by Chuck Holton
Did they know she spoke Arabic? She watched a young man no more than twelve or fourteen enter the room, carrying a tripod and small video camera. He wore the black and white kaffiyeh.
Oh, Lord, ski masks and video cameras. Help!
I will never leave you or forsake you.
The boy erected the tripod in front of the window and fixed the camera atop it. Then he pulled a length of black cloth from a back pocket and passed it to one of the masked men standing behind her. For one second, Julie thought she saw pity in the boy’s eyes as he glanced at her before turning back to his camera.
Another man strode into the room as the kidnapper wrapped the blindfold around Julie’s head. In the split second before her vision was blocked, she saw the object in the newcomer’s hand, and at the sight of it, a stifled cry escaped her lips.
Oh, God, no!
A scimitar!
H-5 Airbase Near Safawi, Jordan.
The C-17 Globemaster III touched down just before dawn, exactly eleven hours after it had gone wheels-up from Pope Air Force Base at Fort Bragg. It taxied to the far end of the runway and stopped. Officially, both the United States and the government of Jordan denied that any American troops were stationed on Jordanian soil, but there had been an unofficial American presence here for years. It now numbered more than six thousand troops. Australian and British forces were also here, as well as personnel from nearly every alphabet-soup government agency in the United States.
Doc Kelly had made a planeload of friends by passing around a bottle of Ambien pills when they took off. The prescription sleep aid was powerful stuff, so John felt as if only an hour or two had passed by the time the tailgate of the hulking aircraft broke open with a hydraulic whine to reveal a collection of hangars on the edge of the tarmac. Some of the buildings were new since 2003, the last time John visited the airfield, also known as Prince Hassan Air Base.
John shouldered his Black Hawk pack and trudged down the ramp onto the tarmac. The temperature was downright chilly. Even in the dark, he could see the miles of nothing but sand surrounding the airfield, dotted intermittently with ankle-high scrub brush. Hell’s parking lot. Welcome back.
Doc stepped off the plane behind him and inhaled deeply. “Ahhhhhh. I just love the desert. I should buy property here.”
John stared at him. “There’s lots of it, and you’re welcome to it all.”
“Yeah, sometimes I think this is where God stores extra dirt until it’s needed elsewhere.”
John just grunted.
Frank Baldwin walked by in a half daze. “Coffee. I need copious amounts of coffee.”
Doc Kelly watched Frank shuffle past. “Note to self. Keep the Ambien away from Sergeant Baldwin.”
Major Williams approached the aircraft from the direction of the hangar. John met him halfway. “What’s the word, sir?”
Williams pointed back toward the clamshell-shaped aircraft hangar. “We’re sleeping in there. Cots are already set up. Not the Ritz Carlton, but you won’t be here long. Go get the guys situated, and then get them some chow, which is in that big tent next to the hangar. We can park our vehicles just outside.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s 0300 hours. The Op order will be at 0700 in the mess tent.”
John nodded and set out for the clamshell. “I’m on it.”
Four hours later Major Williams raised a hand for silence and got it. “Bring it over here, gentlemen, and listen up.”
Task Force Valor quickly found seats on the cots nearest the regional map clipped to a line of parachute cord, hastily strung up clothesline-style behind the major. Until that moment, many of the eighteen men present had been arranging their gear or lounging on aluminum cots spread out along one wall of the hangar.
The team’s armorer had set up a television and DVD player to which Rip Rubio had connected his Xbox. He was battling Bobby Sweeney on the latest version of Halo. When the major signaled for quiet, they quickly stowed the unit and turned their attention to the briefing. A flash came from Williams’s left, and he turned to see Rip with his digital camera, grinning.
“Put that thing away, Rubio! You know that’s unauthorized!”
John stifled a grin of his own. Rip was a confirmed gadgeteer. He probably spent a fourth of his paycheck on electronic toys.
