“Is he that music student you were dating at college?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s back home in Israel this semester. So is Noel. He used to date Rivka. That’s how Eli and I met, remember?”
I seem to recall hearing something about it last year. During Sarah’s sophomore year she dated a foreign student from Israel. Rivka, a foreign student herself, knew a whole group of them.
“What’s Eli’s last name, hon?” I ask.
“Horowitz. Eli Horowitz. He says he wants to meet you someday.” I hear a male laugh again in the background and Sarah giggles.
“Well, I’d like to meet him, too,” I say. I try not to sound too much like a father. “Why isn’t Eli at school this year?”
“Oh, his student visa expired and he didn’t renew it,” Sarah answers. “Same with Noel. There was some kind of stupid technicality with them.”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly hear alarm bells in my head. Perhaps it’s because of all the circumspection that foreign students have been receiving since 9/11. Immigration has cracked down on student visas since then and is ferreting out undesirables.
“Sarah, how much older is he than you?” I ask.
“Dad, please. He’s just a couple of years older. Um, three.” She sounds annoyed.
“Do his parents live there in Jerusalem?”
“Dad, what is this? What’s with the third degree?”
“Honey, it’s not a third degree,” I say, trying not to sound exasperated. “I just want to know who you’re hanging out with in a foreign country, that’s all. And Israel can be a dangerous place sometimes. You can’t be too careful. I’m your father, after all.”
“But I’m also an adult, Dad.”
“You’re not drinking age yet,” I counter.
“Oh, gee, like I have seven more months to wait,” she says sarcastically.
I almost point out that that is nearly a year, but I let it go. I don’t want the call to turn into one of our teenager vs. parent battles. Sarah and I went through some real knockdown drag-outs when she was in high school.
“All I’m saying is that you should find out a little more about him and his family before you get more involved, that’s all,” I say. I know it sounds lame.
“Dad, please. We dated for three months last year, but I guess you don’t remember that. I know him pretty well already.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop being a dad. Do you have plenty of money?”
“Sure, Dad. Thanks.”
“And you remember the phone number in case you need to reach me?”
“I’ve got it memorized,” she answers. This is a special toll-free number that she can call from anywhere in the world whenever I’m on assignment. It actually goes to Third Echelon and is then transmitted as a text message to my OPSAT, wherever I happen to be. No one but Sarah and I know the number. I instructed her long ago on how to use it, but only if it’s an emergency situation. Anything trivial can wait until my return to Maryland.
“So, when do you fly back to Chicago?” I ask.
“Next Saturday. Just when I’m about to get over the jet lag I have to turn around and go back,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s the way it usually is.”
“Look, Dad, I gotta go now. It’s great to talk to you.”
“Sarah, honey, you be careful, okay?”
“I will. You, too, with whatever it is you do.” There’s that touch of sarcasm again. She doesn’t like that she knows nothing about my work and has said so on several occasions.
“Okay. Have fun. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She hangs up.
I begin to wonder if my uneasiness about her boyfriend is simply the normal reaction a father might have to his twenty-year-old daughter becoming intimate with an older boy, or is it something else? I probably shouldn’t worry. Eli Horowitz lives with his parents. They’re probably wealthy, too, in order to afford to send him to America to study. I wonder what really happened with his student visa? I might have to make an inquiry about it.
There’s not a lot I can do about it now, I decide. I need to focus on the assignment at hand and study the documents that Lambert gave me this afternoon. They will reveal who my contact in Iraq will be and where I can pick up transportation, my SC-20K, the Osprey, and other equipment I may need. I imagine it’ll be through the army. Someone at the top of the food chain there will have been briefed.
As I finish preparing for the trip, I glance at the photo of my daughter on the bedroom nightstand. I feel a sudden urge to hug her and give her a kiss. Instead, I lightly touch my lips to my index finger and then touch the portrait.
That’ll have to do for now.
