He also had wanted to work with his best friend and former classmate, Stephen Viens, who headed the government's National Reconnaissance Office. Viens was the man who had arranged the Op-Center introduction for him. He also gave Stoll and his coworkers first-dibs access to NRO resources to the detriment and annoyance of his colleagues at the CIA, FBI, and Department of Defense. But they could never prove that Op-Center was getting a lion's share of satellite time. If they could, bureaucratic backlash would be severe.
Viens was on-line with Stoll at Op-Center and Mary Rose Whalley in Turkey to make certain the data coming from the Regional Op-Center was accurate. The visual images being channeled from the spy satellites weren't as detailed as those at the NRO: The mobile equipment provided just under half of the more than one thousand lines of resolution of the NRO monitors. But they were coming in fast and accurate, and intercepts of cell-phone conversations and faxes were equal to those that were being received by both the NRO and Op-Center.
After running the last of the tests, Stoll thanked Mary Rose and told her she was free to solo. The young woman thanked him, thanked Viens, and got off the secure downlink. Viens remained on his line.
Stoll took a bite of sesame bagel and washed it down with a swallow of herbal tea. "God, I love Monday mornings," Stoll said. "Back in the harness of discovery."
"That was pretty," Viens admitted.
Stoll said through cream cheese, "We build five or six of these things, pack 'em inside planes and boats, and there isn't a corner of the world we can't watch."
"You do that and you'll put me out of business faster than the Senate Intelligence Committee," Viens cracked.
Stoll looked at his friend's face on the monitor. The screen was the center one of three built into the wall beside Stoll's desk. "That's just a frosh dingbat's witchhunt," Stoll said. "Nobody's going to put you out of business,"
"You don't know this Senator Landwehr," Viens replied. "He's like a little dog with a very large bone. He's made it his personal crusade to put an end to forward funding."
Forward funding, Stoll thought. Of all the government sleights of hand, Stoll had to admit that that was the sneakiest. When money was earmarked for a specific purpose and those projects were back-burnered or altered, the funds were supposed to be given back. Three years before, two billion dollars had been given to the NRO to design, build, and launch a new series of spy satellites. Those projects were later canceled. But instead of being returned, all of the money was slipped into various other NRO accounts and disappeared. Op-Center, the CIA, and other government agencies also lied about their finances. They created small, so-called "black budgets," which were hidden in false line items of the budget and were thus concealed from public scrutiny. Those monies were used to finance relatively modest secret intelligence and military operations. They were also used to help finance Congressional campaigns, which was why Congress allowed them to exist. But the NRO had gone too far.
When the NRO's forward funding was discovered by Frederick Landwehr, a freshman senator who used to be an accountant, he immediately brought it to the attention of the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Congress acted swiftly to reclaim what was left of the money--with interest. And the interest included the heads of the responsible parties. Although Viens hadn't been involved in the parceling out of the money, he'd accepted budget increases for his satellite reconnaissance division knowing exactly where it came from.
"The press has to give space to a new face with a new cause," Stoll said, "I still think that when the headlines shrink, everything'll be sorted out quietly."
"Deputy Secretary of Defense Hawkins doesn't share your atypical optimism," Viens said.
"What are you talking about?" Stoll asked. "I saw the Hawk on the news last night. Every coif with a mike who accused him of mismanagement got his or her nose bit off."
"Meanwhile, the Deputy Secretary is already looking for a job in the private sector."
"What?" Stoll said.
"And it's only been two weeks since the forward funding was uncovered. There are going to be a lot more defections." Viens raised his eyebrows forlornly. "It really sacks, Matt. I finally get my Conrad and I can't even enjoy it."
The Conrads were an unofficial award given at a private dinner every year by the foremost figures in American intelligence. The dagger-like trophy was named after Joseph Conrad, whose 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales. Viens had coveted the award for years, and had finally won it.
Stoll said, "I think you're going to weather this thing. There won't be a real investigation. Too many secrets'll be made public. There'll be some wrist-slapping, the money will be found and returned to the treasury, and they'll watch your budget more closely for the next couple of years. Just like a personal audit."
"Matt," Viens said, "there's something else."
"There always is. Action followed by an equal and opposite reaction. What else are they planning?"
"I hear they're going to subpoena our diskettes."
That got Stoll's attention. His round, beefy shoulders rose slowly. The diskettes were time- and destination-coded. They would show that Op-Center was getting a disproportionate amount of satellite time.
"How solid's your info?" Stoll asked.
"Very," Viens said.
There was a sudden gurgling in Stoll's belly. "You, uh--didn't get that yourself, did you?"
Stoll was asking Viens whether he'd ordered surveillance on Landwehr. He prayed that his friend had not.
"Please, Matt," Viens said.