“Okay. Here’s the rundown,” the major began. “Situation: Two weeks ago someone set off an IED inside the Hotel Rowena along the seawalk in Beirut, right in the middle of a World Bank dog-and-pony show. Huge fire. Scores dead. Among the bodies were several Americans, mostly banker types, a couple of wives, an Israeli general, and one state department bureaucrat, to say nothing of finance ministers and influential businessmen from around the world.
“The Lebanese government was on the phone to our embassy asking for our help before the fire was out. They are highly motivated to take decisive action on this one, because until things began heating up recently, tourism in Lebanon had rebounded to the highest point since the early 1970s. Tourism is this country’s oil, and they have spent tens of billions of dollars trying to rebuild the industry since the war ended in the early nineties.”
John shifted on his cot. The long flight had made him stiff, and he was starting to feel the injuries again.
“Our government also wants this thing resolved,” Williams continued. “The State Department scrambled an FBI Rapid Deployment Evidence Recovery Team to sift through the aftermath and try to get a lead on who tossed the bomb. They haven’t pinned it on anyone yet, though the Lebanese have some ideas. So far, nobody has claimed responsibility, an interesting fact in and of itself.”
The men grunted agreement. They were all too familiar with the lunatics who thought violence against innocents was a badge of honor.
“The FBI zoomies did find something interesting, though. It appears by the residue at the scene that the explosive used was something they’ve never seen in a terrorist bombing before—a liquid chemical explosive, something called Iso-Triethyl Borane or ITEB.”
Williams picked up a sheaf of papers and passed them around the group. “I have here an information sheet on the compound itself. Apparently the stuff resembles water, but it’s highly reactive with oxygen. It isn’t difficult to acquire, but distilling it down to a level where it becomes a potent explosive and then delivering it in that form would require a sophisticated, high-tech lab. For that reason, the FBI guys believe this attack had to have been coordinated by, or at least supported by, a well-funded, well-connected organization or even possibly a government.”
Hogan and Sweeney looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Hezbollah.”
Williams shrugged. “We’re not going to rule anyone out just yet. But Lebanese Intelligence has other ideas.”
As John saw things, Hezbollah would be the logical suspect except for one thing. They were trying to establish themselves as a legitimate faction of Lebanese politics, not terrorists. And with the pullout of Syria and the recent election results, they were poised to do just that. That they would plot such a disaster in Beirut seemed counterproductive to the image they were attempting to create. Now if the blast had been in Israel, it would be different, but Beirut? John didn’t think so.
“Anyway, the CIA wants to track down whoever is making this stuff and put them out of business.” The major looked at them grimly. “They have requested our assistance in accomplishing this mission, and SOCOM has agreed to task us to them for as long as is necessary.”
John’s head jerked up. Did he just say task us to the CIA? A low murmur rippled through the assembly, and Rip almost dropped his camera.
Williams raised both hands. “You heard me right. You all just became CIA assets. Welcome to Spookville. You will remain attached to them for the foreseeable future. Buckle up, men. This is going to be a bumpy ride.”
Frank raised his hand. “Pardon me, sir, but wouldn’t that require the personal signature of—”
“The President himself. Yes.” The major smiled tightly. “And those of about ei
ght other high-ranking government officials. Washington is highly motivated to nip this in the bud before ITEB starts showing up in water bottles at gas stations in Kansas. If whoever is making this new explosive is allowed to distribute their product around the world, it will wreak havoc. Understand, our present airport technology is unable to detect ITEB. That means anyone could walk on a plane with a bottle of this stuff in his backpack and bring the plane down by simply opening the bottle.”
He’s not kidding. This is a big deal! John shuddered at the mental images that scenario unleashed.
The major continued, “It would cost billions of dollars to make the world’s airports safe again, and who knows how many lives would be lost before that was accomplished. We must find whoever is making and distributing the explosive and give them a terminal case of lead poisoning right fast. In order to do that, we’ll have to do things a bit differently than we’re used to. And on that note,” he put down his clipboard and motioned to the back of the group, “let me introduce you to your new CIA contact, who will continue your briefing.”
