Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  “I am Ghadab min Allah,” he said. “I have business at the town center.”

  “Prove you are the Prophet’s favored son,” said the young man.

  Ghadab glanced at the others. They were even younger.

  “And what proof would you accept?” demanded Ghadab.

  The kid held his ground. “Where was your last target?”

  “Anyone could answer that,” snapped Ghadab. “What is your name?”

  “Saed. From Tunisia.” Finally, there was a note of humility in his voice.

  “We attacked Boston,” said Ghadab. “Before that, Paris, Belgium—I was fighting when you were in shorts.”

  “I recognize you now, Commander. Forgive me.”

  “Have the apostates reached the city yet?” Ghadab asked, softening his tone.

  “No, Commander,” said Saed. “They’re not yet at the ruins. We are planning a counterattack.”

  “Good.”

  Ghadab got back in the car.

  “Do you need an escort?” asked the man, following him.

  “We know the way.”

  “God is great,” replied Saed.

  His heart is in the right place, thought Ghadab, deciding not to hold the young man’s youth against him. If we had a thousand more like him, things would be different.

  No one stopped them the rest of the way. In the meantime, the government shelling increased, until at last a fresh shell shook the city every ninety seconds. Ghadab could not see where the shells were landing, but if experience was any guide, the Syrian army would systematically destroy the residential areas, aiming to weaken the resolve of the fighters as well as produce as many casualties as they possibly could. That meant the attack would be aimed first at the south and the west, gradually moving east.

  Ghadab agreed with the strategy. The only way to defeat an enemy was to wipe him off the face of the earth; extinguish him and remove all trace, so that others would not follow his apostasy. This was a thing Westerners didn’t understand. Wars didn’t end until the last enemy was vanquished. Generations might die in the meantime.

  A bomb had landed near the entrance to the hotel, cratering much of the road. Ghadab’s driver saw it only at the last minute, stopping so close that the front-right tire was poised over the edge.

  “Be careful, Commander, when you get out,” he told Ghadab.

  Ghadab grabbed his AK-47. “Find a better place to sit and wait for me.”

  The guards who normally manned the front door were not here. Ghadab strode inside, steeling himself against what he might find. Night was falling and the power had been cut in much of Palmyra, but here a backup generator powered enough lights that the interior, though a gloomy yellow, could be easily navigated.

  Ghadab walked through the lobby, holding the gun by the grip as if he were planning to fire, his finger against the trigger. The khanjar was sheathed in his belt below his shirt. He felt for it as he approached the stairs. He stopped, shouldered the rifle on its strap against his back, and took out the knife. He held it in his right hand as he started upward. It felt heavy and strong, warm.

  A body lay folded across the rail at the top of the stairs. Ghadab pulled up the face and recognized the man as one of the guards from the front. His clothes were soaked with blood, his eyes the vacant orbs of a man whose soul had fled to heaven.

  Another body lay a few feet away. Ghadab stepped over this one and continued to his room.

  The door was open. He stopped and closed his eyes.

  Later, he wished he had said a prayer before opening them. But that would not have changed what he saw, what he knew he would see: Shadaa, lying in a pool of blood, dead.

  His love’s destiny, dead.

  Ghadab stood in the room, shoes in his lover’s blood, for several minutes. Finally, he backed out, walking like a robot down the hall and down the stairs. As he reached the landing, he heard something moving behind him. He spun and came face-to-face with one of the waiters who had served him.

  “Who did this?” Ghadab demanded. “Who killed the woman?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Who were they?!”

  “Intruders—”

  Ghadab sprung at him, pinning him against the wall. He put his knife to the man’s throat. “Who?”

  “I hid in the closet,” stuttered the waiter. “They spoke English.”

  “Americans?”

  The waiter didn’t know.

  “Where is the video?” demanded Ghadab. “To record.” He pointed to the camera at the far end of the hall. “Where is it? Show me.”

  The man didn’t move. Ghadab withdrew the knife, then grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the wall. The waiter looked toward the stairs.

  “Is it upstairs?” demanded Ghadab.

  “Y-yes.”

  Ghadab threw the man toward the steps. The waiter was not small, but Ghadab felt as if he had gained the strength of a dozen men; he could have hoisted him with one hand.

  “Don’t stop! Go!” yelled Ghadab.

  Still tentative, the waiter moved up the stairs slowly, delicately stepping around the dead man and pulling a frame of a decorative textile off the wall, revealing a tape machine. The vacant eyes of the guard stared at them both.

  The waiter started to leave. Ghadab grabbed him before he took a second step.

  “I have to go to my family,” said the waiter.

  “Go to them all,” said Ghadab as he slit the man’s throat.

  73

  Lackland Air Force Base, Texas—thirty-six hours later

  Louis Massina clenched his fists as the airplane touched down on the long runway, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down his excitement. He was happy his people were home, and proud of the work they’d done, and that he’d done, at least by extension.

