The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  Al-Khafji did not know who the original occupants of the farm were. They removed themselves long ago, and the current owner cared little about what happened on the property as long as there was no damage and the rent was paid. It had been, six months in advance, in American currency. This had the most satisfactory effect of eliminating interference and curiosity from the man who held the land’s title.

  It was a typical run-down but habitable walled settlement. A young goat and enough rice were ready to cook outside for the men, and the meal preparations were keeping them nicely busy. Al-Khafji waited with a thermos of tea near the road for the contact he expected, sitting in the shade of the date palms that spread themselves over the drive. The car was on time, and he rose as he saw it come down the dusty way. He strolled to the driver’s side with the envelope ready, slipping it out of his sleeve and into the man’s lap as the window came down. Al-Khafji leaned in.

  “What news of our friends?” he asked.

  The man inside smiled a crooked-toothed smile. “They gather at the compound of al-Fatla, on Yawm as-Sabt. They end their week with a conference to hear the Americans and decide if they will be their dogs.”

  Al-Khafji frowned. “Al-Fatla is strong?”

  “Very strong—he is as strong as al-Dulaimi. You will need many men to take them there. I do not think you will do this.”

  “Is it well known, this place?”

  “Yes, everyone knows of it. I can draw you a map easily.”

  Al-Khafji nodded. “Do this if you can. There are pens and paper in the house. Draw the location and the roads around it, small and close and another of the region with as much detail as you have. Park your car inside here and be quick.”

  The contact put his vehicle in gear, looking satisfied as he parked. For results like this, al-Khafji always paid well. The man brought information that pleased him as a patron, so the man profited.

  They would be in place well ahead of time, al-Khafji thought. The coming weekend would make his targets weak and vulnerable, remaining unaware until the trap sprung. His men could attend the Friday prayers here in Ramadi and still be in place with time to spare. They would fear nothing, certainly not death. How could the Americans stop men like that? Al-Khafji smiled. They would not. He had seen the proof many times.

  It was Thursday evening, with his initiative on the line the day after tomorrow, Colby thought. They had been burning Blackwater’s satellite time back and forth with their people in Baghdad, getting as much of their support material over the voice link as they could. Satellite communications did not come cheap, and he was sure that the contractors would tack on a hefty margin above their actual cost. That would be interesting to explain when the time came, especially considering that technically Colby’s team was not supposed to be here at all.

  Settling back into one of the Sheik’s courtyard chairs, Colby sighed. Taking advantage of the technicality that McAllen offered him proved to be as much a curse as it had been a blessing. They were here, cut off from the Embassy’s help by Washington’s edicts. They could not call on military support without generating enough attention on themselves to either draw out and provoke every insurgent in Haditha and Ramadi into trying to kill them all, or scare away the very people that it had always been their intention to engage. It was a hell of a way to conduct diplomacy, he thought.

  Schuster joined him. Their evening meal had been another good one. Al-Dulaimi was an excellent host; Bedouins generally were. The coffee was good as well, and Schuster had been living on it today, Colby could tell.

  “How are we doing, Bernie?” he asked his second-in-command in a weary voice.

  “We’ve got what we can get. We’re as prepared as it’s likely that we can be. Jesus, Tom, this isn’t the way I wanted things to go.”

  Colby looked at him. Bernie was drawn and looking tired, seeming much less at ease than he had been, even inside the wire at Camp Saif.

  “Me either, Bern. But we don’t have to like it, as the boys in uniform say. We just have to do it.”

  “It’s just wrong, Tom. This isn’t the setting. The place is an armed camp. It sounds like the one we’re going to is even worse. If they turn on us—”

  Colby sat up. “Bernie, it’s not going to happen. These are the good guys, not the hostage-takers or the terrorists we’re all fighting against. They’re just protecting their families, the same way Uncle Sam’s soldiers protect ours.”

  Schuster set his cup down on the low table in front of them and put his hands to his face. “Hell, I know, Tom. It’s been a pretty intense day. I’m sorry.”

