Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  “Yes.”

  “So what do we know so far?” Sutter asked.

  “Not a whole hell of a lot,” Smithson answered. “Aleppo and the surrounding area is no longer under Daesh control. So whoever took Ms. Hood was most likely a roving band of some sort. Maybe looters and opportunists. According to the director of the clinic, they were looking for wounded Assad regime soldiers. They found some DWB doctors and nurses instead. They killed one and grabbed another. When they realized that they had an American, they probably sold her off…possibly to a Daesh commander.”

  “Which one?”

  “That we don’t know.”

  “What do we know about the doctor who was killed?” Sutter asked.

  “He was a UK citizen whose parents immigrated from Bangladesh. He was unarmed and was apparently trying to defend his colleagues.”

  “Do we want to get the Brits involved in this?” Smithson asked.

  “They’ve volunteered to help,” Anders answered. “But making any rescue international just makes it more complicated in terms of coordination and approvals, and we don’t have much time.”

  Crocker glanced at his watch. “Thirty-three hours, twenty-five minutes. It’s going to take us roughly three hours to fly to Kurdistan, and another several hours to get from Erbil to wherever we’re going in Syria.”

  “We don’t even know if the hostage is in Syria, do we?”

  “It’s 1715 Friday where we are,” Crocker continued, “which translates to 1615 in Erbil, Aleppo, Mosul, or Raqqa.”

  “So?”

  “If Daesh stays true to their deadline, the execution will take place at around 0230 Sunday. Any mission we launch we’re going to want to do under the cover of night. So we’ve got a shitload to do before Saturday night.”

  A tall, handsome man in a khaki uniform ushered Séverine down the hall of Kurdistan’s Ministry of the Interior, pointed to a door, and stood shoulders back to stand guard. She adjusted her long skirt and scarf, took a deep breath, and entered.

  The size of the room surprised her—a large banquet hall with mirrors along one side, and lit by three enormous crystal chandeliers. At the far end, she made out a little man behind a huge wooden desk. Behind him stood a large red, white, and green flag with a gold sun in the middle, and two aides—a young man and a middle-aged woman with a white blouse and glasses.

  The little man beckoned to her. As she crossed the floor, an antique clock chimed seven times, indicating that it was 7 a.m. local Erbil time, Saturday April 22, less than twenty hours from the deadline.

  In halting English, the man behind the desk introduced himself as Ibrahim Bashur, the head of Kurdistan’s secret police, known as the Asayish.

  Séverine sat in one of the formal chairs, fighting off nervous exhaustion, and passed along greetings from Colonel Nesrin Rastan, who had arranged the meeting. She’d been up all night on the phone with Crocker, Per, and her ex-husband, Alain. In between the calls, she’d squeezed in meetings with Colonel Rastan and other Peshmerga leaders in the lobby of the Rotana Hotel.

  All of it was a muddle of warnings and frustration. Per had ordered her back to Istanbul. She and Alain had argued, as they usually did. Crocker had vowed to take matters into his own hands if his superiors didn’t act promptly.

  All she knew was that despite her efforts, she was no closer to locating Dayna than she had been the day before. Now, as Mr. Bashur cleared his throat, the photo of Dayna in Daesh captivity flashed in her head, causing desperation to spread from the pit of her stomach.

  Mr. Bashur—long face, sad eyes, and a small mouth—seemed to have little to offer but sympathy. “At the present time we do not have reliable knowledge of where Ms. Hood is being held. We understand and appreciate your concern. Our resources have to be focused on securing the homeland of our Kurdish people. If we learn anything about Ms. Hood’s location, we will pass it on to you and the Americans.”

  Séverine swallowed to lubricate her very dry mouth. She chose her words carefully. “Thank you, Mr. Bashur, for taking the time to meet with me. Ms. Hood is a colleague and a friend. I was with her when she was kidnapped. Mr. Bashur, it could have been me.”

  “Ms. Tessier, I am here to offer my services in any way I can. Before we start, would you like some tea or coffee?”

