Enemy of Mine

by Brad Taylor

  He’d think about the whys of the attack later, but knew one thing: There was a leak somewhere. He was willing to bet it was with the Sunnis and not Hezbollah. In Lebanon the fragmented Palestinian groups had always tended to fire before aiming. He could well imagine how many people knew about this meeting because of their bragging.

  Seeing the waitstaff starting to recover, he duckwalked over to the table, screaming for someone to help him and beginning to conduct triage on the shattered bodies in the blast. He rolled one man over, ostensibly checking for signs of life, but in reality exposing the briefcase. He waited for the crowd to gather, as he knew it would.

  Seconds later, he was surrounded by a plethora of people all shouting instructions, one splashing water from an ice bucket on the small fire, another throwing chairs and tables out of the way to clear the area.

  He leaned over and closed his hands on the briefcase, the handle slick with the blood from the man who had been lying on it.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder, asking if the meat he was leaning over was alive. He said no and stood up.

  He pushed through the crowd and reached the street, gripping the briefcase tightly in his hands.

  T

  he men continued to pummel me inside the van, shouting in Arabic. I protested in English, demanding to know what I had done, setting my innocence as soon as possible. I knew it would matter little, and I was in serious, serious trouble.

  The van careened down the narrow roads, eventually driving without swerving left and right, which meant we were out of town. There weren’t any windows to see out of, even if they’d given me a chance to look, but I knew we were headed to the Ain al-Hilweh Palestinian refugee camp. Once past that barrier, I knew my chances of survival would be close to zero.

  One of the men began shouting into a cell phone in Arabic. Seeing me watch, another shoved a coarse burlap sack on my head, blocking out the light.

  Here we go. If they bring out a video camera and a knife, it’s lastchance time.

  The men weren’t professional, because they’d left me both with my watch and cell phone. That was good on the surface, but could prove deadly. No training equaled no discipline, which meant I could be killed out of rage without thinking about the consequences. I hoped these guys would want to question me at length—extending out my life, as it were—and prayed that’s what the shouting on the phone had been about. Someone with a cool head giving orders instead of leaving me to my fate with these Neanderthals.

  Eventually, we stopped. I was cuffed on the head and dragged out of the van, the hood still on.

  Without any concern for my well-being, we speed-walked up a flight of concrete steps. I kept slipping, banging my shins and trying to break my fall with my arms. Every time it happened, I was slapped and punched for a couple of seconds before being jerked to my feet.

  I was thrown through a doorway, slamming into a wall. Two men jerked me through another door and forced me into a chair. I was rapidly tied around all of my limbs, then left alone for a minute or two.

  I heard footsteps, and the hood was ripped off of my head. I faced one of the men who’d lumped me up to begin with. They still hadn’t taken my cell phone, which was good. The longer I had it, the better.

  “Who do you work for?”

  Here it comes.

  In the movies, this is when I would spit in the guy’s face and tell him to fuck off. Because I’m so tough. In real life, I knew aggravating this man was the last thing I should do. My survival rested on my ability to convince them they’d made a mistake.

  “I work for myself. I own a business. If it’s a ransom you want, my partner will pay, but we don’t have a lot of money.”

  He slapped my head.

  “Who do you work for in the U.S. government? The CIA? Or maybe Mossad?”

  “CIA? Is that what you think? You’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m just a businessman here on vacation. I don’t work for any government, I swear. I’m not even religious, and certainly not Jewish!”

  Before I could answer, another man entered. Older, and much more selfassured,with an eightinch saltandpepper beard just like Osama bin Laden used to have.

  The boss.

  He said something in Arabic, and the tough said something back. The boss screamed at the man, and immediately he was ripping through my pockets. He found the cell phone and passed it over. They both left the room, and I prayed the phone stayed in the building. It was my last bit of hope.

  I went through strategies for prolonging the inevitable, but my mind was having trouble staying focused. I felt a deep sense of fear, a pathological phobia of what was about to happen, and it was blotting out logical thought. I knew that sooner or later they were going to get rough, and I had seen what that entailed.

  In 1984, the CIA chief of station in Beirut, William Buckley, was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Months later, an unmarked videotape arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Athens. In it, a nude William Buckley was being gruesomely tortured. Another tape arrived every few months, until one came simply showing him dead, the skin puckered throughout his naked body from repeated abuse.

  The tapes were classified, but I had seen them. They had left a mark on my soul, grainy images branded in my brain and guttural screams haunting my dreams, made all the more visceral because they were real. The pain, shrieks, and agony weren’t from a screenplay, but a living man. The tapes had left a disquieting mark on my subconscious that had never gone away. I hadn’t ever told anyone, but Buckley’s fate was my singular fear. And now I was going to live it. Buckley had managed to survive for more than a year of inhumane captivity. If it came to it, I hoped my demise would be much, much quicker.

  Rescue wasn’t going to happen. An enormous effort had been made to locate Buckley, using the entire powers of the Central Intelligence Agency, along with help from a multitude of Western intelligence agencies and Mossad. He was, after all, the Beirut chief of station. None of it had mattered.

  I had no such luxury. Nobody even knew I was missing. There would be no grand struggle to locate and recover me.

