by David Poyer
But he could end it.
No more killing.
No more terror.
No more of this awful feeling of doom.
Hell? The priests said so. He’d be judged. Condemned.
But even eternal flame might be more peaceful than this.
“You’re a two-island Marine,” he muttered drunkenly. Your men look up to you. Duty, he had duty … the Corps … but he wasn’t up to this. Wasn’t right. His head … his brain … felt … fucking … broken. Something in there was shattered. Through the cracks, the horror was flooding in. And the pills only made it worse.
He set the rifle aside. Fingers scrabbling desperately, he extracted a slip of photo from his combat wallet. Mirielle. But her features were blurred, the colors had run together with rain and sweat and wear. Even with the flashlight, he couldn’t make out her eyes.
He set it aside, propped it facing him on the frog’s pedestal, and picked up the carbine again. Settled it between his legs, and set the powder-smelling muzzle once more beneath his jaw.
Crouched there, shivering, panting, Hector Ramos wavered between life and death.
9
The Karakoram Mountains
DEEP in these remote caverns, the air was humid and somehow denser than out in the open. Water dripped. Echoes reverberated. Lanterns hissed, radiating light the color of copal. A fire crackled in a groove in the wall, sending aromatic smoke eddying toward where bats twittered and squeaked far above. A shortwave radio ranted, turned down until it was barely audible. Worn carpets and low tables of rough wood were scattered across the eroded limestone floor. Ancient Buddhas lay shattered, faces gouged away. Wall engravings were scarred by bullets. A crushed mass of ancient parchment shoaled the corners. Black banners hung behind a stone lectern, and a battered scimitar leaned against it.
Once Teddy Oberg had been judged from that lectern. Now he led hundreds of fighters, and unnumbered thousands followed his bidding throughout western China.
Yet not without opposition.
“Chai,” a girl whispered behind the seated men. Brass tinkled as she set down a tray. Barefoot, she was sheathed from crown to dirty toes in black cloth, save for a slit for her eyes. One of the Han taken at Kanayi. She was slight, frightened, twelve or thirteen. Teddy had never asked her real name. He called her Dandan, after an earlier girl slave. As he’d trained her, she poured a cup for herself first, from the same pot, and drank it off. Stood trembling, holding her hand to her no-doubt-scalded mouth.
Teddy stroked his beard, fondling her absently from behind with the other hand. After some moments he pushed her away, leaned in and took one of the tiny blazing-hot turned-brass cups, holding it with the tips of gloved fingers. Despite the fire the air in the cave was close to freezing. Guldulla—“Tokarev”—sat to his right, his breath a white plume. Nasrullah, their spymaster, squatted to Teddy’s left.
“Report,” Teddy said.
Nasrullah gestured to a young Uighur who sat a few feet away, legs crossed, cradling a small coffer. He set it in front of Teddy. Accepted a teacup, yet did not sip. He stared at them with wide eyes.
“Tell the Lingxiù what happened,” the spymaster prompted.
The muj cleared his throat. He spoke in Uighur, which Teddy could follow by now, though he didn’t speak it fluently. “Respected sir. The governor was well protected. Bodyguards. Escorts, when he traveled in his car. Guards outside his home. We observed for many days. Then a friend told us to watch the side of his office in the city. The exit the workers use, those who clean up and serve the meals for the officials.
“He left by that back gate and we followed. Once or twice a week he leaves the office in mid-afternoon to visit a widow who runs a duoba shop. She locks up and they go into the back.”
Teddy nodded. Duobas were the traditional embroidered Uighur hats. He reached for a pot of honey and stirred some into the aromatic chai. It was a green tea, from Jiangxi.
“We promised her life and those of her children if she cooperated. She wept but agreed. We remained in the back room until he visited again. She rang a bell to warn us. When he came in, we were ready.”
The boy presented a cheap phone and thumbed up a photograph. The severed head had a startled expression. Blood surrounded it on a rumpled-up pink bedspread.
“What did you do with it?” Oberg muttered.
“Displayed it in the marketplace. Later the Han troops came and removed it. But by then many had seen.”
