack of a royal name.
Neither man was a member of the al-Thani tribe, and thus not automatically provided access to the inner circle of the ruling party—but also not placed in the line of fire from the multiple coups and machinations that name brought. No, Sharif was happy to remain safe as a trusted member of the business development sector of the extremely wealthy Qatar Investment Authority.
Since 2005, the emir of Qatar, through the QIA, had been aggressively investing in diverse portfolios throughout the world, touching everything from European football teams to pumping millions of dollars into Washington, DC, real estate. They invested in infrastructure in France, owned the venerable Harrods department store in London, had a majority stake in Miramax films in Hollywood, and were partners in energy production in Greece. They ran under the radar for most of it, with the world recognizing only the name Al Jazeera, the television network founded and owned by the Qatari government. They were everywhere, having a stake in just about every major bank in the world and many other financial institutions—including an almost 10 percent stake in the London stock exchange—and Sharif’s job was to seek new investment opportunities.
A perfect cover for his true passion: defending Islam and spreading jihad.
Sharif stood, walking from behind his desk to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city of Doha, the cranes and metal buildings blooming like weeds, changing the skyline almost daily.
He said, “He’s learning, but not fast enough. That activity in Afghanistan was almost a debacle. He’s still naïve. Still wants to carry the gun instead of work behind the scenes.”
Tarek said, “Like his father used to be.”
Sharif’s face clouded. “Don’t confuse my journey to fight the Soviets with his. What I did was out of duty. He did it craving a sense of adventure.”
Soothingly, Tarek said, “Sharif. Sir. You are cut from the same cloth. He did what he did for the same reasons as you. Both reasons.”
“He was supposed to just deliver the money. Create a conduit to fund the Islamic State in Afghanistan. Sow the seeds of chaos. Not go fighting.”
“He had to get it out of his system. As did you.”
“He almost got killed! And he killed American Special Forces.”
“He showed the Islamic State he has mettle. They trust him now.”
Sharif grunted, saying nothing.
Tarek said, “Is killing the Americans so bad?”
Sharif turned and said, “Only if they can connect it to us. They have long memories. When I fought there, I was a part of a group that killed Spetsnaz. We cheered for a day, and then were hunted for a year. They caught some of us.”
His face grew distant, lost in an ugly memory.
Tarek said, “He’s home now. They all are. Let the Americans hunt. They won’t find anything.”
Sharif waved his hand and said, “The landscape here is not the same. They don’t need to kill us with an iron rod, like my men endured. They can kill us with a diplomatic démarche. Times change. The emir will throw us to the wolves if we are seen as helping the fighters.”
Qatar was a Sunni state that adhered to Sharia law. They followed a competing agenda of integrating into the greater world system while actively funneling help to the very jihadists who had sworn vengeance on that system. Whether it was to curry favor to protect themselves from the jihadists or simply because of inherent desire was anyone’s guess. Eventually, with the Syrian civil war and the rise of the Islamic State, the issue had come to a head, with the Sunni states of the Gulf Cooperation Council, headed by Saudi Arabia, breaking ranks with Qatar, and the United States and the European Union starting to rumble, no longer willing to look the other way.
Under pressure, at first Qatar eschewed governmental backing, proclaiming their innocence while turning a blind eye to wealthy government members individually supporting various jihadist groups. Then, when evidence of the secret deals began to mount, they began taking overt action, the state system trumping jihadist fervor.
It was a fine line, and everyone on the world
stage knew it. Qatar was still the closest state system that could penetrate into the world of the jihadi, having proven that by brokering the release of the captured US soldier Bowe Bergdahl for five Taliban terrorists held in Guantánamo Bay, along with numerous ransom negotiations from a plethora of European countries for members held by various groups, but the world couldn’t abide a government that had such close ties to killers. At least overt ties. Because of it, Qatar had taken a strong and vocal hand against support.
Tarek glanced at his phone, reading a text message, and said, “He’s in the building. On the way up.”
Sharif nodded, caressing his neatly groomed beard. He said, “Should we continue?”
