Secret of the Oil: Prequel to the Donavan Chronicles

by Tom Haase

  FRIDAY – 9:30 P.M.

  BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  U.S. Air Force Major Tara Lawson squirmed on the wood stool. Her butt was getting numb. Camouflage cream covered her face, and the black crayon stripes sliced above and below her almond-shaped blue eyes. A black beanie cap lay in her lap to cover her blond hair when needed. She had asked for this meeting to be earlier in the evening, but her contact had insisted on 9:30 p.m. She pulled the black wool jacket tighter around her shoulders. Baghdad was cool in the evening.

  Outside, no lights shone on the unpaved lane that passed for a street. Only faint moonlight brightened this autumn night. Tara focused on the door of the house opposite, then looked up and down the street. She’d arrived two hours earlier to ensure that no one was in that house and that it was not under surveillance. Now she felt confident on both counts.

  Taking a deep breath, Tara tried to ease the tension in her back. But nothing would help her nose. Baghdad smelled particularly foul at night, she thought for the hundredth time—a combination of spicy food, garbage, dogs, urine, manure, dead animals, and who knew what else. Shutting her mind to it, she adjusted the infrared goggles and resumed looking out of the grimy window. Waiting, waiting, and more waiting.

  She rethought the circumstances that had led to her sitting here. She could not believe it all. Her deployment to Baghdad had caused a major hiccup in a budding romance with a handsome Navy lieutenant commander in the Pentagon. She hoped they could get their relationship back together on her return to Washington. All she wanted was for him to understand that this was important to her. She knew he didn’t comprehend why she had to take on this mission, and she had left Washington before they could work it out.

  Tara knew this would be her one and perhaps only chance to conduct a covert operation, and she wasn’t going to let it pass, even if she was an intelligence analyst, not a field operative. After it was over, she could initiate her plan to get out of the military, enroll for her doctorate in History at Georgetown, and possibly marry Glenwood.

  She recalled the reason she was sitting on this stool freezing her ass off in Iraq had started with an idea. She had attended an award ceremony at the Pentagon for one of the returning veterans from Iraq, who had lost one arm and had his face badly burned from a roadside bomb. This soldier, Sergeant Watts, had been assigned to her division, and she would see him everyday. A germ of an idea began festering in her mind and she thought it through, decided she could do it, and that she had the knowledge to carry it to its conclusion. She had recently returned from a mission with one of the counterterrorist teams as an observer, not an actual mission but a training exercise. She’d learned how they operated and the equipment they used. Even as an observer it was not difficult to glean the technical skills they employed. She knew she could do it if she found herself in a similar situation. Tonight, sitting here in this dump, culminated in two years of effort from the day she had the original idea. It started to materialize when Tara had an appointment with the department head of the Defense Intelligence Agency’s data base directorate, Dr. Lucy Nolan.

  “Doctor, I have an idea that I want to try. It’s simple, and it’s low budget.”

  “Okay, Tara, what is it?” Dr. Nolan asked.

  “I want to attempt to recruit a terrorist by using the Internet. I’ll post a message asking for assistance in learning how to construct improvised explosive devices here in the U.S. These things are causing us too many casualties in the war against the terrorists. I’ll ask for a man to help a woman learn how to build them so I can use them in America. I’ll use Islamic message boards. My objective will be to get to know one of them and maybe turn them.”

  Tara’s presentation persuaded Dr. Nolan to authorize the attempt. Nolan knew that Tara was professionally proficient in the language. The next day, Tara placed messages on the Islamic Army of Iraq’s web site, www.iaisite.net, and on Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade web site, www.kataebaqsal.com. As an afterthought, she put her message on a little known Saudi message board. It was a shot in the dark, but she had a hunch it might spark a response. The effort really was at no cost to the government, since she was the only one monitoring any hits to her query. Few of the colleagues with whom she had shared her idea believed that any Arab man would take a woman seriously, and she did suffer a good many crank responses. Nevertheless, one interesting answer arrived. That one man was turning out to be a winner. She wanted to solidify the contact and bring him under the DIA's control. It would be the greatest accomplishment in her military career.