  Colby clapped him on the knee and settled back again. “There’s no decaf in Anbar, Bernie. Stick to the bottled water awhile. It’s gonna be OK.”

  “It’s a bad mix, Tom, the militarized setting and the diplomatic mission. They’re opposites. If the military still needs to be out here killing people and breaking their stuff, fine, let’s get out of the way. Being here, in the middle of all this, makes me appreciate those snide conference room remarks that used to be the worst thing that could happen. No one from the worst delegation I ever met with wanted to cut my throat.”

  Colby smiled. “Sure they did, Bernie. So did you sometimes. It’s just that you were both trying to do it with policy and phraseology instead of with cold steel. It’s a more up-front approach the way they do things out here, when you think about it.”

  “They can have the up-front approach. I’ll stick to being a duplicitous bastard.”

  Colby laughed. They sat in silence as the shadows grew, tired as they had every right to be. Cramming here was as bad an idea as it had been in college. They needed instead to rest and focus. Tomorrow, they needed to go to Haditha. Saturday, they needed to shine like the sun.

  A few minutes later, they heard footsteps on the walkway that led back to the peaceful courtyard. It was the Sheik, who looked as pleased with himself as ever.

  “Ah, my friends, I have wonderful news,” he beamed.

  Colby and Schuster stood. Colby felt less tired than when he had come back here alone. “Yes, Excellency?” he said. “Good news is always a welcome guest, it is often said.”

  The Sheik settled on a chair, and they followed. “It is very good news, very good indeed. Thirty-two, Mr. Colby! Thirty-two men of Anbar, the finest that you should want to know, will await you when you arrive tomorrow. My cousin has only just enough chairs in his great hall; we would otherwise have to sit them on the floor. Many, many will want to hear what you have to say.”

  “We’re gathering a crowd,” Schuster said, smiling.

  “Yes, Mr. Schuster, what else could we have hoped for?”

  Before Schuster could answer, Colby interrupted. “Your efforts and your results speak well of your position in Al Anbar, Excellency. The government will not forget your help.”

  Al-Dulaimi waved his hand. “What of me, Mr. Colby? For fifty-three years I have lived my life, and God has made me what He will. He has done the same with all of us. I lead my people according to His will and the words of His Prophet. What comes tomorrow or the day after is His will more than it is ours. Make your preparations, yes, but make your peace with Him also. I will go ahead of you, to attend the Friday prayers with my cousin, as will all his guests. After that, in the afternoon when you come, we will feast together and the next morning we will listen to all that you have to say.”

  Al-Dulaimi stood as did they. “I bid you a good evening, gentlemen. I set out early in the morning. We will not see one other again until we are in the house of my kinsman and his family.”

  Colby nodded. “Good travel, Excellency. We thank you for your advice.”

  Al-Dulaimi nodded to them and left for the far side of his house, ascending the staircase to his residential level. They watched in silence until he was out of sight.

  “Hell of a man,” Schuster grunted.

  Colby nodded. “You know them when you see them. Thirty-two more like that will make a hell of a room.”

  “
Thanks, Tom. I was feeling a little better until you said that.”

  Colby looked at him and grimaced. “Yeah, same here. Tell you what—strike that comment from the report we send on to the Ambassador one of these days.”

  For the first time in a while, Schuster laughed. It was a good sound, Colby thought. He hoped they would not both be hearing it in multitudinous Arabic anytime soon.

  Chapter 16: The Last Lonely Road

  Jon Anthony woke early on Friday, and he felt renewed. The Sheik’s guest accommodations were the best since Amman, and his sleep had shown it. Two nights in his quiet room made him feel alive again and ready for anything.

  Colby had laid out the situation for them as well as anyone could. They would manage it as a regional conference. He and Schuster would handle the presentation and interaction with the tribal leadership. Kameldorn and the Blackwater operatives would discreetly oversee and assist the al-Fatla security forces however they could. One of Bernie’s translators would be with him and Tom, with the other helping their transcriptionist, Katie. Marilyn, Tom’s communication specialist, would be the go-to person for communications needs or any other contingency that arose during the meet. And Anthony himself was a floater, tasked with making sure that none of the core team offended anyone’s sense of propriety.