“Yes. You have the method. You send money all over the world, and Greece is the perfect place. Well, Istanbul would be better, but Greece is good enough. Stay out of Turkey. Too political. Greece is lying on the ground, bleeding. They need us, and we can use their banks.”
Sharif nodded and the door opened, allowing in his son, Haider, and two others. Sharif turned, a smile on his face, which faded to a scowl when he saw the entourage. He said, “Please, wait outside.”
Dressed in traditional Gulf attire, like Haider himself, both men nodded with downcast eyes and exited, closing the door behind them.
Sharif said, “What are they doing here?”
Haider, a tall, hawk-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard, said, “What do you mean? They’re with me. They’re my security.”
“You don’t need security here.” Sharif spat the word out with disdain.
Haider faltered and said, “They protected me in Afghanistan. They’re my friends. You’ve met them before. What’s wrong?”
Tarek glanced at Sharif and said, “Your father has concerns with them. They are bastards, yes? No father?”
Exasperated, Haider said, “Yes. Yes, you both know that. We’ve been friends for a long time. They have a father. He just chooses not to claim them. Sometimes I feel the same way.”
Sharif took that in without a ripple and said, “‘Friends from school’ does not get them into our business. Friends, you play football with after studies. You don’t invite them into your world.”
Haider said, “I trust them. Without them I would have died in Afghanistan. Father, you have Tarek. I have them.”
Sharif bristled and Tarek stepped between them, breaking the tension. He said, “Yes. He does. Let’s hope their counsel is as good as mine.”
Sharif chuckled, and Tarek continued. “So what did you learn today? Is the United States willing to support our investment in Greece? Will we get pushback?”
Now happy to inflate his meeting, Haider said, “No, not at all. The crisis in Greece has reached a boiling point, and the EU isn’t backing down. That leaves foreign investors to float them. The United States isn’t going to step in in an official capacity, but they don’t want to see the euro fall apart. They would love for us to invest, if only to stave off the inevitable.”
Sharif said, “Good. Good. So we can start inflating our accounts in Alpha Bank without fear of the United States protesting?”
“Yes, but that’s not the best news.”
Not hearing, Sharif said, “I want to start using those banks. I want to start transferring funds employing the usual mechanisms. Siphon off the same amount. Small enough to remain under the radar but large enough to do some good. As we did in London. As you’re going to do in the Cayman Islands. We need to get you there as well.”
Haider said, “Father, you didn’t hear the best part.”
Looking at a calendar, Sharif said, “We missed the visit to the Caymans because of the secretary of state’s visit, but you can go the week after next. After you solidify your Greek contacts.”
Haider said, “We didn’t miss the Cayman trip. I sent Ahmed.”
Sharif snapped back to Haider and said, “What?”
Haider ducked his head and said, “I sent Ahmed Mansoor. I told you I trust him.”
6
Sharif was flabbergasted. “The friend of those idiots outside? You sent him on a fact-finding trip? What on earth does he know about Cayman banks? What do any of them know about that?”
“He’s actually doing more than checking out the banks. Father, let me be my own man. I have learned much watching you. I’ve found an investment for the QIA. A real investment in Brazil. He’s investigating it for me. It’ll be worth it. An inroad into South America.”
Sharif felt the rage grow, squeezing the head of Tutankhamun on his desk, a gift from the former president of Egypt Mohamed Morsi. A supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood. Now gone. Another failure.
Speaking slowly, he said, “You. Do. Not have the authority to do this. You have no authority.”
Haider stammered for a moment, then drew up. His voice not nearly as strong as his stance, he said, “You gave me the mission to the Caymans. I’ve made it more than just dithering with the banks. I have created an opportunity for an investment in Brazil.”
Sharif looked at Tarek, shaking his head, saying without words, See what I mean?
But he couldn’t bring himself to chastise his firstborn. He had five daughters, but only one son. Something he secretly cursed. What he wouldn’t give to have a brood of men to choose from. But he had only one.
He said, “Tell me about it.”
