The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  “Everyone, we are the white Land Rovers. Same as this morning, luggage to the rear, please!”

  In the manner of air travelers everywhere, Anthony unclipped and extended the handle of his hard-sided bag and brought it in tow to the rear. The team was reflexively returning to its preordained order. The Land Rover was a tighter fit than the huge Chevy Suburban, and State had arranged for an extra unit to compensate.

  Apparently vehicles would be heading toward the Green Zone in convoy, with four two-man teams of Blackwater security personnel in civilian Hummers. These men, by appearances former military, stood around the perimeter of the gathering convoy, weapons slung in a ready position front of them, attention fixed outward toward the perimeter of their area of responsibility. Iraqi police squad cars and motorcycle officers began to appear as the line formed up. One large and uniformed Iraqi came down the line to speak with the drivers. The officer beckoned to Tom Colby. Anthony wandered closer out of curiosity.

  “I am Police Commander Watban Ali Dhiyab al-Jabouri,” the big man announced, “and we will be your escort to the International Zone. We will have our motor officers leading the way so no one becomes misdirected.”

  Colby extended his hand, which al-Jabouri pumped enthusiastically. “I’m Thomas Colby, Special Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs. We appreciate your service today, sir.”

  Al-Jabouri grinned. “Ah, yes, Mr. Colby. Your Bernard Schuster did let us know that you were arriving. Your vehicles will be escorted to the Al Rasheed as I am sure that you already know.”

  Colby nodded, and al-Jabouri walked onward, making sure that all the charges that he had expected to escort were in place. Anthony marked him as a head plus shoulders taller than Colby, whose thickening athletic frame looked small compared with the Police Commander’s build. He moved next to Colby as they watched the impressive officer.

  “Jon Wayne, we just met Wyatt Earp,” his boss confided.

  Anthony nodded his agreement. “I feel … safe.”

  Colby sighed. “They’ve tried to kill him three times already. This last time they sent a suicide bomber inside his station. He’s been wounded at least twice in gunfights that I know of and piled up more men already than Bill Hickok. You just had a brush with one hell of a man, Jon.”

  Al-Jabouri finished conferring with the last driver and headed back toward his Maxima at a trot. One by one the motor officers brought their bikes off the kickstands, readying the escort. Colby caught the signal.

  “OK, people, let’s saddle up!”

  He turned to Anthony, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning. “See you at the hotel, Jon. Thanks for being here today.”

  Anthony returned the grin and headed back to his Land Rover, second to last in line again with the other contract grunts. Thanks for having me, he thought.

  Some once considered Baghdad Airport Road, or "Route Irish" in its military designation, to be the most dangerous drive in the world. Aggressive pacification by the Army’s 69th Infantry Regiment, a New York National Guard unit, had settled Route Irish and the surrounding area; the task had extracted a cost of nineteen dead and nearly eighty wounded before the Fighting Sixty-Ninth had returned to the States the previous September.

  Once formed, the convoy consisted of twenty vehicles not counting the police escort or the Blackwater Humvees. These last were positioned throughout the principal vehicles, the Blackwater four-wheeler at the center of the column mounting an intimidating rotary-barreled GE minigun on a hatched, swiveling roof-ring.

  The twelve-kilometer drive from the airport was largely without incident, the one exception being a tense fifteen-minute delay during which Iraqi police in the lead investigated a legitimately stalled vehicle at the transition to "Route Aeros" which led to their destination. The passengers were still in an adrenal rush by the time the convoy processed through the vehicle checkpoint at the Green Zone's barricade. One of Saddam’s massive gateway arches framed the background as they slowed to maneuver around the concrete obstacles. Waving them through, the multinational forces operating the checkpoint counted the convoy's vehicles as they did so, confirming the information that they had received while it was en route.

