“No. Mukhabarat? Is that like a muskrat?”
“Very funny, Brandon, but do be careful. Omar is very protective of me, and if he thinks you are being disrespectful, well, we have seen how he behaves. The Mukhabarat is the intelligence agency in Iraq. What you would call our CIA.”
“No. I would call it an oxymoron.”
The blow sent Brandon’s coffee cup flying, to shatter on the sun dried brick floor. Brandon followed. He was unconscious for a couple of minutes and awoke seated in the same chair with a pounding headache. He absently massaged the point of impact behind his right ear.
“Here, let me get you another cup, Brandon, and don’t worry about the breakage, Hosni will clean it up later.” The Colonel smiled as Brandon’s surroundings came back into focus and continued as if there had been no interruption.
“Actually, Mukhabarat is much more than your CIA. It is the Iraqi FBI, NSA, CIA and more. There is no distinction between civilian and military intelligence, between foreign and domestic. It is one big, happy, and efficient family, divided into numerous Directorates with specific responsibilities. Having said that let me tell you a secret. I have unlimited access to our assets. Do you know what that means to you, Brandon? It means that I will have your personnel records delivered to me with the help of friends. I feel I need to get to know you better. More coffee?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Ah, a breakthrough. Your manners are improving, Brandon. I am pleased. Let us talk again tomorrow.” In Arabic the Colonel directed Omar and Massoud to take Brandon to the garage. Within minutes, Brandon discovered that the garage was not a place to store cars. Perhaps, it had, but no longer. It was brightly lit and painted glossy white. Brandon did not like what he saw. A cage was opened and Brandon was pushed inside. Visions of lab monkeys came to Brandon’s mind and he was the only monkey present. Omar moved closer as the door swung shut and Massoud secured the lock. His fingers gripped the bars and he leaned to rest his face against them.
“Tomorrow, smart ass, you will tell the Colonel everything he wants to know and I will assist in the process with pleasure.”
“Why do you waste your time talking to him?” Massoud said angrily. “He will find out soon enough that he is the Colonel’s guinea pig. Let’s go.”
Brandon now held the bars that Omar had released. The cage was solid; the lock was strong. His eyes searched the room. “Damn. I don’t like this one little bit,” Brandon said aloud.
In the center of the room, there was a chair with restraints. A battery wired with alligator clips sat on a side table, and an IV bottle hung from a rolling stand nearby. His eyes took it all in, and a knot formed in his stomach. Across the room was a chiropractic table with wheels like a gurney, complete with leather straps for chest, hands and feet. It was parked against the wall alongside a glass-fronted curio cabinet filled with surgical and dental instruments.
“I’m weak but I’m not dead. If that madman thinks I’m his guinea pig, he has another think coming.”
10
The CIA and Mossad Have Questions
The thought of retracing his steps and flying home on Tower Air was downright depressing. Daniel gambled and called the Queen Alia airport and asked for flight Information or a Help Desk.
“Thank Heaven for small favors,” Daniel reflected, “another English speaker. Please, tell me, Miss, which airlines fly to the United States?”
“Royal Jordanian,” she answered.
“That’s it?”
“That is the only airline flying direct. It is a twelve hour and forty minute flight. There are a dozen others that stop along the way. Do you wish to be connected to Jordanian?”
“Please.”
Daniel explained that he had a ticket on Tower Air. No, it would not be accepted, but Lufthansa might. She was right. The ticket would be accepted with payment of a reasonable upgrade charge. The flight departed at 3:35 a.m.
“Three thirty-five in the morning?” Daniel asked incredulously.
“Yes. Early, no?”
“Early, yes.”
“This is best for quick arrival New York. Some later flights take longer. This has no sit time before the connecting flight. You understand?”
“Yes, thank you, sign me up.”
“Sir?”
“Ah, put me on the flight.”