“And the widow?”
“Killed, with her children. As collaborators. Also displayed in the market.”
“You have done well,” Teddy told him. He reached into his vest, into the hidden pocket beside the holstered Makarov with the safety off. He counted five shining Krugerrands onto the carpet. Each was worth twice the annual income of an average worker. The boy gawked down at them.
“Share them with your comrades, the brave mujahideen of Urumqi. Tell them your leaders are generous. Tell them they have served their people well.” Teddy waved to the guards standing a few paces off. “Go now. Rest, eat, and receive more of the rewards ITIM reserves for the bravest of its fighters.” The boy bowed and got up, leaving the box in front of Teddy. Teddy flicked a finger at it, but didn’t touch it. Dandan came forward from the shadows, and spirited it away as Nasrullah beckoned to the next man in line.
One after the other, their agents reported assassinations, car bombings, suicide-vest attacks against the government and those who collaborated. Others reported on ITIM’s self-financing efforts, primarily moving high-value low-bulk Afghan exports down into the lowlands. Some of the spies arrived coughing. They reported sickness in the towns. Deaths. But also a heavier Internal Security presence, with patrols, roving drones, and counterassassinations. Prominent Uighur lawyers, doctors, and clerics had been rounded up and sent east.
Teddy nodded grimly, knowing what that meant. Camp 576, where he himself had toiled and nearly starved.
The audience ended. Teddy grunted, hoisting himself awkwardly from the cushioned nook where he usually sat, his back to the cave wall. His injured leg flamed. He eased it within the brace, stretching the warped muscles and pain-racked tendons until they cracked. He limped back and forth, shaking it off. He’d have to sit again in a few hours, for the talk with the leadership. Then again that afternoon, when their CIA contact arrived.
But first they had to get a few things straightened out.
* * *
IMAM Akhmad’s white beard fell to his waist. The end lay curled in his lap. The old man’s eyes were cloudy, but cataracts didn’t seem to keep him from reading the Koran. Or maybe he’d memorized it by now. He must have learned it from some local cleric in his youth; his Arabic pronunciation was worse than Teddy’s. Never spry since Oberg had known him, over the last year he’d grown feeble. Slaves had to support him when he tottered about. These days he seldom left his side cavern, and spent long periods of time alone praying, or maybe just staring at the stained walls in the flickering light of a single candle.
Now the old man welcomed them to his retreat with a graceful flexing of long fingers. “Come to me, my sons,” he mumbled through a toothless mouth, coughing. His left hand was tucked under his robe. His right groped toward a dish of qiegao: slices of a cake made of stewed sugar, minced nuts, dates, raisins, and figs. Akhmad seemed to live on candy: chocolates, White Rabbit milk candies, sugared fruit, puddings, all prepared for him by his slaves.
Before Teddy could react, Qurban, the former al-Qaeda chief, settled himself at the right hand of the sheykh. They faced Teddy, Nasrullah, and Tokarev across the desserts and an ornate little samovar which bubbled over a Sterno flame.
Okay, round one to Qurban. Teddy handed the imam the box the assassin had given him. Dandan had cautiously opened it to reveal neat rows of Chinese chocolates in gold foil. The old man smiled, but set it aside. They chatted, Teddy restraining his impatience. The elder had to broach the conversation first.
“What brings my sons to vi
sit an old man?” the imam finally muttered, wiping his nose on a stained sleeve.
Guldulla said respectfully, “Reverend Sheykh, events are pressing. We must discuss our leadership before the American arrives.”
He blinked at Teddy. “But al-Amriki is already with us.”
“We mean, the American from outside,” Qurban put in.
The old imam blinked again, looking blank. Was he out of it? Going gaga?
Teddy, Guldulla, and Qurban were currently sharing the leadership, in an uneasy triumvirate led, or rather figureheaded, by the old imam. A respectable Islamic insurgency had to be headed by a cleric. Unfortunately, the sheykh seemed to be losing his grip.
