Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  “Make this happen, Commander,” General Maddox said. “Without trouble, so our guests will get what they came for, and leave on schedule.”

  “You can count on it, sir,” Weiss said. He got to his feet, nodded to Higgins, and left.

  “We’re in a delicate situation here, Ms. Ibenez,” Maddox said. “Is there any chance that Cuban intelligence knows that you’ve returned?”

  “I honestly don’t know, General,” she said. “It might depend on if there’s a leak here on base.”

  The general’s expression darkened. “Do your job and get out of here.” He gave McGarvey a bleak look, then got up and left the conference room.

  Colonel Higgins stayed behind. “Do you need transportation?”

  “Just get us a vehicle, we won’t need a driver,” McGarvey said. “What’s the problem with Weiss?”

  Higgins managed a slight grin. “Tom takes some getting used to. His friends love him, but everyone else has trouble with him. But he’s got a tough job to do, and he’s under a microscope that stretches all the way back to Washington. Your being here doesn’t help.”

  “Does he have any friends?” Gloria asked.

  Higgins shook his head. “None that I know of.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  Adkins and the others stood up as his secretary, Dhalia Swanson, ushered Bob Talarico’s widow, Toni, and her two children, Robert Jr. and Hillary, into the DCI’s office.

  It was nearly two o’clock and he’d not had the time to have lunch, for which he was grateful now, because his stomach did a slow roll. Toni Talarico was a small woman, scarcely five feet tall—Bob had called her his pocket Tintoretto—but this afternoon it seemed as if she had sunk inside herself. Her ten-year-old son was as tall as she, and her eight-year-old daughter came to her mother’s shoulders.

  She wore a black dress and a small pillbox hat, and the children, one on each hand, were dressed in black as well.

  They looked shell-shocked. It was the first impression that came into Adkins’s mind. They weren’t so much sad as they were dazed, especially Toni. It was as if they’d been in a fierce battle, but that they expected Bob to be here in the DCI’s office waiting for them. They wanted someone to tell them that everything would be okay.

  But it wouldn’t be. Because Bob was dead, and Adkins thought back to when his wife had died. He hadn’t really accepted that fact as reality until six months later when he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He’d turned on every light in the house and had gone searching for her, convinced that she had been hiding from him. That morning, he’d finally come to terms with his loss, and had finally begun the process of grieving and healing.

  He sincerely hoped that Toni would recover faster than he had; for her children’s sake, if not for her own.

  Her husband’s boss, Howard McCann, gave her and the girl a hug, and shook Robert Jr.’s hand. “I’m sorry, Toni,” he said, choking on the words.

  She smiled up at him and patted his arm. “He knew the risks when he took the oath. I just want to know that what he gave his life for was worth it.”

  “Every bit,” Adkins said. “What he and his partner did might have saved us from another 9/11, or at least pointed us in that direction.”

  Toni looked at the others—the DDCI David Whittaker and the Company General Counsel Carleton Patterson. “Where is she?”

  “We can’t tell—” McCann started.

  “She’s back in Cuba following up,” Adkins said. “She has Kirk McGarvey with her. But that can’t leave this room.”

  Toni actually smiled, which nearly tore Adkins’s heart out. “Bob always said that he was the best man to ever work here. And don’t worry, Mr. Director, we’re a CIA family. We know how to keep a secret.”

  “Dad taught us,” Robert Jr. said, trying very hard to be brave.

  Adkins caught his secretary’s eye. She was at the door, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. She started to leave, but he motioned her back. “You may stay,” he said.

  She closed the door and came to stand just behind Toni and the children.

  Whittaker handed Adkins a long narrow hinged box, and a leather-bound citation folder. “You must also understand that this cannot be made public.”

  Toni’s lips compressed, and she nodded. “But the children and I will know. That would have been enough for Bob. He wasn’t looking for hero status.”

  “But he was just that, Mrs. Talarico,” Patterson told her. “An American hero.”