Heads and eyes turned in unison toward the slender, red-haired woman with a low-slung handgun holstered on her right leg. She strode confidently to the front of the group. The murmuring started again.
John blinked. Holy smokes. It’s Laura Croft! Straight out of Tomb Raider.
Beirut
AS LIZ HURRIED HOME. she thought of Yasser Arafat and the black and white head scarf he had always worn. A black and white kaffiyeh meant Palestinian, just like the red and white one meant Jordanian. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents all she’d learned.
“Annabelle! Charles!” She ran from room to room until she found them sitting in the courtyard having pre-dinner drinks. “I found someone who saw Julie after the fire!” She told them about the old man’s comments, her voice shaking with excitement. “So we know she’s alive!”
“Oh, Liz!” Annabelle began to cry.
Charles seemed unimpressed. He remained cool, his drink held elegantly in his right hand. “Easy, Annabelle. Probably alive. And we already agreed with Liz on that point when she found the locket.”
Liz would never understand her father. He should be jumping for joy at the new information, grabbing the phone and calling Captain Habib. “But we had no idea what had happened to her before. Now we know. She was kidnapped! We have an eyewitness who saw her being taken by three Palestinians.”
Charles held up a cautionary finger. “Three shebab. Isn’t that what you originally said? Only one wore a Palestinian kaffiyeh. Maybe he was a Palestinian fighter. Maybe they all were. Maybe they were representatives of their jihad come to watch a triumph. Then again maybe they were tourists, one of whom had bought a kaffiyeh as a souvenir.”
“Charles!” Liz scowled at him. “Why would tourists take Julie?”
He waved that very logical question aside. “I’ll call Timon Habib and tell him what you learned.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “But until we have more information or specific names, what can he do? The Army isn’t going to attack the camps and search.”
Liz sat on the edge of the chair next to her mother. The two clasped hands as Charles dialed.
“Captain Timon Habib, please.” Charles listened, then frowned. “But I have critical information for him about the Rowena fire.” The frown deepened. “I don’t want to leave a message. I want to speak with Captain Habib. This is Dr. Charles Fairchild.”
Two minutes later, after leaving a message, Charles flipped his phone shut with more force than necessary. “He’ll call me tomorrow. He cannot be disturbed at the moment.”
Liz’s spirits lifted at her father’s pique. He was more moved by her information than he was willing to admit. “Do you think the authorities are really working to solve this crime?”
“Of course they are. I have every confidence in them.” Charles stood and held out a hand for Annabelle.
“Would they tell us if they found anything?”
“I’m sure they would.” He laid Annabelle’s hand on his arm and started for the door. “We must go. The Gardners are waiting for us.”
Well, I’m not as confident as you are, Liz thought as she watched her parents leave for dinner at a restaurant in Parliament Square. As far as she knew, she had found the only pieces of information about Julie, not the police.
Well, she’d just continue on her own, though she wasn’t sure what the next step should be. She couldn’t wander through every Palestinian camp showing Julie’s picture any more than the Army could.
She sighed. Maybe her father was right. The old man’s testimony was a useless clue, and her determination to find Julie was foolish.
Lord, please! You said You’d give wisdom if we asked. I’m asking. No, I’m pleading!
Before she climbed into bed, she wrote pages in her journal, rehearsing the whole situation. Dear Lord, she concluded, I’m disappointed that You’ve let this happen to us, to Julie. I know You are God, and You can do anything, but You also promised that everything would work for good. So where’s the good? I feel like You’ve let me down.
She took a deep breath, then wrote, I don’t want to make You angry but You could make me feel a lot better by letting Julie be found.
What she really wanted to write was that God could redeem Himself in her eyes by getting Julie found, but she didn’t have the nerve to actually write such a disrespectful thing. And that was stupid because God knew exactly what she was thinking.
