With the grime from Turkey washed away, he exited the shower, toweled off and headed for his bed. A few hours of sleep would give him the boost he needed to tackle the interview later. He pushed his bags aside and lay down. Normally he’d start flipping through his phone, checking out social media or news sites, but he didn’t care, all he wanted was sleep. But what he couldn’t risk was oversleeping. He set the alarm on his phone, closed his eyes and drifted off.
The steady beep from his phone alarm woke him. He rubbed his eyes, stretched and turned off the alarm.
The honks and whizzing of cars below on the busy street sounded like a beautiful chorus. He loved Paris and was happy to be back in his adopted city.
He sat up, but just before he could get out of bed, he caught a glimpse of a figure hiding in the shadows of his bedroom. “Who’s there?”
The figure emerged; it was Joram. He raised his index finger to his lips.
“What are you doing here?” David mouthed silently.
Joram turned on the television on the dresser and raised the volume high. “Sorry to alarm you,” he said, his voice now shielded by the sound of clapping and laughter coming from the television.
“What the hell are you doing here and in my apartment?” David asked, he looked around, confused, and then asked, “And how did you get in?”
Joram stood up and walked out of the room. “Come, let’s finish our conversation. I don’t have much time.”
David jumped out of bed.
A glow from the kitchen caught David’s eye. He looked and saw Joram standing in front of the open refrigerator. “I’m thirsty. I need something cold.”
“What are you doing here? And how on earth did you even get here? The border controls have to be tighter since Copenhagen,” David said.
“Ha, border controls, this is France, there are no border controls. Same goes for much of Europe,” Joram declared, laughing.
“I thought I’d never see you again after that note you left. I thought that was it,” David confessed.
Joram grabbed a can of Diet Coke and opened it. “This will do.” He took a long drink.
David tore open his backpack and removed his recorder and notepad.
“Oh, that hits the spot,” Joram said, wiping his mouth off on a hand towel. He belched loudly and laughed.
“You have to tell me how you got here. How is it so easy? You’re a—”
“A terrorist,” Joram said finishing David’s sentence.
“Well, ah, yeah, that’s what the authorities would call you.”
“I’m not here to waste time talking about that. I need to finish my story, the story you’ve been dying to get your hands on, the one you’re hoping will resurrect your floundering career.”
“I wouldn’t describe—”
Joram raised his hand. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. It doesn’t matter.”
“But my career—”
“Like I said, there’s not much time. We need to finish this story, plus I know you have better questions to ask.”
David sat searching for a good question but suddenly he found himself speechless.
“David, really? It’s okay, you can ask. Go ahead and ask,” Joram said giving David a ‘stop bullshitting around’ look.
Joram’s tone and look jogged David’s thoughts. He now remembered the questions he needed to ask. “I want to start this by asking about everything you told me before. How you came to be with ISIS, your family life, why you joined years ago, was that all true?”
“All true.”
“Did you defect from ISIS, or is that a lie?”
“True, I did.”
David thought for a second and asked, “When? When did you defect?”
“About a year and a half ago.”
“Were you part of a secret or special missions group in ISIS, working on biological weapons?”
“Yes.”
David gasped.
“Your CIA friend, he told you some stuff, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” David answered.
“What else did he tell you?” Joram asked.
“Who’s asking who here?”
“You tell me what he told you and I’ll corroborate it or not,” Joram said.
“Are you a member of The Bloody Hand?”
“How about we do this. I don’t want to get out in front of anything. That’s why I was telling you my story chronologically. Everything has context. Let’s go back to where we left off. I promise I’ll answer everything you want to know just by telling you my story.”
David thought and said, “Okay, that works.”
“Good, now where did we leave off?”
“An execution, you were disturbed by it.”
“Yes, I was, but I soon could understand why they did so, and in fact grew to appreciate the uses of capital punishment.”
“Hmm,” David mused, his head bobbing as his right brow rose.
Joram paused. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“This, with your head along with that grunting sound,” Joran said using his head to replicate the motion David made.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” Joram said, his tone shifting to one of annoyance.
“I didn’t.”
“I’m here to help you and in return you’re helping me. I’m not going to be mocked, do you hear me?” Joram blasted.
Shocked by his sharp tongue, David worked to ease the situation. “Sorry, I didn’t know I did something to offend you. I won’t do it again.”
Joram didn’t reply right away, he only stared.
“I promise I’ll make sure I keep my body language in check.”
Grabbing a cigarette from his half-empty pack, Joram lit one and took a long drag. He exhaled, blowing a smoke ring, and continued, “Once I became educated, I saw the wisdom in the harsh punishment. What eventually caused me to lose respect for the imams and mullahs was the corruption. You see, they weren’t principled. It was more about power than principle. I was disgusted by that, but where else was I to go. The other groups out there were really no better.”
“So that’s when you decided to start The Bloody Hand?”
“You’re determined, aren’t you?”
“It’s just a question.”
“Do you want to hear my story, or do you just want to interrogate me?”
“Go ahead, my journalist side gets in the way,” David confessed.
Joram sat back and grinned.
Suddenly David felt uncomfortable. “What?”