7
MESOPOTAMIA. That’s what Iraq once was. The name “Iraq” didn’t emerge until sometime in the seventh century. Mesopotamia was the location of Babylon and its legendary hanging gardens, regarded as the seventh wonder of the ancient world. The mythical Tower of Babel once stood in the land, and the area around Qurnah might have been the site of the biblical Garden of Eden. In the middle of the first century A.D., Islam swarmed over the region and Mesopotamia became the cultural center of the Arabic universe. Many believe that writing began in the region. The tales of the thousand and one nights originated in Iraq. Magnificent mosques and palaces dominated the cities, built by powerful rulers who insisted on displaying the country’s riches in tangible forms. Arabian Nights, magic carpets, sultans of swing . . .
It all sounds quite exotic and beautiful, doesn’t it? It’s too bad that our image of Iraq today isn’t what it used to be. Now we think of Iraq as a very dangerous, unstable country—war torn, shadowy, and unfriendly. I’m not going to speculate on whether we were right or wrong to invade Iraq in 2003. There’s no question that Saddam Hussein was bad news. His regime was cruel and merciless. But are the Iraqi people better off now? Who the fuck knows?
Today it’s difficult to believe that the Middle East, and in particular Iraq, was once the “cradle of civilization.” At least, that’s what the historians claim. It’s my business to know a lot about the Middle East, and I’ve extensively studied Iraq and the other countries in the region. That doesn’t mean I fully understand any of them. The Middle East is truly a very different world from our existence in the United States, and the sad thing is that many Americans and the U.S. government refuse to acknowledge that the Middle East will never be like the West. But it’s not my job to preach politics. I keep abreast of politics, but I try not to get too involved in them. I just do my job.
So many catastrophic events resculpted the world in the twentieth century. Prior to World War I, Iraq was part of the Ottoman Empire governed from Istanbul. The British mandate controlled the region after the war, and in 1932 the country was formally admitted to the League of Nations as an independent state—the first one in the Middle East. But the monarchy that had been installed by the British was overthrown in 1958 by nationalist Free Officers. In 1963 the Baathists took power, were overthrown, and succeeded in gaining control again in 1968. Until we toppled the Baath government in 2003, that’s the way things stood in Iraq. During those thirty-five years, Iraq engaged in a war with Iran, a war with Kuwait, a war with the United Nations forces led by the USA, and a war with its own people in the northern, Kurd-populated region.
Ah, the twentieth century. Such a happy time.
These were the thoughts that swam through my head as the U.S. Army transport touched down at the Third Army base outside of Baghdad. The plane stopped once in Germany. My ability to sleep anywhere at any time helped make the trip flash by in an instant. I was awake long enough to get off the aircraft in Germany, stretch my legs, and have a bite to eat. I slept through the second leg and woke up when the plane landed.
In between naps I thoroughly briefed myself on the current situation in Iraq. Even though an Iraqi government is in place, the U.S. still maintains a strong presence. The locals simply don’t have it together to adequately p
olice the country. The United Nations is committed to helping the country get on its feet again, but guess who’s bearing the brunt of the work? The good ol’ US of A, of course. And no one over here appreciates it. We deliver them from the evils of Hussein, and then they proceed to stab us in the back. Go figure.
Terrorist attacks continue to plague the country. You never know when a suicide bomber is going to drive his truck into yours. Every government officer and politician is a target because they’re seen as puppets of the corrupt Satan—America, that is. These terrorists are anywhere and everywhere. Iraq is a big country. There are tons of hiding places. Look how long it took to find Hussein. He was caught hiding in a hole in the ground. There are a few million holes in the ground in Iraq.
The attacks are blamed on the usual nebulous “insurgents” and anti-American rebels. The name al Qaeda is still bandied about as being one of the primary instigators of unrest, along with other smaller terrorist factions that seem to pop up every day. Lately, though, it’s the Shadows that provoke the most fear. Like al Qaeda, they don’t mind patting themselves on the back in public after a particularly nasty attack. They’re more publicity-minded than al Qaeda ever was. They send audiotapes, videotapes, letters, faxes, and e-mails to the various news organizations . . . signing them “the Shadows.” Of course, many of these missives could be pranks and copycat attempts, but our people take each and every one seriously. It’s what we must do.
