by Harold Coyle
As I thought, Ali told himself. He looked at Kassim, who nodded slowly.
Ali stretched a bony hand across the table. Touching Qazi’s sleeve, he intoned, “Any information you share with us will be rewarded as befits you. We have many ways of expressing our gratitude.” He smiled an ingratiating smile.
The NCO produced a notebook from his pocket. It contained a business card with the name of Lieutenant Colonel Frank Leopole, United States Marine Corps (retired). The man’s title was Head, Foreign Operations Division, Strategic Solutions, Inc., in Arlington, Virginia, USA. Hand-written notes expanded upon the SSI arrangement at Quetta.
The kettle whistled and Ali turned to his assistant. “Tahir, please tend to our guest. I need to obtain some suitable gifts for his trouble.” With that, he nodded at the door.
Outside, well away from the building, Ali said, “You did well to bring him here.”
“He must die, of course. But first I thought that you should see him. He knew that I was not the chief of our district. He would not give me all the information he possessed.”
“Offer him ten thousand rupees. If he balks at that, offer him two thousand American dollars. The man’s greed will ensure his compliance. Then arrange to have his body found in ordinary circumstances.”
Kassim almost smiled. “I favor traffic accidents. They happen every day.”
“One more thing, brother.”
“Yes?”
“You have contacts in America?”
“No, not directly. But The Base is worldwide, as you well know.”
Ali thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps it is best if we have no direct line. It will be more difficult to connect us to any… incidents.”
“You are thinking of direct action against the Great Satan?”
“They came here, hunting us. It is only fitting that we hunt them in their lair.”
Kassim’s wolf smile was back. “I shall see to it.”
QUETTA AIRBASE
Officially, alcohol did not exist for SSI personnel in Muslim countries. Unofficially, the leadership invoked a policy based on “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Without realizing it, Terry Keegan brought attention upon himself when Leopole found him sipping something smooth in the cafeteria. He was alone, which Leopole recognized as a bad sign. He put an avuncular hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Come on, Terry. Time to turn in.”
Keegan’s eyes raised to meet his supervisor’s. The pilot’s eyes were bright blue; Leopole’s were gunmetal blue-gray. “Oh, don’t worry, Frank. I’m not flying tomorrow. Besides, I never drink within fifty feet of an aircraft.”
Leopole ignored the attempt at humor. “You’re still pissed about your flap with Marsh. Okay, you were right then. And I’m right now.”
Keegan waved dismissively. “Shee-it, man. Don’t get me started.” He took another drink. Oops, too late! “Siddown, Frank. I’ll tell you what’s really got me pissed.”
“Terry, I know about all that. We had this discussion before, remember?”
“Not all of it, we didn’t. I want to fill in the gaps.” He gestured at a chair, and for a moment Leopole considered dragging the tipsy aviator to bed. The 155-pound pilot could not win that contest with Franklin Puller Leopole, 180-pound professional warrior, enthusiastic martial artist, and erstwhile bar fighter. But that would cause more bad blood, and SSI needed its chief pilot up on the step and cruising. Leopole sat down. “Thanks,” Keegan said. He dipped his head in gratitude, then began, “Frank, at age eleven I found out that my church was a lie, thanks to Father O’Brien and Bishop Farullo. At twenty-nine I found that the Home of the Brave was a lie: dozens of admirals were scared shitless of a few female politicians. Then at thirty-one I found that my marriage was a lie when my wife figured I must have done something in Vegas. All of them betrayed me; none of them lived up to the promise. It was lies and hypocrisy.”
Leopole looked at his watch. He thought, Are we really going to have this discussion again? The aviator answered that tacit question. “Well, at about age thirty-three I finally found myself, Frank. I realized my whole goddam life has been a search for one thing. I’ve been looking for somebody—something—that I could trust.” He grinned a private grin. “Do you like movies, Frank?”
Leopole sought to follow the logic. “Most anything with guns and horses.”