“Yes, sir. The routing will be Lufthansa to Frankfurt with an immediate connection to Singapore Airlines, for the continuing flight to J.F. Kennedy Airport. The elapsed time scheduled is fourteen hours and five minutes. You should arrive at 10:40 a.m. Please report to the Lufthansa ticket counter at Queen Alia earlier than normal to make the ticket conversion.”
The International terminal was almost deserted when Daniel entered at 1 a.m. He and two agents of the Mossad were among the few passengers in the terminal at that hour. After the Airbus 320 departed, a message was beamed by satellite from the roof of an aging but high-tech Volkswagen bus. Washington relayed the signal within minutes to the American Embassy in Bonn, where the Charge d’Affaires received the coded transmission. A call to Frankfurt insured the Lufthansa flight would be met on arrival at 0655. Two hours later another call was placed.
“He’s on Singapore 26, a 7-4. It was wheels up at 4-5. ETA JFK 1040 local.”
“Thank you,” John Keiley replied.
In the solitude of his office, he replaced the receiver in its cradle, saying “What have you been up to, Danny boy?” His penciled swirls gave no insight. It was 2:50 a.m. in Washington. Singapore Flight 26 would be landing in about eight hours.
“No wonder my wife left me,” John said aloud as he lifted a five by seven framed photo off his desk. Three years ago the woman he loved asked him for a divorce. She smiled at him now as his finger traced her face, untouched beneath the glass. He loved her still and longed to hold her in his arms. Her tearful ultimatum had been replayed in his mind a thousand times on nights like this and each time he acknowledged the futility of his explanation. She was right of course, but he couldn’t quit. This was no ordinary job. He wasn’t working to increase sales or make points with the boss. National security was at stake and he knew his work was vital.
“I miss you babe.” John kissed the photo and curled up on the couch beside his desk. “I don’t blame you. I’d leave me too.”
Smith & Wesson Intervene
It was a clear morning in New York. Flight Attendants bowed politely asking passengers to fasten seat belts and raise seatbacks. They smiled sweetly at compliance. This was definitely not Tower Air, nor any other American carrier for that matter. As the aircraft turned in its descent, Daniel looked down the wing and beyond its tip and saw the impressive Verrazano Bridge, spanning “the narrows” to link the southwest tip of Brooklyn to the distant borough of Staten Island. In the distance he could see the majesty of Manhattan.
The 747-400 swooped down on Jamaica Bay as it aligned for landing at JFK. The tires chirped loudly, smoke rising from the impact as one set of wheels after another contacted concrete. The main landing gear struts groaned as they absorbed five hundred thousand pounds of weight, squatting down onto sixteen, 24-ply tires. Wheels that rotated slowly in the wind on approach instantly spun to match the aircraft speed of over 140 mph at impact, a remarkable event reduced to quick judgments by passengers. A know-it-all across the aisle proclaimed, “That pilot must have gotten his wings at K-Mart. Hell, I could do better than that.”
A few people laughed but Daniel didn’t. He leaned forward and turned his head toward the man saying, “Any landing you walk away from is a good landing, and I for one am happy you were sitting in coach and not the cockpit.”
The laughter this time was louder and the know-it-all seethed. He didn’t appreciate being the butt of a joke.
Weary passengers streamed from the jet bridge into the terminal momentarily disoriented. Daniel like others searched the overhead sig
ns for directions to baggage claim and the exit.
“Think you’re pretty fucking cute, don’t you?” whispered a voice into his right ear. Daniel twisted his head around and was face to neck with the man across the aisle. He was bigger than Daniel remembered, probably six foot three and two hundred thirty pounds.
Daniel turned his body to face the threat saying, “Your criticism was unwarranted. The pilots did a nice job getting us down safely. Just look around. Do you see any dead or walking wounded?”
“Yeah, I’m looking at one, big mouth.” The man poked Daniel with the rigid fingers of his left hand, a firm shove, to make his point—a shove that might be prelude to a real donnybrook, but it never went that far. Two men in suits and ties materialized at Daniel’s side, one saying to the know-it-all, “Take a hike.”
