The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  The café furnishings were shabby and dusty, as were most of the patrons. The rich, sweet smell of coffee competed with harsh, acrid smoke from Turkish tobacco. For a while, no one seemed to notice him. Moshe was beginning to panic, thinking he had not properly followed the detailed instructions given him by his contact. He had been given the directions only once, and he had not written them down. He didn’t have to; he had a photographic memory and could repeat the instructions word for word—a set of directives whispered to him by a man whose face he never saw.

  For some time Moshe had tried to contact them, but since he was in the employ of the government, he could understand their reluctance to speak with him. Initially he thought he would have to travel into Afghanistan or perhaps to Iran. Then suddenly, six days ago, he had been contacted by phone and told to go to a mosque in central Islamabad. There he took his place along the lines of the faithful for evening prayers. The man beside him said in a low voice, barely audible to his ears, “Moshe Abramin, listen closely, for I will say this only once,” and Moshe received the directions that brought him to Lahore and this café. He knew he must be dealing with al Qaeda. Only al Qaeda, or what was left of them in the area, could operate on the streets of a major Pakistani city.

  Or perhaps it is a trap! he thought as he waited; perhaps agents of the Mossad, or the Indian Suritam, or the ISI of his own country had penetrated this group, and this was a setup. His anxiety was such that he could hardly sit still. Then a man in clerics’ robes sat down across from him.

  “God is great, Moshe Abramin,” he said pleasantly in the Muslim way of greeting. His smile was open, almost naive, but his eyes were hard and measured Moshe carefully. Moshe felt a cold chill when he looked into them.

  “As is his Prophet,” Moshe replied, inclining his head but only taking his eyes from the man for a brief second. “Praise be to God and his Prophet.”

  “You have been trying to contact us for some time now. We understand that you wish to serve the cause. Tell me why you want to do this.”

  “I serve God, and what I have to say is only for his ears.”

  The man measured Moshe coldly across the table. “And who is ‘he,’ Moshe Abramin? Unless I am convinced that what you have to say is of value, there will be no audience.”

  Moshe considered this, knowing it might be his only opportunity. “You know who I am, my background, and my commitment?” The man nodded in a neutral manner. “I am prepared to place my knowledge and the fruits of my labor at your disposal. It is important that I be granted an audience and place this matter before him. And if he is not still with us, then with someone who is in a position of authority.” Like many who lived for Islamic revolution, he clung to the belief that bin Laden was still alive—still lived for the chance to touch the hem of his garment.

  The man in the guise of a mullah studied this American-educated scholar. He was nervous, but that was natural. Still, one must be very careful of a trap, however frightened or nonthreatening this educated man seemed. Since the attack on America and subsequent events in Southwest Asia, their very survival depended on security measures that bordered on the paranoid. Because of his clan organization and his ability to move relatively freely in Lahore, he had agreed to make contact with Moshe Abramin. It was known that this scientist-engineer might prove useful, but they had long avoided him for security reasons. He was also known to have a reputation for being something of a genius. And one thing was certain; the fire of Islam burned deep within him. Is that not true of all of us, he thought—we, the true believers? The man in the clerical robes continued to regard Moshe in silence, seeking to confirm his judgment while allowing the surveillance teams, who had watched his every move on the street, to reposition themselves.

  “Very well. I will leave in a few minutes, and I want you to follow me but at an interval of thirty meters, no closer. If you truly believe that God is great, then do as you are instructed.”

  “I understand,” Moshe replied quietly, anxiety showing in his voice.

  The cleric rose, bowed to the proprietor who hovered near the door, and then slowly walked out. Moshe followed. He was careful to maintain the proper interval, as the dark robe ahead of him wandered casually through the marketplace for several blocks. On occasion, he paused to offer a blessing or to drop a coin into the bowl of a street beggar. After several turns, he disappeared into a storefront. Moshe had started to pick up the pace to reach the entrance when a hand reached out to grab him from an alleyway and drew him in.

  “God is great,” a gruff, bearded face whispered, his hand clamping Moshe’s arm in a vicelike grip.

  “As is his Prophet. Praise b-be to God and his Prophet.”

  The man drew him farther into the alley. “Raise your hands over your head,” he commanded. Moshe did as he was told, and a pair of rough hands searched him thoroughly and professionally. “Walk ahead of me and do exactly as I say. If you do one thing that is not at my command, I will kill you.”

  Moshe believed him and did as he was told. There was just enough light for him to see his way. He was directed through a series of doorways, up two flights of stairs and down one. At the end of a dimly lit hallway, they came to a closed door. A half dozen shoes were neatly lined up by the doorway.

  “You may enter,” said the voice behind him. “Close the door quietly when you are inside. You may approach, but you may not look at him—under penalty of death.”

  Moshe removed his sandals and stepped inside. He was greeted by shadows and a layer of cigarette smoke. There were no windows. The room was not large, and it was unlighted except for one corner, where a man in robes sat at a table with a lamp beside his chair. The shade was shoulder height so light spilled across his torso but revealed none of his features. Moshe slowly crossed the room and stood in front of the table. He was aware of others in the room, in the shadows. He could not see them, and he dare not look around. Moshe knelt on the floor across the table from the seated man and lowered his head looking at the floor.