Keegan laughed at the sentiment. “I like movies. Especially old ones, where everything works out in the last reel. But one of the best speeches in movie history was in Conan the Barbarian. Did you see it? At the start, William Smith is little Conan’s father. He says, ‘Put not your trust in man, not in woman, not in animals.’ Then he holds up his sword. ‘But this you can trust.’”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Terry.”
“Sure you do, Frank. You must feel the same way. Sometimes, at least.”
Leopole was about to agree in principle when Keegan continued. Tapping the table, he said, “Look, Frank, this is my sword. The admiral, SSI, you guys.” He chuckled to himself. “John Milius got it right. Someday I’d like to shake his hand and tell him that Little Conan Keegan got the message.”
10
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“It will not be as simple as you imagine, brother.”
Imam Mustafah al Latif sipped more tea and replaced the small cup on its saucer beside the thin wafers. His guest, whom he knew as Mohammed Shakir, occasionally paid a visit to the Islamic Fraternal Association on behalf of certain Middle Eastern interests. Shakir’s position as an acting trade representative in the Pakistani embassy ensured freedom of movement and access to well-placed people. But he avoided al Latif’s mosque.
“I recognize the potential for… embarrassment,” Shakir said, choosing his words carefully. Whatever his faults, naivety was not among them. He always couched his messages in general terms, occasionally passing notes that were burned before he departed.
“It is more than that,” al Latif responded. “As you know, Northern Virginia has an active Muslim population but few organizations are approachable for… your likely purposes. Other groups support American initiatives and policies for a variety of reasons. In fact, one of our prominent artists designed a postage stamp for the United States government. Since there is every reason to believe that the more, ah, devoted groups and individuals are under scrutiny, you should seek men without obvious Islamic ties.”
Shakir inclined his head toward the cleric. “Just as you say. Any references would be gratefully received, with a suitable donation to the association for its many good works.”
Al Latif scrawled a list of three names with phone numbers. Handing it to the diplomat, he intoned, “One or two of these will undoubtedly consider whatever you propose. Copy these in your own hand and I will destroy the original. When you make contact, you are not to mention me or this organization.”
“You are extremely cautious, father. I admire your diligence.”
The imam raised his cup in salute. “And I commend your own good work.”
QUETTA AIRBASE
Steve Lee poked his head inside Leopole’s door. “Major Khan’s here. Looks like he has some news.”
Leopole was almost to the door when the Pakistani appeared. As always, he was impeccably dressed, reminding Leopole yet again of the differing emphasis between the two military cultures. They shook hands and sat down; Leopole motioned for Lee to remain.
Khan removed his hat and placed it beside his briefcase but that was the only deference to protocol. Unlike many officers in his army, he preferred substance to form. He got directly to the point.
“Colonel Leopole, I decided to come in person because I should not risk a security breach.” He pulled a map from his valise and spread it on the desk. “Here. We believe that some of the men you seek are in this area.”
Looking over Khan’s shoulder, Lee noted that the coordinates were only about twenty-five miles to the west, along the border.
Leopole’s gaze went from Khan to Lee and back again. “That’s excellent
, Major. Ah, may I ask the source of your intel?”
“I cannot be specific because I do not have that information myself. But it comes from a very reliable conduit, one with excellent contacts in the Ministry of Defense. I could not inquire further without drawing suspicion.”
Biting his lip, Leopole scanned the map again. High, rugged terrain. Remote enough to be a likely hideout for people who did not wish to be found. “What can you tell us, Major?”
Khan lowered his voice slightly. “I am informed that al Qaeda operatives have used this vicinity fairly recently, smuggling people and material in and out of both countries. It is reported that some of their cargos are sensitive materials. That seemed enough reason to bring it to your attention.”
