The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  She looked surprised at that. “You’re really thinking about bagging it? You’ve got most of the program behind you, Jon. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  “I’m not sure where to go if I do. Lots of loans. They’d be easier to pay with a PhD than just my MA,” he snorted.

  Christie nodded. “Tell me about loans. I could have bought a condo by now.” She looked at her cell phone to check the time. “Crap, Jon, I gotta go. If you need a beer tonight let me know, OK?”

  “Thanks, Chris. Stay out of trouble.” He watched her stalk off, dumping her trash and piling the tray up atop the receptacle on her way out of the cafeteria. He would put off taking up her offer of a beer. Anthony did not relish the thought of one of her girlfriends getting the wrong idea, and some gals she knew could clean your clock better than a soak in white vinegar.

  The rest of the semester passed quickly, taken up with the frenetic activity that always accompanied the end of the term. Anthony posted grades for the courses that he taught and had the usual good reviews submitted to Dr. Mills through Judy Spencer. He completed the research for his set of classes without doing any damage to his just-under-4.0 GPA. The Britteridge campus emptied for the holidays.

  His office was in as good a shape as it would ever be. He packed his laptop and briefcase and was finally ready for the break to begin. It was there standing at his desk that Anthony realized the direction of his life had fallen out from in front of him. There had always been a goal. His BA had been there waiting—after the funeral, even after his hiatus—once he could swing it. Then there was the application to Britteridge: anything but sure. He made steady progress toward his MA and accomplished this as well; it should have been the same for his doctorate. Except, he thought, for those unrelated events that affected his perspective so much.

  He had only started his doctoral program in 2001 as the September 11 attacks rocked the nation. He remained in a conventional track for two years afterward. Then in 2003, the news broke of the Virginia Jihad network takedown. It was not a lone fanatic but eleven men, living as he did, nearly on his doorstep. They had chosen to take sides in what they thought to be a war against unbelievers.

  It occupied his mind to the point that the thoughts refused to stop coming: what was it that drove such people to do these things? What legitimized the choices in what people believe? Was there such a thing as truth? Who was right? Who was wrong and why? The questions evolved into two more years of deliberate thinking. Answers to those questions became his doctoral dissertation, and that document was the reason that he could not now say what his future held.

  He could continue as a doctoral candidate, of course. He still had the support of Dr. Mills. Beginning again, he might mold himself into a product that D. Richard Wainwright would allow to pass out of the sanctimonious bowels of Theological Studies. Alternatively, he could pursue a teaching job at a community college or public education district. Neither of these appealed to him. He realized that he did not like to lose. He had never failed, not like this. The semester was over. He took with him what he needed for the break and headed home.

  Anthony was past feeling the deep depression that had accompanied this season for years after the loss of his parents. His friends, spread everywhere now, had become his surrogate family. They kept up to date on the current events in each other’s lives. E-mails took the place that cards once held. Theirs were full of encouragement to continue his education. Did he have a choice?

  He piled the paperwork for his loans on the small table in the kitchen of the one-bedroom apartment and assembled his first net worth statement. Even with the semesters off to work during his undergraduate years, the student-aid jobs and his graduate stipend, ten years of paying tuition left more than $110,000 of student loan debt staring him in the face. The paperwork went back into its shoebox. Saving the Excel spreadsheet to its folder, he was about to close the laptop for the night. He thought instead to check the web link to his Britteridge e-mail account.

  At the top of his Inbox, he saw a message from Tom Colby. Tom’s attachment was full of news about his girls, ages twelve and fourteen, and less about his now ex-wife. Anthony had known Tom as an undergraduate at Valparaiso. He had watched Colby earn his Master’s in Political Science even before Anthony had earned his first degree. He had kept in touch with the man as his diplomatic career with the government progressed. Anthony had heard about the work even as it claimed his friend’s marriage and now consumed always more of Colby’s life.

  Tom was a Special Assistant in the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs of the US State Department; his was a simple title for a job that was complex. “State” would be taking over in Iraq once the ugly business of the military wound down. The task of building a nation would then be under way in earnest.

  As Tom liked to say, “Illegitimate governments reproduce sexually, by screwing the governed.” Now, a new government in Iraq was growing, formed by idealism instead of tyranny. Taken from a cutting of the Western world, it was a delicate green shoot of a thing. Tom was a standout among many gardeners of the fledgling democracy.

  Anthony began a reply; he and Colby had corresponded off and on for more than ten years now. He rattled off in the e-mail what was now his standard update: he would be continuing at Britteridge longer than he had planned, with enough detail to explain why. No news from the fourth floor of Roberts Hall would seem unusual to any US government employee.

  As Jon Anthony sent his message, it was nearly 0630 in Baghdad. In a small modular housing unit inside the USAF perimeter near Baghdad International, a man with dark hair turning gray was also at his laptop. In his case it was a military-issue, ruggedized Panasonic Toughbook. His morning run around the wire was finished, as was the regimen of pushups and crunches that worked better than caffeine. He was already showered and outfitted in civilian clothing.