Although the army base is on the outskirts of Baghdad, I notice the presence of many construction cranes in the distance, no doubt rebuilding the once great city. The 2003 war inflicted a great deal of damage. The 1991 Gulf War had also destroyed a significant portion of Baghdad, including schools, bridges, and hospitals. These were rebuilt over the next decade, only to be leveled once again. Baghdad has probably been demolished and rebuilt so many times throughout history that it’s a wonder that the city still exists. Nevertheless, it’s a very modern metropolis. There are portions of Baghdad that resemble the downtown areas of any major city in the West. On the other hand, Islamic architecture abounds in many areas, with pedestrian labyrinths of tight alleyways and court-yards. The mosques are spectacular, covered in intricate patterns of colored stones. Some neighborhoods of traditional housing still remain. Elaborate overhanging balconies—shenashil—that are really upper rooms distinguish narrow streets of traditional quarters. Handsomely decorated doorways front onto the street. One can get lost wandering through the maze-like paths of the older sections that are full of character and charm. I had been to Baghdad previously, before the war, and remember being struck then by the beauty of the place, hidden behind a facade of pain, hardship, and despair. Today, I’m sure, it’s no different.
I debark and present my special NSA papers identifying me as an Interpol police detective from Switzerland. I use my own name, but this cover story will go much further in Iraq than if I went around saying I’m an espionage agent with the NSA. As far as my business in Iraq is concerned, I am researching a report that Interpol will publish on the current state of terrorism in the Middle East. Once I’m cleared to enter the base, a sergeant leads me to an office in the bustling command center. The sergeant never says a word, but he eyes me curiously. I must look like one strange civilian to him, especially since I have NSA clearance. The sergeant leaves me in the hands of my contact, Lieutenant Colonel Dan Petlow, who greets me in a businesslike fashion. When we’re alone in his office, he tells me that he’s the only army officer in Iraq who’s aware of my mission. It turns out that he knows Colonel Lambert and has been in on the doings of Third Echelon for a long time.
“I was Rick Benton’s contact as well,” Petlow says before I can ask.
Petlow is about my age. I ask him how long he’s been in the country, and he replies that he’s lost track of the time.
“Not really, I’m just being facetious,” he says. “I’ve been here sixteen months now. This country tends to sour you.”
He offers me a soft drink and I take it. We sit under an electric fan because the AC in the building is being repaired. It feels like Phoenix, Arizona, outside, and it’s an oven in the office.
“Tell me about Benton,” I begin.
“He seemed capable but a bit reckless,” Petlow says. “I met with him face-to-face only twice. Didn’t know him well at all. He knew his stuff, though. He was an expert on all things Middle East.”
“What do you know about his recent investigation?”
“The arms dealing? Not much. Benton kept that stuff close to his chest. He kept saying he was working on uncovering a Shop pipeline coming from the north into Iraq. He said the arms have been pouring into Mosul. That means they’re coming from Iran and then through Rawanduz to get to Mosul, or they’re coming from Turkey through the town of Amadiyah. Both of those villages are in KDP-controlled territory.”
Mosul is perhaps the biggest city in northern Iraq. It’s just out of the region controlled by the officially sanctioned Kurdistan Regional Government and the site of a lot of unrest, mainly between different Kurdish factions. Rawanduz is a village between Mosul and the Iranian border. Likewise, Amadiyah is a village north of Mosul, near the Turkish border. Two Kurdish political parties influence everything that happens in northern Iraq. In 1946 a recognized Kurdish hero named Mulla Mustafa Barzani formed the oldest one, the Kurdistan Democratic Party—the KDP—which has cultural ties to Iran. The second party, the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan—the PUK—formed in 1976 as a rival to the KDP. There are other, smaller Kurdish parties, but the KDP and PUK are the big daddies. In theory they share governmental responsibilities of Kurdish Iraq, but the KDP seems to have more power. In recent years the two parties have grudgingly cooperated with each other on many issues such as in the education and health sectors. But don’t expect one to invite the other to a dinner party.