“Who the fuck says?” the big man challenged, as he looked from one well-dressed man to the other.
“Smith and Wesson.”
The big man’s eyes moved up and right. He was thinking about the future. It was a reflexive signal taking only a second but the two suits correctly read it.
“Fuck it,” the critic said, walking away.
Daniel watched with amusement as his adversary departed, tail between his legs.
“Thanks, whoever you are. Shall I call you Smith or are you Wesson?”
“Take your pick. If you like you can call me Jim and this is my partner, Mike. Some folks call us Agents Borta and Robinson.” His wallet opened and revealed a badge but was flipped closed before Daniel could inspect it.
“A friend wants to see you. Will you come with us?”
“Who’s your friend?”
“You paid him a visit at Langley not long ago. We have a plane waiting. Shall we go?”
“My bag…they made me check it,” Daniel said as he flashed his claim check.
Mike reached out and took the folder from Daniel’s hand. “I’ll get it and I’ll meet you there.”
The CIA plane was unmarked other than the small numbers that adorned the tail.
“I thought you’d merit a Gulfstream III,” Daniel joked as he boarded the small jet and looked around.
Jim laughed. “It must be my movie star good-looks, because people say that all the time. Actually, Mr. Stiles, personal charisma aside, I am but a humble, public servant.” He turned his head slightly and bowed.
“My mistake. I was dazzled by your charm.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Stiles, but I believe those G-3’s sell for about twenty-three million a pop. That’s a little rich for my blood, but you gotta go some to outshine this sweet little bird. It’s got class and it’ll outrun damn near anything. Do you remember when Arnold Palmer set a class record flying his plane around the world back in 1976? He did it in a Lear 36 just like this one. Only difference was he had a well-stocked bar. Now, here’s another one for you. Did you know the Lear was originally designed to be a Swedish fighter jet?”
“Actually, it was based in part on the Swiss P16, a fighter-bomber.”
“Swiss, huh? Well that explains it. I thought it was Swedish. But Saab makes those funny looking cars, so I confess I had my doubts. Swiss does make more sense than Swede. Thanks for clearin’ that up.”
Daniel just nodded. Jim was stalling for time, and a moment later, a breathless Mike jumped aboard.
“Okay, let’s roll,” Jim said.
The door and stairs were pulled up as a unit and locked with the turn of a large handle. The pilot took that as his signal to go and began to taxi. There was no delay. None.
“Must be a priority takeoff,” Daniel said.
“Your bag’s in the hold,” Mike answered absently as the aircraft rotated and sprinted to ten thousand feet on its way to a higher cruise altitude.
“Wo-ho,” Daniel said, “Impressive climb!”
“You bet!” Mike said. “It’s a screamin’ mother. Goes faster than a scalded dog.”
“The word dog and this rocket don’t belong in the same sentence.” Jim corrected. “Sit back and relax if-you-can, Mister Stiles, because we will be there pronto.”
He was right. The Lear was cleared for an unrestricted climb to cruise altitude and after passing twenty four thousand feet was cleared direct to Washington. Minutes later the pilot initiated a rapid descent. Power was reduced to idle and the speed brakes were raised. The Lear rocketed downward, shuddering in protest to the aerodynamic drag of the speed brakes.”
“Your pilot seems to be in a hurry,” Daniel said. “Hot date?”
As the speed decreased below max allowable gear operating speed, the pilot lowered the gear. He shallowed the glide path and exchanged boards for flaps, inching them down as speed decayed until full flaps were extended and approach speed attained. The ground came up to meet them and the pilot slipped it on, smooth as glass.
“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base and our Nation’s Capitol,” Jim announced.
Daniel peered through his window looking across the Potomac, beyond small sailboats, toward National Airport.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia (Thursday, 23 June 1994)
“The Assistant Director is expecting you,” Carla said as she ushered the threesome into John Keiley’s office. Jim Borta stepped through the portal followed by Daniel and Mike Robinson.