  One of the many pieces of information that had shaken out of his efforts at the Hurriyah market, he learned, had developed further. Friends in Tel Aviv, via USSOCOM, confirmed the best of his photographs as those of Abu Bakir Raad. Additionally, only two of the three men he left in the alley were still there when Iraqi police had responded, backed by a US Army National Guard patrol.

  His kills in the alley were not his first. He had watched many men—both enemies and comrades in his unit—die. Officially, he had never lost one under his command. He had stanched their wounds and intervened with the fluids that kept them alive until they reached a field hospital. It would have given the Iranians pause had they known him better. They would have killed him instead, and this was one reason he was so careful to remain unknown.

  Of the fingerprints taken in the morgue from the kills, a match had finally shown up in Homeland Security archives. They corresponded to those on a decade-old French student visa issued by the embassy in Teheran. After the American had informed his contacts in the police of the suspected connection to Iran, the Iraqi officers finished their reports: the decedents shot each other in a quarrel. No adverse publicity resulted. Raad had been invisible since.

  Though still technically Air Force, the officer was preparing his report for Lt. General Peter McAllen, US Army Intelligence. He himself attached through the joint US Special Operations Command. McAllen drew intelligence from many sources in the region, routing items of interest to people who could make the best use of them. If one man came closest to knowing who in Iraq was doing what to whom and how often at any moment, it was McAllen. If Raad was still in the country—more so if still in Baghdad—this officer knew that McAllen would be acting, and if McAllen took action, the operative expected to be in the lead element.

  The file attachments assembled, he sent the report off on its route through the military’s servers. He began to review the rest of the information that he would be trying to exploit today. One of the three men from the alley was still active, as was the driver of the vehicle, as was Raad. Their goals were unknown in both scope and schedule; he did not want to learn about them after the fact. It woul
d be far better if he found them first.

  Chapter 4: Career Moves

  Thomas Marion Colby was without the girls this Christmas. His presents had to go UPS to the “Fed Ex,” as he called his former spouse. The divorce had not been her fault. He put too much of himself into a career that had taken him farther already than he had expected. He had moved into Federal service right out of college. The State Department, in turn, had helped him get his Master’s in Political Science two years later. It was a steady climb up the ladder to his present rung. The position was Special Assistant, working for the Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs.

  He was a nation-builder, a supervisor in the construction of a state. Iraq was no longer a rogue but a country in transition. The outcome was still in doubt. Contingency plans existed for every scenario that desk-bound analysts in DC could dream up at taxpayer expense. He was living out the current operational plan.

  The decision to go to war in Iraq had been controversial. The controversy led to opportunities for opposing elements at home to acquire power. Already the process of shaping and exploiting public sentiment was seeking to turn the 2006 midterm elections, now less than a year distant. For the moment, he had the resources and the political direction to proceed.

  He sought stabilization of the governmental structure in Iraq. To prevent the country from collapsing into a fragmented set of tribal lands under Iran’s dominance was his goal. Expanded influence for the Iranian mullahs would be disastrous in the region. Colby knew that Western-style democracies were much less likely to declare war against neighbors. They were too busy making money, leading the good life and shipping packages UPS to their kids.

  The projected future of Iraq was that of a federal parliamentary democratic republic. It would bind the divergent elements within the country and create a nation stable enough to accommodate and share power in civility.

  Not all believed these things were possible—not even some of his own staff, split between here and Baghdad. He had been there twice and seen the smoke rising in the city from insurgent attacks. Much remained to be done. Because the best way to get a lot done was to get to it, he had. For almost three years, he had worked toward his government’s goal. Two had been enough to finish off his marriage. He did not know when the task would end.

  Iraq itself had not coalesced and decided which path to follow. Traditional Muslim Sharia law still held dominant influence in the country. The further one traveled from the city centers, the stronger its influence became. The nation’s Shi'a Muslims split evenly on the question of establishing a parliamentary government, and there was even less support among Sunnis. If the US and its partners in the West were to succeed, the balance had to shift in their direction. Helping swing that balance was the objective toward which Tom Colby worked so diligently.

  He believed in the mission. He believed in democracy, and he told himself that he believed in the good people of Iraq. People were people wherever you went. The trouble began when you gathered them into groups. Groups became cultures, and cultures developed different views, divergent goals and mutual animosities. The carnage in Iraq began when a weapons-stockpiling dictatorship collapsed. There were piles of artillery shells for the taking, all full of high-grade military explosives or other substances that were even worse for children and other living things.

  Before the holidays, Colby had neglected his e-mail. Now it demanded his attention. He had the same dual-monitor Dell computer setup here at home as he did on his desk at State. Most messages were work-related, but now and again there was a personal e-mail. He noticed a few of those. One was from a kid he had known in college who had somehow or another hung on to become a friend; Colby had not seen him since graduating in Indiana.