“What do you think?” I ask Petlow.
“I doubt the Turkish route theory. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. For one thing, Turkey is supposedly one of our allies and they’re just as concerned about illegal arms traffic as we are. Another thing is that the route would be more difficult. Benton always thought that the arms originated in one of the former Soviet satellites. Maybe Azerbaijan. In order to get to Iraq from there, they’d have to go through Armenia and then Turkey. It’s a straighter shoot out of Azerbaijan through Iran and into Iraq.”
“So you’re saying that I should look into the Rawanduz connection first?” I ask.
Petlow shrugs. “It’s just an opinion. Doesn’t mean I’m right.”
I mull this over and say, “Southeast Turkey is a Kurdish region, too. There could be some cooperation going on between the tribes. There’s also a lot of terrorist activity in that part of Turkey.”
“That’s true, too. Look, I’ll be honest with you, Fisher. You don’t have a lot to go on. What are you going to do when you get up there? Knock on doors? Benton didn’t leave you anything to give you some direction, did he?”
“No, I’ll just have to play it by ear at first. I figure I have to start in Mosul. I imagine I’ll begin by investigating the sites in the city where illegal arms have been discovered. The goal is to find a lead pointing me in the right direction.”
“Well, good luck.” Petlow stands and picks up a duffel bag. “This came in the official pouch from Washington,” he says, handing it to me. “It’s for you.”
The only weapon I carried on the plane is my genuine Marine Corps combat knife. It’s got a 7-inch carbon steel blade with a blood groove and a 5-inch leather handle. I remove it from its sheath and cut the rope binding the end of the duffel bag. My SC-20K and Osprey are inside, along with boxes of various types of ammunition.
“I can use this stuff,” I mutter.
Petlow then opens his desk and hands me a set of keys. “There’s an unmarked Toyota Land Cruiser in the compound outside. It’s yours to do with what you will. We don’t need it back. We’ve checked it out and it runs fine. Believe it or not, imported vehicles do very wel
l in Iraq. I know a car dealer in Baghdad who’s gotten rich since the war began.”
“How’s security on the roads? What kinds of checkpoints can I expect?”
“You can expect checkpoints everywhere and some of them will delay you considerably. But if you dress appropriately, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the locals. You have such a swarthy complexion that you look like you might be Arabic. Do you speak Arabic?”
“Yeah.” In fact, I speak seven languages. It’s English I’m not so great at. I take the keys. “Thanks.”
“Have you eaten? Would you like—”
Before Petlow can finish his invitation, a huge crack of thunder rocks the building. We look at each other and both immediately know that it wasn’t thunder.
“Damn,” Petlow mutters. “That was a big one.” He shoots toward the door and runs outside. I follow him and join the throng of soldiers rushing from the building.
The air is dark and full of smoke. Sirens blare as emergency personnel appear on the scene. Men are shouting orders all over the place, and for a few minutes it’s a mass of confusion. Eventually, though, the smoke begins to clear and I can see flames over by the fortified fence that separates the base from the outside world. A section of the fence is completely gone and in its place is a hulk of black, burning metal.
I stand out of the way and watch the professionals deal with it. These soldiers are obviously used to this kind of thing happening all the time. Fifteen minutes later Colonel Petlow sees me and takes me aside.
“It was a laundry van,” he says. “Suicide driver, of course. The eyewitnesses say he drove straight for the checkpoint gate at full speed. One of the sentries fired at him to try and stop the thing, but it was too late. Damn explosives took out two of our men and a big chunk of fence. What a waste. What the hell do they think they’re accomplishing? This is the third one in two weeks.”
I commiserate and say that at least no one else was hurt.
“You know, these guys are getting their explosives from terrorist supply lines,” Petlow continues. “There’s no doubt about it. They couldn’t have stockpiled it for all this time. Go plug up that pipeline, Fisher. I’m here if you need anything, so don’t hesitate to call. You’ve got my number?”
Splinter Cell (2004) Page 7