  “May Allah guard and protect you, effendi.”

  “May Allah watch over you, Moshe Abramin.” The man’s Arabic was precise, well schooled, but not stilted. On hearing his voice, Moshe was stunned. He had hoped that Osama, if he were still alive, might receive him. But this man? The man spoke with a Lebanese accent, and Moshe knew instantly it could be only one man. His heart began to beat so fast he feared it would jump from his chest. Could he have traveled so far just to meet with me?

  “I have been given to understand,” the man in the shadows continued, “that you are willing to serve the cause. Now I must hear it from you. Are you willing to help us?”

  “Yes, effendi.”

  For a long moment, Imad Mugniyah—the faceless one; the one they reverently called Abu Dokhan—watched the sweat pour from the man before him. Mugniyah was not an imposing man, perhaps five-seven, 150 pounds. He was in his late forties and had regular if undistinguished features. His rich, dark beard was cut, not trimmed, and his hair short and unruly. He had none of the charisma or stature of Osama bin Laden, and one would be hard pressed to pick him from a crowd. There had not been a reliable photo taken of him in ten years. Yet if Western counterterrorist chiefs had to choose which of these two men they would take into custody and which was to remain at large, they would most certainly allow bin Laden to go free. Imad Mugniyah was simply the most wanted, the most successful, and the most dangerous terrorist alive.

  “Very well. Listen closely, for this is what you must do.”

  Moshe Abramin listened carefully, memorizing every word. Occasionally he nodded his head, and not once did he look up.

  Wednesday morning, April 24,

  Larkspur, California

  Steven Fagan never liked to think of himself as predictable, but most others had that impression of him. He was simply a very ordered person. He took comfort in routine. And while his personal tastes and interests were quite varied, there were daily rituals in which he took a great deal of pleasure.
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  “Good morning, Mr. Fagan. How are you this morning?” He always came into the coffee shop about nine, right after the early-morning crowd had thinned out.

  “Very well, thank you, and yourself, Mrs. Capella?”

  He listened patiently to a short litany of complaints about state and local politicians from the elderly woman behind the counter.

  “Still, it could be worse, I suppose,” she concluded.

  “Indeed it could. How is your family doing?”

  The question brought another stream of information to which Fagan listened pleasantly. He was a man who asked a great many inoffensive personal questions—inquiries that prompted people to talk about themselves. For the most part, he was interested in what they had to say. He had lived in the little community of Larkspur, a few miles past Sausalito over the Golden Gate, for only eighteen months, but most people seemed to think it had been much longer. When others asked about him, he said that he’d been with the federal government and had taken early retirement—that he’d come to Larkspur to be as far away from Washington, D.C., as possible. On the rare occasion when he was pressed about his government service, he said that he had spent most of his time in Washington with the Interstate Commerce Commission, an unimportant junior functionary with an agency that had ceased to exist over a decade ago. He took his double Americano espresso to the condiment bar, where he added a small measure of cream and just a touch of vanilla. Then, as was his custom, he took his newspapers to a small table by the wall with a clear view of the door and began to read. He began with the New York Times, then moved on to the Washington Post, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Spanish edition of the Miami Herald. The papers took him about an hour and a half-cup refill on the espresso. He then carefully culled from the stack those sections of the Times and the Chronicle he knew Lon would enjoy. Steven Fagan always bussed his table and wiped any splotches from the polished Formica before quietly slipping out the door.

  He walked slowly along Magnolia Avenue and turned north up Myrtle Street toward the residential homes stacked on the side of the hill. The road itself was a paved series of switchbacks that climbed well above the level of town. Their home rested on a lot near the top, well populated with eucalyptus trees. He paused, as he did most days, to appreciate the cantilevered placement of the small house on the hillside, and the well-tended, terraced gardens that cascaded down from the home. Most of the homes were large, multilevel affairs that crowded a small piece of ground. His and Lon’s was just the opposite. He started to continue, then stopped again, a smile cutting his tan, regular features. A lithe figure squatted by one of the flower beds in a sunny patch near the garage. Only someone who grew up in Asia could squat comfortably with their buttocks on their heels, arms between their thighs. It was an awkward and undignified position for a westerner, yet for an oriental it seemed effortless and natural—even graceful. Steven had always felt that Lon was his reward for the wasted and difficult years he’d spent in Southeast Asia. Perhaps wasted was too strong a word, but they had been difficult. He remained to watch her for almost five minutes before continuing on. Steven was a patient man and a careful observer. He did this often—observed his wife when she didn’t know he was watching. Every once in a while she would catch him and scold him for it, but in a way that let him know she approved. He made his way up the hill and turned into the drive, approaching her as quietly as he could.

  “Were you spying on me again, chérie?”

  “Of course not. And since when is a man looking at his wife spying?”