"Just making sure. Pressure can do funny things to sane people."
"Not me," Viens said. "Thing is, I won't be able to do much for you during the rest of the shakedown. I've got to give the other bureaus whatever time they need."
"I understand," Stoll said. "Don't sweat it."
Viens smiled halfheartedly. "My psych profile says I never sweat anything," he said. "Worst that happens is I follow the Hawk into the private sector."
"Bull-do. You'd be as miserable as I was. Look," Stoll said, "let's not go counting Mother Carey's chickens before the storm hits. If the Hawk flies the coop, maybe that'll take some of the pressure off."
"That's a slim maybe."
"But it's a possibility," Stoll said. He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. "I'm supposed to see the boss at seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working. Why don't we have dinner tonight? On Op-Center."
"I promised the missus we'd go out."
"Fine," Stoll said. "I'll pick you both up. What time?
"How's seven?" Viens asked.
"Perfect," said Stoll.
"My wife was expecting candles and hand-holding. She'll kill me."
"It'll save Landwehr the trouble," Stoll pointed out. "See you at seven."
Stoll clicked off feeling miserable. Sure, Viens had given him access to the NRO, but Op-Center had had the crises to justify that access. And what did it matter whether Op-Center or the Secret Service or the NYPD needed assistance? They were all on the same team.
Stoll phoned Hood's executive assistant, "Bugs" Benet, who said the chief had just arrived. Finishing his tea and engulfing the second half of his bagel, the portly young chief technical officer strode from his office.
* * *
FIVE
Monday, 2:30 p.m.,
Qamishli, Syria
Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.
"Imshee imshee--!" he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.
"Good afternoon," Mahmaud said dryly.
Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Mahmoud," he said with obvious relief.
"Yes," his brother said with a half-smile. "It's Mahmoud. Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?"
Ibrahi
m put his sunglasses on the dashboard. "I don't know. A man. I couldn't see his face. We were in a market and he wanted me to go somewhere."
"Probably to see a new automobile or an airplane or some other device," Mahmoud said. " 'Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me. Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be your wife?' 'Oh, thank you, djinn. You are most generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer, I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.' "
Ibrahim scowled. "Where is it written that one cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?"
"Nowhere, my brother," Mahmoud replied. He turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview mirror.
"I like women," Ibrahim said. "But women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated. Do you understand?"
"I do," said Mahmoud. "But you miss the point. I have a wife. I see her one night a week for an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with Walid. I am content."
"That is you," Ibrahim said. "When it is time, I want to be more of a husband, more of a father than that."
"If you find a woman who wants that or needs it," said Mahmoud, "I will be very happy for you."
"Shukran," Ibrahim said. "Thank you." He yawned and vigorously dug his palms into his eyes.
"Afwan," replied Mahmoud. "You're welcome." He squinted into the rearview mirror for a moment and then opened the door. "Now, Ibrahim, if you've washed away the dust of sleep, our brothers are arriving."
Ibrahim looked ahead as two cars passed them and pulled off the road. Both were large, old cars, a Cadillac and a Dodge. Beyond the two vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon.
Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland.
As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge. All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. The exception was Walid al-Nasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of al-Gezira on the Euphrates. It was partly the desperate plight of their once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become active in the movement. And it was the strength and conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander Kayahan Siriner, that kept Walid and the others active.
The seven Kurds welcomed the others with heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional greeting of Al-salaam aleikum, "Peace be upon you." Ibrahim and the others replied with a respectful Wa aleikum al-salaam, "And upon you be peace." They gave their confederates equally warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the business at hand.
The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. "Do you have everything?"
"We do, Walid."
Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did, Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His features were extremely dark, and the thick beard hid most of the lower half of his long face. The salt-and-pepper expanse was broken only by a long, diagonal scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to just behind his chin. It was a memento of the June 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, when his was one of over eighty Syrian planes shot down in the Bekaa Valley. Ibrahim felt humbled to be with him and deeply honored to be serving under him.
"The trunk of your automobile," Walid said. "It appears light."
"Aywa," Mahmoud said. "Yes. We put many of the weapons under the front and back seats. We did not want to be back-heavy."
"Why?"
"American satellites," Mahmoud said. "Our man at the palace in Damascus says that the satellites can see everywhere and everything in the Middle East. Even footprints. We have crossed sand in many places, and these satellites are able to measure the depth of tire tracks."
"They dare to be like unto the Mighty One, the Merciful," Walid said. He turned his face toward the skies. It was a face eroded by the hot sun and years of stress. "Allah's eyes are the only ones that matter!" he cried. "But we are told to keep vigil against our enemies," he said to Mahmoud. "You've acted wisely."
"Thank you," Mahmoud replied. "Also, the sentries on our own border might have noticed the weight. I didn't want them to move against them."