  They had all gone through the basic cultural-sensitivity training. No “thumbs-up” signals because that gesture was a serious insult here. No person was to see the bottom of another’s shoe for the same reason. Most problematic would be the divergent worldviews of the Muslim tribal leadership and the Western secular democratic perspective of the State Department men. Even before they landed in Baghdad, Anthony had been emphasizing its importance. It was still his main worry.

  Freshly laundered by the Sheik’s family, his clothes, neatly folded, were on the lower shelf of a tray table that also held the tea with goat’s milk and the fresh bread that constituted breakfast here. It had done as much good for him as the night’s sleep. This was also a place, he decided, that he would need to revisit when he had the chance.

  Anthony straightened up the bathroom as well as his bed out of courtesy. Packing his belongings into a travel bag, he took one last look at the room before leaving. He knew that the Sheik’s hospitality would stay with him for the rest of his life, and he wanted to remember it. Sighing inaudibly, he stepped out into the hallway and headed down the exterior stairs to the walkway that ran along the side of the house. He could hear people at the front and walked in that direction. The vehicles were ready, and team members were loading ahead of time what they would not need. Kameldorn was there, his carbine hung over his shoulder, as were the Blackwater guys and several of the Sheik’s men.

  Kameldorn grinned at him. “Morning, Jon. You’re looking chipper.”

  “Great night,” Anthony said, stretching. “The Sheik really ought to open a bed and breakfast.”

  “Same here. Saw the Sheik off this morning and had a good run with some of his security guys afterward. Good men.”

  Anthony looked around. No shortage of firepower existed. “Did he take anyone with him?”

  Kameldorn laughed. “He took about half of them, I’m thinking. More than he brought to Baghdad. It’s war footing, here and in Haditha. Makes me wonder.”

  “Haditha’s that bad?”

  “Mostly controlled by the insurgency,” Kameldorn explained. “Al-Fatla must be trying to make a statement. Even if they got the tribal leadership together without attracting attention, it’s not going to stay a secret for long. The best thing we can do is get there, say our piece, and get the hell out again. We’ve got the route, we’ve got the fuel, thanks to the Sheik tanking us all up, and we have a highway leading all the way back to Baghdad.”

  Anthony tossed his bag on the cargo deck of the Land Rover. “Just keeps getting better, doesn’t it.”

  “You should have seen the place two years ago,” Kameldorn snorted. “Rockets were flying into the Al Rasheed. A free-fire zone was running on Airport Road. It’s getting better, Doc. It’s just not Disney World yet.”

  “I never thought that someone would ever shoot at me, but they did. It was kind of a helpless feeling.”

  “It’s better when you can shoot back, Doc. Trust me. Not much better, I guess, but at least it gives you something to do.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  Kameldorn gave the M4A1 a quick once-over and placed it on the cargo deck while he shed his jacket. The Browning was outside of his shirt again; he pressed the slide back to check the round in the chamber and made sure the magazine was fully loaded and seated before reholstering. He donned his coat and slung the carbine once more, closing the rear door of the Land Rover. “Enjoy your day, Jon—this is a garden spot in Iraq. Take my word for it.”

  As did the rest of the team, Anthony attended the morning staff meeting in the courtyard. It continued after they finished eating the lunch delivered to them. Colby and Schuster had a lot of ground that they wanted to be ready to cover; it showed in the voluminous notes that had been taken and the mile of text that had been pounded through Katie’s laptop keyboard.

  To the al-Fatla compound was 140 kilometers. Again, their route was mostly Iraqi blacktop, following along Highway 12. Kameldorn laid it out on his maps and programmed the same turns into the Blackwater GPS units. He had pointed out to the rest of the team that they were less likely to encounter trouble than would a military convoy, assuming their itinerary was still confidential. It was a caveat that had comforted no one.

  Schuster checked his watch. It was close to 2:00 PM. “Anything else?”