“You, you’re interesting. I picked you because you don’t have allegiances per se, odd in this world. Many people take sides with large groups, but you, you don’t. You’re on David’s side. Even though you’ve been warned that I could be a dangerous terrorist, getting the story is more important. More important than what I may know that could possibly stop attacks like Copenhagen. I find that interesting but valuable to me at this very moment.”
David didn’t know if he should be offended or thank him. He found some of his word choices interesting, so he pressed. “Are you planning further attacks?”
“And if I were to say yes, what would you do with that? Hmm?”
David felt conflicted. Joram’s question struck a nerve, one that made him briefly question his own morality.
“No answer?” Joram asked.
“Let’s get back to you telling your story,” David said.
Joram smiled broadly. He sat up and said, “I like you, David, I really do.”
Unable to look at Joram, David looked down at the pad of paper in his lap.
“I’m sorry, where were we?”
David scanned his notes and replied, “You didn’t like the corruption.”
“Yes, the corruption. I found that even the mullahs were susceptible to bribes and greed like any Westerner was. It was one thing that made us all human. I detested that. How can one say they follow the word of Allah but will turn a blind eye s
imply for the sake of money or favors? You can’t. It’s impossible. As I became more entrenched in the bureaucracy of the Islamic State, I uncovered many situations where graft and bribery were used to sway judgments and to force an outcome. I soon began to realize that the Islamic State is no different than any other government. That eventually power does corrupt. I wasn’t alone in this disgust. As I ascended the ranks, easily by the way. Being fluent in French, English, Farsi and Arabic made me valuable. I guess those years in private school in Damascus paid off,” Joram said. He took a long drag of his cigarette and continued. “On my year anniversary, I was brought before Imam Hassan, he was the defense minister for Islamic State. He liked me and wanted me to work for him directly. What could I say? It was an honor, so I took the position.”
“What was the position?”
“I was more of an aide, but soon I was giving orders and making strategic decisions. One day, not long after working for him, I discovered a library hidden in his house and it was there I found journals that detailed a weapon so amazing I needed to ask why it wasn’t being explored.”
David fidgeted in his chair when he heard this revelation. “What was it?”
“Years before a gentleman by the name of Aashiq Abdullah Aziz had acquired some research documentation on a couple of bioweapon projects. He tried to get them off the ground but he got nowhere…”
“Why, what happened?”
“Not sure, all I know is the project was terminated weeks after he started it. The rumors are he disobeyed a wealthy Saudi prince by the name ofYasser Mohammed Faudi. This disobedience resulted in not only his project being terminated but Aashiq as well.”
“How did Islamic State get the documentation?”
“Who knows, but what I do know everything has value on the black market.”
“You used the word amazing; that makes it sound like you were excited about these potential weapons.”
“I was. I was impressed. Page after page described a weapon that if created could utterly bring—”
Thinking he knew the next phrase, David interjected, “The United States to its knees?”
“No, the world.”
“What was it?”
Joram sat back, his eyes looking around as he took himself back to that day in Mullah Hassan’s library.
“Joram, what was this weapon?”
“I’ll explain it a bit. After discovering these journals and the weapons they possessed, I brought them to Mullah Hassan’s attention. He wasn’t happy that I had violated his private library, but he also was curious as to my thoughts on the journals. I told him that the Islamic State should pursue it. At first, he didn’t like the idea. He imagined a weapon like it could get beyond their control, but after weeks of pressing, I convinced him if done right and done with an antidote or cure, you could say, he gave me the go ahead. However, we were to do our research in private. No one on the council, no one at all must know what we were doing. He said that few could be trusted.”
David scribbled frantically.
Joram grew quiet. The grin he had been wearing melted away. He looked down and sadly said, “Two months later, Mullah Hassan was brought up on charges of conspiring with the government of Turkey, a lie, and was beheaded. They got rid of him. Someone wished to have his position; someone wanted more power so they contrived a false charge against Mullah Hassan. It was then I was done with Islamic State, the corrupt and decadent knew no bounds. My team and I fled Syria, we disappeared. That was eighteen months ago.”
“And you took this weapons program with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you formed The Bloody Hand?”
Joram didn’t reply right away. He looked out the window, his thoughts racing back to the time he was told of Mullah Hassan’s execution. “I wasn’t in Raqqa when they killed him. If I was, I would’ve been killed too. I knew my days were numbered. Mullah Hassan liked me and trusted me. He told me I had great promise. That Allah had a plan for me…”
“Does he have a plan for you?”
“David, Allah has a plan for everyone.”
“And what’s mine?”
“You’re a messenger, that’s what I believe your purpose is.”
“That would be true.”
“Of course it is. As far as Mullah Hassan, the part Allah gave him was that of a leader, a nurturer of sorts. I’ve come to reconcile what happened to him. He was supposed to die the day he did, I see that now. But I wasn’t, so I fled.”
“You fled to save your own life.”
“Yes, but later I came to realize it was for more. Poor Hassan though, I miss him dearly. He was innocent of the charges but he was guilty of being naïve about politics. He wasn’t a man born for that kind of world. He didn’t know how to navigate it properly, so therefore it consumed him and eventually killed him.”