  All I had was Jennifer.

  * * * Jennifer fought with all of her might to prevent being thrown into the van, but it was wasted effort. With four men holding her writhing form, she made them work, but that was all. They heaved her through the sliding door hard enough to slam against the other side.

  She sprang to her knees and turned to fight, striking the first man who tried to enter with two quick jabs. The back doors opened, and two men piled in. She lashed out with her feet, connecting with one and trying to slip past the other out the back, to freedom.

  He slammed her above the ear with a straight right punch, causing stars. She continued to spin toward the rear, getting her hands outside the van. She pulled, and felt her legs grabbed. She was ripped inside and set upon by both men. They began to punch her all over, forcing her to curl to protect herself. She felt the van move and heard someone shouting in Arabic. The punching stopped, followed by the men simply holding her down.

  She heard her name called over and over. She looked to the voice and saw Samir staring at her in concern, his lip split, nose bleeding, and the left side of his face swollen.

  “Have you gone mad? What in the world happened?” he said.

  She began to buck, trying to get out of the men’s grasp, spittle flying from her mouth.

  “Jennifer, stop it! Look at me.”

  She relaxed, her eyes on the ceiling of the van. “Looks like you got us both, you son of a bitch.”

  “I had nothing to do with that bomb. I still don’t know what happened. Where’s Pike?”

  She looked at him, trying to sense deception. “The computer you gave Pike didn’t only have a camera. It had a bomb.”

  He said nothing, his mouth dropping open.

  “I get that you have a vendetta. I heard you talk in your house, but why use us? Use Pike? He said you were his friend, and that means a lot to him. He doesn’t have many, and you used that against hi
m.”

  “I did no such thing. I would never do that. I’m not a terrorist. You are wrong about the computer.”

  “Then let me go. Right now. I need to use my phone. Pike’s in real trouble.”

  He turned to the men and said a sentence or two in Arabic. They released her. She pulled out her phone and called the Taskforce, knowing she was breaking every rule there was by using an open line.

  A receptionist answered. “Blaisdell Consulting, how may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Kurt Hale, please.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

  She mentally crossed her fingers and said, “Prairie Fire. I say again, Prairie Fire.”

  The receptionist hesitated, then said, “Please hold.”

  After a wait, a voice she recognized came on. “Whom am I speaking with?”

  “Kurt, it’s Jennifer. I don’t have time to explain, but I need a lock on Pike’s phone. Right now.”

  There was a pause, then, “Who is this? I’m not sure you have the right number. We’re a consulting firm.”

  They’re going to blow me off. Even after the code word. They’re going to sacrifice Pike to protect the Taskforce.

  “Kurt! Listen to me! Pike’s in serious trouble. Send me the grid. Please!”

  “Good-bye. Please don’t call back.”

  The line went dead. She was stunned. She couldn’t believe they would sacrifice one of their own to protect themselves. She noticed the men staring at her, waiting for her to talk. She said nothing, sagging against the metal of the van, her mind trying to find a solution that didn’t exist.

  Her phone vibrated with a text message. When she looked at it, she saw a latitude and longitude displayed, along with the note “call secure immediately.”

  Jesus Christ. Damn Taskforce subterfuge. Kurt’s going to pay for that.

  Back in business, she barked, “Take me to the U.S. Embassy. Drop me off as fast as you can.”

  “Why? The Embassy can’t help. We can. Tell me what you know.”

  “Like I would trust you as far as I can throw you. Take me to the damn Embassy. Where’s my bag?”

  One of the men tossed her knapsack to her. She pulled out a tablet PC and began working it.

  Samir said, “I had nothing to do with that bomb. Maybe someone else sent it. This is Lebanon, you know.”

  She didn’t look up, still working the tablet, saying, “And that’s why the security detail we saw before the explosion immediately singled out Pike, huh? They knew it was his computer because they saw him inside with it. They knew who put the bomb in there, and so do I.”

  “Even if that’s true, it wasn’t me. I was used just like you were. Let me help. Where is Pike?”

  She turned the tablet to him. “Here. Take me to the consulate right now. We’re running out of time.”

  He looked at the map and said, “That’s the Palestinian refugee camp. Your consulate will be no help there. It’ll take forty-eight hours to even get permission to enter, and that permission will reach the men holding Pike long before you do. Let us help. The gates of the camp are guarded by Lebanese Armed Forces. I can get you in.”

  “For what? So you can kill both Pike and me and prevent embarrassment to Hezbollah with our story? We wouldn’t want it to get out that they were behind the killing, would we?”

  He said nothing for a moment, then turned and spoke in Arabic to the men in the van. The conversation lasted a couple of minutes.

  In English, he said, “If you are correct, they used me just as they used you. I’m not convinced they did, but I know that Pike has been captured, and I will give my life to free him. My men as well. Is that enough?”

  She knew what he said about the consulate was correct. The damn State Department weenies would pee their pants when she came running in with her story. Pike’s location was growing colder by the second, and it would take forever to get them to react. By then, his cell phone could be in the hands of a fourteen-year-old who’d purchased it on the black market.

  “How good are you and your men?”

