by Ethan Jones
The handler nodded. “Well said. Give me a couple of days to make plans. In the meantime, start to contact your network in Mosul and the surrounding villages. Reactivate them, order them to get ready, gather weapons, information. It’s time to wake up and fight back.”
“We will do that, and Allah will lead our hands, inshallah.”
“Inshallah, inshallah,” said the handler. “This team is getting dangerously close to our secret, and they might discover everything.”
“We won’t let that happen.” Asif clenched his teeth, then peered at the photograph of the Canadian operative. His fingers tightened around the phone. “You will die, Pierce. I will not rest until I’ve gotten rid of you. Perhaps I will cut off your head with my own hand...”
Chapter Two
UNHCR Hasan Sham Refugee Camp
Twenty Miles East of Mosul, Iraq
Javin Pierce snapped a series of photographs of children in tattered clothes running behind a small truck that was bringing supplies to the camp overflowing with internally displaced people from the prolonged conflicts. He glanced at the long rows of white tents with the UNHCR blue logo and the people standing and chatting all over the crowded camp. Built to accommodate about eleven thousand people, the camp was home to almost fifteen thousand. The United Nations refugee agency was working to build at least ten more camps to meet the ever-increasing demand.
While the Iraqi Army’s military offensive to retake Mosul from the bloodied hands of the ISIS fighters had been successful, and most of the fighting had long ended, the situation had not improved much. The caliphate might have collapsed, but its legacy continued. Large parts of Mosul remained without running water or a reliable power supply.
Many houses and other buildings, especially in Western Mosul and in the Old Town—where the fiercest fighting took place—remained off limits because they were still booby-trapped with explosives. A great number of residents—who had ventured to return to their houses to salvage whatever might have survived the long months of relentless battles—had lost their lives or were greatly injured as a result of mines and other unexploded devices.
In addition, the enmity between the largely Sunni population and some of the Shia militia that helped liberate the city, which now had been included in the government’s security apparatus, continued. There had been reports of Shia fighters executing suspected ISIS supporters without any trial and with impunity. Finally, a new wave of sporadic but recurring small clashes between ISIS sleeper cells and government forces was a constant reminder that the situation was far from stable or secure.
Javin drew in a deep breath. Yes, Iraq and especially Mosul were still a big mess. And that was the reason he and Claudia, his partner with the CIS, had been dispatched to the area. Along with a team of CIA operatives, they were hunting for ISIS sleeper cells, especially looking for two prominent leaders who seemed to be instigating the recent attacks. As per Javin’s modus operandi, his team was working closely with local government forces—the Shia Popular Mobilisation Forces, or PMF, and Iraqi Federal Police—to correct the situation.
The operation had taken him to the camp, under the pretense of reporting on the refugee crisis. His cover story was that he and Claudia were two freelance Canadian journalists, interested in interviewing camp residents, to hear their stories. Liberty Smith, the Deputy Camp Manager, had agreed to give them a tour of the camp. However, Smith had been tied up with a meeting in Mosul and had yet to arrive.
Javin took a few more photographs of a woman rocking her baby outside one of the tents to his left. He wondered if she was one of the ISIS fighters’ family members, which according to some estimates made up almost thirty percent of the camp’s population. The woman was not on the list of ISIS widows that he and Claudia had come to see and hopefully convince to cooperate and hand over valuable and actionable intelligence.
A shuffling of feet came from behind him. Javin turned around as Claudia walked near the trailer the deputy manager used as her office. Claudia was wearing a brown abaya, the long loose robe that flowed down to her feet, and a blue hijab, the headdress wrapped around her hair and neck, but that left her tanned face exposed. Claudia did not have to adhere to the strict dress code and, underneath the robe, she was wearing a pair of comfortable black cotton pants and a t-shirt. However, the abaya covered her Sig Sauer P320 9mm pistol resting in her shoulder holster. Besides, the common clothes would be less intimidating to ISIS widows. “Javin, we got a call. Smith just arrived.”