Teddy watched Qurban’s hands as he passed tea around. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t slipped anything into it. As they sipped, Nasrullah presented the news from the lowlands. The authorities were responding to the massacre, and the rising insurgency, by prohibiting prayer other than in approved mosques, prosecuting those who wore beards and veils, and dissolving those madrassas that did not slavishly follow Beijing’s line.
“This is very evil of them,” Akhmad mumbled, fumbling in the dish for another slice of the sweet cake.
Nasrullah said humbly, “It is not all the evil they have done. Marshal Chagatai has ordered in another interior security division from Hong Kong.”
“Chagatai…” the old man’s voice trailed off.
Tokarev said, “The general who shot a thousand people in Hong Kong. He is an Uighur, but he kowtows to the Hans.”
The old man bobbled his head, but his beatific expression didn’t change. Nasrullah went on. “He has begun roundups and mass executions. There are rumors chemical weapons were dropped on Kanayi, which is being called Town of the Dead.”
The old man mumbled, “Kanayi…”
“Where we raided, and punished the Han,” Teddy supplied.
The old guy didn’t seem to be following the conversation. Actually, he seemed much more interested in his snack.
Qurban cleared his throat. “Revered Sheykh, may this humble one contribute?” After a moment the former al-Qaeda fighter spread his hands. He said in flawless classical Arabic, “Honored sir, forgive my forwardness. No more than al-Amriki al-Oberg, am I one of your clan. Yet long have I fought on the side of the Faithful. Multitudes have fallen around me. Still, by the will of Allah, Blessed be his name—”
All four men mumbled, “Blessed be his name.”
“—by His will alone, have I survived to carry on the struggle. I have not the military training of our American friend.” He nodded to Teddy, smiling. “Nor can I merit the confidence you repose in your fellow tribesmen, the brave Guldulla called Tokarev and the cunning Nasrullah who carries our message to the people.
“Nevertheless, I have seen great movements defeated before. They never completely die, as they are dedicated to the Faith. But they suffer setbacks. Become complacent. And sometimes are betrayed, by members who appear as stone but are merely salt within.”
He didn’t so much as glance at Teddy, but Oberg tensed. What kind of treacherous, underhanded shit was this asshole up to?
“I fear we are at the crossroads of decision. The Han have a Final Solution in sight for the Turkic peoples. Beijing is growing desperate. This Chagatai arrives with hands dripping with blood. We must take measures.”
He paused, and they all looked to Akhmad. Who sopped up a bit of sweet sauce, sucked on his fingers, and gazed over their heads. Finally he mumbled, “What is it that you propose, Hajji al-Nashiri?”
“Honored Sheykh, far be it from me to suggest guidance.”
“Please, go ahead,” Teddy broke in. In Arabic, just to remind everyone Qurban wasn’t the only guy around who could rattle it off. Plus, his ass was going numb on the thin blanket. Nothing under it but wet rock, if the seeping dampness was any clue. Drink tea, chat, drink more tea … being a rebel and a guerrilla wasn’t a bad gig, but this part sucked.
Qurban nodded. “Two things must be done. First, this marshal must die. If our clever friend here,” he nodded to Nasrullah, “can arrange the assassination of a governor, surely he can give death to this bloody general.”
The old man held up his cup. Above them bats twittered. A dollop of dung splattered down onto the blanket. A slave reached to brush it away. Another refreshed the sheykh’s tea.
“And the second?” Guldulla prompted, when the old man didn’t answer.
“We must recast the mission of ITIM,” Qurban said. He stroked a gray beard, shorter than Akhmad’s, but longer than Teddy’s. “So far we have been promoting a political, democratic, secular rebellion. I understand that the Independent Turkistan Islamic Movement revives the name of an earlier resistance. I also understand its promise—to unite all the Turkic peoples. Not just from China, but from Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan. Yes. That is a powerful message.
“But we must be realistic. It must change.”
“To what?” Teddy said, but he knew the answer.
“It is simple. We must pronounce jihad. Turn this rebellion into a sacred battle, of the Faithful against the godless. This will unite us with the fighting House of Islam throughout the world.”
“Daesh, al-Qaeda, Boko Haram,” Teddy said. “You mean, like them?”
