The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  “Yes, yes, my friend, I know of no reason that we would think otherwise.”

  Raad stood to leave. “Join me at my house for dinner, and we will go over the routes and the sequence. You may bring your unit leaders. I am having a meal prepared to honor them.”

  “Some vehicles are not as far along as this one, but I will bring as many as can come.” Al-Khafji turned to observe that his men were nearly ready to place the fourth round. “I must return to the task. My men and I will see you this evening, Insha’Allah.”

  “Insha’Allah, my friend, until I see you this evening, salaam.”

  “And peace unto you, friend and comrade.” Al-Khafji turned back to the work of assembling the rolling bomb.

  Raad gave the scene one last approving look and left, again using the door to the alleyway that they kept open for the breeze. This had been a productive day.

  Kameldorn was in place when darkness had fallen, well before the two AQIs returned to their work. He saw the Peugeot pull up, parking in the same location as it had the previous night. He watched as they unlocked the metal door to the office area and a minute later saw the glow from the work light return to the inside of the service bay.

  He exited and quietly secured the Isuzu after reaching back in and slinging a black canvas duffel bag over his left shoulder. Looking around the area one last time, he started making his way in an unhurried pace up then around again to the deepest dark of the street, past and behind the building as he had the previous night.

  Behind the building Kameldorn checked the side of the neighboring structure for any light source that might cast his shadow for the men inside. The young one was called Amir, but the name of the other one he did not yet know. It was the perfect night. He was waiting now for the perfect time.

  He did not need the contact mic to hear that they had returned to work on the ordnance rack, pounding another section flat and cutting the metal tubing from which they were fabricating the cradles. It was the next sound that he was waiting for, the crackling discharge of the arc welder.

  He set the bag down silently in the alley next to the rear door and brought out his Browning pistol, tonight wearing an extended and threaded barrel. He quickly screwed on a GEMTECH suppressor, which more than doubled the length of the weapon. Two deep breaths and he was ready.

  They were consistent with their arrangements of the previous night. The pull-down door facing the street hung inches from the concrete floor and the one facing the alley was up halfway for ventilation from the fumes. Amir, welding helmet over his eyes, was hunched over his work and oblivious to anything else. The older one again faced away from the painfully bright arc of the welding rod; the man’s position allowed Kameldorn to duck unnoticed under the back door and slip into the work area, something that he did without making a sound. He kept a hand between his eyes and the white-hot blaze of the welder. After a few feet, the heavy workbench and toolboxes separating the bay from a walkway next to the office area blocked his view.

  He waited for another tense minute, the P-35 pistol trained on the other end of the walkway in case the older one should wander into sight. He did not, and Amir finished welding the second bead of the side support.

  “Omar, help me to turn this thing,” he heard Amir saying in Arabic. “Be sure to put on your gloves.”

  Kameldorn’s movements synchronized with theirs until they stopped. The scraping sound of swiveling the rack covered the rest of his movement behind the toolboxes. He ended in a crouch behind the big rolling sets of tool drawers.

  "Omar" sounded pleased with Amir’s welding. The older man bent over, inspecting the still-hot weld. “Good, it is very good. You should attach the last side that same way.”

  Omar watched as Amir changed rods and positioned himself, nodding to flip the welding helmet down over his eyes. Omar then turned to protect his vision as he had before, except that he was now able to stare straight into the muzzle of the GEMTECH sound suppressor with eyes that grew wide in fear.

  Kameldorn put an index finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence and beckoned Omar to follow him. He took a step backward as Omar stepped forward, switching the Browning to his left hand. Focused on his footing as he was directed around to the walkway, Omar never saw the palm-heel strike to the side of his head coming. Kameldorn caught the unconscious man by the shoulder of his coat and lowered him to the concrete floor.

  He waited as Omar had, for the welding to cease before moving back into the sparse light of the work area. Amir stood, raising his helmet, and turned to where Omar had been. Instead, Kameldorn was there.