  He decided to take a mental break with Jon Anthony’s holiday update. In it, he read the unexpected news of the discouraging setback in Jon’s doctoral program. Colby was a practical person and had never related well to academe. People in that setting spent a lot of time talking and very little doing. They seemed so often to be divorced from real-world considerations. It was their insulation against the stress of being held accountable for results, he reasoned. He had no idea why a PhD in Theological Studies appealed to Jon Anthony. Was it to become a professor of others also seeking to become professors? That seemed closer to a Ponzi scheme than a career path.

  Why would anyone pursue a career in Theological Studies? As if caught at the junction of two trickles of thought joining to become a stream, Colby suddenly felt buoyed by a new idea. He sat staring at his screen—through it really—seeing in his mind the logical flow of an initiative. He tested for weak spots in that logic then worked backward to see how the foundations could be set in place. A few minutes later, he was satisfied. He began to type a new e-mail message to a counterpart at State, one more deeply involved the budgeting process. He inquired about funding allocations, particularly those for consultancies.

  Today was the Tuesday after a long New Year’s weekend. Colby walked into the Assistant Secretary’s office. He was on time, five minutes after his Outlook calendar had chimed up the reminder for his appointment. Although granted only twenty minutes, he did not resent the compressed window of access. He knew the accomplished woman had more on her plate than he did. He had more than enough. It was time to try to ladle on an extra helping.

  “Tom.” She greeted him with a smile, moving the swing arm mount that held her LCD monitor out of the way and rising to shake his hand. “You’re looking well. The holidays were good to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he lied, having realized long ago that she was neither his psychiatrist nor his divorce attorney.

  She smiled again and grasped her oversize coffee cup. “But busy, I see. I’ve just glanced over your proposal. It is interesting, and not something that we have had a chance to try over there to date. Am I wrong about that?”

  Colby settled into her leather visitor’s chair. It was more comfortable than most and, by design, helped put him at ease. “No, ma’am, we have not. Direct negotiation with tribal leaders was subordinate to military prosecution of the insurgency, and the region is taking longer in settling down than anyone expected.”

  The Assistant Secretary for Near Eastern Affairs sipped her coffee. Her administrative assistant ground the Jamaican Blue Mountain beans every morning, he knew. He also knew it helped her think.

  Colby was good at reading people, part of the reason that he was good at what he did. He could see that she was reasoning at a rapid pace, much as he had when developing his latest proposal.

  “It’s still an unsettled province, Tom. I wonder if it still isn’t too upset for this type of initiative.”

  Colby shrugged. She was going down the same road of thought that had brought him to his conclusions. “When Iraq settles down, ma’am, and if it goes in the direction that we hope it will, a near majority of people there will have come to a different conclusion about government. They need to see for themselves what we’re about, and to have that happen we need to make our intentions known. We have to put ourselves on display for those who can influence opinion—for the ones that can shape it. People in the provinces are looking to their elders, to their traditional leadership for direction, as they did even when the Baathist government was in control. We need to get out there and engage them in the context that drives their decision making.”

  She glanced over at her LCD panel again. “You propose direct negotiation with tribal leadership. One could argue this might undermine the authority of the coalition government that you’ve spent so much time strengthening.”

  “That’s not the intent.” Colby shifted, leaning forward. “Coalition government now is seen by some as just another front for authoritarianism, similar to representation under Hussein. We want to encourage legitimate participation, make it clear to them that we offer an opportunity to take part in representative government. We want them to trust enough in the process. That means breaking down the mistrusts they have of us as a nat
ion, as a people, as what they perceive to be infidels.”

  “The Islamic perspective in a rural region isn’t going to be easy to overcome, Tom, but I hardly need to tell you. I assume that’s why you were inquiring with Anne in Finance on a consultancy.”

  Colby sat back. “I have someone in mind. He’s a doctoral candidate in Theology up at Britteridge and a hell of a bright light. He thinks in terms of background connection between ideas—what we would call a relational analyst. I’d like to bring him in to frame up the talking points. He’d be an invaluable reference since Muslim culture is what may generate the majority of any resistance.”

  His boss nodded. “I think that you’re correct.” She considered the matter just a moment or two more before coming to her decision. “I’ll authorize a short-term consultancy with an option to extend. See if we can get him in here, set him up on your team, and find out if he’s as good a fit as you say. We’ll proceed from there. I don’t need to tell you how fluid the day-to-day situation is across the entire region.”

  “No, ma’am, and I do appreciate your support on this one.”

  She smiled and rose, signaling that their abbreviated meeting had accomplished everything she felt necessary. Colby understood; someday he hoped that he would have her time management skills. Besides, he had just bought himself a complete new camel-caravan of headaches.

  “Keep thinking, Tom. From what I’ve always seen you’re good at it.”

  Colby nodded and grinned, leaving her office feeling as if he were barely contacting the carpet. He had just been green-lit, and green meant go.