  Colby shook his head. “Not here.” He looked around to the rest of the core team. Scarcely a question remained unaddressed.

  “Matt?” he asked.

  “We’re good to go as far as I can tell.”

  Anthony saw Colby’s head swivel in his direction. “Jon?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Colby nodded. “Then let’s go, people, with the same travel plan as before. We’ve got a ninety-mile drive. Load up. Let’s see if we can have wheels rolling at fourteen hundred.”

  Anthony could not recall Colby’s intensity ever being greater. He could imagine the pressure the man was putting on himself. It made Anthony wonder if Tom wanted this too badly and if anyone else had noticed the same signs.

  Anthony got up as he had before leaving his room upstairs and looked around. This was a peaceful spot in Iraq and as such was a pleasant anomaly; he wanted to remember this also. As the others were strolling to the front of the house, he brought out his nearly forgotten cell phone and snapped a picture of the place. He checked the shot and smiled, turning it back off. It was time to go.

  Kameldorn was saying his farewells to the Sheik’s security force, having made some friends here as well. Blackwater had saddled up, and the Suburbans were already running. Anthony met the tall Air Force Major on the driver’s side of the Land Rover, the last of the team to load. Kameldorn looked much less tense than Tom.

  “Ready to see some more of Anbar, Doc?” his driver asked.

  Climbing in, Anthony nodded. “The scenic route?”

  Kameldorn laughed as they buckled up. “I can’t say it will get any better than we’ve seen already. It should be OK near the river, but we have some desert to cross too. The weather looks like it will cooperate. The sharqi wind hasn’t picked up yet, and that can bring a hell of a sandstorm sometimes.”

  Plugging in his earpiece, Kameldorn performed a radio check on his throat mic. He seemed satisfied with the results. Anthony caught his glance at Colby.

  “Ready to go?” Kameldorn queried their boss.

  Colby nodded, motioning toward the compound’s gate. “Onward and upward.”

  Beside him, Anthony heard Schuster sigh. It was going to be a long trip. Kameldorn put the Land Rover in gear and watched the taillights flash on the lead Suburban. They were "wheels rolling." The vehicles took their previous positions. Blackwater led, then Kameldorn dr
iving Colby with Schuster and Anthony in the back. Schuster’s translators were driving behind them with Katie and Marilyn as their passengers, followed by the Blackwater rear element.

  The SUVs moved out, Kameldorn giving a last wave to the guards at the gate. They retraced the route that had brought them here, back to the main road that lay twelve kilometers north and west. Almost immediately, they arrived at a fork in the roadbed and kept to Highway 12. It was smaller, but it was adequate. The two-lane paved road paralleled the Euphrates until the highway would branch off westward across the desert. They would stay nearer to the river for as far as they would need to go.

  The scarcity of military vehicles made an impression on Anthony. He felt more conspicuous on the largely empty highway. The convoy in driving the posted speed limit was occasionally passed vigorously by other vehicles, even the truckers going their way. Little traffic rolled on the southbound lanes.

  At least there were some trees for the first half of the drive until the Euphrates bent away from the route. The SUVs crossed an open sandscape, the lonely road between Hit and Khan Al Baghdadi, where they again found the river. It did not last long, and once more the road and the river parted company for another stretch across the Iraq desert.

  They were close to their destination when they once more found the water, and Anthony could see Kameldorn was again paying more attention to the map positioned in his lap. Soon they would be in sight of Haditha, the city that lay south of the Qadisiya Dam. Early in the war the structure had been secured by US forces and turned back to Iraqi control on far too optimistic a timetable. The insurgency rounded up the local police and summarily executed them in the soccer stadium. Currently, military forces visited Haditha only on occasion, sometimes with tragic results. There had been roadside attacks on a Marine unit, and civilian casualties followed. The incident was a black spot on all the Coalition had hoped to achieve there. Haditha stood downstream from the dam, almost given up to the Taliban-like rule of the insurgency. The core team would not be going there, and no one regretted it.