Lee stood up, obviously unconvinced. “Major Khan, please don’t misunderstand. I have no reason to doubt your sources, but ‘sensitive materials’ could be almost anything. Weapons, drugs, or…”
“Yes, yes. I agree.” Khan’s enthusiasm briefly overcame his usual courtly manners. “But there is something else.” He paused for dramatic effect. “My source says that a doctor is involved.”
Leopole sat upright. “Involved how?”
“I do not know exactly. But no mention of a medical connection has occurred before.”
Steve Lee’s eyebrows took an optimistic arch. “That’s the best lead we’ve had, Colonel.”
Leopole sat back, his fingers drumming on the desk. “Hell, it’s the only lead we’ve had.” He thought for a moment, weighing options. “Just one thing: if this is a false lead or a dead end, we risk tipping our hand. No telling who might be watching.”
“We could send in a recce team, dressed like locals. You know— take a quick look-see, then call in the rest if it’s promising.”
Lee sensed that his boss was inclined toward taking action. Frank Leopole clearly wanted some action.
Several seconds passed. Finally, Leopole said, “Steve, I like the way you think. I’ll call the admiral and recommend we go.”
11
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“No photos, man.”
“Why not?”
“Because… when you take them to get developed, the store could get suspicious. That’s why!”
The photographer, Marcus Garvey Jefferson, was a good-looking hustler in his late twenties. “Wow, man. Haven’t you heard? This is, like, the twenty-first century.”
“Say what?”
“Digital, my man. Di-gi-tal.” When away from the sober, austere influence of the imam, the two brothers still lapsed into street jive.
The driver of the Honda Accord grasped the significance. “Oh. Right. No film.” Hakeem put away his sketch pad.
“Riiight. We’ll plug the disk into the computer when we have the briefing.” The shooter double checked the exposure, framed the brick and glass facade in his viewfinder, and tripped the shutter again. By extending the zoom lens, he brought the shaded window into better view. He could now read the blue and white logo. Strategic Solutions, Inc.
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Ali knew that no plan worked to perfection. The Marburg operation was no exception.
Sitting with Kassim and two other al Qaeda operatives, the doctor considered his options. “It is as we expected in the beginning,” Ali began. “The best way to begin our biological attack would have been with several hosts simultaneously. But volunteers are rare, and to wait until we had six or more would have posed security dangers.” He frowned in concentration. “Besides that, most volunteers have limited life expectancy, so we are forced to launch them as they become available.”
The other two men were recruiters, members of Ali’s small cell who looked for potential jihadists burning with the desire to achieve Paradise — often before their own bodies burned themselves out. They had not been successful thus far. The youngest member, who adopted the alias Sted Nisar, worked as a hospital orderly. At nineteen he had found two prospects but one had died prematurely and the other became bedridden.
The second man was Farrukh Awan, who had helped send the vestal virgin on her journey. Ali accepted him because Kassim relied on him. It appeared that there was nothing the twenty-four-year-old carpenter would not do to please the cynical Syrian. Sometimes Ali wondered about that — what hold did Kassim have on the young man? Do not look too closely unless you truly wish to know. But Dr. Ali was a pragmatist as well as a theologist. Results were what mattered. Thus far both young men had done everything asked of them.
That made them valuable. Ironically, it also made them expendable.
Ali faced the pair across the rough table. “My brother Kassim has devised a plan to expand our attack against the Americans. But I wish to seek your counsel.”
Ali caught Kassim’s sideways glance. Ali hardly ever sought others’ opinion. In fact, the plan was Ali’s, but Awan would be impressed, and both leaders especially wanted to impress the carpenter.
Kassim took the hint. “I have studied the situation in Islamabad and Quetta. The Crusaders know that we are aware of them, and we cannot expect to strike them in their nest.” He gave a wolfish smile. “So we shall draw them to us.”
Nisar immediately saw the advantage. “Excellent! They will not expect a trap.”
“That is what we hope. Certain information has already been planted with the infidels. Enough of it is accurate to attract them to a site of our choosing. Then it is a simple matter of devotion… and explosives.”