  “Very, very good. Pike trained me, and I trained them. We don’t look like much, but we can get the job done.”

  “Weapons?”

  Samir turned to a man in the back. He unzipped a duffel, showing the worn bluing of a beat-up folding stock AK-47.

  “They aren’t fancy, but they’ll shoot.”

  “We do this, and I’m in charge, understand? You follow my orders. You don’t, and I’m going to start shooting in both directions assuming you’re a threat.”

  He looked like he’d swallowed curdled milk. “You? You think you’re going on the assault? Have you lost your mind? You’re an anthropologist. Leave this to us. We know how to fight. I understand your lack of trust, but this is something for professionals. You need certain skills to win.”

  She pulled out the AK and began a functions check. Satisfied it would work as advertised, she seated a magazine and racked a round.

  Seeing the surprise on Samir’s pummeled face, she bared her teeth in a predator’s smile.

  “You looked in a mirror lately? I’ve got the skills, and I’m in charge.”

  17

  K

  urt Hale slammed his handset into the cradle. “Mike! Get your ass in here.”

  The duty officer, hearing the tone, stuck his head in the door in seconds.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Geolocate Pike’s cell phone ASAP. Text the grid to this number.” He looked at the last-called display on his desk phone and scribbled the number on a sticky note.

  “Got it. Commo section has Pike’s handset selectors already?”

  “Yeah. They’ve got something. IMEI, IMSI, or some other tech shit. I don’t care what they’re executing right now, they drop it. This is a Prairie Fire. Send the grid as soon as you get it, and include in the text for them to call secure immediately.”

  George Wolffe, the Taskforce deputy commander, was entering the office just as Mike raced away.

  “Whoa, must be free beer somewhere.”

  Mike said nothing, disappearing down the hall with a purpose.

  George said, “What’s that all about? What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. Pike’s in trouble. Jennifer called on an open line asking for the location of Pike’s cell phone. She triggered a Prairie Fire.”

  George said, “You’re shitting me.”

  Prairie Fire was the code word for a catastrophic event. It meant the overt compromise of a Taskforce team or the impending death of a Taskforce operator. When used, everything in the Taskforce came to a stop, with all assets that could react dedicated to that team. In all the years of Taskforce existence, the words had never been uttered.

  “Not shitting at all. I don’t know what it’s about, but it looks like you finally get to see your plan in motion.”

  Before accepting the position of DCO of the Taskforce, George had spent decades inside the CIA’s National Clandestine Services, most of that time in the Special Activities Division conducting covert operations on every continent but the Antarctic. Some of the missions had been just short of suicidal; with no way to call for help should the worst occur. Unlike the military, when SAD hung it out there, it was absolutely for keeps. No reserves, no cavalry, no rescue.

  George understood when that attitude was truly necessary, but on several occasions, when he’d come close to dying on a mission that was a little ill-conceived, he was convinced it was simply because of a lack of forethought. The CIA leadership was so used to the mission profile that they just took it on faith that nothing could—or should—be done if things went bad. After working with select Department of Defense Special Mission Units, and seeing the care they put into contingency planning for operations, his mind-set changed. When he helped form the mission profile for the Taskforce, he had implemented a panic button should a Taskforce operator find himself in dire straits. Kurt had picked the code words—the same code words used by his fa
ther on top-secret cross-border missions in Vietnam.

  Kurt said, “What can we leverage for Lebanon?”

  “Mostly tech stuff, which you’re doing now. Nothing in the AO, teamwise.”

  “What about Knuckles in Tunisia?”

  George paused, thinking. “Yeah. Crusty’s done, and they’re just doing cover development now, but you pull them officially and it’s a risk.”

  George was reminding him that one of the key ways to blow an operation was to flee too soon after it was over. The police would naturally look at who immediately left following a mission, searching for leads. Because of this, Taskforce teams would stay in the area of operations for as long as necessary, ostensibly doing whatever their cover said they should be doing. Knuckles’ team was now servicing the oil fields in Tunisia, finishing out their “contract.”

  “The black hole’s still off the coast of Tunisia, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Knuckles is a SEAL. So’s Decoy. Anyone else dive qualified on that team?”

  “Yeah. Brett, the new guy I brought over from Special Activities Division. He was a Force Recon Marine in an earlier life. Probably hasn’t done any scuba action in years, but he could figure it out. What are you thinking?”

  “Swim ’em into Beirut. Unofficial. Get ’em on Pike, then get ’em back to Tunisia, before anyone knows they’re gone.”

  “I don’t know. . . . Who’ll pick ’em up? Who’s doing the advanced force work? They can’t just walk out of the ocean.”

  “One step at a time. Find out who’s dive qualified on that team and give ’em a warning order. It may go nowhere, but I want ’em ready. I’ll be out of the net for a few hours. I have to alert the Oversight Council. They’ll need to approve any movement of Knuckles’ team.”

  An hour later, walking down the hall to the Taskforce conference room of the Old Executive Office Building, Kurt caught a glimpse of the West Wing of the White House out a window. As he neared the room, he could hear muted chatter spilling into the hallway, the members who were available for this quick meeting guessing as to what it was about.