He turned his head toward the entrance. A commotion was starting to form, with more children, a few women, and perhaps two or three men heading in that direction. “Let’s get ready.”
“She’s in a sour mood.”
“What happened?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
In a matter of seconds, a white Land Rover came to a stop in front of the trailer. The group of children and women surrounded the vehicle. Smith stepped out and began to talk to them. Javin was within earshot, so he heard their complaints about the lack of food and medicine. Smith’s face was covered in dust. She had dark circles under her weary eyes and looked like she had not slept in days, but she was calm and polite as she told the residents that she was doing her best to secure more provisions. Perhaps in a couple of days, she repeated a few times, before her driver—who Javin knew was also her guard—extricated her from the crowd.
“You must be Mr. Pierce?” Liberty said when she reached the trailer.
“Yes. Glad to meet you, Ms. Smith.”
“Oh, my mother calls me Ms. Smith, especially when I’m in trouble.” She laughed. “Call me Liberty.”
“Sure, and you can call me Javin.”
Liberty shook his hand. “Sorry for the delay. Business meeting took longer than expected. And all for nothing.” She fixed a couple of her blonde hair that had fallen over her eyes. Liberty sported a short, textured bob that brushed her shoulders.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Liberty shrugged. “It doesn’t concern you, but them.” She tipped her head toward the crowd that was slowly dispersing. “We live day-to-day around here. Our food supplies will last only three more days. But I just learned that the convoy will not arrive for at least a week.” She shrugged again and stepped closer to Claudia. “You must be Ms. Aquarone?”
“Claudia. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, come inside.”
Liberty climbed the two steps and led them inside the small trailer. Her office was sparsely furnished, with just the basics to carry out her tasks, and meticulously clean. She gestured for them to sit on folding chairs across from her desk, then said, “Something to drink?”
“Water,” said Claudia.
“I’m okay,” Javin said.
Liberty said, “I’m going to make some coffee...”
“In that case, I’ll have a cup,” Javin said.
“You?” she asked Claudia.
“I’ll stick with water.”
Liberty poured water in a glass from a large plastic container and handed the glass to Claudia. Then, Liberty filled the coffee machine’s pot with bottled water and opened one of the metallic cupboards fastened onto the wall above her desk. She pulled out a large can of coffee of a brand Javin had never heard of. “It’s not the best coffee, but it’s all I have.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Javin said.
“Wait until you try it.” She gave him a tired, yet beautiful smile.
Javin’s gaze went to a framed photo set on the desk next to the computer monitor. It was the picture of a girl, ten, maybe eleven years old, who bore a close resemblance to Liberty. The same large gray-blue eyes, thin nose, and dimpled chin. If she was the camp manager’s daughter, that put Liberty in her mid or late thirties. The exhausting work had taken its toll on Liberty, but she was indeed a beautiful woman. Javin noticed her slender hips, then his eyes admired the rest of her body. Embarrassed, he looked away. What am I doing? Focus, Javin. This isn’t t
he time to check her out.
He wanted to ask about the girl, but thought better about hitting a nerve. Liberty had been in the camp since it was opened, over two years ago. And her track record placed her in similar assignments across the world over the last seven years. Whoever the girl was, she had very little contact with Liberty.
As the coffee machine began its brewing cycle, she said, “We’ll have to cancel the tour, unfortunately, but you also wanted to interview some of the residents, right?” She turned around, but remained standing next to the coffee counter.
“Yes, if that’s possible.”
Arrangements had already been made, and all the permits were in order, so the stop at the manager’s office should be only a formality. Still, Javin wanted to keep the conversation as amicable as possible, especially after meeting Liberty. In this lawless land, he could use every ally they could find.