  Tara and her contact, who said his name was Mohammed, had e-mailed one another over the next year and a half—small exchanges of pictures and of insignificant details: innocuous things, like where they were born and where they had worked. Mohammed had also unwittingly provided snippets of intelligence that proved to be useful and accurate. On several occasions, these small bits of information proved to be beneficial in countering operations by the now-dead Abu Musab al-Zarqawi’s organization in Baghdad. Mohammed said he shared his leader’s hatred of the Americans, and anyone willing to inflict damage on the head of Satan was worth talking with. Tara had a suspicion there was more to it than that.

  Over time, Tara provided bits of information that she told him came from her government contract employer. She felt sure Mohammed had passed these morsels on to his leader as a means of advancing himself. Until recently, he had not given her any names. In one e-mail, however, he had mentioned a man called Al-Hanbali.

  It was probably an accident, but Tara saw an opportunity. Consequently, she researched all the terrorist files at CIA, DIA, NSA, and the National Counterterrorist Center, part of the Department of Homeland Security. This led her to believe the leader of the cell was Tewfik al-Hanbali. Last week, Tara had e-mailed Mohammed, asking for a meeting if she traveled to Baghdad. He agreed. Mohammed also wanted money for his information, especially for names. This was a breakthrough, for Tara knew that traitors turned coat either for ideological reasons or for money. Now his real motive— money—shone through. The fact that he could be bought was a major advantage for her.

  By now, Mohammed surely realized that she was an agent. He must have, she reckoned. In her reply, Tara told him she wanted to know about his cell and the names of the members of his group. She would pay for the information. When he replied to her e-mail, he agreed to the request for names. He specified the amount of money: $5,000 per name. That was the signal Tara needed: the specific demand for money in exchange for information. He was firmly on the hook. It was time to close the loop on this man and run him as an agent.

  After convincing Dr. Nolan of her belief, Tara pressed for permission to establish a regular system of exchange with this man in Iraq, and a date was set for Tara’s departure.

  In the last contact, Tara had promised Mohammed money for his help and he had asked her to send it to an address in Saudi Arabia. The DIA did this, and their people found the address was that of an old woman living in the town of Ayun. The agency was trying to figure out that woman's relationship with Tara's contact, but as of yet, they had no information.

  On this dark night in Baghdad, Tara was now facing the present reality of her idea. Her mind focused and again she looked out of the window to search for her contact.

  At last, a shadowy figure appeared at the end of the dirt street. It seemed for a second to be motionless. The person was definitely clutching his side. As Tara watched, the figure, weirdly green in her infrared goggles, moved slowly forward. The subject of her attention was limping.

  Reaching the door of the house opposite, the man—she could see now that it was a man dressed in a khafiyya and burnous—collapsed against it for a long moment before pulling himself painfully upright and fumbling with the door lock for what seemed, to Tara, an eternity. If the man was her contact, he was fifteen minutes late.

  At last, the man got the door open and lurched inside.

  Tara did not move. She knew the drill—watch for two more minutes. Someone might have follow
ed him. She sensed something terribly wrong about the whole situation. No recognition signal on the door, before he had disappeared into the house, nothing to make certain, absolutely certain, that this was her expected contact. Whoever he was, he was hurt, perhaps badly.

  In an agony of indecision, her heart racing, Tara stared at the black hole that was the half-open door across the street. Somewhere in the reek of Baghdad at night, she smelled something else. What? Then she knew. It was danger; she could almost taste it.

  Nevertheless, her contact was too important to give up. She had worked so long to get this man to turn on his terrorist cell; for greed, for money, or whatever reason he had done it did not make any difference right now. She had to know what Mohammed came to tell her. The figure must be Mohammed, he knew about the house, and he had a key to get in.