Walid regarded Mahmoud and his companions. "Of course not. We are peaceful, as the Koran teaches. Murder is forbidden." Walid raised his hands toward the heavens. "But killing in self-defense is not murder. If an oppressor lays violent hands upon us, are we not obliged to cut them off? If he writes ill of us, do we not sever the tips of his fingers?"
"If it is the will of God," said Mahmoud.
"It is the will of God," Walid confirmed. "We are His hand. Does the hand of God shy from an enemy, however great his numbers?"
"La," replied Mahmoud and the others, shaking their heads: "No."
"Is it not inscribed in the Celestial Plate, and thus inerrant? 'There was a sign for you in the two armies which met on the battlefield. One was fighting for the cause of God; the other was a host of unbelievers. The faithful saw with their very eyes that they were twice their own number. But God strengthens with His aid whom He will.' Is God not offended by our treatment at the hands of the Turks?" Walid asked, his voice rising. "Are we not the chosen instruments of God?"
"Aywa," replied Mahmoud and the others.
Ibrahim's response was quieter than that of his companions. He was no less devout than Walid or Mahmoud. But he believed, as did most, that the Koran advocated justice and not retribution. It was a matter of some debate between Ibrahim and his family, just as it was throughout Islam. Yet the Koran also taught devotion and fealty. When attacks against the Kurds had begun to intensify and Mahmoud had asked him to join the group, Ibrahim could not have refused.
Walid lowered his hands. He regarded Mahmoud's team. "Are you ready to move on?"
"We are," said Mahmoud.
"Then let us first pray," said Walid. Acting the role of the muezzin, the caller to worship, he shut his eyes and recited the Adhan, the summons to prayer. "Allah u Akbar. God is greater. God is greater. I witness that there is no god but God. I witness that Mohammad is the Prophet of God. Rise to prayer. Rise to felicity. God is greater. God is greater. There is no god but God."
As Walid spoke, the men removed their prayer rugs from the cars and placed them on the ground. The qibla, the direction of prayer, was chosen carefully. The men faced south, toward western Saudi Arabia and the holy city of Mecca. Bowing low, they offered their mid-afternoon prayers. This was the third of their five daily devotions, which were given at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, dusk, and after dark.
The prayers consisted of several minutes of private recitations from the Koran as well as personal meditations. When they were finished, the men returned to their cars. A short time later they were driving northeast toward the small, old city. As they did, Ibrahim reflected that they were one more caravan among the countless caravans that had passed this way since the beginning of civilization. Each had had its own means of travel, its own personality, its own goals. That thought gave Ibrahim a precious sense of continuity, but also of insignificance. For each set of footprints lasted no more than a moment in the impermanent sands of al-Gezira.
Qamishli passed quickly. Ibrahim paid no attention to the ancient minarets and the cluttered market. He ignored the Turks and Syrians who mingled freely in this border city. His mind was on the job and on his faith, not as separate things but as one. He reflected on how the Koran speaks of Judgment Day, the final fulfillment of both God's threat and His promise. He thought about how those who live according to the holy words and commandments will join the other faithful and the alluring, virginal houri in Paradise. And those who do not will spend eternity in Hell. It was that fa
ith, intensely held, that told Ibrahim that he needed to do what he would be called upon to do.
After they passed through the village, the cars moved on toward the Turkish border. Ibrahim rolled down his window.
The border crossing consisted of two sentry posts, one behind the other. One was Syrian, the other Turkish. There was a gate arm beside each booth and thirty yards of roadway between them. The road was weed-strewn on the Syrian side, clean on the Turkish side.
Walid's car was in the front of the caravan, Ibrahim's in the rear. Walid presented the visas and passports for his car. After the clerk examined them, he signaled an armed guard beside him to raise the gate arm.
Ibrahim began to feel the weight of destiny on his shoulders. He had a specific goal, the one Walid had selected for them. But he also had a personal mission. He was a Kurd, one of the traditionally nomadic peoples of the plateau and mountain regions of eastern Turkey, northern Syria, northeastern Iraq, and northwestern Iran.
Since the middle 1980s, the many guerrilla factions of the Kurds living and operating in Turkey had fought repression by the Turks, who feared that Kurdish autonomy would lead to a new and hostile Kurdistan comprised of portions of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran. This was not a religious issue, but a cultural, linguistic, and political one.
The undeclared war had claimed twenty thousand lives by 1996. Ibrahim did not become involved until then, when water became even scarcer in the region due to Turkish operations and his cattle began to die of thirst. Although Ibrahim had served in the Syrian Air Force as a mechanic, he had never been a militant. He believed in the Koran's teachings of peace and harmony. But he also felt that Turkey was strangling his people, and the genocide could not go unavenged.
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