Qurban turned a gentle smile to him. He said politely, “The one you call The Sacrifice has fought under many banners. Yet it is always the same banner. Nothing must be exalted over Islam. We must fulfill Allah’s will as revealed by the Prophet, blessed be his name. We will bring all the faithful of the world under the sacred law. We will subject the polytheists to obedience and destroy the atheists and idolators. Is this not how you, honored Sheykh, have governed your fighters?”
Addressed directly, Akhmad merely belched and closed his eyes.
“I will speak, if that is agreeable,” Teddy said. Guldulla and Nasrullah nodded; the old sheykh looked away; Qurban smiled.
“I am not saying the hajji is wrong. His first suggestion, the assassination of the marshal, is good. Removing this devil will strike fear into the Han, that such a high one can fall, like the shattered idols in our cave.
“But pronouncing jihad … this is a different matter. It detaches us from many supporters in the urban areas. Those who hate the Han, but who are educated. The merchants. It places us in company with some whom even much of the Umma abhors. I fear most of all that it may cost us the support of America. Where most of our weapons and ammunition, as well as other supplies, originate.”
He stroked his beard. Just like one of them … “I am open to reason, and to the sheykh’s command. Whatever he decides, that will I execute. But I warn against this second step. I warn against it most sincerely.”
The imam looked at Nasrullah, who turned his hands upward, abstaining. At Guldulla. Who hesitated, smoothing his mustache. But who finally shook his head. “There are good arguments on both sides. This matter merits more thought. But as Qurban and the Lingxiù both have said, it is for the sheykh to decide.”
Akhmad closed his eyes. With an audible spatter, another donation from the bats hit the hem of his coat. A slave mopped at it, but the old man didn’t seem to notice.
When he opened his eyes again, they were clouded, rheumy, but seemed to see beyond the cavern, beyond the mountains. Maybe, all the way to the Seventh Heaven. He patted each of their knees in turn. Smacked his lips, and reached for another sweet. Masticated it, while a little drool stained his beard.
Finally he murmured, “I agree with noble Guldulla. This merits thought. I will ponder all you have said. May Allah grant me wisdom. Go in peace.” He waved a flaccid hand, and one after the other the men in front of him rose, and bowed, and left the cavern.
* * *
“VLADIMIR” arrived that afternoon, on a donkey, with an escort of mujahideen and pack mules. Nasrullah patted him down and relieved him of his pistol.
The Agency field officer had Slavic cheekbones and a nose like a thin-blade knife. H
is short beard was black. His hooded eyes were bloodshot from the altitude. He stripped off a heavy greatcoat and insulated gloves to reveal a tactical vest, a maroon turtleneck, and a now empty holster.
They shook hands as Teddy tried to reorient his brain to English. It seemed to have left his skull, to no longer reside on his hard drive. Finally he managed, “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too, Teddy.”
“Vladimir” was a cover name, of course. He said he’d been a Ranger before joining the CIA. Teddy didn’t know his real one, though the guy seemed to know everything about him. From his Team files, of course. Plus records of his other missions.
Which all seemed so long ago … like the movie he’d never made, back in LA.
Vladimir jerked a thumb at one of the mujs, and they began wrestling crates off the mules. A crowbar was applied to wood, and with considerably splintering and banging a green-wrapped bundle emerged.
Teddy cradled the rifle, running his gaze up and down the stock. “M40.”
“Marines were getting rid of them. I put in for five for your snipers.”
“Optics?”
“In the side compartment.”
“Yeah, this’ll reach out and touch ’em. What else you got?”
“Ammo. Stingers. Batteries, night vision, flu meds.”
“Meds, excellent. We’ve had a shitload of sick lately.”
“This stuff should help. Experimental. The latest and greatest. But keep close tabs on it. We wouldn’t want this to get to the Hans.”
Teddy said he copied that, and that they might as well go on up to the cave.
* * *
THE agent looked keenly about as they threaded the men sitting on the stone floors. Some were cleaning rifles. Others swayed and chanted: a Koran class. And some were sleeping, arms thrown over their faces; come in from guard duty in the surrounding mountains.