  Adkins opened the silk-lined box that contained an impressive-looking medal attached to a ribbon and brass clasp, and he and everyone else in the room straightened up.

  “The United States of America, the Central Intelligence Agency, and a grateful nation, bestow posthumously the Distinguished Service medal to Senior Field Officer Robert Benjamin Talarico, for service far beyond the call of duty,” Adkins began solemnly. “Although the details of the mission in which Robert gave his life cannot be disclosed at this time, be assured that the operation was of extreme importance and absolutely vital to U.S. interests here and abroad, as well as the safety of all Americans everywhere.

  “Be also assured that witnesses on scene, including his partner, Senior Field Officer Gloria Ibenez, report that to the very end Robert did not hesitate to perform his duty, even though he was under direct fire from a hostile force superior in numbers and armament.”

  Adkins looked into Toni’s eyes, momentarily at a loss for words. But then he handed her the medal and the citation folder. “He did good,” he said softly. “Really good.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Director.”

  Adkins gave her a hug. “If you need anything, day or night, call me,” he said in her ear. “And my name is Dick.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  CAMP DELTA

  By six in the evening McGarvey was getting the impression that just about all the prisoners knew something big was on the verge of happening. Al-Quaida was preparing to strike another deadly blow at the infidel West, and very soon. It seemed to be an article of faith at least as strong as their belief in the Qur’an. As the MP bringing in the last of the four prisoners for interrogation commented, “They’re happy.” It was ominous.

  Weiss had sent a runner over to the Officers’ Club around two thirty to bring McGarvey and Gloria up the hill to the interrogation center inside Camp Delta. All four of the men on Otto’s list had been located, and had been brought over to one of the holding rooms.

  Weiss had also brought a translator, Chief Petty Officer First Class Sayyid Deyhim, who’d been born in Tehran, but who’d been raised and educated in the United States since he was thirteen. He was a short, slightly built man with dark skin, thick black hair, and deep-set eyes.

  “Do you also speak Arabic?” McGarvey had asked when they were introduced.

  “Yes, but I do not like it,” Deyhim shot back. “Iranians are Persians, not Arabs. There’s a big difference.” He was angry. Weiss had probably warned him not to cooperate with the CIA.

  “Not these days,” McGarvey had told him. “Anyway, I thought that you were an American.”

  They had gathered in one of the interrogation rooms, furnished only with a low wooden bench that was bolted to the bare concrete floor. A water hose was connected to a spigot at the back of the small room, and there was a drain in the floor beneath the bench. There were no windows, but the room was brightly lit by recessed bulbs in the ceiling, protected by steel mesh.

  Deyhim glanced at Weiss, who just shrugged.

  “We don’t have to be friends,” McGarvey said, his voice cold. “But we will be taping the interviews, so I suggest that your translations be accurate.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Sir,” McGarvey said.

  Deyhim had glanced again at Weiss. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  That had been three interviews ago, during which time the man had apparently done his job well; providing simultaneous translations of McGarv
ey’s and Gloria’s questions into Farsi, and the Iranian prisoners’ answers into English.

  The MP ushered the round-faced prisoner into the interrogation room, where he was directed to have a seat on the bench. He was dressed in orange coveralls, white slippers on his feet. His hair had been closely cut, and his wrists were bound by a plastic restraint, which the MP cut loose before he left the room.

  “This one is a Saudi,” Weiss said. “Ali bin Ramdi. He was arrested in early November oh-three, in Qandahar, Afghanistan, along with eighteen other so-called freedom fighters. He follows the rules, but to this point he’s given us no useful intel.”

  The prisoner looked from Weiss, who was leaning against the wall near the door, to Gloria, who was standing next to Deyhim. He seemed calm, sure of himself, and just like the others, even a little excited, maybe happy.

  McGarvey sat down astraddle the opposite end of the bench, and smiled. “How soon before Saudi women get the vote?” he asked.

  Deyhim hesitated for just a moment, but then translated the question into Arabic.