  For a universally feared man, he had a gentle manner.

  “No thank you, Mr. Bashur. You are very kind. I want you to know that I’m willing to do anything to help my friend. I have friends in the U.S. military who want to rescue her. But first we have to find out where she is being held.”

  Mr. Bashur nodded, seeming to weigh each word she said. “I understand. Yes…I can tell you, Ms. Tessier, that Ms. Hood is not in Kurdistan.”

  “You know this?”

  “With certainty, Ms. Tessier. Yes.”

  “Then where do you think she is?”

  “Syria.”

  “Syria is a big country, Mr. Bashur.”

  “Yes, and extremely dangerous.” He summoned the woman with the glasses and whispered something in her ear. She whispered something back.

  “This is Mrs. Bozarsian,” Mr. Bashur said, nodding to the woman. “She just reminded me that we have certain friends who operate with us in Syria. They know the militias there, and the different groups. They sell us information. Sixty percent of the time it is reliable. They could be of help, if you are able to come up with the funds.”

  Séverine sat up. This was the first moment in her meetings with Colonel Rastan and Kurdish officials that she felt the slightest spark of hope. “Thank you, Mr. Bashur. If you would be so kind as to introduce me to these people, I will find the money to pay them.”

  “Very well.” He turned and nodded to the woman to his right. “If you go with Mrs. Bozarsian, she will take you to meet someone.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bashur. I’m extremely grateful.”

  He stood and offered his hand. “Good luck.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

  —George Washington, Rules of Civility

  and Other Writings

  Seven o’clock the morning of the fifth day since Fatima was killed, Sheikh al-Sufi rang the bell beside his desk to summon Yasir Selah.

  The commander’s chief aide didn’t know what to expect when he opened the door to Sheikh al-Sufi’s room. Frankincense and myrrh incense wafted out, indicating that the sheikh had cleansed the space of spirits. The room stood in order, and the sheikh seemed more energized and better groomed than he had been in months—the point of his silver and black beard clipped to a sharp point, his long hair slicked back, his eyes clear and sharp.

  “I have completed my Isra, Yasir,” he said, meaning his night journey. “Now is the time for me to resume my duties and lead our forces to victory.”

  “Yes, Sheikh. God in his benevolence has willed it.”

  Sheikh al-Sufi grinned and puffed out his chest. Even his teeth weren’t bothering him this morning. “Take me to see my lieutenants.”

  Yasir Selah bowed his head. “Yes, Sheikh. But first I bring good news. Commander Saddam Jamal has come to visit and is waiting in the command center.”

  Sheikh al-Sufi paused. A visit from his rival surprised him. Whether it augured a bullet in the head or something more pleasant, he was ready to accept his fate without fear. Everything had been predestined, and the will of God was the will of God.

  Séverine had been waiting in the small, windowless room for more than an hour. She’d consumed two cups of green tea and a small plate of dates and crackers. Now she wondered how much longer she could sit there without falling asleep, and whether she should go look for Mrs. Bozarsian or give up on her altogether.

  Time was her most precious commodity even as she stood on the precipice of nervous exhaustion. She’d wasted so much of it on meaningless pursuits and worries. Her concerns were real now.

  Today, or one day soon, Nabhas would be bu
ried by his parents somewhere in England. She had no additional information to share with Crocker. Nothing that brought her closer to finding Dayna and rescuing her. She prayed for stamina and luck, and her friends Dayna and Nabhas.

  Séverine wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard or had imagined the knock on the door. Then Mrs. Bozarsian stuck her head in.

  “He’s here,” she announced.

  “Who?”

  “Asso Bekas.…You ready to see him?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  She stood and straightened her black skirt. A smartly dressed, diminutive young man entered and offered his hand. “Ms. Tessier. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke perfect English. “My name is Asso Bekas.”

  As they sat, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He seemed like a soft, slightly pudgy hotel clerk—not the rough, wily operator she had expected.

  “I’m looking for information about my friend, Dayna Hood,” said Séverine. “Mr. Bashur said you might be able to assist me.”