“Take seats, gentlemen.” John stood as he pointed to the possibilities. Daniel and Jim sat in the chairs opposite the desk and Mike eased into one of several that lined a sidewall. “You made good time.”
John Keiley was well liked at the Agency, a man’s man, a veteran of the cold war with postings from Vietnam to Berlin. He’d been around, served well, and done so at great personal cost. It was common knowledge that his wife, Becky, had left him. Bigamy, not abuse, was the cause. She thought he was single when she fell in love with him, but learned later that he was already married to the CIA. Back in 1991, John returned home from a particularly difficult assignment and a two-week absence. He found a note waiting for him. It was a tearful mix of love, anger and frustration.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she had said. “I never know if or when I’ll see you again, and I can’t live this way. I’m not living, John, not really. I think I’m dying by degrees. I die a little bit each time you walk out the door. You know I’ll always love you, but your mistress must go or I will. Quit the CIA or grant me a divorce on the grounds of abandonment or cruelty. You choose.” He had apologized and begged her to reconsider.
“Do you want me, darling, or your job? You can’t have both.” She had wept as she spoke. “If there were another woman in your life, I could compete for your love and attention, but how can I compete with a cause? It’s not fair, John. It’s not fair to me. Can’t you see that? I can’t continue to live like this. I need you. You are the center of my life and I feel like a widow. Other women complain about husbands who play golf or watch nonstop football. I would love that. At least I’d know where you are and maybe you’d notice me when the game is over. This game you play is never over, is it?”
There was no answer that could mollify her feelings. No answer would be adequate, because she was right. The game was endless and there was no timeout. National security was at stake and national security was the goal. There was no use asking for forgiveness and a fresh start. Nothing would change. He was in the game and substitutions weren’t allowed. He missed her terribly. He had not remarried, nor had she. He called her from time to time to see if she was well or needed anything, but not lately. He had been too absorbed in Agency business.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mister Stiles. Thank you for accepting my offer to visit.”
Daniel studied the Directors face for a trace of guile and found none. “Actually, I appreciate seeing you. This is an unexpected but welcome surprise. Do you believe me now?”
“I never said I didn’t believe you, Daniel, but I didn’t and don’t
share your certainty that the comm logs you provided were proof of Brandon’s survival. I’m not convinced he’s alive, but I will acknowledge that he may have been captured.”
“That’s a start.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you spoke to Mr. Maloof about, and what Feras had to say at Café Le Monde?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Mister Stiles, this is the CIA.”
“Then, why don’t you tell me?”
“Do you want your brother back, or don’t you?”
“Of course, I do. I don’t believe Mr. Maloof knew of my brother’s capture. When he found out, the man named Feras was sent to tell me the terms of a release.”
“Wait a minute! Are you telling me that Feras admitted your brother is a POW and his release is negotiable?”
“Not exactly. He said Brandon is not a POW. He is a slave. Like other commodities, he can be bought and sold as has been a custom in the valley of the Euphrates for centuries.”
Jim and Mike, mouths agape, heard their boss say, “You’re kidding.”
Daniel slowly shook his head.
“How much?” It was Jim, who quickly added, “I’m sorry, sir, it just popped out.”
“That’s okay, Jim. You asked my next question. How much do they want for his release?”
Daniel looked at Jim and back to the Director as if considering whom to answer. To John, he replied, “Five million.”
“Dollars?” Mike asked, verbalizing the question for all.
“Yeah. Iraqi dinars nose dived in value after the war. He specified dollars and said our oil embargo would increase the price two percent per month due to inflation.”
Mike whistled softly. “That’s twenty four percent annually.”
“It’s a scam.” Jim offered.
“Must be.” Mike agreed.
They all turned to look at the Director who sat pensively. His pencil made swirls on the pad in front of him. When he spoke he was indecisive. “Maybe, maybe not. Any proof? Any proof that he is alive? Any proof that the man holding Brandon is involved in this negotiation for his release?”
Price For A Patriot Page 10