  A smirk crossed the prisoner’s face. “‘Never,’ he said,” Deyhim translated. “‘We are not Kuwait or Iran.’”

  “Where do you get your news, Ali?” McGarvey asked pleasantly. Kuwaiti women had not been given the right to vote until after bin Ramdi’s arrest. Supposedly prisoners here were not given access to newspapers, radios, or televisions.

  “‘One hears things,’” Deyhim translated.

  “I’m sure they do,” McGarvey agreed. “It’s too bad about your brothers last week.”

  Bin Ramdi shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Their deaths were meaningless. They served no purpose. They were not martyrs.” McGarvey shook his head. “No Paradise for them.”

  “‘Paradise awaits all who serve the jihad.’”

  “Yes, but not like the brothers who died hitting New York and Washington,” McGarvey said. “They truly died martyrs. Allah had to be pleased. Whereas with you and the others …”

  Bin Ramdi’s eyes narrowed.

  “Palestinian women are willing to die for the cause, why not Saudi women?”

  Deyhim looked over at Weiss and then McGarvey. “I don’t understand this line of questioning, sir.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to understand,” McGarvey said. He didn’t take his eyes from the prisoner’s. “Just translate, please.”

  Deyhim translated the question, and bin Ramdi’s thick lips twisted in a smirk. “‘Our women play a more important role than to be wasted thus.’”

  McGarvey smiled and slapped his knee. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “It’s the same for American women. They even work for the FBI and CIA. Some of them serve in our military forces.”

  Bin Ramdi shook his head. “‘That is not allowed for Saudi women.’”

  “Not even in your navy?” McGarvey asked, as if he were surprised. “They could be trained to serve on something like one of the gunboats you crewed.”

  “‘I was on a destroyer—’” bin Ramdi said, but he immediately realized his mistake and stopped.

  “Destroyer?” McGarvey said. He turned to Weiss. “Commander, let me see this man’s file.”

  Weiss had an odd, thoughtful expression on his face that was hard to read; it was as if he’d been caught by an unpleasant surprise. He hesitated for a moment, but then brought the file over.

  McGarvey opened it, and pretended to read. He looked up. “This says you were a gunner’s mate aboard a patrol boat. Have we been wrong about you?”

  Deyhim translated, but bin Ramdi knew that he had walked into a trap, and he kept silent.

  “Look, straighten us out, if you will,” McGarvey said. “If you were a gunner’s mate who we think went over to al-Quaida, that’s one thing. We’ll keep you here for as long as we want.” McGarvey looked to Gloria after Deyhim finished translating. “Tell him.”

  “If you follow Uncle Osama you are a pig and deserve to die,” she said harshly.

  “We’re not going in that direction,” Weiss broke in before Deyhim could translate.

  “Why?” McGarvey said, keeping direct eye contact with bin Ramdi.

  “We’re not allowed to humiliate them.”

  “But they’re allowed to crash airplanes, killing innocent people?” McGarvey shot back, without raising his voice. “Get your head out of your ass, Weiss, I may be on to something here.”

  “Amnesty International would love to get its hands on something like this,” Weiss said. “Your interviews are over. I’ll talk to the general, but you two are definitely out of here. If not tonight then first thing in the morning.”

  “What the fuck are you hiding?” Gloria asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Weiss demanded.

  “Are you protecting this bastard, or just covering your own ass?”

  Bin Ramdi was paying close attention to the exchange. It seemed to McGarvey that the man probably understood more English than he’d let on. It was in his eyes, a tightening at the corners when Gloria had challenged Weiss. The son of a bitch knew what was going on.

  “The commander is right,” McGarvey said, getting to his feet. “We’re about done here.”

  Gloria gave him a searching look.

  “We lost one of our people, and we were to blame,” McGarvey told Weiss. “Sorry if we came on strong, but we wanted to make it right.”

  Weiss was only partially mollified. “We don’t want another Abu Ghraib here,” he said. “And Ms. Ibenez is right, I am covering my ass, and everyone else’s working for me.”