  It seemed to take an eternity for the leased 757 to come around to the hangar, where Massina was waiting with a group of CIA and Air Force officials. No brass band, no flag ceremony greeted the plane as it came to a stop. No one rolled out a red carpet.

  The families of the men and women aboard hadn’t even been invited. In fact, as far as most of the families knew, their loved ones were still in Arizona somewhere, training for some athletic competition. Most would never know anything about the mission.

  The plane’s rear ramp settled to the tarmac.

  Johnny was the third man off the plane. Chelsea followed, joking with Johansen as they came off.

  “How are you feeling?” Massina asked Johnny.

  “Good. Thank you for the vest.”

  “I’m sure you would have been all right without it.”

  “Lou!” Chelsea practically knocked him over, hugging him hard.

  Massina patted her back awkwardly, surprised and touched by her greeting.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he told her. “I’m very glad.”

  Waiting to be fully debriefed before heading home, the team stayed in a guarded barracks on the base. Massina, meanwhile, headed for a nearby hotel. He had arranged to take Johnny and Chelsea back on the plane he’d leased—a concession to convenience he felt they both deserved.

  He’d just gotten to his suite when Johansen called.

  “I wonder if we could have a drink,” asked the CIA officer.

  “Sure,” said Massina. “Pick your spot.”

  An hour later they met at a club near the San Antonio Museum of Art. Massina, surprised to find that he had gotten there first, ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino.

  “That’s as strong as you drink?” asked Johansen, sitting down just as the sparkling water arrived.

  “I have a few calls to make later.”

  Johansen ordered a double Scotch.

  “To your continued success,” offered Massina when the drink came. Johansen raised his glass, but he had a frown on his face.

  “We didn’t get him,” he said. “We came up short.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Massina. He already knew that. “But you got his headquarters.”
<
br />   “Yeah. We’ll see what value that is.” Johansen took a slug from the Scotch—it was Dewar’s—took another, then finished it. He pointed to a waiter, signaling for a refill. “The Russians complicated things. And the Syrians. They’re still fighting there.”

  Johansen continued for a few minutes, forecasting the fate of ISIS—it would be chased from Syria and much of Iraq; the so-called Caliphate would collapse. But it would continue to export terrorism around the world. Its violence would live on.

  And Ghadab?

  It was possible, Johansen thought, that he had died in the attack on the city. “We’ll know eventually. Hopefully before another attack.”

  “I still want to help get him.”

  “I appreciate that.” Johansen’s refill arrived.

  “While you were gone, I gave your liaison information that we had tracked down on our friend,” said Massina. “She didn’t seem all that . . . enthusiastic.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  “Some people in the Agency think we’re using you to get around the law,” said Johansen bluntly.

  “Are you?”

  Johansen didn’t answer at first. He was clearly tired, his eyelids hanging heavy. “My feeling is that we have to get things done, by whatever steps are possible. Nothing that you, or your people, did was illegal. But if it came to that, and it meant saving lives, I’d be all for it.”

  “So would I,” said Massina.

  The two sat in silence for a few moments. Massina sipped his water and looked around at the mostly empty club. Two women were gossiping in the corner, stealing glances at a young man at the bar.

  “They were looking at cities around the world,” said Massina. “Data requests. Boston was one.”

  “They’ve hit Boston already.”

  “True. And there were résumés, student résumés. Physics Ph.D.s.”

  “Interesting.”

  “She told you none of this?”

  “I haven’t been back.”

  Massina nodded.

  “Director Colby truly appreciates your help,” said Johansen. “And continued help. Your assets were extremely valuable in the field.”

  “My people or my machines?”

  “Both.” Johansen flagged down the waiter.

  “That’s a lot of Scotch,” suggested Massina.

  “I have to make up for lost time.”

  74

  En route to Boston—the next day

  After the C-17, even the middle seat in the last row of a 787 would have seemed luxurious to Chelsea.

  The thickly cushioned leather seat in the Citation X was a long way from that.

  “Champagne?” asked the attendant, giving her a big smile as he leaned down. He had a half-filled glass in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “Why not?”

  He handed her the glass. “Should I leave the bottle?”

  It was tempting, but she passed.

  “For dinner, salmon or steak?” he asked. “Or both?”

  “Salmon,” she told him.

  He nodded and moved on.

  Good-looking guy, thought Chelsea. He could be a movie star.

  Not as good-looking as Johnny, nor as tall, or as brave.

  No one could be as brave as he is. To come back after the accident? To be a hero?

  Johnny was sleeping in his seat across the aisle. She looked over at him, studying his baby face. So peaceful.

  I wish I could sleep like that.

  Chelsea dug into her bag for one of her sudoku magazines. She’d barely looked at any of them while she was gone.

  Flipping to the middle of the magazine, she picked out a medium-hard puzzle and began working it, only to lose interest less than halfway through. Leaning back in her seat, she thought about what she’d been through over the past few weeks—not just in Syria, but at home in Boston.

  I’m not that scared anymore.

  Was I even scared in that room? I knew I’d survive it somehow.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the attendant, tapping Johnny on the leg. “We’re going to be landing in five minutes.”