  “Salaam ‘alaykum,” he greeted Amir, the suppressed Browning pistol held downward along his right leg. For just one moment Amir looked confused, and for another angry. His eyes hardened, and his hand darted toward his belt line.

  Kameldorn shot Amir twice in the middle of the chest even before he had seen the man’s hand closing on the butt of his own weapon. One more round in the forehead sent him in a collapsing stagger onto his back. The muzzle of the GEMTECH covered the man until the trouble light swung over his face. Amir stared at the ceiling with a dead man’s eyes. Kameldorn felt his pounding heart and a need to breathe and took a moment to recompose. He applied the safety to his pistol and unscrewed the black metal tube from its muzzle, sliding the suppressor into the cargo pocket of his worn, olive BDU pants and the P-35 back into its Sparks holster.

  Amir, he thought with regret, was at this point beyond providing or receiving help. Omar was a different story. Kameldorn walked the several steps to the back door and ducked to retrieve his duffel bag. Then he slid the rear door to the service bay downward to the concrete, kicking the side latch into place once it bottomed. He grabbed a metal chair that sat at the end of the workbench and dragged it with him to where Omar lay motionless. More than enough time remained. But the night, like Omar’s unconsciousness, would not last forever.

  The smell of ammonium carbonate under his nose brought Omar back around, but the shock of the smelling salts and even the throbbing in his skull washed away with the perception of warm euphoria that had enveloped him. He could not move or see, but it was not disturbing. Instead, he felt safe and that he was under care.

  “Calm, Omar, be calm.” The words in Arabic that he heard were reassuring. “You have had a narrow escape, but we have saved you.”

  Omar turned his head toward the voice. “I cannot see. Where are we, brother?”

  “Your eyes are bandaged. Do not worry; they will be fine. We found you in the shop, and you were hurt. We have brought you back with us.”

  “A man was there, an infidel.” Omar moved his head as if looking. “Where is Amir?”

  “Do not worry about Amir. He is resting. Omar, we must tell your commander what happened.”

  “The Saudi …” Omar mumbled, his head nodding. The smell of ammonia returned, snapping his head back and causing him to draw a sharp breath.

  “Where can we find him? We must let him know at once.”

  Omar frowned. “I do not know. He was at another assembly station. It was important … to the Persian.”

  “Abu Bakir Raad?”

  Omar nodded. “That is his name. There are several sites, but I do not know which he helps with. There are several … but we have only to finish one.”

  The voice was still calm and gentle. “They are all cars?”

  “All are cars. Trucks were too big for the streets, he said.”

  “The others that make up your cell, Omar, how many are there?”

  “We do not know, but we are enough. Al-Khafji has said so.”

  “Was he to come to your garage? Can we meet him there?”

  Omar shook his head slowly. “He is with the Persian. We have time to finish the cars though we lagged behind; he said our day was moved back, so there is time.”

  “What day, Omar, what targets? We must know these things.”

  Omar’s head lolled. “I cannot tell you. The Commander knows; he can tell yo
u. We must … finish our vehicle before yaum al-ahad.”

  “Where is the Persian, Omar?” No answer came.

  Kameldorn grasped Omar’s hair and leaned his head back, but it was lax.

  “With all due respect, Major, he’s had enough of that shit,” the medical technician said in a hoarse voice. A second moved closer to peel open the terrorist’s eyelid. The pupil still reacted to his penlight.

  Kameldorn sighed and slightly withdrew the plunger of the syringe, one filled with a solution of sodium amytal, inserted into the injection port of Omar’s IV line. It ran from a liter bag of saline solution laid atop the toolbox over the terrorist’s shoulder and through the needle taped to his immobilized hand. He clicked off the digital recorder, unclipped the lapel microphone from Omar’s collar, coiled the cable and pocketed the unit.