  McGarvey looked at bin Ramdi and when he had the man’s complete attention, he winked. Neither Deyhim nor Weiss caught it, but Gloria had. He turned back. “Will you join us for dinner at the O Club, Commander?”

  “No,” Weiss replied tersely.

  “Very well,” McGarvey said, and he and Gloria left the interrogation center.

  Outside, they got in the Humvee, Gloria behind the wheel, and headed back to the BOQ. “What was all that about?”

  “What do you mean?” McGarvey asked absently. The first three prisoners knew nothing of any value. If they’d been in the Iranian navy, as Otto thought was possible, they had to have been very low ranking; certainly they were not officers. They had come across as dullards, probably not the sort of crew a man such as Graham would be looking for. But the Saudi had been different. There’d been intelligence and shrewdness in his eyes. His only mistake had been rising to McGarvey’s bait about being a crewman aboard a gunboat.

  “You winked at him,” Gloria said.

  The shift change had already been made and driving down the hill from Camp Delta the base seemed almost deserted. There was very little traffic, and not many people out and about. This was the arid side of Cuba, and it was more like a desert than a subtropical island. It was bleak here, McGarvey thought. For the guards and support personnel, as well as for the prisoners.

  “I wanted to give him something to think about,” he told her.

  “We’re going back in?”

  “Tonight. Without Weiss or his translator.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  CHEVY CHASE

  Kamal al-Turabi raised a pair of Steiner binoculars to study the house at the end of the cul-de-sac as Imad Odeah brought the Cessna 172 through a lazy turn to the left at an altitude of 1,500 feet. An Atlas moving van was parked in the driveway, and as he watched, workmen brought furniture from the house and loaded it aboard.

  It was late, after six, and it seemed as if the men were in a hurry.

  He’d driven down from Laurel, Maryland, yesterday afternoon in a Capital Cleaners van, to make a quick pass. The garage door had been open, but a Mercedes convertible and a Range Rover SUV were parked in the driveway. The garage had been filled with boxes. It looked as if the McGarveys were leaving town.

  Now the moving van confirmed it.

  “I think if we stay here much longer we will arise suspicions,” Odeah warned, his dark eyes flashing. T
he airspace anywhere near the capital was very closely watched.

  “Wait,” al-Turabi said. A slender woman with short blond hair came out of the house and said something to one of the workmen. A moment later she looked up, directly at the airplane, shading her eyes with a hand. His stomach tightened.

  “We must leave, Kamal,” the pilot insisted.

  Al-Turabi lowered the binoculars. He was a slope-shouldered man with a hawk nose. “Yes, take us back now.”

  Odeah turned to the northwest toward Hagerstown where they’d picked up the light plane from the club that he belonged to. Even after the post-9/11 hysteria, and the creation of Homeland Security to keep the skies safe, it had been ridiculously easy, even for a Muslim, to join a flying club.

  “Every law-enforcement agency will be searching for men such as yourself,” Osama bin Laden had told al-Turabi in the Afghan mountains six months after 9/11.

  “I understand,” al-Turabi had said.

  “While in America you must blend in. Documents will be made available for you to get your license to practice dentistry, and you will open a clinic in Laurel, Maryland. You will dress as an American. You will register to vote, hold a driver’s license, and have a Social Security card and a U.S. passport. You will eat pork and drink liquor like an American. And you will speak like an American—hating all Muslims, especially me.”

  Al-Turabi, who’d originally been a dentist in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, had been nearly overwhelmed by what was being asked of him. But he had bowed his head in deference to the only man other than his father whom he had ever loved. He had fought alongside bin Laden in the last two years of the righteous war in Afghanistan and he knew about duty and honor.

  “You will be sent recruits one or two at a time, who you will train in the ways of America,” bin Laden had instructed. “This time they will hide in the open. Under the noses of the American authorities. And when the time comes your cell will be called into action. Do not fail me.”