  Asso Bekas nodded. Above his upper lip she made out the hint of a mustache. “I am Syrian, Ms. Tessier. I live in Erbil now. But I have many friends who are in the fight.”

  “On which side?”

  “Most of them are anti-Assad. We hate Assad. But, you see, there are many groups. They have different motives and goals. I can explain, if you want me to.”

  “That’s not necessary now.”

  “Sometimes these groups fight against one another; sometimes they cooperate. It’s a confusing situation. It’s very hard for people on the outside to understand.”

  “Do any of your friends know where Ms. Hood is being held?” Séverine asked.

  He furrowed his forehead with concern. “If I had this information of course I would tell you. I don’t, but I think we can find out. In a situation like this, communication is difficult. The closer we get to the front, the more we can talk directly to the people who know what is going on.”

  He spoke with confidence.

  “What would you suggest that I do?”

  “If you really want to find Ms. Hood, we need to enter Syria,” Asso answered. “And we need to bring cash to pay for information.”

  “U.S. dollars?”

  “Dollars are best.”

  She wondered if he was a con man, taking advantage of a desperate situation. “How much?”

  “That depends on who we meet and what you want from them. If we’re asking people to take risks, they’ll want to be paid more. That’s the way it works.”

  “I understand.” She reminded herself that Mr. Bashur, the head of the Asayish, had vouched for this young man. “I need to find out where Ms. Hood is being held, the exact location—the neighborhood, the building, the address, the room, if possible. And I need to do this quickly.”

  Asso rubbed his round chin as he considered. “Maybe we’re going to need as much as five or six thousand. Ten is better. Can you get the money in cash?”

  “I think so.” She had about three thousand in her checking account, but had an idea of where she could get the rest.

  “You have it with you now?”

  “No. I have to call someone and have him wire it to me. Ten thousand?”

  “Yes. Two and a half thousand for my time and expenses. You can pay me one up front, and the rest when we return. In cash, please.”

  He seemed to have a plan. She wondered if Mr. Bashur had sanctioned it.

  “We? You keep saying ‘we,’” pointed out Séverine.

  “Yes, Ms. Tessier. You have to come with me. We can say you are my wife or my girlfriend, and that we are traveling to the coast to see my family for my mother’s birthday.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I suggest you dye your hair black. The way you’re dressed is fine. We should leave right away if the information we get is going to be of any use.”

  “Of course.…” She considered everything she had to do—secure the money, call Crocker, let Colonel Rastan know where she was going. “Do I need to take anything?”

  “A change of clothes, a toothbrush, and the cash. The money is the most important.”

  “I understand.”

  “I should remind you that it’s Saturday, Ms. Tessier. If you’re expecting to get the approvals and make a wire transfer, the banks close at noon. I have a cousin who works at the Kurdistan International Bank. He can facilitate everything.”

  Sheikh al-Sufi’s special guards, dressed in black, escorted him from the mosque to the command center down the street. As he walked, he reminded himself that it was the tenth day of Rajab, according to the lunar calendar, and ten was a number of completion.

  He planned to enter the conference room, where Commander Saddam Jamal waited, alone. This would let Jamal know that he wasn’t afraid.

  A saying he had learned in madrasa entered his head: The command of Allah is a decree determined. He has appointed the night for resting and the sun and moon for reckoning.

  The sun burned in the sky. Whatever it was that Jamal wanted didn’t matter. He would accept God’s fate like a soldier. Let each individual moment unfold like he had as a child discovering the world for the first time, walking hand in hand with his mother. The sunlight, red dust, wind in his face, passing donkeys and cars.

  Sheikh al-Sufi climbed the concrete steps and entered through the sandbagged door. Odors of charcoal and urine hit his nostrils.

  Yasir Selah, a black prayer cap covering his shaved head, pointed to a room at the end of the hall. Exhausted-looking soldiers stood at attention.

  “God be with you,” the sheikh said.

  “God be with you, Sheikh.”