  Omar sat shrink-wrapped around the chest, forearms and shins to the metal garden chair, a shop cloth likewise secured over his eyes. Checking the syringe, Kameldorn saw that the man had now absorbed enough of the drug to sedate him for some time. Al Qaeda, as he expected, was operating in a compartmented cell structure. Omar had produced all the information that he would for several hours. The sodium amytal moved its subject from euphoria, through a hypnotic state, to sedation as the dosage increased.

  “We should have waited for him absorb it intramuscularly, sir,” McAllen’s tech insisted.

  “Time we might not have had, Sergeant,” he countered.

  “The subject’s at risk for apnea, sir. We’re going to have to transport him.”

  “Do that, Sarge. MI will have more questions.”

  “Will do, sir, unless his respiration stops.”

  Kameldorn, not in a mood to argue priorities, removed the syringe from the line and recapped, leaving the IV in place for McAllen’s two med techs to manage. While they started unwrapping Omar, he stuffed items that he would be taking with him into the black bag. Car bombs were under construction in several locations. The al-Khafji cell was planning a mass attack on unknown targets this Sunday. The day was too near.

  Part of him wanted to tear open the AQI’s skull to find the answers that he needed. Those would come now only with time. Other ways to interrogate a man, techniques that McAllen might not use, were no issue for the Iraqis. It was late now. The med techs on McAllen’s night crew had been standing by a few minutes away while he secured the garage. Now his prisoner was their patient.

  He would use the information he had gained to set what wheels he could in motion. When daylight returned, the General's people would try to check as many possible locations for the cars as they were able, and it was possible that other information might yet shake loose. It was a start. As Omar had said, there was yet time—two days—until Sunday.

  Chapter 10: Human Resources

  Al-Khafji attended the Friday prayers, the jumu’ah, at the mosque that Rashid had chosen. A young man from Ramadi whom Raad had introduced to al-Khafji at the previous evening's dinner, Rashid was a fiery devotee of the Shiite cleric Muqtada al-Sadr. Intimating in an aside that Rashid could prove a useful recruit, the Iranian implied that he had brought them together for a purpose. Al-Khafji had known to what he was alluding, and that the mention of his cell's need for another driver had been the cause. Raad was a provider of resources, so Rashid came to Baghdad.

  The crowd listened intently to the main address and the shorter, secondary message of the mosque’s white-bearded imam. He was full of examples of devotion to Allah and encouragement to remain in contempt of His enemies even to the end of life in this world. Al-Khafji, who like most in Al Qaeda was a Sunni, endured the Shi'a congregation through the communal prayers. Rashid seemed near tears by the time the assembly began to disperse. Sighing, al-Khafji put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  “Do not be ashamed of your emotions,” he said in a low voice. “They gladden the heart of God. Does it not say in the Qur'an that He loves those who fight in His cause?”

  Rashid nodded. “I know the words. I will fight for Him if I can find one who can show me the way.”

  Al-Khafji felt the rush that often came when he believed that he had won over another recruit. “The man who presented you to us last night—how much is it that you know of him?”

  “My imam in Ramadi said that I should listen to him, not to doubt him because of his Sunni name. That it was a false one, that the Sayyid al-Sadr himself directed him here to help the faithful, and that he is a great servant of God.” Rashid sounded proud. “I do not doubt him.”

  “He is all that and more. He says that you are ready to take the last rites of a shahid?” Al-Khafji nearly held his breath, so exhilarating was it to wait a brief second for the young man to answer.

  “I am ready to die if it is the will of God. I am not afraid.”

  Al-Khafji nodded. “If you will allow me, let me show you the path. Your journey to heaven will serve a great purpose; you have my word. An attack that will shake the will of the infidel at his core, made possible by His most devoted.”

  “Then let me begin,” Rashid said with finality.

  Al-Khafji nodded and waved him to follow. The preparations had been made already. Raad had chosen this one well. Today they would settle the last of Rashid’s earthly business and tomorrow provide the brief training that he would need to complete his task. It must be the will of Allah to find such devotion. He could not waste such a divine gift.