“You seem upset. You two really were close?”
“He had become like a father figure, a spiritual father.”
Joram rose quickly and walked to the refrigerator. He opened it and took out a block of cheese he’d seen on the shelf earlier. Putting it to his nose, he smelled. “I love this stuff. We could never get good cheese in Syria.”
“Help yourself,” David said. A question suddenly popped in his head, one that Grim had brought up. “Joram?”
“Yeah.”
David hesitated, as he wasn’t quite sure how he should phrase the series of questions he had. But after listening to Joram and, more importantly, trusting his instincts, he needed to know. Deciding there wasn’t a fancy way to put it, he just spit it out, “Is Israfil the twelfth imam and…”
“Go ahead, finish your question,” Joram said.
“Are you Israfil?”
Coronado, California
Brennan was used to hurry up and wait. It was the second motto of the Marine Corps, right after Semper Fidelis.
Owens burst through the door, walked to the television mounted on the wall and turned it on. He flipped to a cable news channel and waited.
Brennan was caught off guard by Owens’ behavior. He strode over and asked, “What’s the word?”
With a clenched jaw, he jabbed his finger at the television but said nothing.
Vickers and Klyde came over.
“Can we get some chow?” Vickers asked.
“One second,” Brennan said, staring at the television screen.
The commercial break ended. A newscaster appeared. “Unnamed anonymous intelligence and defense sources are telling the New York Times that the president has ordered a military strike into Mexico. Details of the strike are unknown but the sources told the Times that they’re related to the raid in Somalia and deal with intelligence gathered in Copenhagen...”
Owens turned the television off.
“What the fuck!” Brennan snapped.
“It’s one thing we have to fight these savages, but now we’ve got our own snitching on us,” Owens barked.
“But why? Why would they do that?” Brennan asked.
“Not sure, must be fucking politics, always is. They disagree with the president and suddenly they think they get to fuck with national security,” Owens railed.
“Aren’t we on the same team?” Vickers asked.
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t appear to be the case,” Owens replied.
“That sucks. They’ll be waiting for us now,” Klyde said.
“It’s off. The raid is off right now and all because we’ve been compromised. Some asshole analyst who was appointed by an opposing political party thinks he knows best and has jeopardized our mission and the potential for gathering valuable intel against a terror organization,” Owens barked.
“Now what?” Brennan asked.
“We sit and wait. Brass doesn’t want us going in now that we’ve been compromised. It’s too risky,” Owens said.
“But we need a specimen, we need it,” Brennan said.
“Fuck it, I say we go in,” Vickers said.
“There’s another iss
ue. The Mexican government is pissed that we didn’t brief them on the raid.”
“Because we can’t trust those bean eaters,” Vickers said.
“I heard that!” Vasquez, a Marine from first squad, hollered.
“You know I love you, Vee,” Vickers said, blowing a kiss to Vasquez.
“What you guys need to know is the mission has been scrubbed. It’s off,” Owens said.
“Any chance of it being revived?” Brennan asked.
“Nothing is a hundred percent, but they did tell me to pass on for everyone to turn in their weapons at the armory.”
“It’s off.” Vickers laughed.
“Yep,” Klyde said.
“I’m truly shocked,” Brennan said.
“Get used to it. This has become business as usual now,” Owens said.
“The leaks?” Brennan asked.
“Yeah, the leaks, but I never thought they’d blow up a mission like that,” Owens said.
“I guess we can never truly trust those spooks,” Brennan said.
“No shit, remember Sangin,” Vickers said.
“What happened in Sangin?” Owens asked.
Brennan exhaled loudly. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said and walked off.
Owens gave Vickers and Klyde a look and asked, “What’s up with him?”
“He got triggered,” Vickers joked.
“Huh?”
“What dumbass is saying is Sergeant Brennan doesn’t take kindly to politics interfering in our missions. It always ends up fucking shit up,” Klyde answered.
“So what happened in Sangin?” Owens asked.
Klyde replied, “Back in Afghanistan we got a report that the Taliban had surrounded a group of locals in Sangin. Our company was called up to go and rescue them. It was a simple, cut-and-dry deal; we’d go in, engage the Taliban and free the locals. Everything was going smoothly until we reached phase line echo, which was also a large field where poppy grows. It was there that shit went south. We were instructed to stop. Word then came that we couldn’t cross even though it was the most direct route to the village. While we wasted time, the Taliban had gone through with their threat and burned the locals alive inside the building. When we finally arrived, we discovered the locals were all school-aged girls, as young as four and old as twelve. They had been murdered solely for the fact they were girls, nothing more. I can still see the ash floating through the air. It sticks with me; it’s seared into my mind. Those sick fucks murdered them for nothing more than their gender. That’s barbaric, it’s sickening. When we got back to Leatherneck, rumors circulated that the reason we couldn’t cross where the poppy grows was because the land was owned by the interior minister and our transit could potentially destroy some of the crop. The CO pushed the issue but was told it was classified and to back down.”
Day of Reckoning Page 18