  The Green Zone, or International Zone in its more formal designation, was the most heavily fortified section of Baghdad. Before the return of governing to the Iraqi people, it had been home to the Coalition Provisional Authority; hence, thick concrete blast walls and lower t-barriers ringed the Zone, with the Tigris River acting as a moat for half the perimeter. A heavy military presence controlled entry at the half-dozen checkpoints leading into the Zone, or IZ in the armed forces’ acronymic lexicon.

  Radio communication and the Iraqi Police escort sped them through the checkpoint, after which the convoy diverged. The Blackwater vehicles stayed with the State Department Land Rovers for most of the route, disengaging once the eighteen-story building of the Al Rasheed was in sight.

  At the hotel more Blackwater people were waiting for them, civilian clothing not disguising their role as weapons and gear hung strapped in plain sight. They were contracted mercenaries, screened for their experience and physical fitness. All had at least four years in uniform, the vast majority in the locale to which they were now assigned by the corporate headquarters in Moyock, North Carolina. Veterans of various units of the US military Special Forces common in their ranks, they were paid accordingly with a typical wage of almost fifteen thousand dollars per month.

  Anthony collected his luggage quickly; it was a benefit of bringing up the rear of the convoy. He moved closer to the hotel to get out of others’ way and saw Colby conferring with one of the suits who had been waiting to meet them. The conversation was animated. He also saw Colby direct a few of the team inside while other assistants managed the luggage. Anthony noted that as usual Tom hit the ground running, and they had barely arrived.

  Colby hustled with Bernie Schuster, the man with whom Jon Anthony had seen him confer, to a small meeting room reserved for his arrival. A handful of his locals were there also, and a few handshakes and backslaps later they were getting down to business.

  “Tom, we have a mess around here.” Schuster had the usual concerned look on his face. “There’s a few hundred dead in retaliatory violence since you started traveling, and the morgue is showing traffic at about twice what’s been usual lately. The curfews aren’t helping much. The Sunnis have walked out of talks with the Prime Minster. It’s a bad, bad time to be in Baghdad right now.”

  Colby took off his light jacket and draped it over the back of a conference chair. “Bernie, I know it’s bad. We have time to let things settle down. We have a lot to do before we can even think about heading out west.”

  “Tom, what can I do to talk you out of this?” Schuster was pleading. “There’s no way in hell that we’re going to make any headway out there. This whole country is on the verge of civil war. What is it going to take to make you see that?”

  Colby poured himself a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the thermos pitcher on the table near the doorway. It was about halfway full when he realized that Schuster would have seen it as half-empty. “We’ll call it a civil war if it happens, Bern. Right now we’re calling it a post-incident environment.”

  Schuster looked visibly flustered. Colby fought the rise of temper that he felt building. He knew he was tired. Now was a time to be careful.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Start the team in on prep work for our agenda when—OK, if—the meetings in the Province actually happen. Get our local contacts in line; we want to start touching base with as much of the tribal leadership as we can. We start slow, and we start by planting the idea that we are becoming more and more interested in their direct input into policy decisions, and once we have that third-party rapport established we’ll float the idea of a regional conference. It’ll take time. Things will be settling down while we wait it out. Watch and see.”

  Schuster looked resigned, yielding to Colby’s
authority. “I’ll get moving on it, Tom. We have your block of rooms ready upstairs. I moved us together up on Five. We have most of the floor.”

  Colby sipped his coffee. It was good, of course; the Arabs had been brewing it for longer than any other culture. “Thanks, Bernie. We’ll let our folks get settled. The bean counters had us travelling all day yesterday, and they’ll be feeling it before dinner. Get our locals moving ASAP. I want evening reports day by day.”

  “You got it, boss.” Schuster moved out to the lobby to start showing Colby’s new arrivals up to their rooms.

  Colby stood for a moment staring into the dark, hot contents of his cup. No solutions were there, only a little extra alertness. Answers would have to come the old-fashioned way—one at a time.