  She looked up at him slyly and smiled. “I felt someone watching me. I wondered if it was you.”

  “It was probably Billy keeping an eye on you.” An elderly widower lived next door. He was a private man, almost reclusive, but they had often found him staring over the fence at their property.

  “I think it was you,” she replied as she shifted to search a well-tended herb plot for some hapless weed that dared to set its roots in one of her beds.

  Steven dropped to one knee beside her. “Would you like some help?”

  “No. You don’t know the difference between a thistle and a sprig of watercress.” It was true, Steven reflected, he didn’t have a clue. “But I would be grateful for the company,” she said sweetly.

  He rose and walked a few steps to find a seat with his back to a pine tree. Then he set the papers aside and watched Lon continue her weeding. Neither felt the need to talk. He picked up a pine cone and began to dissect it, thinking back to the first time he saw Lon.

  He and his Hmong irregulars had been moving for several hours at a jog-trot across the Plaine des Jarres in northern Laos. They were crossing a burned-out rubber plantation with a North Vietnamese Army battalion close behind them. It was late in the war, and NVA had become very aggressive. This particular NVA battalion was well led. They moved quickly and were relentless. He had already lost five men that day fighting rearguard actions to slow his pursuers. There were close to a hundred Hmong tribesmen with him, and he was desperately trying to put enough distance between himself and the North Vietnamese to call for an extraction—if they could find a landing zone. Steven Fagan was then a twenty-three-year-old Special Forces sergeant on loan to the CIA and serving as a paramilitary adviser. All one hundred of those tribesmen looked to him for direction—and salvation. If he couldn’t find an LZ and get an aircraft there soon, it was going to be a long, bloody night. The NVA had to know what he was trying to do, and Steven was sure they had skirmishers moving in on his flanks. He was scared, yet he had to be careful not to let his Hmong see fear in him.

  Then a spindly teenage girl appeared from behind a wrecked outbuilding. She looked like a figure in a Goya painting—dirty oval face, tattered dress, tangled hair, and immense dark eyes. She spoke in a dialect that his tribesmen understood, but he didn’t. She then turned to him and spoke in flawless French.

  “Where do you wish to go?”

  “A landing area…an open field…room for a helicopter,” he replied, as much with his hands as his schoolboy French.

  “Follow me, but we must hurry.”

  She led them on a dead run to a clearing in the rubber trees. Moments later, an Air America CH-47 landed and they scrambled aboard, abandoning their weapons and ammunition to save weight and space. The big Chinook took ground fire as it struggled from the clearing with his tribesmen and the girl that had just led them to safety. After they landed at Savannakhet, she disappeared as soon as the ramp went down. He never saw her again—in Laos.

  Almost three years later, then a civilian and a contract agent with the CIA, he was walking down Monoran Boulevard in Phnom Penh. A girl who was a little tall for a Cambodian was selling flowers from a wheeled wooden cart in the central market near Quatre Bras. She was Eurasian, French-Lao mix he rightly guessed, with that wide-shouldered, regal bearing that reflected the best of both races. He would not have recognized her but for the eyes. She was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “What are you doing here?” he stammered. Thanks to his Agency training, his French had improved.

  She recognized him instantly. “Waiting for you to come back,” she replied simply.

  They were married in a Buddhist ceremony a few months later. The CIA didn’t particularly care for their paramilitary officers, even contract agents, marrying locals, but there was little they could do about it. That Lon’s father had been an expatriate French planter murdered by the Pathet Lao made no difference. They left for the States just ahead of the fall of Phnom Penh. Vientiane was gone, and Saigon would soon follow. Very shortly all the Americans would come home, at least the ones that could be accounted for.

  “What are you thinking, my husband?” She continued to work, but turned to glance at him.

  Steven stared at her with open admiration. That marvelous, honey-colored skin still stretched firmly across her high cheekbones. And those eyes! Why doesn’t she age like the rest of us? he thought. Then he smiled and answered truthfully
; too often, she knew what he was thinking, so he seldom withheld anything from her.

  “I was thinking about the skinny little girl I met in Laos.”

  “Ha!” she laughed, patting her bottom. “Not skinny now. Now fat American.”

  No, he thought, just right, but he said nothing. He’d often wondered what would have happened had she not been there to help him that day. He would have been killed or worse. The NVA made a practice of turning captured American advisers over to the Pathet Lao guerrillas. Sometimes it took days for them to die. Lon too had been a prisoner of the Pathet Lao at one time, which was why they had no children. That day in Phnom Penh, just after he’d found her with her flower cart, he swore he would spend the rest of his life making things better for her, a vow he’d never regretted. In many ways, they had both been refugees from Southeast Asia and had helped to repatriate each other.

  After he and Lon returned from Cambodia, Steven had been granted permanent staff status at the Agency. During the extensive year-long training program for all DDO case officers, he displayed an exceptional aptitude for covert operations. As soon as this became apparent, Steven Fagan’s days as a paramilitary officer were, for the most part, over.