Nisar asked the logical question. “When do we meet the sacrificial warriors?”
Ali’s brown eyes bored into Nisar’s. “My brother, Kassim and I are asking you and Awan to pledge yourselves to that task.”
Nisar’s guts turned to ice. He tried to think of a response.
Awan was more composed but remained silent.
Sensing that the mission lay in the balance, Kassim used his leverage to shove one or both of the young men over the brink.
“Hina bint Ahmed never balked at the chance to serve God. Farrukh, you watched her leave on her mission.”
“But… but, she was already dying!”
“So are we all,” said Ali. “So are we all.”
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“There’s Carlito,” Marcus said.
From the parking space, Hakeem Jefferson looked toward SSI’s entrance where a well-built young Hispanic man entered the double doors. He was groomed for the occasion: high and tight haircut, polite, businesslike manner. What you would expect of a former Ranger looking for work with a PMC. At least that was his story. He hoped for a look behind the security door and perhaps a tour of the facility. With a pledge to return with appropriate documentation, he would tell the Jeffersons what he saw and then drop out of sight. No connection could be made.
* * *
The scout approached the desk, ignoring the uniformed security guard by the window. He nodded to the receptionist, being careful not to touch anything. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m interested in work with a military contractor and wonder if you have any openings.”
Mrs. Grayson sized up the young man. He looked like a good prospect. “Well, I don’t know if we’re hiring right now but you could leave a resume. We’d be glad to put it on file.” She picked up a pen. “What’s your name and address?”
Carlito Espinoza was ready for that. “I’m Rafael Castillo but I didn’t bring any papers with me. You see, I’m from out of town and didn’t know about your business. A relative mentioned it to me.”
Emily Grayson picked up a business card and an SSI brochure. “Here’s some information. You can send the required documents to this address.”
Espinoza accepted the items without looking at them. “Thank you, ma’am. Ah, while I’m here, would it be possible to talk to someone? You know, so I could get a better idea of what’s available.” He flashed a white smile. “It’d sure save me a long trip back here again.”
“Oh. Where do you live?”
“New Mexico, ma’am. Up near the Colorado border.
” Carlito Espinoza had never seen the Land of Enchantment but he knew enough to run a bluff.
“Just a moment, please.”
Mrs. Grayson picked up the phone and buzzed personnel. In a few minutes Sallie Kline came through the security door with the keypad. She introduced herself, explaining, “I’m here part time, but I’m handling most personnel matters until our director returns.” It wasn’t entirely true but it was close enough.
After a few preliminaries, Sallie decided to invite the applicant into the anteroom. He followed her through the portal, admiring the way she moved. In other circumstances he would have pinched her in an act of machismo “valor.”
“Sit down, Mr. Castillo.” As they settled at a table Sallie produced an application form. “These are mostly self explanatory. It might help if I knew what sort of work you’re looking for.”
Carlito glanced around the room, taking a peek through the window of the next door. He noticed there was no keypad. A glance at the ceiling revealed no surveillance camera. He did not notice that Ms. Kline caught his visual sweep.
“Well, ma’am, I was in the Rangers. I’ve done all the light infantry duties but I’d be glad to do security work almost anywhere. I speak fluent Spanish.”
“Any combat?”
The abrupt question took him aback. He blinked, thinking hard. Sallie waited two heartbeats, then knew that whatever he said would likely be a lie. “Well, you know.” He grinned the white smile again. “I can’t talk about it much.”
“I see.” Let him sweat, she told herself.
The awkward silence stretched into five, then six seconds. Espinoza’s eyes went to the table top as he lost the staring contest.
“We’ll need your DD-213, of course.”
Nobody had briefed Carlito on DoD discharge papers. He merely nodded.
Sallie stood up. “Well, then. We’ll wait to hear from you. Oh, where are you staying? Maybe we can arrange a follow-up interview while you’re here.”
“Uh, thank you, ma’am. But I’m leaving day after tomorrow.”