  Kameldorn had grabbed lunch at the chow hall near McAllen’s Intelligence headquarters; it sat much deeper inside the Green Zone than the border-area Al Rasheed and in a much less conspicuous building. MI liked to know stuff, and part of that body of knowledge seemed to be finding the best foodstuffs and the most talented staff to prepare it.

  He cleaned up and was in a new set of working clothes, civvies, with his military identification prominently displayed on its pocket clip. He strode now into the technicians’ area, looking for the analyst who had emailed him earlier in the day. It had been a few weeks since Raad’s pathfinders had assumed ground temperature. After the al-Askari bombing, USSOCOM had not liked the idea of him bouncing solo around the Red Zone—any area of Baghdad not the Green Zone or inside the wire near the airport. He had little to do besides exercise. McAllen’s people always had a lot on their plates, and he knew better than to piss off the geek squad with incessant requests for a progress report.

  “Sergeant Jackson?” he asked. She was pretty, twenty-something and African-American, dressed in BDUs with a mil-spec hairstyle.

  She swiveled in her task chair and stood politely to greet him. “Yes, sir—would you be Major Kameldorn?”

  He nodded. “I am. Please be at ease, Sergeant. Thank you for the e-mail.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir. Your photos turned up something really interesting. I have a briefing room reserved with a projector.”

  “Lead the way, Sergeant.” He fell in behind her.

  “General McAllen sends his regrets, sir; he had a prior commitment this afternoon and asked my lieutenant to have me brief you.” She reached the small conference room, opening the door for him and shutting it behind as she found the remote that fired up the ceiling-mounted Optoma. She logged into the system and brought up the proper file folder. His photographs of the dead Iranians and the meeting in the factory parking lot were there displayed in thumbnail view, with some PDF-formatted reports that the facial recognition section had generated. He chose the chair next to hers facing the projection screen to avoid taxing his neck.

  “The dead men were Iranian, sir. We have positive feature confirmation through some foreign intelligence assets. They appear to have been at least former if not current Revolutionary Guard.”

  “No surprise there, Sergeant. It’s nice to have confirmation though.”

  “Yes, sir. The real news is from the twenty-degree shot of your man in the black Volga. His layoff men in the far vehicles were too indistinct for the system to get a good set of landmarks, but their principal was a different story.”

  She brought up a PDF with the frame that she was describing with a contour map of the facial features for that shot and another that his rapid-fire Nikon had captured. “This is the first good photograph of this individual in over six years, sir.”

  Another page displayed facial feature map-matching, then a summary justifying the conclusion with an accompanying profile that had originated stateside. Kameldorn whistled. The subject was in his mid-thirties, heavyset, with the same black hair and short beard that he had seen in the parking lot. “Muhammad Qasim al-Khafji. That son of a bitch.”

  “Second most wanted son of a bitch, sir, right behind al-Zarqawi. He’s apparently developed a relationship with Iran.”

  “The Iranians have a relationship with everyone here that will have them. They need a civil war to help them expand westward, and ABR is here to help him.” Kameldorn sighed. Too much of his time was on the sideline lately, and he needed to reenter the game. Bad things were in store for the Coalition otherwise.

  “Sergeant, on the vehicle registrations, has anything turned up?”

  “It has, just this morning, sir. The addresses in the registrations were false, but a parking citation turned up for one last week, in the Fajr district.”

  Kameldorn perked. Sergeant Jackson brought up a copy of the ticket. He memorized the address, standing as he did so, extending his hand. “That’s the best place I’ve had to start for awhile, Sergeant. I appreciate your help today.”

  Sergeant Jackson gave him a smile and shook well, better than some men did. “It’s always our pleasure, sir. Good hunting to you.”

  Kameldorn nodded and left more quickly than he arrived. He needed to fire off an "unless otherwise directed" update to the conveniently engaged and—as he realized again—always foresighted General McAllen to avoid being AWOL. It was then time to resume earning his government pay.

  Chapter 8: PsyOps

  “Mr. Colby, may I introduce you to Lieutenant General Peter McAllen. General, I present Mr. Thomas Colby, Special Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs.” The Ambassador moved back slightly as McAllen extended his hand.