  Johnny opened one eye.

  “Thanks.”

  “You, uh, the leg’s all bandaged?”

  “Yeah, it’s got a couple of holes in it,” said Johnny. “I’ll have to wait until I get back to get some new skin.”

  The attendant went away flustered. Amused, Johnny got up to stretch.

  “What are you watching?” he asked Chelsea. She’d turned on the TV that was in front of her seat.

  “Soccer.”

  “Not baseball?” He glanced at his watch. “I think the Sox are playing.”

  “Not for another hour,” she told him. “I checked.”

  “You like baseball?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Maybe we could catch some of the game,” he suggested. “After we land.”

  “At Fenway?”

  “Too late for that. It’ll be sold out. But at a bar or something.”

  “You’re not tired?”

  “A little. But I don’t feel like going home.”

  “Please, sir,” said the attendant from the front of the plane. “We’re about to land.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it,” said Chelsea. “It might be fun.”

  Johnny took her to Halligan’s, a small pub a few blocks from his house. Like just about every bar in Boston, it was Irish and it was red—Red Sox, that was.

  But unlike many, it had a section of quiet booths where you could sit and watch the game in relative quiet. Given that the Sox were playing the Rangers, who were mired in a two-for-fourteen stretch, the place was only about half-full.

  The only problem for Johnny was that Chelsea had mentioned the game to Massina, and then to Bozzone, who’d driven to the airport to pick them up. She’d invited both to come along, and to Johnny’s great surprise, they accepted.

  So it was the four of them. At least the Red Sox were winning.

  No one seemed in a particularly talkative mood until the fifth inning, when, with the Sox up by five, Juan Fernandez was called out on a pitch way out of the strike zone. Fernandez argued and was immediately tossed from the game.

  “The umpire was dead wrong,” said Massina. “Look at the replay. The ball was almost a foot off the plate.”

  “Why don’t they call balls and strikes electronically?” asked Chelsea.

  Massina stiffened. “No. You can’t do that.”

  “It’s easy.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Then there would be no arguments.”

  “It’s a human game. Some things computers shouldn’t do.”

  Johnny actually agreed with Massina—he wasn’t even a fan of review—but he found himself arguing on Chelsea’s side.

  “The strike zone changes with every ump,” Johnny pointed out. “It’s so inconsistent it’s ridiculous.”

  “You need space for the human element,” insisted Massina. “It’s a game.”

  “A precise strike zone is still human,” said Johnny.

  “You need a little leeway,” said Massina.

  “Otherwise, there’s nothing to argue about, right?” said Bozzone. “And that’s half the fun of baseball.”

  They stayed until the seventh inning. Johnny declined the offer of a ride home—he only lived a few blocks away.

  He was disappointed, though, that Chelsea didn’t agree to walk as well. Admittedly, she’d have had a good hike if she did.

  He would have carried her on his back.

  “What do we do with your bag?” asked Bozzone. It was a large suitcase, though only about half-filled by his dirty clothes and two books he’d brought to read during training but never got around to.

  “I can take it,” Johnny said. “Or if you want, if you could, you could leave it at my door.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Massina.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure you want to walk?”
asked Chelsea.

  “Yup.” There was no sense backing down.

  “We’ll see you next Monday,” said Massina.

  Johnny watched them drive off.

  I need to ask her on a real date, he told himself. I need a real plan. If I’m serious about dating her.

  Gotta give it a shot.

  Johnny got a half a block before deciding he didn’t really feel like going home. He turned around and went back to the pub, standing at the bar to watch the rest of the game.

  75

  Central Syria—a few hours later

  Ghadab had never been a foot soldier, but he recognized a losing battle when he saw one. The brothers manning the positions on the southern side of the city moved with the slackness of men half-dead. They dragged themselves back and forth, stopping occasionally to see if they could find a target, but never shooting, as the barbarian government troops stayed far outside of their range. The Syrian army let the artillery do its work, shelling the city with various intensity during the day, easing off at night, though never letting more than a half hour go by without a shot.

  The target wasn’t the defenses but rather the residential areas behind them. The government aimed to wear down resistance, terrify the inhabitants, and unsettle whatever patterns of daily life remained. They had done this in Homs when Ghadab was there, spending weeks bombarding the city. That was one thing they got right: they knew war was a corrosive that must be applied endlessly.

  Ghadab knew this, too. And for the first time in his life, he knew how desolate it felt.

  Shadaa.

  Such pain over a woman seemed completely unimaginable—not unlikely but rather impossible. The fact that she had been a slave, an insignificant piece of driftwood tossed to him by the hierarchy, made it even more unseemly. Yet her death wrenched him.

  She was a diversion from his path. Ghadab told himself that God had taken her because she was a threat to his destiny. But it was hard to convince himself of this.

  For the first time in his life he had felt love. Now he felt pain, true pain.

  And something else: doubt.

  Doubt in the prophecy. Doubt in the inevitability of Armageddon. Doubt in his role in bringing it to pass.