She slept poorly, tossing, praying, and crying. When she climbed out of bed at dawn, she had a massive headache and an aching heart. When she came down to breakfast, it was not yet seven o’clock.
Nabila looked up from her place at the sink, surprised. “Liz, it is early for you.”
Liz slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Bad night.”
“I am sorry. I know this is a very hard time.”
Nabila’s English was precise and quite good. When she had come to Beirut from her home in the Sainiq refugee camp near Sidon several years ago, she knew little English. When she was first hired, the family spoke Arabic with her. Then one day she asked that they speak only English to her so she could become fluent.
When they were in high school, Liz and Julie had been fascinated by Nabila.
“You can never go home?” they asked again and again, having a hard time believing such a thing.
“No,” she assured them again and again. “Never.”
“You’re very brave, Nabila,” the sisters told her.
She shrugged. “You came here all the way from the United States. I came less than half a day’s journey.”
“For you Beirut was many times farther than the United States,” Liz said solemnly.
“What made you decide to leave?” Liz asked one afternoon as she and Julie sat in the kitchen after school eating some wonderful baklava Nabila had made.
“An American Red Cross woman doctor came to our camp when measles swept it. She was amazing.” Nabila smiled at the memory. “She was educated and trained to help and full of love, not hate. I wanted to be like her. All the other women in my family thought it was scandalous that she was wandering the world alone, uncovered. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I could imagine. From then on, I watched and read everything medical or American I could.” She giggled. “I wanted to be an American woman doctor.” Her giggle turned into a self-deprecating smile. “I finally decided I would settle for being an Arab woman doctor.”
“Your father didn’t want this for you?” Liz knew Charles would support her or Julie if that’s what either of them decided to become. Not that she would. Science—uhn-uhn!
“My father is very fundamental and rigid,” Nabila said. Though she was only four or five years older than Liz, she seemed so mature and adult. “He is bound by the extreme vision of Islam. Women are nothing but slaves. They are not even to be seen, much less educated. My choices were to marry someone he approved, live the life of servitude my mother and aunts lived,
or run away. I knew my soul would wither and die if I stayed. I slipped away one day when we were in Sidon. I was wandering the campus at AUB, panicky and wondering how I would ever get the money to eat, let alone study there when I met your father.”
“And he hired you to be our housekeeper.” Liz enjoyed that part of the story. She was proud of her father for offering help to Nabila.
“And after he caught me up on my studies, Dr. Fairchild got me into university. I might only take one or two courses a semester, but I will get my degree, and I will become a doctor.”
“Your father will certainly be proud of you then,” Julie said.
Nabila shook her head. “My father will never soften. It would mean admitting that I, a girl child, made a good choice even though it was in defiance of him. I dishonored and embarrassed him. And as if leaving wasn’t enough, I work for Americans, and I go to university. I fear he would kill me.”
The young Liz and Julie were horrified. Charles might be an unconventional father, but he would die before he hurt them.
Even today, years later, Nabila was still afraid, maybe even more so, of the idea of going home. Zahra’s murder had only deepened her apprehension.
Now, the morning after the old man told of Julie’s abduction, Liz poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the woman she so respected. “Nabila, I need your help.”
Her friend didn’t appear surprised. She nodded her head. “I don’t know how you found out, but—”
“It wasn’t easy. It’s our first clue.”
“Yes, it is. And it is a wonderful clue!”
Liz frowned. She wasn’t sure wonderful was the right word. Maybe better-than-nothing, but not wonderful Charles had killed wonderful. “How do you know about the old man?”
“What old man?”
“The one who gave me the clue.”
Nabila shook her head. “What clue? I am talking about Hanan’s latest letter.”
“What letter?”
“The letter that was delivered yesterday. I found it waiting for me when I got home late last night.” She held out a much crinkled paper filled with Arabic script.