  To hell with waiting, she had to find out the information. Standing up, keeping the flashlight off, she felt her way across the room to the door at the back. Tara pulled the black wool beanie over her hair, wrapped her black coat around her neck, let herself out cautiously, and slid along the wall. On coming around to the front of the house, she paused. There was no sound, nothing moving. Bending low, taking a quick look right and left, she hurried across the street. Keeping her hand on the Glock 19 automatic pistol in her pocket, she slipped through the half-open door.

  The room was as dark as the inside of a closed coffin. Tara shut the door and stood in the blackness of the room, every sense alert. The odor of Baghdad hung in the air. Now, in addition, there was the added musty scent of an abandoned house.

  Tara stiffened as she caught a faint scratching noise from somewhere. Rats? She shuddered. Where was Mohammed? Suddenly, she heard a soft moan from the far corner of the room. One hand on the pistol, she retrieved the flashlight from the pocket of her coat. She pressed the switch and let the tiny beam play around the room, careful to avoid the window. The circle of light revealed a wood table, a couple of chairs, and a single bulb hanging on a thin wire suspended from the center of the ceiling. Nothing else.

  Then the light hit a heap of clothes in the corner and illuminated the pool of blood that was slowly spreading from it, bright red in the flashlight’s beam. As Tara stood there, the pile of clothes moved, and the light caught a face. She saw that it was her contact, his face familiar from an e-mailed picture.

  "God, what happened?" Tara whispered, sinking down on one knee beside him. "Mohammed, who did this? Are you badly hurt? Let me see." As she lifted the man’s head, his body shook in a fit of coughing, and he sagged against her knee.

  The man raised one hand to touch Tara’s face and tried to speak, but coughed instead. Tara bent over to hear the soft words that the man finally spoke.

  "Tara, you must listen," the man said in halting English. He coughed again, and a thin stream of blood ran down from the corner of his bearded mouth. "The Iranian and Hezbollah leaders are to meet with our leader in two weeks time at the"—the man gasped and clenched his teeth in a spasm of pain—"Beirut, the Intercontinental. Dirty oil..."

  "Mohammed, stay with me. What do you mean, ‘dirty oil’?"

  "I can’t... against America."

  She bent closer.

  "Send the money as you promised. I feel so..."

  Tara gently turned his head and looked into his eyes. While she watched, they gradually lost their focus. The eyelids fluttered briefly and stopped. When Tara moved her hand away, warm blood dripped from it. She felt for the pulse in his throat. There was none.

  “Damn,” she yelled. Now what to do?

  CHAPTER 3

  NADIM RAFSANJANI

  FRIDAY – 9:30 P.M.

  BUSHWER, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN

  While Tara knelt beside Mohammed in Baghdad, another related event was playing out in Iran.

  On the previous night, Nadim Rafsanjani had walked to work as usual. He was a rather stocky young man with a strong build and a thick neck. Proceeding toward the plant gate, he chatted with his fellow guard, Yusuf Mustafa, a friend for over ten years. Then Kemal Hassan had emerged unexpectedly from a doorway and stopped immediately in front of the two men.

  “Nadim, my dear cousin, I would like a word with you in private,” said Kemal. Kemal was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. A solid black beard covered most of his face. Yusuf nodded at them both and continued walking to work. Nadim’s eyes widened in momentary surprise as he stared at the man; he had not seen his relative for over two years.

  “I know you are a true soldier of Islam and dedicated to the jihad against the infidels,” Kemal said as he put his arm around Nadim’s shoulder. Nadim drew back, but Kemal continued. “I am engaged in a battle that will bring great glory to our country. We will strike at what the Ayatollah Khomeini, of blessed memory, called the Satan of the West; it will be a devastating strike. We need your help.”

  Nadim was indeed a fervent follower of Islam, but Kemal’s words put him on guard. The Iranian equivalent of gangster came to his mind. He shook the hand from his shoulder.

  “Why? I’m no soldier. I’m only a security guard at the plant here in Bushwer,” replied Nadim.

  “Listen to me, Nadim. I’ll ensure that you have enough money to buy yourself a new house, all new clothes for your family, and over five thousand rials to spend,” Kemal said.