  “Mr. Colby, the Ambassador was just telling me of your initiative. It is … ambitious, sir, considering recent events.”

  Colby nodded and transferred his drink to his left hand, freeing his right to shake with McAllen. “It’s a pleasure, General. I see that we’ve heard of each another.”

  Dinner at the Embassy, this first evening in Baghdad, was usual. Colby recognized it as unavoidable though a hardship from which he could spare all but his most necessary staff. Schuster was here, and surprisingly the man was enjoying himself. Colby had tried to give his Chief Electoral Administrator, Carol Addams, the night off but she was irrepressible. She circulated now giving not a clue of having endured the same trip as he. Carol, who had insisted that Colby not attend without an escort, was working her set of people across the room. He had his own territory to defend.

  The Ambassador looked pleased to have brought them together. “General McAllen could be of immense help to you, Tom. Few people in Iraq, much less one so accessible to us here, have as good a grasp on what is happening at any moment.”

  “You’re too kind, sir. I have the benefit of an outstanding organization that has devoted as much talent as it can spare to the theater.” In his formal blue mess uniform, miniatures of McAllen's many awards stretched down his lapel, topped by Parachutist and Combat Infantryman badges.

  Colby and the other civilians were in black tie and evening dress and made for a show here in the Embassy, one of many former Presidential palaces in Baghdad now under new management. He took the Ambassador’s cue. McAllen was someone he would need on his side. Information was power, a fuel that could move mountains, and a shield that could save lives. Diplomacy and intelligence intertwined wherever they roamed. The problem was that they did not often share coordinated objectives, Colby thought, except perhaps this time. “We hope to be of assistance to the military as well, General. Hearts and minds, if that isn’t too trite a phrase, are what will eventually transform Iraq into a peaceful nation, and an allied nation,” he offered.

  McAllen looked thoughtful. “Your objectives, Mr. Colby,” he said after lowering his voice, “this direct engagement of the tribal influences in the provinces, and especially the one that you seem most interested in, is unprecedented.”

  Taken off guard, Colby glanced at the Ambassador, who shrugged with a "don’t look at me" expression on his face. The bastard was enjoying this, Colby thought. “General, I’m impressed. We have just arrived, but that is our objective stated most succinctly. We have peo
ple already working to maneuver us into positions of trust in the rural areas.”

  As Colby could tell, McAllen was not trying to be intimidating or overbearing but merely attempting to broach the nuances of his situation as gently as possible. “I can appreciate your efforts, Mr. Colby, and to an extent you are correct. Understand something though, sir. If I know, they know. I am speaking of political elements, here and back home, who might not benefit from your success. Intelligence elements exist with a greater native depth than we have available, some of whom may share your goals and some of foreign influence that will not. Your team will not remain hidden from any of them if you make progress in building up your contacts as you expect. They will know. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  Colby sipped his single-malt Scotch. The General’s advice had the tone of a warning. “Risk comes with any worthwhile endeavor, General. I hardly need to say that to a man with your experience. Not doing can cost as much as acting recklessly. What we want to do needs to be done. If we can achieve it this year so much the better in the lives that are spared, in the financial resources that could go into rebuilding instead of prosecuting campaigns, and in the stability of the region. We will be as careful as we can be, sir. There’s not a martyr among us.”

  McAllen looked grave. “If there is anything I know on the subject, it is that you pick out the martyrs after the fact, Mr. Colby. Gentlemen, it is getting late for an old man or an early riser, and I’m blessed to be both. If I can be of any use, do please let me know. I wish you a good night.”

  Colby and the Ambassador nodded then watched him slip out of the sizable room gracefully, making a stop or two where he said his good-byes. Colby felt unsettled. The Ambassador turned his attention back to him. “You did well, Tom. He’s worth listening to, but he’s a soldier not a diplomat. His world is uglier than ours.”