  Two long fluorescent bulbs buzzed from the ceiling and lit the rectangular room. Commander Saddam Jamal rose to his full height of six-feet-two in the shadows at the far side of the table. When Jamal’s face reached the light, Sheikh al-Sufi saw a wry smile playing on his full lips. His hennaed beard and shoulder-length hair glistened.

  The two commanders embraced, and al-Sufi noted that Jamal reeked of orange cologne.

  “Welcome, my brother. Peace be with you.”

  “Peace be with you, too, my brother.”

  Saddam Jamal clasped his hands in front of his heart and offered condolences to Sheikh al-Sufi for his wife’s death. The two men prayed together.

  Everything seemed to unfold the right way. Everything in its place except for the almost gleeful glint in Jamal’s eye. He reminded the sheikh of a fox.

  Why is he so pleased with himself? Does he know he’s going to arrest me?

  Also seated at the table were six of Commander Jamal’s lieutenants, who had stood when al-Sufi had entered; they remained on their feet.

  “Sit, please,” al-Sufi said. “Let’s talk about the state of things. I haven’t heard any news in five days, while I was in my Isra.”

  Jamal pointed to the chair at the head of the table.

  “Please, Commander, take your rightful place. We are all grateful to Allah that you have returned.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “God has willed it,” said Saddam Jamal. “He has also instructed us to take a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a nose for a nose, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth, and wounds equal for equal.”

  “This is all true,” al-Sufi responded, settling into the wooden chair. “God does not allow us to inflict greater injuries on the wrongdoer than he has caused.”

  “Sheikh, soon I will bring you news from the battlefield of Mosul, where our followers fight bravely to resist the infidels. First I have something special to show you.”

  Sheikh al-Sufi’s heart missed a beat. He held his breath.

  “It is a gift that has come to us from God.…” Saddam Jamal clasped his hands in front of his heart and bowed his head. “I know that I am not as devout as you are, my brother, but I see this gift as a form of reparation for the death of your wife.”

  “A gift?”

  “Reports from Kirkuk tell us that her body was destroyed by
an American bomb. According to the Hadith, the instruments of retaliation for carrying out the will of Allah must be sharp and sterile.” The Hadith were the reports of Mohammad’s words and actions outside of the Quran.

  Commander Jamal clapped his hands twice. The sheikh knew him as a man of dramatic gestures, but was now completely confused.

  All heads at the table turned to the door. Two black-clad militants entered, escorting a short woman covered in a black burqa.

  “What is this?” Sheikh al-Sufi asked. He imagined they had brought a relative, maybe a cousin, to look after him in his time of grief. But who? And what did this have to do with retribution?

  Commander Jamal nodded to the two militants, who removed the burqa. Underneath stood a pale woman with light hair, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Her eyes were covered with a black blindfold, her wrists were tied behind her back, and tape covered her mouth.

  Sheikh al-Sufi squinted at the strange vision. A light-haired woman? He suspected a joke, or some form of blasphemy.

  “She’s an American, Sheikh al-Sufi,” said Saddam Jamal. “Our men captured her near Aleppo two days ago. She is fated to die by your hand tonight. It is God’s will. It is God’s will. It is God’s will.…”

  Crocker looked at his watch. It was 0834 on the USS Theodore Roosevelt, 0734 in Kurdistan and Syria, and 1334 in DC. His nerves were raw from waiting and his quick, jagged mental rhythm was at odds with the gentle rocking of the ship.

  He knew that if he didn’t calm down he would explode. The people he wanted to hear from were either Séverine or Colonel Rastan. The grim triad of Sutter, Anders, and Smithson beckoned to him from the giant screen instead.

  “Crocker?”

  He swallowed the bile in his mouth. He was the sole occupant of the secure conference room this time. Akil, Mancini, and CT were back in their cabins packing their gear, getting ready to deploy, even though they lacked orders.

  The back of Crocker’s head was inflamed from nervous scratching.

  He swallowed hard, sat tall. “What’s the latest? What have you got?”