“Sure, sure. Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
Javin had a list of potentials, which he had received from Miraj, one of the survivors of the ISIS rule in Mosul. Along with a number of other residents, Miraj had put together a list of names of ISIS fighters and their close associates and supporters. The Iraqi army was rounding them up for intelligence-gathering, interrogations, and trials. Perhaps not exactly justice, but punishment was definitely raining down on the remnants of the caliphate. The CIA team members, with whom Javin was working closely, had expanded Miraj’s list to include ISIS fighters’ widows and other relatives. However, to make the list appear less obvious to the discerning eyes, they had included three or four names that had no connection to the extremist militants. “We do. It’s not a long list, about ten people or so.” He held up his tablet and flicked through the screens. “We’d like to hear from people who have come from different areas.”
Liberty walked to Javin and glanced at the tablet. “You know most of the people here came from Mosul?”
“Yes, I meant different areas of the city, to bring various perspectives to our story.”
Claudia leaned forward and said, “We’d like to bring a variety of angles to our report. Not just the usual plight of the refugees, but explore the reasons for their exodus, their hopes, dreams.”
Liberty was still scrolling through the list. “And you’re certain these are still in the camp?”
Claudia nodded. She had double-checked with the CIA assets inside the camp. Both men had confirmed that the ten targets were in the camp as late as last night. Unless they had left before Javin and Claudia arrived shortly after sunrise, they should be there. “I hope so. But if not, we can talk to other residents, whoever is willing to be on camera and give us their views.”
Liberty snorted. “Oh, yes, they all would like to give you a piece of their mind and tell you how things should be done around here.” She sighed. “The problem is not that we don’t know, but we don’t have the means. We can only do so much because we only have so much.” She returned the tablet to Javin.
He put it in his khaki vest’s front pocket. “Anyone you recognize?” he asked as an afterthought.
“Should I?”
“I don’t know. We compiled the list using different sources. There seemed to be some quite vocal residents, who, as you hinted, have not been very kind.”
Liberty grinned. “You’re quite polite, Mr. Pierce, like a true Canadian.”
Javin smiled at her, perhaps more than necessary, then he glanced at Claudia.
She gave him a sideways glance, as if asking, What are you doing?
Liberty returned the smile and appeared to blush. She ran her fingers through her hair for a moment, then said, “What was I saying? Oh yes, I was telling you about the residents. A couple of these women accused me of collaborating with Shia militia and plotting their execution. But, what do you expect, considering they were married to, literally in bed with, Daesh butchers.” She used the derogatory term to refer to ISIS.
“Would you rather we did not speak to them?” Claudia asked.
Liberty did not have the authority to stop journalists from talking to camp residents, but she could postpone, monitor, or otherwise make the interviews difficult. But acts of deference would buy the Canadian agents a lot of goodwill.
Liberty shrugged. “No, go ahead. I’m sure they won’t say anything I haven’t heard already.”
Javin nodded. Actually, I do hope they tell us what they haven’t told anyone else.
Liberty said, “The last woman in particular, Ghanem ... I’d better warn you about her.”
Javin peered at Liberty. “What happened?”
The coffee machine’s gurgle stopped, announcing the end of the brewing cycle. Liberty poured coffee into a large cup for Javin, then into her thermos. “Milk, sugar, honey?”
He thought her voice sounded warmer than the situation warranted. Or perhaps I’m imagining things...
“Javin...” Liberty said.
“Yes, sorry, just a bit of honey.”
She turned around and opened one of the cupboards.
Claudia leaned over and elbowed Javin. “What are you doing?” she asked in a hushed tone into his ear.
“Eh ... nothing. What—”
“The look you’re giving her. Like a teenage boy...”
Claudia stopped as Liberty walked to the desk. She picked up a set of keys from a drawer, then opened one of the farthermost cupboards. She took out a clip-top metal container labeled Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee and pulled out a couple of honey packages. Then she found a small plastic spoon.
Javin said, “Now, that’s some great coffee.” He pointed at the container.
Liberty’s face lit up. “It is. I fell in love with it when working in the Caribbean. Oh, I wish I had some.”