  Nadim earned only enough money to secure a very basic lifestyle. He glanced warily at his cousin. “From what you are saying, I fear you would put me and my family in danger. I do not believe I can help you with your plans. I have a good job. We live okay. Find someone else to aid you in whatever you are trying to do.” Nadim briskly walked on toward the plant gate.

  “We know,” Kemal said, matching him stride for stride, “that you have access to the secret nuclear enriched uranium that is being developed at the plant. Even though our President has denied it is of weapons grade, we know it is, and that it is stored in the area in which you provide security.” He blew his nose by placing his finger on one nostril. Then he stepped in front of Nadim, raised his hand, and pointed that finger at Nadim’s chest.

  “We know too that as a security guard you go by to check the actual containers where the enriched uranium is stored. We’ve procured a container that is an exact replica. It is a matter of substitution, easy for you to carry out. I assure you, my dear cousin, that you will assist us,” Kemal said, moving in closer to stare into Nadim’s eyes.

  “Go away and leave me alone.” Nadim pushed past him, leaving Kemal standing in the street.

  When Nadim had returned home from work this morning, he said nothing to his wife, Kabira, about the meeting with Kemal. She was busy getting their eight-year-old son, Ashraf, ready to go. His son’s preparation for school and the encounter with Kemal brought back memories of when they were children some twenty-seven years ago. Kemal had always beaten up on the other smaller ones when they were on the playground. He always had a group around him who looked to him as their leader. Nadim, even then, tried to stay way from his cousin.

  Right now Nadim was home and everything seemed to be all right. Kemal had not approached him this morning on his way home. Maybe he had gone away. He went to bed. In the late afternoon, Kabira’s shouts woke him from a sound sleep.

  “Get up. Come on. Ashraf has not returned home from school. This had never happened before. We have to go and look for him. Now.”

  “I am sure he is all right and just stopped to play or something.” Nadim rubbed his eyes, trying to come fully awake.

  “No. He never stops until he comes home for his tea. Then he goes out to play. Something is wrong,” she shouted.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll go find him.” Nadim knew Ashraf, like all school kids in Iran, came home for his tea immediately after school.

  As he slowly got out of bed, there was a knock at the door. When he opened it, Kemal was there. “Come outside,” he commanded. Once outside and the door to the house shut, his cousin continued.

  “You must realize that we’re very serious, Nadim. You
must do what I ask if you want your son returned to you tomorrow morning, unhurt. You must switch the canister. Do it tonight.”

  “I can’t, they will know it is me,” Nadim cried.

  “No, they will not. That is why we have the duplicate. When the morning rounds are completed, they will all be present, you will have left, and no one will suspect you of having replaced one with a copy.” Kemal walked a few steps away from the house and stared straight at Nadim.

  “It will not be discovered until long after your shift, maybe not even for a day or two, by which time there will be no connection to you. You will do it tonight. Wipe the canister clean of all fingerprints before you substitute it. You know these containers are radiation proof; you will be quite safe. After you do this, I’ll return your son and you will receive the reward that I promised you.”

  “I don't care about your reward; bring me back my son,” Nadim pleaded.

  “Your son will be returned to you tomorrow morning, but only after you have carried out your task,” Kemal said, handing over the duplicate container inside a knapsack. He turned and walked away.

  Now Nadim opened the knapsack and saw a round cylinder about twenty inches long and twelve inches in circumference. It was silver, and the radioactive sign was there on the side and both ends. He took it out; it seemed to weigh about ten pounds. It did look exactly like the real ones he inspected on his nightly shift.

  Before starting the walk to work, Nadim was sitting in the kitchen finishing his cup of tea. The house was simple in its decor and had only a few modern conveniences. The tables and chairs in the main room were all made of pinewood, and Kabira had placed pillows on some to provide a little extra comfort.

  Even though it was early autumn, cold had returned to southern Iran, especially at night. He went into their bedroom, got his wool sweater, and put it on over his dull gray uniform shirt. Attached to the gray sweater was his employee badge, showing he was a security guard at the Bushwer nuclear facility.