  When Friday afternoon gave way to evening, Kameldorn was already on overtime. Or, he thought, he would have been had any such concept existed in his world. He had another shift to go before he intended to allow himself any rack time. McAllen had quietly spread the word that there were indications of an attack in the works; the General mobilized as many resources as possible toward checking known prior car-bomb factories in case anyone would try to use them again. But it was a game of hide-and-seek that so far hide was winning.

  McAllen had not yet sent out the word that Sunday was the day Kameldorn had determined to be the likely date for the attack. Doing so could well send the AQIs into immediate action, with what vehicles they had ready, to prevent asset neutralization. Military intelligence teams were instead in constant motion, checking locations like the abandoned garage that Omar and Amir had worked in and hoping to get lucky.

  Though he was denied the details, Kameldorn knew that Omar’s life had not improved; the only new information so far had been his admission of the number of the vehicles: seven. That count stood now at six after Kameldorn's discreet disruption of Amir and Omar’s plans. McAllen had not forwarded anything additional gleaned from conversation with his new guest. It was probable that the prisoner was a doer, not a planner, and had largely played his role at this point. They would know soon, Kameldorn thought. Hearing the sound of his own voice on the recording from last night would be psychologically weakening for Omar. It was typical for an interrogator to build on a conversation like that, one that could hardly be denied. For now the rest of McAllen's people would look, keep looking, then find other places in which to look.

  Kameldorn stared at the map of Baghdad in his lap as he sat in the parked Trooper. He began to see a course of action as if it were coming to life on the paper. He could work a pattern, block by block and neighborhood after neighborhood, concentrating on the Sunni enclaves and hoping for the best result until he was given another option. He was tired and hungry and accepted both. It would not change anytime soon. The Thuraya satellite phone buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out. It was the General.

  “Yes, sir,” Kameldorn answered.

  “Major, they got an address out of the son of a bitch for Raad’s safe house. Turns out Omar drove al-Khafji there this week for a meet.”

  Kameldorn’s rush of adrenaline erased all memory of fatigue. “What address? What needs doing, sir?”

  “Relax, Major, it’s been done. The place is emptied out. My guess is that the pair you marginalized missed a head count, and they relocated the bastard.”

  “I
t stands to reason, sir. I’ve determined a pattern to work in the Sunni areas, unless otherwise directed. Any of the teams hit on anything?”

  “Not so far, son. Give it another six hours, then get some rest. That’s an order. Start up again at dawn. These pricks aren’t going to draw attention to their location by working all night.”

  “Will do, sir.” Kameldorn heard the General cut the connection. He was high on an adrenaline rush now. They were getting closer. The feeling kept him moving.

  Muhammad Qasim al-Khafji opened the alleyway door to the garage and turned up the lights in the bay where the black Volga sat, level on its new suspension. Wordlessly he motioned Rashid inside. The car sat reassembled and meticulously detailed, washed and waxed, the windows spotless. It looked as if it were ready for the sales lot, he thought. It was, in a way.

  Of six vehicles procured, four were already finished and hidden in the communities. They now sat on streets or in a driveway or some public space. It was to have been seven, but one pair of assets had disappeared without explanation. Al-Khafji had missed them immediately as they were his escorts and perimeter security. He had immediately vacated his own rental and advised Abu Bakir Raad to move to his secondary flat. Operational security had been tight; there was little any Western torture could extract from either of the missing men. It was just as well. They had worked more slowly than the others, and with their failure the pressure to recruit two more drivers had been halved. It was all as it should be. He was on the path to another success. Omar and Amir were in the hands of Allah.

  Rashid followed him, and he heard the boy catch his breath at the sight of the vehicle. He looked at al-Khafji, then back to the car, and back again. Al-Khafji nodded and waved Rashid toward the Russian sedan. He watched the young man run his hand along fender and over the driver’s side mirror. Rashid’s hand moved to the door and hesitated.