Haider did, and Sharif was mollified somewhat. He said, “Okay. Ahmed can continue, but he flies home immediately. No further contacts. He comes to me, personally. With you.”
Haider shifted again, agitated. Sharif said, “What now?”
“I told Ahmed he could take one of our boats to America. To Key West. For a vacation.”
The yachts owned by the QIA were legendary for their splendor, and they were all over the world, but they were restricted to those who had earned the right to use them. Sharif was astounded.
“You actually gave him access to one of our yachts? Even I can’t use them without . . . without . . . ever.”
Sharif tried to maintain control but was having difficulty. How to explain that slight? How to explain someone not of royal blood was taking a yacht to Key West from the Cayman Islands?
Haider said, “It was going to Miami anyway. He’s just riding. I didn’t order it to go. All I did was ask for a stop in Key West.”
Tarek stepped in and said, “Haider, you mentioned that we hadn’t heard the best part of your visit. Please, what was that?”
Sharif glared at his son, saying nothing. Haider, on shaky ground, hesitated. Tarek nodded. Haider said, “Jonathan Billings—the United States secretary of state—said they were holding peace talks with the Taliban. They’re holding a secret meeting, hoping for a ceasefire.”
Sharif heard the words, but didn’t believe them. “Peace meeting? Something we don’t know about? The Taliban have an office here, in Doha. The peace overtures happen here, in Doha.”
“Not according to Billings. He said the government of Afghanistan has worked a separate front, away from Qatar and away from the world. The Taliban wants to talk, but can’t do it on the world stage, with everyone looking at their every word.”
The thought was disquieting, because it meant the Taliban was willing to capitulate. Move away from the reason they existed: a Sharia state. It meant an end to fighting in Afghanistan, an end to the influence of Salifist thought. A country that would become exactly what he despised: another secular state.
It was the very reason he had sent his son to open up discussions with the nascent Islamic State in Afghanistan. He’d feared the Taliban peace overtures in Qatar, the fear solidifying when they’d opened up an official office with the support of the Qatar government.
Peace would free up the hated United States to focus on areas they’d been woefully misguided about, precisely because of their fixation with Afghanistan. Iraq, Syria, and Yemen were all viewed under the optic of Afghanis
tan. A peace there would embolden future incursions. Future engagements. And future successes.
He had fought the Soviets, but had no illusions about the United States. They were a different animal altogether. Naïve for sure, but not dumb.
“Why would Billings tell you this? If it’s to remain secret? He was supposed to be here solely for Greece.”
“I think it was his back-channel way to inform the emir. I think he believes I have the ear of the government, which, given your position, we do.”
“When is this happening?”
“I don’t know for sure. I do know he’ll tell me. He trusts me and wants to include Qatar behind the scenes.”
“Did you promise anything?”
“No, no. I demurred, neither confirming nor denying his thoughts.”
“And you now have contacts with ISIS in Afghanistan? You can infiltrate the meeting?”
Haider hesitated, then said, “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You will. You’re the man Billings trusts, and your actions in Afghanistan have given you leverage with the Islamic State.”
Haider absorbed the newfound responsibility and looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken.
Sharif continued. “When is Ahmed Mansoor going to the Caymans?”
Confused at the intensity of his father, Haider said, “He’s there now. The meeting is tonight. Why?”
“Because I can’t let that imbecile affect what you’ve just told me. We need to stop that peace overture. In the most violent way possible.”
7
The sea was fairly calm, but the boat was rolling enough to cause the view from my spotting scope to swing wildly due to the magnification level. I hit the stabilization feature, and the front patio and swimming pool of the “castle” came into crystal view, the setting sun backlighting it in a halo. I saw the security walking back and forth, then a glint of reflected light as one put some glass on us.
Satisfied with the angle, I flipped the switch sending the feed to a tablet I had mounted on a bench, right next to the dive package I wouldn’t use. Beside it hung a tuxedo and formal dress. I turned to Jennifer and said, “Frogman done yet? The guys are looking now. They need to see him.”