He took the cup and added honey to the coffee. He took a sip and could barely stifle a frown. The coffee was really bad. It was bitter and tasted like burned coal ashes. He poured the second package and stirred the coffee. The honey did nothing to improve the taste.
“Sorry, again,” Liberty said. “I’ve tried to find some better coffee, but this is all I’ve got.”
Javin shrugged. “It’s all right. Now, you were saying about that woman, what was her name?”
He knew exactly who Huda Yusuf Ghanem was: the widow of one of the most prominent ISIS leaders. Reportedly, he was killed during ISIS’s last stand in Mosul’s Old Town. Ghanem was perhaps the main reason that had brought the team to the refugee camp.
“Ghanem, that’s her name, and she’s vicious. Not only with camp officials, but also reporters. She attacked one of them, an old woman, for asking a fair question about her late husband, a very evil and brutal man. You know who he was, right?”
Claudia nodded. “We do.”
“So, be careful when you talk to her. She doesn’t speak English. Do you need an interpreter? A guard?”
Javin shook his head. “No, I know Arabic.”
“You do?” Liberty cocked her head. “Not many people know that language.”
“Learning languages comes naturally to me, I guess.”
The truth was a little bit different and more complicated. Javin had to learn the language during his first deployment to North Africa and the Middle East, which lasted for over a year. He was immersed in the culture, interacted with locals from Algeria to Yemen, became familiar with their customs, traditions, values. But he also had a knack for languages. Besides speaking Arabic like a native, he also had an excellent command of Italian and French, besides, of course, English, his mother tongue.
Claudia said, “We’ll bring our driver with us. We should be safe with him.”
The driver, Thomas “Tom” White, was one of the CIA’s best field agents. He had operated in northern Iraq for the last two years, and had spent several weeks in and around Mosul.
“Okay, then,” Liberty said. “Do you need anything else from me?”
“Thanks so much for all this,” Javin said. “I just have one question: This woman, Ghanem, anything else we need to know about
her?” He kept the question vague as anything beyond that might arouse suspicions in Liberty’s mind.
Liberty laughed. “Besides ‘don’t get too close to her’? Seriously, I’d keep my distance. And don’t provoke her. Ghanem’s husband might be dead, and the caliphate has fallen, but ISIS ideology still remains. Ghanem is well-connected, and has had many visitors.”
Claudia offered Liberty a look of surprise. “You mean something bad might happen to us if we get on her wrong side?”
Liberty shrugged. “Well, the journalist that Ghanem attacked ... Their vehicle drove over a bomb that exploded. Everyone in the car died. The journalist wasn’t there, thankfully. And the bomb happened to be in an area the army had already cleared. Nothing that can be tied back to Ghanem, but I have my own doubts...”
Javin nodded. He had not heard about the incident. There were so many deaths and attacks and clashes among so many armed groups in the area the Canadian agents could barely keep up. That was why he always liked to gather as much intelligence as he could before embarking on an operation.
Liberty continued, “Plus, there are rumors that Ghanem was a senior member of ISIS’s ‘morality police,’ who enforced the strict Sharia law’s dress code. No jewelry, no makeup, everyone had to be covered head to foot.”
“How come she hasn’t been arrested?” Claudia asked.
Liberty took a sip of her coffee and pursed her lips. “Not sure. Maybe those claims couldn’t be proven. A lot of people have been falsely accused. Many people were forced to work for ISIS or face execution of themselves or their families. The authorities are trying to put a stop to ‘revenge trials’ and only pursue those cases where the evidence is ironclad. Or maybe she has paid protection money. Government corruption is still rampant.” Liberty thought about her answer for a moment, then added, “Or it could be that some people are afraid of an ISIS comeback. There are insurgent-style attacks throughout the province. Ambushes. Kidnappings. For some, keeping Ghanem safe might be their insurance policy, in case ISIS returns to power.”
